21. Sneak Peek Of Avenging Amity #3
“Not just the wall. Angle of impact, position of the other rounds, where you were walking, viable firing points across the street.”
I swipe to the next image.
“Suppressors don’t make rifles silent, but they make the shooter harder to locate. Especially with traffic and buildings throwing sound around.”
“And you’re certain this wasn’t random?”
“I’ve been shot at by enough rifles to know the difference between some idiot firing a weapon and someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.”
The legal argument forming behind her eyes stalls.
I move away from the window.
“Your shooter picked a firing position with a clear sightline onto a route you use, brought a rifle suited to the distance, fired three times and got out clean.”
“They missed.”
“You moved after the first round.”
“The first missed too.”
“By inches.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around the phone.
I keep my voice level. “Someone knew where you’d be ten days ago when they shot up your car. Someone knew where you’d be this morning.”
“Flynn says there’s no evidence connecting the attacks.”
“Flynn told you three rifle rounds fired at a human-rights lawyer ten days after her driver was shot were a random act.”
“He said violent crime happens in London.”
“Fair dinkum? Violent crime happens everywhere. Professional snipers don’t wander around Kensington looking for something to do before lunch.”
Her mouth twitches before she looks away.
She knows Flynn’s explanation is bullshit.
“You didn’t believe him either.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Amity raises her chin. “Scotland Yard is still the appropriate authority.”
“And I’m still staying.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“Don’t need you to.”
Her green eyes sharpen. “Mr. Sharp.”
“Declan.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard.”
I pull out the chair opposite her and sit.
“Lucky I’m not charging you, then.”
The stare she gives me could strip paint.
Adrian warned me Amity Lovell would fight having protection.
He neglected to mention how much I’d enjoy the fight.
***
The Kensington Hotel, London. 1100 hours.
By eleven, Amity has stopped arguing about leaving the hotel and started arguing about where I’m taking her.
Progress.
“I have a flat,” I tell her, reaching for her briefcase.
She moves it away. “I can carry my own belongings.”
“Figured you’d say that.”
“Then why did you try?”
“Optimist.”
Her mouth tightens, but there’s something close to amusement behind it.
The flat is in Chelsea, third floor of a converted townhouse with no connection to Amity, Adrian, or anyone involved with HAVEN.
We leave through the hotel’s service entrance, walk two blocks, take a cab for six minutes, get out early, double back through a department store, then switch to another cab.
By the second change, Amity stops asking questions.
I get her inside and lock the door.
“Stay there.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just until I clear the flat.”
She looks around the sitting room. “I thought you said it was secure.”
“I said it was clean. Last time I checked.”
“And when was that?”
“Yesterday.”
Her expression suggests this distinction is ridiculous.
It isn’t.
I check every room, entry point, window and possible access route before starting the electronic sweep. The flat comes up clean.
Then I move to what came inside with us.
My gear first. Nothing.
Amity watches from the sofa as I check her coat, handbag and phone.
When I reach for her briefcase, she puts one hand over it.
“No.”
“Amity.”
“These files are privileged.”
“Bullets don’t give a shit about legal privilege.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Five minutes,” I say.
After a brief internal battle, she releases it.
I check the exterior, handle and locks before opening it. Files. Laptop. Pens. Charger. Legal pads. Everything arranged with the sort of precision I’m beginning to associate with the woman watching me like I’m rifling through the Crown Jewels.
The detector spikes near the handle.
I stop and run it again. Same result.
I examine the leather beneath the brass fitting and find a slight separation in the stitching.
A transmitter no bigger than my thumbnail is tucked inside the lining.
I don’t touch it.
I look at Amity and raise one finger to my lips. Her eyes widen.
I close the briefcase exactly as I found it.
“Flat’s clean,” I say casually. “Fancy a coffee?”
She catches on fast.
“I thought I wasn’t allowed to leave.”
“Changed my mind.”
“That must be terribly unsettling for you.”
Smartarse.
I take the briefcase with us.
We walk three blocks before I lead her into a small public garden and choose a bench away from anyone else. I leave the briefcase beneath a tree at the end of the path, still in sight but well beyond hearing range.
“What did you find?” she asks quietly.
“A listening device in your briefcase.”
The color drains from her face. “How long has it been there?”
“Can’t tell yet.”
“They could’ve heard everything.”
“Maybe. Depends on range and how it transmits. But someone had access to your briefcase long enough to hide it properly.”
Her gaze shifts toward the case beneath the tree.
“I take it to chambers every day.”
“And you had it this morning.”
Understanding flashes across her face. “They could have known my route.”
“Yep.”
“Then destroy it.”
“No.”
She turns to me. “Why?”
“You don’t destroy an enemy’s ears.”
I meet her gaze.
“You feed them lies.”
Amity studies me differently now, less like the uncultured brute Adrian inflicted on her and more like she’s beginning to understand why he sent me.
“What lies?”
“Tomorrow, you’re going back to chambers.”
Her eyebrows lift. “I won’t be there.”
“Nope.”
“Then where will I be?”
“Somewhere they won’t know about.”
Understanding sharpens her expression. “While whoever’s listening believes I’m at chambers.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
I leave her on the bench and retrieve the briefcase from beneath the tree.
Someone’s been listening to Amity Lovell.
They’re about to discover I can talk too.
***
Chelsea, London. 1150 hours.
The public garden gives me enough open space to see anyone approaching and enough London traffic beyond the railings to cover our movements.
I leave Amity on the bench with a clear view of me and carry her briefcase farther down the path before removing the transmitter and turning it beneath the daylight.
Whoever planted it knew what they were doing. Compact device, clean installation, nothing cheap or improvised about it.
Then I see the mark, tiny enough to miss unless you’re looking for it.
A compass rose etched into the casing.
I photograph it with my secure phone, enlarge the image and take another from a different angle before sending both through Adrian’s encrypted HAVEN channel.
Found on Amity’s briefcase. Professional transmitter. Compass rose etched into casing. Need identification.
I place the transmitter behind the stone base of a monument where all it’ll hear is traffic, footsteps and anyone passing nearby, then carry the briefcase back to Amity.
The reply comes less than a minute later.
Received. Analyzing.
I return to the bench and hand Amity my phone.
She reads the message, then looks at me.
“Efficient.”
“You haven’t met Felicity.”
“Who’s Felicity?”
“Someone you want on your side if people are using technology to hunt you.”
I indicate the compass rose. “Recognize it?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“You think HAVEN will?”
“If it exists in a database somewhere, they’ll find it.”
Amity looks at me. “And now?”
“Now everything we say inside that flat is for whoever’s listening.”
Her expression sharpens. “Including where I’ll supposedly be tomorrow.”
“Exactly.”
I retrieve the transmitter from behind the monument, replace it exactly where I found it inside the briefcase and close the case.
She takes it from me. “I’m beginning to understand how your mind works.”
“Condolences.”
That earns me a laugh.
Back inside, we give our audience a boring performance about dinner, work and my plan to take Amity to chambers tomorrow morning.
None of it’s true.
Once we’ve given them enough, Amity settles at the kitchen table with her laptop while I retrieve my cleaning kit and pistol.
Her fingers stop over the keyboard.
I remove the magazine and clear the chamber before laying the weapon on a cloth.
She watches me field-strip it.
“You’re cleaning a gun at the kitchen table.”
“Observant.”
“Is this something Australians routinely do before lunch?”
“Only on Tuesdays.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Then you’re getting the premium service.”
Her lips twitch before she looks back at her laptop.
I clean the barrel, check the components for wear and work through the familiar sequence. The weapon came with me on the job I finished this morning, and I don’t put equipment away dirty.
Amity keeps pretending to work. She’s terrible at it. Every few seconds, her attention drifts from the screen to my hands.
I reassemble the pistol and function-check it.
“You do that very quickly,” she says.
“Done it a few times.”
“I imagine.”
I glance up. She’s watching me again.
Interesting.
I secure the pistol and pack away the cleaning kit.
Amity looks back at her laptop as though she’s been deeply absorbed in whatever’s on the screen for the past ten minutes.
She doesn’t like guns. She made that clear enough the second I pulled mine out.
But while I was cleaning it, the line between her eyebrows disappeared and her shoulders dropped. Now the weapon’s gone, she glances toward the windows again.
She’d probably hate knowing she finds an armed Australian sitting across from her reassuring.
I’m definitely not going to tell her.
The compass rose is already with HAVEN.
Until they identify it, whoever planted the bug can keep listening. From now on, they hear exactly what I want them to hear.
My secure phone vibrates against the table.
Felicity.
I open the message.
I’ve got a match.
I look at Amity.
So much for a quiet afternoon.
***