Chapter 8
Irish
Skye still had both hands fisted in the front of my jacket when I told her we were going to open the wall, and for several seconds she didn't seem to realize how tightly she was holding on.
Her face had gone pale beneath the cold flush the wind had put into her cheeks, but the fear in her eyes was already giving way to something more dangerous: determination.
I recognized the transition because I had seen it in men before raids, in brothers after bad news, and in myself every time grief became easier to carry once somebody gave it a target.
Skye had spent twenty-three days being told there might be nothing to find.
Now she had heard a woman behind a concealed wall say her name and seen Isla written on medical paperwork inside a building designed to prevent residents from leaving.
Every instinct she possessed wanted to turn around and walk straight back through Croft House's polished front doors.
The only reason she hadn't was because she understood, however reluctantly, that finding Isla would mean nothing if Dr. Helena Croft simply moved her before we could return with enough people to get her out.
“We need to go,” I said quietly.
Skye's gaze returned to the house. “We need to get inside.”
“We will.”
“When?”
“When we know what we're opening.”
Her hands finally loosened from my jacket. “I just told you what's behind it.”
“You told me Isla may be behind one wall. I want to know where that wall leads, how many doors sit between her and an exit, how many people are guarding them, and where Croft moves residents if she knows we're coming.”
The muscles along Skye's jaw tightened. “Every minute we spend planning is another minute she's in there.”
“And every mistake gives them a reason to move her.”
That stopped her.
I hated using the possibility because I knew exactly where it landed. Her eyes closed briefly before she drew a controlled breath and forced herself to look at me rather than the building.
“What do you need?”
She hadn't asked what I intended to do; she had asked what I needed from her, and the distinction mattered more than I expected.
“The plans you saw inside.”
“I remember them.”
“All of them?”
Her expression carried a hint of offense. “I remember rooms after walking through them once.”
“Then start talking.”
We moved toward the secondary path instead of returning directly to the road.
I had no intention of standing within sight of Croft House while Skye reconstructed the interior for me, and the longer we remained near the property, the greater the chance somebody inside would decide her visit had been more than professional curiosity.
I sent Trigger a brief message as we walked.
Package clear. Possible confirmation on Lennox. Move to secondary observation.
His reply came almost immediately.
Copy. Hawkeye has movement north drive. Two men.
My attention shifted toward the line of trees bordering the property.
“Problem?” Skye asked.
“Maybe.”
She had already learned enough to dislike that answer.
“What kind of maybe?”
“The kind where you walk beside me and don't look behind us.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Someone's following?”
“Not yet.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
“It wasn't meant to be.”
We reached the lane beyond the outer wall, where an old stone path curved between hedges before joining a busier road farther east. I kept my pace ordinary while scanning windows, parked vehicles, reflective surfaces, and the gaps between trees.
Croft House's security had been discreet from the front.
That did not mean it ended at the front door.
A facility holding women against their will needed more than locked bedrooms. It needed transportation, surveillance, people willing to ask questions when a visitor noticed too much.
My phone vibrated.
Hawkeye: Gray Volvo leaving north drive. Two occupants. Second vehicle still parked.
I typed without slowing.
Eyes on both. Don't engage.
Skye looked toward my hand. “Still maybe?”
“A little less.”
“Callum.”
“Keep walking.”
“I am walking.”
“You're also trying to turn around.”
“I haven't.”
“You're thinking about it loudly.”
That earned me an irritated look, but she kept facing forward.
We crossed the road at the next junction and entered a small public garden surrounded by stone walls and winter-bare trees. The paths divided in three directions. I chose the center route, then changed to the left after fifty yards.
Skye noticed immediately.
“Surveillance route?”
I glanced at her.
“You remembered.”
“You explained patterns.”
“Most people don't listen.”
“Most people don't have their best friend locked behind a wall.”
There was no bitterness in the statement. Just fact.
We passed an elderly man walking a terrier and a woman pushing a pram, then left the gardens through another gate. The gray Volvo appeared in the reflection of a shop window two streets later.
It was the same vehicle maintaining the same pace, far enough behind us not to look obvious but close enough that whoever was driving had no intention of losing us.
“They followed,” Skye said.
I hadn't told her.
She saw my expression.
“The window.”
A reluctant approval moved through me. “Don't look again.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
That was a lie.
A better one than she had been capable of two days ago, but still a lie.
My phone buzzed once.
Hawkeye: Second vehicle moved. Black estate car. Different route. They may be boxing you.
Two surveillance teams changed the situation immediately, and I sent our location to Trigger before studying the intersection ahead.
Our planned safe route would take us back toward Maverick's flat, which meant we couldn't use it now.
If the Order had enough people watching Croft House to deploy two vehicles after one designer, I wasn't leading them anywhere near the rest of the team.
“We're changing plans.”
Skye didn't argue. “Where?”
I opened the local map on my phone and angled it toward her. “You know this area?”
“Somewhat.”
“Know buildings better than streets?”
“Obviously.”
“Good.”
I pointed to a large block occupying most of the next intersection. “What is that?”
She studied it for less than three seconds. “Former textile warehouse. Converted about twelve years ago. Shops at street level, offices above.”
“Multiple exits?”
“Should be.”
“Should?”
She enlarged the map. “Wait.”
Her fingers tightened around my sleeve, the movement carrying more awareness than fear as she realized just how close the men behind us had come.
I watched her expression sharpen.
“There.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward a narrow passage shown between two sections of the building. “Original service lane. They enclosed most of it when they converted the ground floor, but they couldn't remove the rear fire access because the upper offices use it.”
“Can we enter from this side and leave the next street?”
“If the interior door isn't locked.”
I looked at her.
She sighed. “Yes. Probably.”
“Confidence inspiring.”
“You asked an interior designer to plan an escape route with thirty seconds' notice.”
“Fair.”
She handed the phone back. “There's also an old loading stair here. If the ground floor has been remodeled the way I think, the public corridor should hide the entrance behind a decorative wall.”
I looked at her again.
“What?”
“You're enjoying this.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Her mouth curved despite the situation. “A little.” The woman was becoming dangerous to my concentration in ways that had very little to do with the men following us.
We entered the converted warehouse through a home-furnishings shop that looked expensive enough to make me uncomfortable touching anything.
Skye immediately became someone else. Her shoulders relaxed, her stride slowed, and she began examining a display of lamps as though we had spent the afternoon shopping rather than leaving a private facility holding kidnapped women.
I followed her lead, staying close enough to look like we belonged together.
That thought landed somewhere I didn't appreciate.
An employee approached with a professional smile. “Can I help you find something?”
Skye looked at a lamp priced high enough to fund one of my motorcycles.
“My husband thinks this would work in our sitting room.”
I nearly stopped walking as the employee turned toward me. I gave Skye a long look and she smiled sweetly.
“Doesn't he?”
I looked at the lamp.
Then the price.
“No.”
The employee laughed as Skye slid her arm through mine, and despite knowing it was part of the act, every part of my body registered the contact.
“See?” she told the woman. “No imagination.”
“You'll convince him.”
“I usually do.”
We moved deeper into the shop while I tried to ignore the warmth of her hand resting against my forearm.
I had been touched by women before. Hell, I'd spent enough years around club parties to know exactly how easily physical contact could mean nothing.
This didn't feel like nothing, and that irritated me because she was performing for anyone who might follow us through the door.
At the rear of the shop, Skye stopped beside a display wall covered in framed mirrors.
“That's false.”
I followed her gaze. “The wall?”
“Too shallow.”
“How can you tell?”
“Ceiling line.”
I saw it once she pointed. The decorative wall ended several inches below a beam that continued behind it.
She moved toward a narrow staff corridor beside the display and glanced at the fire plan mounted near the door.
“Loading stairs behind there.”
The door required no card.
We entered.
Seconds later, Hawkeye's voice came through my earpiece.
“Gray Volvo team entered front shop. Two men.”
Skye saw my face.
“They're inside?”
“Aye.”
Her fingers tightened around my sleeve in an awareness I took note of. We only climbed one flight of stairs when Skye stopped.
“This isn't right.”
“What?”
“The stairs should continue down.”
“They don't.”
“They did originally.”
I looked around and saw nothing except a concrete wall, an electrical cabinet, and several utility pipes that offered no obvious route downward.
Skye stepped toward the concrete, studied the skirting, then crouched.
“There.”
A narrow seam ran beside the electrical cabinet, subtle enough that I would have missed it entirely. Skye pressed against the side panel, but nothing moved until she looked higher for another mechanism.
Then she looked upward and found an old metal latch painted the same color as the wall.
The panel opened inward, and cold air moved through the gap. Behind it was an old loading passage descending toward the rear service lane.
I stared at her, and a knowing smile curved her lips.
“Buildings tell on people.”
“I'm starting to believe you.”
We slipped through and pulled the panel closed behind us just as the stairwell door opened above.
Male voices.
“Check upstairs.”
Another answered, “They came through here.”
Skye and I moved quickly down the old service passage. It narrowed near the bottom, forcing us closer together before opening into a dark corridor lined with storage cages. Her hand found mine when she nearly slipped on the uneven concrete.
She tried to release my hand immediately after regaining her balance, but I kept hold of it for another three or four steps while guiding her through the darkness. Only when awareness caught up with me did I let go, and neither of us acknowledged the moment.
At the rear exit, I paused before pushing the door open. Hawkeye's voice came through again.
“Black estate car circling rear street.”
“Position?”
“East end. Trigger's coming west.”
I looked at Skye.
“There's another car.”
She frowned, then took my phone before I could stop her and pulled up the old warehouse plans again.
“There's a courtyard.”
“Dead end?”
“Not if the neighboring building kept the original passage.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Skye.”
“Do you want certainty or an exit?”
I almost laughed.
“Exit.”
“Then follow me.”
That was new.
She led this time.
We crossed the rear lane, slipped through an iron gate that looked decorative until Skye found the old latch, and entered a courtyard between two Victorian buildings.
An arched passage at the far side had been partly concealed by refuse bins and climbing ivy, but it opened onto another street exactly where she said it would.
Trigger's SUV rolled toward us thirty seconds later.
The rear door opened.
Skye climbed in first.
I followed.
Hawkeye sat in the passenger seat watching the mirror.
“Gray team came out wrong side,” he said.
“Second car?”
“Lost them when you crossed the courtyard.”
Trigger pulled into traffic without hurry.
Only when we'd put several blocks between us and the warehouse did I finally look at Skye.
She was breathing harder now, adrenaline catching up with her, but there was something triumphant beneath the fear.
“You just got us out of a two-team surveillance box using a two-hundred-year-old service passage.”
She looked at me.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“That's insulting.”
“It was meant as a compliment.”
“Work on your delivery.”
Hawkeye's shoulders moved with a silent laugh from the front seat.
I ignored him.
Skye looked out the window, and the satisfaction slowly faded from her face.
“Isla's still there.”
“For now.”
Her eyes returned to mine.
I didn't tell her not to worry.
I didn't promise we would have Isla out by morning.
Promises made in fear usually became lies.
Instead, I said the only thing I could guarantee.
“Now we know where to look.”
“And they know we're looking.”
“Aye.”
“Which means they'll move her.”
“If they believe you saw enough.”
“I did.”
“So we make sure they don't have time.”
That brought the determination back into her expression.
“What do we do?”
I noticed the word immediately.
We.
Yesterday I had wanted Skye Fraser's information so I could remove her from the operation.
Today she had identified hidden construction inside Croft House, spotted surveillance without being told, and led us through an escape route none of my people had known existed.
I had spent years trusting men because of what they did when plans failed.
Skye had just earned the same consideration.
“We go back to the flat,” I said. “You rebuild Croft House from memory. Every room. Every corridor. Every door.”
“And then?”
“Then we find Isla.”
She nodded without arguing or challenging the decision, offering me a degree of trust that wasn't complete and probably shouldn't have been yet, but was considerably more than she had given me the day before.
As Trigger drove us back toward the safe flat, Skye's knee rested against mine in the cramped rear seat. Neither of us moved it.
I told myself there wasn't enough room.
I almost believed it.