Chapter 2
Kara - Present Day
I walk home in a daze. The rain still pelting down, making my clothes cling to me like a second, soggy skin. The cold seeps in through everything, making my bones ache.
The grey clouds match my mood. The highs of a decent kill and a bloody good shot have been completely dampened by the memories of my past that are now threatening to drown me.
I’m Kara Snow, not Lucy Cook.
I’d buried her and Owen a long time ago, but apparently he still has me in a chokehold.
The streets are empty as people have taken shelter from the shitty English weather, only a few sad sods like me walking in the downpour.
Apex offices are in Canary Wharf, with small safe-houses belonging to the security agency peppering the city for us all to call home. But I called home outside the central hustle and bustle of London, living a short train journey away in Clapham.
Knowing that I’m about to embed myself in Owen’s life, it made sense for me to stay in my Westminster safe house. So that is where I’m headed.
In the rain.
To my temporary refuge, and most importantly, my bubbly bath.
Although a walk would clear my head, it’s too far so I grab the Jubilee line, the stuffy tube warming me as I head straight to Westminster.
I’m soon standing facing the beautiful Houses of Parliament. Where it’s been shrouded in scaffolding for over a year, seeing it back in its majestic glory makes the skyline complete again.
Shame it’s full of wankers who have made their living by lying to us, but even I can’t help taking in the beauty of Big Ben, its golden edges still bright even on this dreary day.
Armed police stand guard at all the main entrances. Black iron gates wrap around the perimeter, with bollards peppered on the pavement protecting those inside from any potential threat.
I walk past, eyes on me.
Watching, waiting, alert.
Just as I am.
What they don’t realise is as they watch me, I watch them. I can see where they are positioned. I’ve noted their weapons, how they hold them, whether they are truly as alert as they try to portray.
Even with all the security, I scout out the weak spots—because everywhere has them. Everyone has them. It’s just a matter of finding them. And exploiting it.
By the time I’ve walked the breadth of the landmark, I’ve already planned the approach I’d take if I was trying to break in.
I’ve located the entrance with the least number of security guards, bored looking ones at that.
I’ve counted the guards, and I’ve watched a car being admitted with its chauffeur driven politician hidden by black-tinted windows.
This is Owen’s world.
He’s working with the very people who let us down as kids.
Bubbles surround me like a cocoon, the warmth from the water taking the last of the chill away as I relax in the security of the safe house, tucked down one of the side roads past the Houses of Parliament.
The hustle and bustle of Westminster is mere metres away, but the road the safe house is on has seen only one car come down in the last hour. It’s like a different world, even though chaos is just around the corner.
Chaos and calm all within twenty meters of each other.
The safe house is small, but comfortable. It’s where I’ll be calling home until this blasted assignment ends.
Keep Owen safe. That should be reasonably simple.
The only thing that makes me uncomfortable is that I don’t have all the information.
I live my life planning. I plan every mission; I plan for the what ifs. Each assignment has a Plan A, B, C—hell, we even have an It’s gone to shit plan. But now all I have is the file.
“Owen will brief you when the time is right.” Okay thanks, Andrews that fills me with such confidence.
Three months. Five million, and I can say toodaloo to Mr. Cooper, and so long to Lucy Cook…again.
My phone buzzes from the bathroom countertop which runs along the bathroom wall.
The large grey tiles and decor makes it feel like I’m in a hotel.
The water that I’ve filled to the top sploshes over the huge bathtub as I sit up and wipe my hand on the towel propped on the toilet before grabbing my phone.
The caller displays Andrews.
“You’re ruining my Zen,” I say, sinking back into the water and closing my eyes.
“And how’s the bubbly bath?”
“It was great.”
I hear him moving around, and a light chuckle fills the receiver.
“Look, I won’t be long. Tomorrow night is the initial meet. Owen has some fundraising dinner; he’s giving a speech at it or something. It’s the perfect opportunity for you two to meet again.”
“Wonderful.”
“Do I sense a tone?”
“From me? Never,” I retort on an eye roll.
“All I get from you is a bloody tone. Anyway, it’s black tie. You’re going to need to get some supplies. Have you read the file?”
“Not yet.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Research.”
“You scoped out Parliament, didn’t you?” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “You can’t control everything, Kara.”
“No, but I can be prepared. Which I currently do not feel.”
“And what did you find out?”
Ergh, of course he ignores my jab.
“Weaknesses.” I pull the phone away from my ear and put it on speaker, propping it back onto the side of the bath where a small ledge sits with some toiletries I found in one of the cupboards.
“Isn’t there always? If there wasn’t, it would make our job harder.”
“More exciting you mean.”
He laughs at my response.
“Does the file have all the information I need?” I grab the razor from the side and start to shave my legs, as it would seem they will now be on show tomorrow.
Sodding Owen.
“It’s all the information that has been given.”
“Which means there are gaps. There’s always sodding gaps. I’m serious, Andrews, I can’t protect him if I don’t know everything.” I lean forward and feel where I have shaved, making sure the skin is smooth.
“You know more than most; you can ask him yourself tomorrow. You love an interrogation.”
“Yeah, but without the tools, it’s boring.” I start on the other leg.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Shaving my goddamn legs because I have to go to a goddamn black-tie event and be a bodyguard. Ergh. Get the rest of the information. I want to know what he’s been doing with his life, I don’t want to go in blind here. Send it to me before tomorrow.”
“Yes, dear,” he replies.
“Do I sense a tone?” I smirk.
“Always with the sass,” his deep voice rumbles. “Anya checked into the Soho Apartment. Go and get some girly time in. You’ve got a badger so far up your arse, Kara, it‘s licking your tonsils.”
“Lovely,” I reply, but he’s too busy gearing up to give me a lecture.
“This assignment isn’t going to be the easiest.” I snort at that, but he ignores me. “But you cannot fuck this up, little one. Get your head in the game.”
“My head is in the game,” I mumble petulantly.
“No, it’s not. You’ve scouted Parliament, for fuck’s sake. I know you Snow, better than you give me credit for. Get your head out of the past and focus on the present.”
“You shouldn’t have given me this assignment if you don’t think I’m able to do it,” I snap, the razor falling from my hand as my emotions get the better of me.
“You forget that I’m the one that pulled you from that hellhole.”
“You pulled Lucy from that hellhole Andrews.” I grind my teeth, frustration flushing through my body. But he’s right—Andrews is the only living person apart from Owen who knew what happened in that house. I rose from the ashes as Kara because of him.
He gave me a new life, a new identity. Purpose.
I owed him my life.
No matter how fucked up it is.
“Go out with Anya, get a dress, and I don’t know, go for cocktails and shit.
Let off some steam. I need you to be a knockout tomorrow, Kara.
You need to make waves—and not the waves you’re used to.
I need electricity to shine, we need to sell this shit.
We want you to make newspapers. Owen Cooper is already pegged as the upcoming change this country needs.
He’s the new Golden Boy in Westminster, and he’s doing things differently.
The more press he can get, the better as it makes him a harder target. ”
“Doing things differently how?”
“Just read the goddamn file and be ready for tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” I salute.
There’s no point trying to argue with him, because he’s spot on. I’ve scouted Parliament because I’m antsy, and I’m trying to be prepared and control a situation that I have zero control in.
Yet.
God, I hate it when he’s bloody right. It’s really annoying.
“Be safe little one. You know what you mean to me.”
“Don’t get soft on me, old man. But I hear you and thank you.” I may be a pain in his arse, but he only wants what’s best for me. Well, that and what’s best for his wallet.
“I’ll look forward to reading about your meeting in the Sunday papers.” With that, the line goes dead, and I submerse myself into the water.
How hard can this be?
“Go for the red one instead.”
“Really?” I’m standing on top of a small stool in the changing rooms of Harrods while Anya sits on a cream chaise longue, a glass of champagne in her hand.
She looks over the black number I’m currently trying on and takes another sip, placing it on the table and sashaying over.
That was the thing with Anya. Here she is in jeans, boots and white t-shirt, her brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail and her face bare of makeup, except a small fluttering of mascara. Yet she always walks like she’s on a catwalk.
Her dark eyes penetrate me, her full lips pursed as she walks round me, looking at the dress.
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re fucking hot. But the red has a slit, making things more accessible.” She, of course, is referring to a knife that I will strap to my right thigh.
We’ve adopted the six P’s. Proper planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance. Which means, even at gala dinners when wearing a tight dress, I’ll be carrying a weapon. It just makes it slightly harder to conceal said weapons.
But I love a challenge.