Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (35 page)

Ironically, that’s what finally made my mind up about Jones. Take away the sex and I’ve never felt for any man the way I feel about him—not even Gabe, whom I adore. And Jones and I haven’t even had sex yet. Apart from the face-sitting at his flat and his one and only session in my office where I edged him and then he refused to fuck me, we’ve not gotten physical at all. When Gabe sank to his knees and pressed his lips to my boot in dutiful service, I’d felt torn. Gabe would be the easier option, the safer option ... but, for some reason, I felt compelled to touch the necklace that The Kid had bought me. I could feel the letters that are etched into the tag. As soon as the word
hope
registered, a vision of Dan appeared. He had huge, black angel’s wings that he flapped proudly as he smiled at me.

He looked so peaceful. So happy and yet my heart aches every time I think of him and how I failed him. He’d shaken his head slowly as though reading my mind. The smile didn’t budge from his lips. I’m convinced he actually is my guardian angel now—even though I know it’s most likely all in my fucked up head. So why shouldn’t he have wings? His smile had grown broader and his eyes had twinkled.

I remember thinking, ‘Oh Dan, what should I do?’ then he’d come towards me, close enough to touch but I hadn’t dared reach out, in case my fingers met with nothing but air. The same air that I could feel hitting my face as he’d flapped those magnificent wings as he’d hovered over Gabe’s prostrated body. I’d half expected Gabe to look up either from the downwash or from the rhythmic whooshing sound that those wings had made but he hadn’t. Of course, he hadn’t.

He’d come closer still before reaching out one of his bandaged arms and pressed his fingertips against my heart. He’d closed his eyes and I’d closed mine. Instantly, a vision of Jones swam before my eyes. His head was shaven and his brown contacts were in place but then, his blond hair grew and his eyes changed to that startling, glacial blue. Instead of apprehension or panic, I could feel the warmth from Dan’s fingers spreading all across my chest. The image of Jones was smiling, kindness was flowing from those blue eyes and suddenly, all I could think of was the need to see him. The need to make things right between us. I knew I had to stop pushing him away before I pushed him too far.

I’d opened my eyes and Dan was smiling but he was withdrawing, and fading as he went. I’d realised that I was still holding on to the pendant.
Hope.
In that moment, I knew I had more than hope—I had determination and conviction. That’s why I’d rejected Gabe’s plea.

I exit the club into the empty alleyway and pull out my phone. I’m tempted to call Jones to ask him to pick me up but I know he shouldn’t be driving that car around with fake plates on it. It’s too dangerous. I’ll call a cab and surprise him as soon as I get home. The Kid too. No more secrets—just one big, happy family. That should scare the fucking life out of me but instead, there’s a stupid, soppy smile on my face. We’ll find a way. It might not be easy but aren’t the best things in life the ones you have to fight for?

I PULL UP IN front of the grey car. I wonder whether any of the neighbours have reported them yet? Two strange men, sitting in a car all day long, day after day. Not seeming to eat or drink and not leaving the car to use the bathroom. I don’t suppose it matters; the police aren’t going to be able to do anything. As soon as they show up, and ID is shown, they will back off with no explanation to the neighbours, no matter how many times they call.

They’re out of the car before I’ve even opened my door.

“Afternoon, boys,” I say, the second they yank it open. I can see they’re pissed off. Well, sitting there for days, pissing in empty water bottles isn’t much fun. I know. I’ve done it many times … and I didn’t have the luxury of a car to sit in. I wasn’t even able to hide anywhere in plain sight. If I’d been seen, I’d have been dead. These boys, they don’t know they’re born.

I get out, wondering whether to tell them how much they need a shower but I suspect they’re probably suffering from a sense of humour failure, given that they’ve been baking in a car under the fierce summer sun for hours on end. They literally do stink. I’m not really in the mood either. I debate going to see The Kid to say goodbye and explain that I’ll be back but I don’t know when but, since I left Vouloir two days ago and I haven’t answered Veuve’s many calls or messages, I haven’t even listened to her voicemails, nor read her texts. What is there to say?

My focus now is solely on tracing the bastards who took Sandy and trying to get her daughter back before making them pay. I’ve spent the last two days, since I walked out of Vouloir after witnessing Veuve crying for the man she belongs with, throwing all I have at the task and it’s got me precisely nowhere. I’ve approached every contact that anyone could give me but, not surprisingly, there are few direct leads. I doubt that anyone would want to be associated with a child trafficking/child prostitution ring. And whoever this Ross is, he’s seriously well protected. I’ve begged, bribed and brawled but to no avail. Every angle has drawn a blank. I’ve long since given up using his name—I’ve searched for links to anyone in the game but there’s a wall of silence. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve met a living, breathing victim, I wouldn’t believe such a ring existed.

Which leads me to the guys who are giving me both barrels for evading them. I shrug, neither confirming nor denying their accusations. I take them up to my flat and barely resist the urge to spray them with the Febreze that I keep for freshening up the interior of my car. They sit on the sofa wearing pathetic smirks. Let them have their fun. The simple fact that they’ve been sitting out there, practically dehydrating for days, tells me that whatever they need me for is something big and they want me and only me for the job. They’re probably desperate enough to agree to my demands now. I’ve come to the decision that this is the last time that I’m doing a deniable op. The last time that I’ll be dropped in some godforsaken place with precisely zero support—if I’m captured, Her Majesty’s Government will deny knowing anything about it. They won’t like it but they can do what they like, I don’t care. The only thing I care about is avenging Sandy’s death and laying her to rest.

I don’t even bother asking them what the job is. I give them my terms. As soon as they can give me the information I’m demanding, my arse will be on a plane destined for the arsehole of the world … wherever that may be. I’ll find it. They only come to me when it’s something that either nobody else can do or that nobody else will do. That gives me great bargaining power and they know it. They look at each other and one of them goes walking off to speak to someone more senior in the spooky chain of command.

I dig a ready meal out of the freezer and bang it in the microwave then I get in the shower. When I’m scrubbed clean and I have a full stomach, I begin to prepare my packing. Not clothes—I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing yet. I prepare the equipment that I’ll most likely need. It only takes them just over thirty minutes to get my terms approved. I wonder just how long it will be before they can gather the information that so far, I’ve not been able to. I’m not worrying about that now. I take my weary arse to bed. Sleep will soon be a luxury item that I’m denied. I’m going to make the most of it while I can.

Towards the end of the following day, the second a large, thick, white envelope is thrust in my hand, I pick up my backpack and we head off. I’m taken, courtesy of the ghostly grey transport (I should have picked up my bottle of Febreze) to RAF Northolt. When I see what’s waiting for me, I wish I’d asked for details of the job. There, preparing for take-off is a HS125 CC3—a low-wing monoplane that provides VIP transport, most notably to members of the Royal Family … not lowly ex-Commandos. I haven’t read what’s in the dossier inside that white envelope yet but I’m beginning to wish I’d held out for more. Whatever I’ve just agreed to, I’m thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t have but it’s too late now.

Within minutes, we’re airborne. Apparently, I’m off on an all-expenses-paid trip to Syria. If I’m lucky, there won’t be any US air strikes while I’m crawling around on my belly in the dirt, trying not to alert anyone to my presence. They do tend to liven things up ... especially when no fucker tells you they’re planned and you suddenly find yourself in the middle of a scene of fucking carnage. I watch the ground fall away beneath me before tearing open my envelope. The dossier on Ross and his organised gang is what constitutes my in-flight entertainment. I devour it slowly. I’m in no rush.

IT’S WITH A WEARY heart that I trudge the all too familiar path to the Child and Adolescent Mental Health wing. It’s the early hours of the morning and I was locking up at Vouloir when Bernie called me. The last time I dashed here after a desperate call from Bernie, it was to meet Dan. Look how that turned out. My palms are sweaty and my skin is tingling more with every step. I failed Dan—yes, I know, it was the system that failed him but I knew there was a good chance of that. If I’d realised they couldn’t even keep a close eye on a kid when they’re on suicide watch, I’d have taken matters into my own hands. My gut had told me to get him out of this place ... I’m sure Jones would have helped me. He was amazing that night when it all fell apart. Stupidly, I didn’t see that at the time either. I was too wrapped up in his appearance to see who he really was.