3. CHAPTER THREE
I’m the last to step out of the small plane and into a private hangar at London City Airport.
My eyes scan the open tarmac behind me out of habit, but there’s nothing to fear here.
Nothing I need to worry about, anyway. The hostess could do little damage in her pencil skirt and heels, and it would have been far smarter for the captain to dispose of us somewhere over the English Channel.
Still, as I take a deep breath, I’m comforted by the strain of my shoulder holster.
This city has seldom been kind to me. And in my line of work, if you don’t have eyes in the back of your head, you don’t make it out of training. Let alone ten years on the front line.
“Jude,” a female voice calls back to me, and I smile at her. Anki—the only name I’ve ever known her by—waits while I catch up. “It's not like you to be this on edge.” Her Dutch accent has always appealed to me, and her strong athletic build has served us well in the past. Both on and off the clock.
I keep my expression impassive, and shrug. “Coming home isn’t a happy experience for everyone.”
“Do you wanna meet back up for lunch after we’ve checked in?”
I contemplate her proposal, knowing full well her intentions. It’s almost a tradition at this point, and I can see in her face that she’s expecting me to accept. “Not today, I’m sorry. Being here has got me all turned around… And Anders is being more vague than usual.”
Anki is professional to a fault, and if she’s disappointed, she doesn’t let it show.
“Mission briefs are only as good as their most recent update.” She’s right, and the four of us who made the flight over from Lyon, France, know it better than most. We are nothing more than pieces on a chessboard, waiting for the strategist to guide us forward.
“Oh. How stupid of me.” My reply is thick with sarcasm. “Yesterday, I was supposed to be on a plane to Mykonos. But instead, I was literally plucked up and dropped into this mess without so much as a what for.”
“You knew what you were getting yourself into when you accepted the badge.”
“But did it have to be at the expense of my first time off in three years?”
“Anders gets what Anders wants. The pretty girls in bikinis will have to wait,” Anki laughs while gripping my bicep.
I smile back, but it’s all superficial.
Women weren’t the only reason I’d chosen Greece.
“Enjoy your homecoming,” Anki says with a cheeky wink before slipping into the private entrance ahead of me. My colleagues and I are nothing but strangers now. Faceless masses amongst the cold gray of winter in London.
The four of us march in a staggered line, each towing an overnight bag behind. Out of sight, we weave through the fluorescent white hallways of the airport. Bypassing the queues of travelers we slip through the private priority line like ghosts.
Approaching a body scanner, I shed my navy knee-length coat and place it in a bin.
Next is my cream knit sweater, revealing the brown leather holster that criss-crosses my back.
I take out my pistol and eject the cartridge before placing them both separately in another bin with my cell phone.
After pushing my bag along in the next tray, I step through the scanner and collect them on the other side.
“Your passport, sir,” the singular customs officer asks without looking up; his voice as mundane as this whole experience.
I hand it over, its pages marked with the stamps of places I’d rather forget.
“Welcome home,” he concludes, pushing my passport back to me, the last step in this pointless formality because I was never going to be refused entry.
The British government knew I’d be arriving before I did.
London is not just another pin on the map. It’s a return to a place I’ve spent the last seventeen years running from.
It’s where I learned that home is not always a sanctuary.
That a father’s touch is not always kind.
And it’s in spite of it that I built a new life, brick by brick.
This job became my salvation—a place where control means protection, not pain.
Once in the main concourse I spot Anki in the distance as she disappears into the crowd like the two hours we sat side by side never existed.
My phone buzzes from the inside breast pocket of my coat and sends a jolt straight to my gut. I slip it out; the screen illuminating a string of numbers and letters that only make sense to me. It’s Issak—Anders’ right-hand man—speaking silently from the depths of the network.
Outside, I step up to the appropriate spot on the curb. A taxi pulls up and I climb into the back seat.
“Where to, mate?” the driver asks.
“Mandarin Oriental,” I reply with a thankful grin. Anders may be scarce with dishing out information, but at least Issak knows how to pick a good hotel.
“Any plans for the rest of the day?” The cabby attempts small talk as he pulls away from the curb.
“To get myself to the closest pub.”
“To the Oriental? That’ll be The Tattersalls. But you’re gonna wanna head down Sloane Street to The Gloucester, instead.”
“Cheers.” I smile at him in the rearview mirror before looking back down at my phone and the new correspondence from Issak, only to have my slight perk in mood destroyed by four words: Stay vigilant.
Be ready. And the rush of heightened awareness that was bred into me through a childhood spent navigating the minefields of my father’s temper, notches up to eleven.
I guess I won’t be having that beer after all.
Leaning the side of my head against the window, I look up at the haze of the city. It’s not as thick as Los Angeles, but there’s more history to it. More stories in its buildings. My mind wanders with the familiarity of it all until it stumbles over my story:
The force of my father's fist when he burst my eardrum.
That scratched up DVD I found.
And hushed whispers shared through a broken fence.