6. Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog
Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog
Tennyson had tried not to think about the possibility of Lindsey refusing help.
He’d known there was a chance, but he’d hoped that Lindsey would see reason.
The law had already failed him, and to trust it now was fruitless.
Better to take matters into their own hands.
Better to accept the lifeline Tennyson was throwing to him.
But deep down, he had known that Lindsey wouldn’t run.
He never had—not when they were kids, not in the military.
Not when Tennyson left. Lindsey finished what he started, and if someone else started it, he finished that, too.
No matter what odds had been stacked against him, Lindsey would stand and fight.
This time, Tennyson would stand with him.
Louna had reluctantly told him about Lindsey’s refusal to take the earbud, and if he’d decided to wear it after her departure, he gave no indication.
Lindsey didn’t trust him, and Tennyson didn’t blame him.
He’d been lost when he left the Marines, and when he resorted to work as a bodyguard for the rich and arrogant, he’d been too ashamed to reach out.
Once he started working for Harlow, contact with anyone was dangerous. Isolation was necessary.
And convenient.
The ride back to the Nest was silent. At another time, he might have found Louna’s embarrassment over her mistaken assumption amusing, but there wasn’t time to dwell on humor. They needed a plan.
Mindful of Hartmann’s presence, Tennyson took a convoluted route through the city and pulled into the garage only after Philippe confirmed via the cameras that the coast was clear. He parked and watched solemnly as Louna closed the garage door, and followed her up the steps into the loft.
Jean-Claude was waiting in the kitchen, Philippe by the surveillance screens, but Louna passed them both and went to the bedroom to change.
“We’ve been examining the evidence collected outside the embassy,” Jean-Claude said, his tone cautious.
He’d always been perceptive, but Tennyson wasn’t used to his worries being so transparent. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
Worse: he wasn’t sure he didn’t.
When Tennyson didn’t object to the topic, Jean-Claude went back to mixing some kind of batter in a large wooden bowl and spoke without looking from it. “If Harlow’s going to let this go to court, there’s a chance a good lawyer could fight it. Much of it seems circumstantial.”
“Harlow never meant to let it go that far,” Tennyson said.
He dropped into one of the chairs, angling himself toward the door and closing his eyes against a growing headache.
“He just wanted to distract me. His plan was probably to hold Lindsey overnight and let it be known the next morning that his arrest was a mistake.”
“Why arrest the other two?” Jean-Claude asked.
Tennyson lifted one shoulder. “Wrong place, wrong time. More leverage against us. He probably didn’t plan it, but Harlow’s an opportunist.”
“What will he do now?” Philippe asked.
That was hard to say. Harlow had to know the evidence wouldn’t hold up.
He’d gambled by having Lindsey and the other Marines arrested and jailed through the Romanian system rather than the U.S.
courts, and if the case went public before Harlow could resolve it, he’d be risking an international incident.
His only choice was to finish this quickly, either by releasing all three of them, or...
Or sending someone like Hartmann.
The bedroom door opened, and Tennyson exhaled. “Killing will be a last resort,” he said, listening to Louna’s nearly soundless steps as she crossed the room toward him. “He won’t want that kind of attention on the case. But he may try to intimidate them.”
“Intimidate Lindsey?” Jean-Claude said, snorting. “He does not know who he’s dealing with.”
Louna perched on Tennyson's armchair and leaned over him. “Anyone can be persuaded,” she said. “And fear is a very strong motivator.”
“Not for Lindsey,” Tennyson said, speaking without opening his eyes. “The more afraid he is, the harder he digs in his heels.”
“Hmm,” Louna said, doubt heavy in her voice.
The smell of her perfume settled over him, disturbingly familiar despite how new the blend was.
“During our first assignment,” he said softly, “a bunch of us went out one night, and there was an NCO across the bar who kept causing trouble. Arguing, making comments, being loud. Nothing anyone wanted to confront, but it made things tense. After a few hours, he got up to drive back to base. He couldn’t even walk a straight line, but nobody stopped him. ”
“Except Lindsey?” Louna guessed.
Tennyson opened his eyes. “He went outside while I was paying our bill and tried to take the NCO’s keys.
The NCO threatened him—he outranked us both, and could have done serious damage to Lindsey’s career, but Lindsey said he wasn’t getting behind the wheel in front of him.
I came out just as the NCO threw a punch. ”
He paused, wondering if Lindsey was listening. “Lindsey could have defended himself. He could have fought back and taken the keys by force, but he didn’t. He stood there and took the punch, and when the NCO stumbled after the hit, Lindsey reached into his pocket.”
A devious light gleamed in Louna’s eyes. “He stole the keys?”
“And then he tossed them to me,” Tennyson said.
“We played keep-away until the NCO got sick, and then we loaded him into our car and drove him back to the base.
The next day, Lindsey had a black eye the size of a baseball, but he told everyone he fell.
Didn't say a word about it, even after the rest of the guys started calling him Shiner. We never saw that NCO in the bar again.”
The corners of Louna’s mouth tightened. “So he will not be manipulated with fear, but he can still be controlled. He was not arrested by himself.”
That was the problem. Harlow’s talent was finding weaknesses, no matter how strong his target’s defenses. Mitchell and Alvarez were Lindsey’s, and Lindsey was Tennyson’s.
One of Tennyson’s.
He stood, careful not to jostle Louna off the armrest, and paced toward the windows. “A legal battle will take months,” he said. “Maybe even years. Harlow won’t want that. Whatever he’s going to do, he’ll do it before the trial. Have they set the date yet?”
“Discovery and preliminary hearings are already completed,” Philippe said. “That should have taken weeks, but charges have already been filed.” He paused, scrolling through his phone as he spoke. “Looks like the trial will take place on March 17th.”
That gave them a little time to prepare, then—for the trial, and for Harlow.
Tennyson stared out the window, seeing every shadow where Hartmann might be waiting, every possible accident that might befall them.
Harlow would strike when he was least expected, so Tennyson had to expect him everywhere, at any time. He had to be ready.
A hand touched his arm, and Tennyson turned as Louna stepped to the window beside him. “Come with me,” she said in a low voice.
“Where?”
She shot a look toward the bedroom, and he folded his arms.
“I don’t know that Jean-Claude and Philippe would appreciate that,” he said dully.
Louna sighed. “A pity. But I only wanted to check your injury.” She ran her finger under the stitches she’d put in his arm, leading the way toward the bedroom she’d used earlier.
Tennyson followed, ignoring the whistle Philippe sent after them, and resumed his cross-armed stance just inside the doorway.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll take them out in a few days.”
“You can’t reach,” she reminded him. She closed the door, forcing him to take another step forward, and crossed the room into a small master bath beside the closet. “Take off your shirt,” she called, opening the cabinet and rummaging through its contents.
“I said it’s fine,” Tennyson grumbled. He took a moment to study the bedroom, taking in every detail.
It looked like a hotel room, clean and impersonal, with a white bedspread and sleek, forgettable furniture.
A small dog bed, dusted with short white fur, rested in a shaft of light against the wall.
Ilya’s dog again—Svetlana, he thought. A Maltese Bichon.
A flicker of irritation went through him, and the reaction annoyed him further.
He and Ilya had fought, but that was before they realized they had a common friend in Louna.
The Nest belonged to Ilya—or someone Ilya knew very well—and Tennyson should be big enough to set aside his antagonism and accept the Russian’s help gracefully.
Unfortunately, the thought of reconciliation made him want to punch things, so he pushed the impulse to the back of his mind and resolved to deal with it later.
The only other decorations were a potted plant on a stand near the window, directly across from the door, and a painting over the bed. Tennyson stepped closer, studying it with distracted curiosity.
“Take off your shirt,” Louna said again, coming out of the bathroom with a small first-aid kit.
“Louna,” Tennyson said, but she was already moving around the bed and reaching for the hem of his shirt.
She’d done the same thing in Paris, goading him into changing into a suit she’d bought by threatening to undress him if he did not undress himself.
She’d called him Galahad, a knight sworn to chastity, and he’d given in to her whims with little fight.