Chapter 21
Kara - Present
“What the hell was that?” I snap, picking up my phone and turning it on.
“That, Cookie, was winging it.”
“You called them out, Owen. You challenged them. Do you do this shit on purpose? I swear to God…” I rub at my temples, my head pounding. “You’re so bloody blaze about this. You’re in so much shit, and yet you’re waltzing around like you haven’t got a care in the fucking world.”
“Because they win if I don’t,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “Do you know where you’re going?” he snaps at the driver, leaning forward.
The driver looks in the rear-view mirror, eyes wide at his sudden outburst. “Yes sir, to your apartment.”
“Don’t talk to him like that. He’s just the poor driver. I’m so sorry,” I apologise to the driver.
Owen flops back. “Look,” he clears his throat, “we aren’t going to see eye to eye on everything. I get that you’re not going to want to take risks, but I didn’t get here without doing just that.”
“The risks are slightly different here. We are talking about life and death, Owen.”
“I am fully aware of that,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “I’m surprised her blood came out of my shirt. She was my friend. Don’t forget that, Lucy. I know exactly what’s on the line here.”
We stare at each other, giving each other the stink eye before I turn away on a huff.
“You’re a pain in my arse.”
“So you keep telling me. But we are doing this my way. Now, can I have the phone again? I want to check my social medias.”
“Social media? Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“You’re an arsehole.”
“No, I’m not. But if it’s easier for you to keep telling yourself that, so fucking be it.”
I don’t reply. I’m raging.
My hands ball in a fist, my fingernails digging into my palms as I watch the London skyline blur past our window.
The driver will take us back to Owen’s apartment where we will get the hard drive, grab whatever else he needs, then head back to my safehouse.
Which is where I will be most comfortable. Prancing around London is not something I want to do. At the safehouse we can plan. I can plan.
I’m on edge, and I’m very aware that I have limited weapons on me.
I have no idea the layout of Owen’s apartment.
I mean, sure, I’d done some initial research; I know he lives in one of the new Vauxhall apartment buildings, I know where the exits are, along with the layout of his flat.
There’s one thing you can always count on with these new builds—they are generic, and each apartment has an almost identical floor plan. Owen’s is no different.
“Andrews….” Owen says randomly from across the seat. The small gap may as well be an ocean.
“What about him?”
“You said he saved you?”
I meet his eyes and glance back out the window. MI5 is on my left as we sit idle with some traffic lights coming off Vauxhall Bridge. The high-rise apartments growing more regular around us.
“He found me on the street. I ran away when I was sixteen. I was homeless, but he took me under his wing.”
“You lived on the street?”
“Isn’t that what homeless means? Come on, Owen, you know between the ages of sixteen to eighteen, we transition to Adult Social Care. It’s even easier to fall through the cracks then. It wasn’t like we had a loving home life. You’d gone, home was hell, so I left.”
I glance towards our driver, aware that we aren’t alone in the car. It’s a subject that I don’t exactly want to hash out with him right now, especially with company.
“Can we do this another time?”
“How bad?”
“Owen.” I look at him with pleading eyes.
He studies me, reading my expression, then nods, his mouth turning down in a grimace.
This is for him; this isn’t for me.
He’s asking me questions to make himself feel less guilty for leaving.
But you know what Mr, I’m not going to sugar coat my past to save your fucking feelings.
That’s what I really want to say, the words sitting bitter on my tongue, desperate to escape like a bullet. But I don’t. I swallow them down.
“We’re here.” The driver’s accented voice interrupts my thought process, and I look out the window to see the newly built apartments standing tall. I can’t see the top, with them being well over twenty stories.
The freshly laid tarmac and landscaping in the pedestrian area makes it inviting and modern. I open my door and step out, craning my neck to take in the full height.
“Nice. MP’s allowances have certainly improved.”
“No allowances. This is mine. Bought with my money.” Owen stands next to me, hands on his hips, following my gaze to the top of the building.
“Oh yeah! Like all the other politicians funded. Not an ounce of dodgy dealings, I bet—”
“Just shut up, Lucy,” he snaps.
I recoil, shocked at the anger behind his deep rumble.
“I’m so sick of your snarky attitude on stuff that you know nothing about. You are judging me based on our own shitty childhood, and I’m sick of it.”
He storms past me, and I am left standing, shocked at his sudden outburst.
How fucking dare he?
How dare he speak to me like that?
“He raped me,” I shout. The words fly out my mouth, not giving two flying fucks who can hear them.
He freezes, his whole body tenses. “When you left me, he turned his attention to me. He beat me until I could barely walk, and then he raped me.”
I don’t know why I say it so callously. Is it because I want to hurt him? Make him feel the ultimate guilt? And I think this is the way to do it?
“He found every hiding spot, and Maria was powerless to stop him. Even if she took many a beating for me. Just like you used to for her. You were the only person to ever successfully stand up to him.”
His back is to me; the anger rolls off him in ferocious waves. People are walking past. I’m aware that we are in public, but it isn’t exactly a crowded area. People are too busy trying to get to their next destination.
That’s the good thing about Londoners. They keep their heads down, keep walking.
“Fucking hell. I’d kill him if I could,” he says so quietly I barely hear him.
“No need.” I say it so devoid of emotion that he turns around and looks at me.
“Lucy,” he groans. His eyes clench shut, and he winces like it physically hurts.
“It’s in the past.” I shrug. I fucking shrug.
My voice isn’t my own as I lie to him. It’s not in the past. Not even close.
“Everything, everywhere I saw him.” See him. I want to say. Even more so since he walked back into my life. “I hated myself for letting him.”
He takes a step forward, but I hold my hand out.
“Letting him…Are you for real right now? You were a kid,” Owen argues.
“I know. Look, I don’t need your comfort. It happened, and I’ve dealt with it.”
If a facial expression could scream bullshit, it would be the look on his face right now. Head cocking, eyebrow raised.
“Just forget I said anything,” I mumble, suddenly self-conscious, even though wasn’t this whole situation because I wanted to hurt him? Jesus, am I fucked up or what?
I’ve done the shittiest possible thing. I blurted it out.
He frowns and steps forward. “This isn’t something I can exactly forget, Lucy.”
He holds my eyes but stays silent as a film of emotion plays out on his beautiful features while he processes. He shakes his head, his face full of sadness, and steps past me.
And God, I’d be lying if that didn’t hurt. Because why didn’t he apologise for breaking his promise?
We step out of the lift on the 11th floor, the beige carpets and walls with its pictures making the whole place more like a hotel than a block of apartments.
Owen hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since I dropped the bomb, and I’m trying desperately not to feel guilty about it.
But I can’t help it.
I do feel guilty.
My insides are being beaten black and blue with the pain and guilt of how I handled that. There’s a pain in my heart like it’s been stabbed with a rusty old knife. I told him to make him feel like shit. He now feels like shit, and so do I.
I’m a fucking idiot.
A callous, cold-hearted bitch.
Maybe there was something in what he said. Maybe I do know nothing about him. He has shown nothing but someone who is trying to do better, trying to create something for people like us, and has got caught up in the web that the Covenant has weaved throughout London. A web that I myself am in.
There are four flats on each floor, and as we approach Owen’s door, I put my hand across his chest to stop him.
“The latch.” I nod.
The door, although shut, has been forced open, and a small gap of light from inside shines through.
“I’m assuming you didn’t leave it open?”
“The hard drive.” He goes to walk past me, but I stop him.
“Think,” I admonish, tapping my head, before reaching behind my back and pulling my jacket up, removing my Glock.
“You took a gun into the police station?”
“Always be—”
“Prepared. Yes, yes. You know you stole that line from the boy scouts or something,” he whispers.
I hold my finger to my lips, my mask slipping into place.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I leave Owen standing in the empty hallway and slowly step into the apartment, my gun raised.
Using the walls and doors as cover, I search the small apartment room by room.
From the outside, the apartment block looks plush and modern. On the inside, his apartment is no bigger than the safe house.
Open planned modern living, accented with simple furnishings and two bedrooms. One is the master suite, with built-in wardrobes and a double bed with neutral, warm tones throughout.
The second bedroom has been turned into a study.
Masculine, simple, Owen.
“Clear,” I call from inside.
Owen walks in and heads straight to the bathroom. I follow, leaning onto the door frame and watch as he removes the lid of the toilet.
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “This is literally the least inventive hiding spot, and didn’t you tell me it was in a safe?” He ignores my comment and sticks his hand into the water, rummaging around and comes back empty-handed.
“Let me guess. Gone?”