The Sholes Key (An Evans & Blackwell Mystery #1) (2 page)

Pulling tight on the drawstring, she looked around and listened for movement. From her crouched position, she saw and heard nothing and took the opportunity to run for her vehicle. As soon as she stood, she caught sight of the men thirty-five feet off with their backs to her. Ducking down, she made it ten feet before she crunched down on a large twig.

She stood up straight and ran. Behind her, she heard the men yell and set off after her. Praying neither man carried a gun, she refused to look back.

After running half a mile, one of the men behind her coughed. She glanced around and saw the man crouched over and hoped that would slow the second man down, but to her dismay, the second man left his partner behind and closed the gap. She had to find something to stop them. A quick patting of her jacket pockets proved disappointing—she hadn’t expected a chase and had left herself unprepared.

The gap closed faster—fifteen feet, ten, and then five. She unzipped her coat and let it drop to the ground behind her. She didn’t expect a miracle, but it just might break his pace. It worked. In an effort to avoid the obstacle thrown in his path, the man halted for a split second before trying to jump it, only to land wrong on a patch of rocky grass.

When he hit the ground, Sophia ran faster. After throwing the bag over her shoulder, she reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out her car keys. She could see the Peugeot now, just down the hill. The man had risen, and both men resumed their chase. She pressed down firmly on the unlock button until she saw the red rear lights flash. Reaching in her other pocket, she pulled out a small pocketknife and held it tight.

Twenty or so feet from where the two vehicles parked on the hard shoulder, she took out the blade. She hoped the men hadn’t done to her car what she planned to do to theirs. The men had parked their vehicle in front. She ran toward it. With all the strength she had, she stabbed the left back tire and pulled out the knife. When she heard the air hiss out, she ran back to her vehicle.

She yanked open the driver side door and jammed the key at the ignition until it slid in. As she put the vehicle in reverse, the second man jumped onto her bonnet. The car bounced under his weight, but, when she pressed down on the accelerator, he slid off, landing face down on the ground.

Driving in reverse for almost two hundred feet, she finally found enough space on the hard shoulder to turn around. Looking right, she saw the first man leaning over the popped tire while the other ran after her vehicle. She slammed her door shut and pressed the lock button as she switched into first gear. Again, she pressed the accelerator; the tires spun wildly without gaining traction. He ran faster. He grabbed at the door handle and smashed his fist into the passenger-side window without breaking it.

“Bloody hell,” he yelled, grabbing his hand.

Sophia stepped on the accelerator again, but that only dug her tires in deeper. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man reach behind him and pull out a silver object. Too scared to confirm it was a gun, she switched the vehicle into reverse and the car lurched back, ramming into a tree.
Please, please, please,
she pleaded as she turned her wheels sharply right and again switched to first gear.

The bullet ricocheted off the front of her car and up the windscreen, cracking it. She took a quick breath then pressed gently on the accelerator and eased the vehicle slowly forward and to the right. In slow motion, she watched him press the trigger. As the Peugeot lurched up onto the motorway, the back passenger window exploded behind her.

* * *

Sophia waited for Liam Foxton along a private drive a mile off the motorway, every sound making her heart race. She kept expecting the two men to find and kill her. When Foxton finally arrived and parked his car behind hers, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“You better tell me what the hell is going on before I cosh you over the head. I almost died out there alone,” Sophia yelled at him as soon as he opened his car door.

He unzipped his black jacket and threw his dark glasses on his seat. A flatbed lorry pulled up behind him.

“I don’t know. I don’t know who they were,” Foxton replied. He grabbed her keys and surveyed the damage to her car.

“You’re a liar!” She held the mobile display up to his face. “Ask Foxton about the McFee file. That’s what it says. If your other projects mess up my Masters case—”

“They won’t.” He grabbed her arms and looked into her eyes. “I would never let anything happen to you. Make sure you have everything you need out of your car.”

She held up her bag. “This situation has nothing to do with Marc?”

“Nothing whatsoever.” He pointed to the car and scratched his fingertips through his light brown hair. “Marc won’t find out about this.”

“I was right in taking this car instead of the Mercedes. Oh, if anything happened to that…” She shook her head and looked around. “My father would kill me.”

“Where do you think they are?” Foxton asked her.

She pointed back the way she came. “Five, six miles that way. I managed to disable a tire but they may have changed it already. Why are they after me, Liam? What does McFee have to do with me? Holy crap, Liam, what have I done? What’s going on?” Her arms fell limp at her side.

“I don’t know, Evans, but I’ll figure it out.” He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She took in the scent of his sporty cologne.

“I need a lift back to my other car. I’ve put off Marcus long enough.” She sighed. “When is this going to be over, Liam? I’m not cut out for this. I haven’t received the training to deal with situations like this.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I’m worried. I’m so worried. Everything seems to be going horribly wrong.” Her mobile rang. “This is Marc now. I have to answer.”

Foxton waved her off, and she hiked up the bumpy road to escape the noise of the lorry lifting the Peugeot onto the flatbed.

“Marc, sorry I couldn’t answer before.” She didn’t want to sound out of breath but couldn’t control it.

“What’s wrong, Soph?”

Sophia paused. All the lies had to fit and be neat and tidy, so her best course was to keep close to the truth. However, not having to explain at all was better. “Would you be upset if I said I didn’t want to discuss my hellish morning? Let’s just say, stupidly boring meeting and flat tire.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, no worries. I called roadside assistance. Changing the tire as we speak.”

Silence.

“Marc? Darling?” What had she done wrong? Oh, God.

“It’s just that it’s almost three.”

What had she forgetten? Oh, bugger, what did she forget? “I’m so sorry, Marc.” Hopefully that appeased him. Please, let him be all right. She gritted her teeth. When she looked up, she saw Liam walking down the road toward her. She held a finger to her lips. “Marc?”

“Are you in London?”

Why would he ask that? “Why would you ask that?” She took a deep breath to prevent vomiting.

Finally, Marc replied, “I don’t know. You seem far away.”

What choice did she have? She had to tell him the truth now…sort of. “I had to meet an important client out of the city. I’m not used to driving on country roads, and I must’ve run something over.”

“Will you be able to get to my flat by five?”

“Yes.” She paused. “But I’m sorry, Marc, I can’t remember what we had planned.”

“We had nothing planned. However, I booked a table at the Italian place you keep talking about, but for half five.”

She laughed. “Lucci’s? I love Lucci’s.”

“I know. How long will it take you to get into London and get ready?”

Ready? Oh, blast. She was so far from ready after rolling around in the forest. Ninety minutes top gear to her car, thirty minutes cross town to her flat, twenty for a shower and to dress, and twenty to Marc’s.

“I can be there in two hours,” she lied.

Ready to ring off and start her race, she said, “I’ll see you soon.”

“Sophia?”

“Yes, Marc.” He sounded serious.

“I love you.”

Sophia looked up at Liam who was listening intently to her portion of the conversation. “I love you too, Marc.” She rang off and placed the mobile into her bag.

“You just told a terrorist you love him,” Liam said.

“A
supposed terrorist
. We haven’t found proof yet.” She walked toward his car, leaving him behind.

“Sophia.” Liam caught up, took her arm and swung her around. “What are you doing?” He glowered. “You can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re getting too emotionally attached to him.”

“Bugger off, Liam.” She yanked her arm from his grasp. “The assignment was to get close to him. It’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“He’s supposed to become attached to you; you’re supposed to remain objective.”

Sophia ignored him and kept walking.

“Have you slept with him?”

She turned to him and glared. “That’s none of your bloody business, Foxton.” When she reached his car, she opened the door and got in. “I’ve got to get to London, fast.”

Foxton reached his door and with a loud bang, smashed his fist onto the roof of his car. It made Sophia jump in her seat. Without another word, he got in and headed for London.

Unfortunately, they had ninety minutes together. The silence couldn’t last. “You can pout, Liam, but this is exactly what your superiors wanted me to do.” She couldn’t help herself; egging him on distracted her from all the tension she felt.

“I can just as easily take you off the case. You can be replaced.”

Liam kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road. She laughed. “And just how do you plan to do that? Normally, when you put someone inexperienced undercover, you actually put them undercover. New name, new address, new car, so that criminals can’t just go to your house and shoot your family. Marcus knows where I live and he knows my father. If you botch this up—”

“Don’t sleep with him.” He pointed his finger in her face. “This case isn’t permanent.”

“You’re absolutely right, it isn’t. It was supposed to be a three-day assignment. Three. Then I could do what I’m good at, not running around flirting with criminals. I’ve become nothing more than a cheap prostitute.” She sat back and crossed her arms.

He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “You’re not a prostitute.”

“Why? Because I work for the government?”

He shook his head.

“Five months, Liam, five. I can’t date someone for five months and keep coming up with reasons not to see him naked. You didn’t think this case through. None of you did.”

“Find the key and you can tell him it’s over.” He rubbed his hand over his day-old stubble.

“Find the bloody key? I’ve searched all over his flat for that key, torn it apart and put it back together looking for it. Nothing. Have you simpletons even considered maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree?”

“He’s involved.”

She thought so too when she started the case, but now she wasn’t convinced. Nothing made sense. Why couldn’t she find the key? There was a chance she was toying with the heartstrings of an innocent man. It made her sick.

She finally arrived fifteen minutes late at Marcus Masters’ house in Islington, only having to jump sixteen reddish lights—not that she counted. Finding a spot to park three doors down, she got out and dashed to his door in her stilettos and tight black skirt.

After she pressed the bell, she stood rocking on her toes.
Please, let everything be kosher. Please, don’t let these past five months be a waste.

No answer.

She rapped the doorknocker against the black wood of the doorframe. Leaning her head closer to the door, she listened for footsteps.

Silence.

Trying the bronze door handle, she twisted it. It opened. Slowly, she pushed the door inward. “Marc?” she whispered. “Marc, it’s Sophia. Sorry I’m late.”

Sophia stepped into the entrance and stood in the dark. Was she supposed to meet him at the restaurant? Were signals crossed? Worse yet, did he know the truth? Was this a trap? Why did he leave his door open?

Stop. Just stop, Evans told herself forcefully, taking a deep breath. Why think the worst? Perhaps he’s upstairs dressing.

“Marc?” she squeaked as she climbed the stairs to the first floor. Tiptoeing down the hall, she felt along the wall for a light switch.

“What are you doing?” said a voice from behind.

Chapter 2

"Thios—Thios,
my bed is wet.
Thios,
my bed is wet.” Theophilus Blackwell’s four-year-old nephew punched him in the shoulder.

Theo opened an eye and scanned his nephew’s wet, star-ship pajama bottoms. “Why are you telling me? Where’s your mother, Milos?” Slowly, he slid his aching thirty-eight-year-old body out of bed and put his slippers on.

“I think she’s dead. I think a cri-min-mal came and—”

“She’s not dead, silly. Your mum’s probably in the kitchen, or sleeping.” The boy stood immobilized. Theo yanked the thumb out of his nephew’s mouth and asked, “Would you like me to get your mum?”

Milos nodded and replied, “I’m cold.”

Dragging his feet down the hall, Theo stuck his head into the next bedroom. The bed lay empty and the layers of blankets covered the wood flooring beside it. He sighed and ran his fingers through his cropped, dark brown hair.

“Why does your wife sleep in here?” Milos asked. “Isn’t she supposed to sleep with you?”

He looked down at his nephew and rubbed his frizzy hair. “It’s a bit complicated, mate.”

“I’ll come sleep with you in your bed.”

“Not if you keep peeing yours, you won’t.”

At the next door, Theo knocked. A grunt came from within. He turned the handle and pushed it opened.

“Dalia, your son wet the bed again.”

“Bloody hell, Milos,” came the muffled replied from under the covers.

“It wasn’t my fault,” whined Milos. “There was this spaceship… ”

Theo left them and entered the warmth of the kitchen. The greasy clock that hung on the browned wallpaper read a quarter to seven. His mother was taking muffins out of the oven.