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The ambulance swerved. She grabbed the sides of the gurney. Jamie caught a yellow metal handhold.
“The ambulance,” she said. “How did you—?”
“Called in a...favor from a...friend.” He glanced at the driver, who was still on the radio. One hell of a favor. She caught the words assessing, respiratory and SOB.
“Did he just call you a son of a bitch?” she said.
A grin flickered across Jamie’s face. “SOB. Shortness of breath. But probably the other thing, too.”
“This is a real ambulance?”
“On a real callout. I used to be a paramedic in London, in another lifetime. Somebody—” His voice deepened with mock conspiracy, his pupils melodramatically shifting left and right. “Somebody called nine-nine-nine on a burner phone to report that a woman had stopped breathing at St Pancras. By...chance, this was the closest ambulance. A lone officer, as far as Ambulance Control was concerned, returning the vehicle to his station after a repair.” The ambulance slowed. “A happy coincidence all around, wouldn’t you say?”
“We’re going to a hospital? Jamie, that’s not a good idea. If anyone saw paramedics take me from the station, they’ll assume that’s where we’re headed. And there’ll be security cameras. My photo is—”
“Everywhere, I know. You’re an overnight sensation. But that photo does you no justice. And don’t worry—the patient is about to have a remarkable recovery and refuse transportation.” Jamie grinned, wrinkling the suntanned skin beside his eyes. God, that was a beautiful sight.
The siren bleeped and the driver accelerated.
“Recovery?” She rested a hand on her chest and swiveled, her legs dangling over the side of the gurney. Her backpack was by her feet. “I don’t know if we can be sure of that yet.”
“Happy to perform any medical procedure you need. Cutting people open is my favorite pastime.”
She smiled up at him. It was a relief to smile for real. To talk to someone. To not be alone. To be with...him. “You are joking, yes?”
He shrugged, his eyes not leaving hers.
Of course he was joking. He was ninety-five percent tease and flirt. It was the five percent that intrigued her, those flashes of frustration or concern that broke through the facade, like a solitary boom of thunder from a clear sky that left you wondering if you’d imagined it. “I didn’t know you were a paramedic.”
His eyebrows angled up. “To be fair, you don’t really know me at all.”
Ouch. “I...guess not.”
She did know for sure that he’d hold eye contact as long as she was game, like it was a challenge—or he was drilling into her mind and amused by what he found.
Deliberately, she turned toward the windscreen. You don’t really know me at all. The exact words she’d thrown at him that fall morning after he’d offered to stay. I know you want me to, he’d said. Coincidence, or did he remember that hideous conversation as clearly as she did?
The driver navigated onto a narrow street flanked by stone-and-brick buildings with sash windows and brave balcony gardens, all shrouded in a gaseous gray light. Near-leafless trees stretched up like clawed skeleton hands. Her breath had shallowed out. With everything that was going on, with everything she was processing, she didn’t need the kind of confusion that came from looking a charming, magnetic man in the eye for too long.
A branch scraped the ambulance roof. She shivered. Winter had set in prematurely here. Even after all her years living in North America and Europe—through most of her childhood, her teens, her college and university years, her twenties—the sight of bare-limbed trees chilled her. From the corner of her eye, she registered Jamie unbuttoning his uniform shirt.
More reason to look elsewhere. In the last year she’d assured herself that her memory was exaggerating the connection she’d felt with him. Right now, her mind and her belly and even her skin weren’t so sure.
He was right—despite one fateful week, ending with one fateful night, and one hideous morning—she knew very little about him. He was Scottish, a medic in the French Foreign Legion and in his early thirties, a little older than she was. And now she knew he’d been a paramedic, which wasn’t hugely revealing—in Ethiopia she’d watched him stitch a head wound with the precision of a master tailor. Maybe he was one of those friendly people you thought you knew when you really didn’t, a flirt you thought singled you out when he treated every woman like the only one in the room. As a medic and soldier, he was paid to be protective and observant. He was probably assessing her mental health when he looked into her soul like that—with good cause.
Her peripheral vision reported that he was down to a khaki tank. Don’t look. She caught a fresh scent, somewhere between mint and pine, weighed down with something spicier, like cinnamon. Had he smelled that way in France? Something tweaked low in her belly, like her body remembered even if her mind didn’t.
She shook her head slightly. She had bigger things to think about. Like mercenaries. Mercenaries. Wow. She was trained to deal with virtual problems, not real ones. If Jamie hadn’t got to her first...
“Mate,” called the driver, looking in his side mirror. “Know anyone who drives a white Peugeot hatchback? I’m taking back streets, as you said, but he’s making every turn we are—and he just followed us through a red.”
Sure enough, a car was hugging their rear, with two people in the front—including a wiry blond man, talking on a cell phone.
“Oh no,” Samira whispered.
“You recognize them?”
“The passenger—he was on my train. And there was a guy with hair like that in Tuscany the other night but I didn’t get a close look. He seemed to be following me at the station. I told myself I was imagining it.”
“Looks like your instinct was right.” Jamie pulled out a chunky gray handgun. A holster was strapped to his side, over his tank.
“Oh my God. Where did you get that?” He couldn’t have flown into London with it.
He clicked something into place. “An acquaintance. Get down.” He raised his voice. “We need to lose him, Andy.”
The driver swore. “You’re still as much of a shit magnet as ever, I see.” He flicked a switch and the siren wailed. “Hold tight.”
Jamie stooped to read a street sign. Samira followed his gaze. King’s Cross Road. “Keep away from the markets. We get caught up in those and we’ll be stuck tight, siren or no.”
“Mate, you’re talking to the guy who didn’t run off and join the fucking Foreign Legion. I know every road cone this side of the Thames. I’ll loop round, head east.”
Jamie hauled a backpack from a cubbyhole and pulled something out of the front pocket. A phone.
Gripping the gurney with one hand, Samira caught his forearm. “We can’t make any calls. Tess said—”
“Tess is the world’s most paranoid woman. It’s a brand-new phone and I’m not making a call, just doing some Googling. I have an idea of how we could lose them.” He glanced at the car. “Besides, I think Hyland’s already onto us.”
The ambulance swung onto another street. She slid sideways, into air. With his spare arm, Jamie caught her around the waist and steered her onto a fold-down seat. The sight of his bare arms made her shiver all over again. Why was she the one breaking out in goose bumps?
“You might want to buckle up, Samira,” he said.
He swayed to the narrow gap between the front seats and spoke to the driver, swiping the phone. She dived for the seat belt. Between the siren, the straining engine and the thick accents, she couldn’t follow the conversation. Something about bridges and gates.
Behind them the blond man was still on his phone, his gaze fixed on the back of the ambulance as if he could see her through the one-way glass. Calling reinforcements? How many thugs did Hyland have in London? The Peugeot driver wore a cap low and a scarf high, with sunglasses bridging the gap. The car stuck to the ambulance like a water-skier behind a boat, skidding left and right as they weaved. The man nestled the phone between his shoulder and his ear and made swift hand movements in his lap. He lifted something, its black outline obvious for a second before it disappeared behind the dash.
“Jamie, they have a gun.”
“They what?” yelled the driver. The ambulance lurched sideways. “Shit.”
Jamie swiveled. “Flat on the floor, Samira.”
Gladly. She unclipped, and crawled onto the gray vinyl, Jamie crouching beside her, gun aimed down. His London acquaintances evidently occupied different social circles from her family’s. Through the windows, the tops of stripped trees and squat buildings flashed by—red brick, black brick, blackened stone, dirty concrete, steel and glass. The ambulance turned, tossing her against a row of cupboards. With one hand, she clung to the track anchoring the gurney. She cradled her other arm over her head—like that would stop a bullet. The ambulance jolted left and right, braking and accelerating like it was tossing in the surf. She swallowed nausea. At least there was no panic attack.
Don’t say “panic attack.”
The London she knew was a sedate place—dim lamps in hushed private libraries, leather back seats in purring black embassy cars, silver calligraphy on heavy card. Until now, her scariest experience was getting separated from her father in Madame Tussauds when she was eight.
Jamie checked his watch. “Eleven minutes,” he called to the driver.
“Until what?” Her words dissolved in the noise.
“GPS says there’s congestion on the one-way loop from Whitechapel,” the driver yelled. “If we approach from there, they should get neatly stuck.”
“Good,” said Jamie, planting a hand on Samira’s back as the ambulance swerved again. “Time it right and we can squeeze in just before the gates close.”
Gates? He was planning to hole up somewhere?
“And if we arrive a minute later we’ll be trapped,” the driver shouted.
“Well, don’t get there late.”
“What’s to stop them slipping in behind us?”
“Selfish bastard London drivers. Who’s going to let them through?” Jamie winked at Samira—like she had any idea what they were talking about.
“You’re assuming those same bastards will part for an ambulance.”
Doubt flicked across Jamie’s face, and vanished.
“Mate, can’t you just call in an air strike or tank assault or something?” said the driver.
“That’s plan B.”
The floor shuddered as the ambulance picked up speed. They were on a wider road, passing the blurred tops of trucks and double-decker buses. The siren wailed and waned. If the driver switched it off, it would surely continue in Samira’s head.
Jamie popped up to check the windows then knelt again. He thrust his phone at Samira. “Keep an eye on this. Tell me when you see the traffic stop.”
She juggled it, struggling to focus on the screen while avoiding sliding into Jamie. A live webcam was trained on Tower Bridge, its castle-like twin towers straddling a gray river. Cars and trucks stuttered across it as the stream buffered.
Outside, the gray light dimmed to charcoal—they’d driven into a tunnel, an underpass maybe. Fighting nausea, she pulled up to a sitting position, bracing her back against cupboards and her feet on the gurney, focusing on the traffic on the little screen. Everyday people going to everyday Sunday places—markets, churches, Christmas shopping, visiting a friend to collect evidence that would take down the future American president... Jamie crept between her and the blond’s gun. Had he deliberately given her a menial task to keep her from panicking?
The driver leaned on his horn. “I can’t lose this bastard. He’s careering like a maniac at Le Mans.”
“She,” Jamie corrected.
“What?”
“The driver’s a woman.”
“Whatever. Still a maniac.”
“That’s because she’s following you and you’re the worst driver in London.” Jamie dropped to a whisper and leaned toward Samira. “He’s the best, really. Totally mental.”
If Jamie’s humor was meant to keep her from freaking out, it wasn’t working—though at least her lungs were no longer panicking. Just her brain.
“I heard you, you know,” the driver called.
“They’re not firing at us,” she said to Jamie, sounding like a child needing reassurance.
“They’ll be waiting to corner us, waiting for reinforcements. If they create too much chaos we could slip away into it. Their job is to keep eyes on us while their team regroups and closes in—but don’t worry,” he added, quickly. “We’ll slip away, very soon.”
She tapped a fingernail on the screen. “Traffic’s stopped in one direction.”
“A couple of minutes,” Jamie called, rising a little to look out the windscreen.
“It’ll be tight,” the driver shouted. “Hold on!”
A stout cruise ship appeared on the screen, downstream of the bridge. Samira frowned. Tower Bridge...it was a drawbridge, yes? “Jamie, I think the bridge is about to lift.”
“That’s the general idea.”
She blinked twice. “You’re planning to jump it?”
“Now, there’s a plan.”
“Oh God,” she said. “All traffic’s stopped now.”
The driver slowed, honking and bleeping the siren. Her limited vision told her they were nudging through traffic across to the right-hand side of the road—the wrong side, here. The driver floored it. The engine whined like it was gunning for takeoff. What the hell? Through the windscreen, the crown of the nearest bridge tower came into view. Her quads burned with the effort of bracing against the gurney. To their right was a beige stone wall, studded with...arrow slits. Above it rose spires, circular towers, a Union Jack. The Tower of London. She’d been there once, with her mother. A very different trip.
“The gate’s closing,” the driver yelled. Underneath the wailing siren, another alarm sounded, high-pitched and wavering.
“Keep going,” Jamie said. “We have to get past. The Peugeot’s through the traffic but fifty meters behind.”
“It’s still closing!”
“They’ll open it,” Jamie called. Samira caught a slight movement at his side. He’d crossed his fingers.
“James? A few seconds and I won’t be able to stop in time.”
“Keep going,” Jamie said. “Trust me.”
The driver tooted again. “The Peugeot’s gaining.” Sure enough, the engine behind them was straining to a new pitch. More horns sounded.
Samira pulled herself onto the flip-down seat. She couldn’t not watch. Ahead, on the bridge, under a stone archway, a pair of pale blue gates spanned the road. The left-hand one was closed, traffic queued before it. The other was at a forty-five-degree angle and drifting shut. The ambulance wail morphed into a panicked shrill squeal. She hugged the back of the seat.
“Hold tight,” said the driver. “This’ll be close.”
Her eyes burned but she couldn’t blink. Behind, the Peugeot was keeping pace. Jamie crouched, clinging to a handhold, muscles tight from his hands to his neck. Shouts filtered in from outside, over the alarms and horns and engines. The tourists were getting a show. The ambulance lurched sideways. The driver yelled. Jamie’s gaze flicked to hers, as steady and calm as his jaw was tense. This was one time she wouldn’t break eye contact. He winked. Winked.
A thump. Her stomach lurched. A metal-on-metal screech—the side of the ambulance scraping against...the gate? But they were through. Behind them, the gate had stalled, almost closed. The Peugeot gunned it, its driver hunched. The gate lurched then swung shut. She winced, bracing for a crunch. The car fishtailed and pulled up sideways in a screech of brakes, smoke puffing from its wheels, maybe an inch short of crashing. The blond man whacked the back of his driver’s head, who spun toward him, evidently shouting, her arms flailing.
Samira leaned back in her seat. Blue and white cables streaked past the windows, then another stone archway like the yawning ribs of a whale, then the Thames, its concrete waters rippling around the prow of the cruise ship, which looked three times bigger than it had on the screen. On they sped, still with the alarm wailing, passing the second tower, more cables, another archway, a line of traffic... The exit gate was open. Tourists crowded against a barrier, a dozen phone cameras trained on the ambulance. A woman in a high-vis raincoat holding a walkie-talkie shook her head pointedly at the driver.
Jamie eased to standing. “They might have to dock that wee scrape from your pay.”
“Fuck you, James.” The driver flicked a switch and the siren stopped.
The silence washed through Samira’s head. She swallowed, trying to equalize.
