Chapter Three Deep Undercover
Chapter three
Deep Undercover
“Honey, I’m home.”
Warren threw his duffel on the bottom stair, dust motes spiralling in the slant of afternoon light. The place smelled faintly of coffee and old wood polish. Too quiet for comfort.
His first full day as Mr Warren Bailey had gone well enough.
Easier than most covers, because he hadn’t needed to twist himself into something ugly.
He wasn’t wearing the skin of a thug or a runner, not pretending to be a dead-eyed muscle-for-hire.
Bailey was decent. Straightforward. The kind of bloke he might’ve been if life had cut him a cleaner deal.
“Ha-fucking-ha,” Naomi’s voice drifted down the stairs, dry as sandpaper.
Warren chuckled under his breath. Sarcasm, always his first weapon. And she’d know the truth in the joke, too.
Still bizarre, though, sharing a roof with her again.
Bizarre as fuck.
Fresh paint and something faintly medicinal welcomed him back into what would be his house for the next however many days, weeks, months.
Years, if this assignment went sideways.
But, whatever, it had a new-build palatable sterility.
Artificial cleanliness trying a little too hard to pass as lived in.
Whitewashed walls, flatpack pine, and a silence scraping beneath his skin.
It was always jarring. Stepping into a life that wasn’t his and pretending it could be.
This one more than most.
A quiet semi-detached three streets from the sea.
Lawn trimmed to council standard. Neutral furnishings chosen to offend no one.
A family home. At least in design. A place he’d once been saving for.
When he’d been picturing cooking his mum’s Caribbean curry on a Sunday in a sunlit kitchen, mowing the grass with a half-broken strimmer, bouncing a toddler on his knee while a second begged him to fix the trampoline he never had time to build.
Inviting his sisters, their kids and his parents over for a barbecue after church.
Y’know, all that normal stuff.
Domesticity most people took for granted.
A far cry from the piss-slick bedsits and cockroach flats he usually got dumped in for these long-haul ops. And for one fleeting moment, he’d almost had it. Almost carved out something real.
Until she walked out.
“Got the beds sorted, at least,” Naomi called as she came down the stairs. “Duvets are new. Still got that weird plastic crinkle.”
Warren grunted in response. Not quite a laugh.
Not quite ready for one either.
They’d arrived at the house last night. One look said it belonged to a retired librarian with a fondness for jigsaws and bridge nights rather than two undercover officers embedded in a trafficking op.
But that was the point. Nondescript. Safe.
Enough personality to pass a casual glance, not enough to draw attention.
He’d been so wiped last night he’d crashed on a bare mattress in his clothes.
No briefing. No strategy session. Exhaustion and the promise of a training day beckoned before they could properly get to work.
Naomi had been pulled away, too. Something urgent, probably linked to the broader case files.
He hadn’t had time to ask before his alarm went off for school.
They hadn’t even had time to figure out how this would play.
Them. Living here. Together.
Pretending to be something they weren’t, in a town that didn’t know them, surrounded by people they’d eventually have to lie to.
Again.
Warren exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if the tension was from the hard mattress or the fact that, for all their training, they were going in undercooked. They’d wing it, of course. They always did. That was the job.
Blend. Breathe. Observe. Pretend.
And pray he wouldn’t lose himself in the performance.
Only… today hadn’t felt like a performance.
He’d actually enjoyed it. Slipping into the role.
Playing teacher again. He’d done a brief stint straight out of university—PE teacher in an inner-city London Catholic Secondary while he waited to hear from the Met.
Tough kids. Tougher parents. But he’d liked it.
Routine. Mess. Challenge. It had suited him in a way few things did.
Then the call had come through. His real mission.
Metropolitan Police. And he’d handed in his notice, never looking back.
Until now.
Today had stirred something.
A version of himself he hadn’t seen in years.
The one who still believed schools were safe.
That what waited beyond the gates couldn’t seep in past the playgrounds and poster boards.
But now he knew better. Knew exactly what danger looked like.
How it dressed, how it moved, who it hunted.
And he’d seen too many times what it did to the people who were supposed to be safe.
And Jude Ellison wasn’t exactly a target Warren was used to dealing with. Usually, they made his fists itch or his skin crawl. The sort he wanted to cuff or knock flat, not trade winks and banter with across a safeguarding slideshow.
He hadn’t quite figured out what that was about yet.
Probably method acting.
Getting into character.
That’s all it was.
Had to be.
Naomi moved into the kitchen and switched on the kettle, reaching for the same brand of instant coffee they’d always had back in their South London flat. When they’d shared more than a cover. When talk of a future hadn’t sounded na?ve. Or fictional.
Warren followed, leaning against the counter.
“So,” she said, not turning around, “how’d it go?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You asking as my handler, or a bit of light chit-chat between former fuck buddies?”
“We were more than that.”
“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “I thought so too. Until you ghosted and became another name in the file marked formerly known as someone I trusted.”
She let out a sigh. Bit her lip. “Is this going to be a problem?”
He gave a dry laugh and tugged the band from his locs, shaking them loose around his shoulders. “Why? Cause my reassigned op is to co-habit with my ex. The one who left behind half a flat, two unopened bills, and a Post-it on the fridge that read ‘I can’t do this’?”
Naomi tilted her neck. “It was the truth. I couldn’t do it.”
He looked away, drumming his fingers on the counter, before turning back. “But now you can?”
“I can when it’s work.”
“Right. Operational clarity.” He nodded once. “Crystal.”
“Warren—”
He cut her off with a lazy wave of his hand. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter. It’s water under the bridge, right?”
She said nothing.
He exhaled, dragging the focus back where it belonged. “To answer your question—as handler—today went to plan. I’m embedded. Staff believe the cover. Made initial contact with Ellison. No red flags. He’s well-liked. Bit of a local hero after the fire.”
Naomi finally turned, handing him a coffee. Exactly how he liked it. Black. One sugar. Really fucking strong. “You get a read on him?”
Warren gave a one-shoulder shrug. “On the surface? He’s clean.” He took a sip of coffee. “Genuine. But I’ll stay close. See what shakes loose.”
“Genuine means he could have done a good job at fooling everyone.”
He offered a cold smile. “Don’t worry. I remember the brief.” He stepped back towards the kitchen table. “What about you? Where’d you disappear to?”
“Vivienne called.” Naomi sat opposite. “Had me go through some documents. Thought it might be something useful. Business records, client lists. But it was all asset paperwork. Property holdings. School fee transfers. That kind of thing.”
Warren sank into a chair. “Still something. Says a lot that she’s trusting you with it.”
“Yeah. That’s what I clocked. It felt deliberate. Like she wanted me to see it.”
He glanced up. “You think she’s trying to put space between herself and Radley?”
“I think Morgan’s telling her to.” She pursed her lips. “He’s their solicitor and her current extracurricular. If anyone’s whispering legal strategy in her ear, it’s him.”
Warren raised an eyebrow. “She actually seeing the bloke who’s made a career out of getting her husband off on technicalities?”
“Looks that way.”
He let out a low whistle. “That’s a death wish or seriously ballsy.”
Naomi shrugged. “Sometimes love’s worth the risk.”
Warren snorted into his toast. “Nothing’s worth that kind of risk.”
“Spoken like a true romantic.”
“It’s not about romance. It’s about operational discipline. Getting involved with someone wired into your husband’s legal defence? That’s not brave; it’s stupid. Be like you falling for your detail.”
Naomi laughed. “What, Vivienne’s husband? A fifty-eight-year-old coke-thin thug who hides his violence behind charity galas? No thanks.” Her grin lingered as she added, “More chance of you falling for yours.”
“What, the ex-con with a God complex or the clean-cut history teacher who looks like he should model for Abercrombie and Fitch?”
Naomi arched an eyebrow, raising her mug to her lips.
Warren wiped his fingers on his trousers, looking away. Why had he said that? Why had he noticed? So he kept to the party line. “Keep the detail as detail. Don’t let it bleed into anything real.”
Even as he said it, his gut turned.
The line always sounded clear in the briefing room. Clean. Professional. But on the ground, it never stayed that way for long. And Naomi held his gaze, eyes narrowing enough to let him know she saw more than he wanted her to. Peeling him open one glance at a time.
“You gonna tell me what happened?” She took a sip of coffee. “What got you benched and reassigned to this like it’s a background op?”
“That one’s for the file. Need-to-know.”
“You saying I don’t need to know?”
He took another sip of coffee, then pivoted. “What’s your reporting schedule?”
The dodge was obvious.
Naomi let it go. “Encrypted voice memo. Patel wants audio reflections logged before ten daily. Backed up to SEROCU. Meeting each Friday, if possible. You?”