Sweet Hostage Read online

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to Ulysses H. Jones,

  who gave me unconditional love,

  unwavering support,

  and unflagging pride to his last breath.

  Acknowledgments

  I WOULD LIKE to express my gratitude to the ­people who helped me with this book. First and foremost, my thanks to Kim Jones and Scott Jones for their patience, support, and the many meals that magically appeared in front of me. Thank you to my wonderful editor, Nicole Fischer, for her insight and ability to make my books better, stronger, faster—­she has the technology. Mega-­thanks to my (insert many wonderful superlatives here) agent, Sarah E. Younger, for taking a chance on a debut author three years ago. I’m proud to be part of Team Sarah.

  Thank you to my critique partners, Kim Jones and Shannon Orso, for patiently reading the third and fourth iterations of the same scene. Many thanks to my beta reader, Bill Moroney, who is just so darned good for my ego.

  I’d also like to thank Bob Bartlett for educating me on Carroll Shelby and the 1968 Shelby Mustang GT. You know your cars, sir!

  Last but certainly not least, thank you to my readers, for taking a chance on me.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Announcement page to Night Hush and Bait

  About the Author

  By Leslie Jones

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  June 10. 11:58 p.m.

  Canary Wharf, London

  “YOU’RE ASKING FOR TROUBLE.”

  Trevor Carswell ignored the uneasy voice. He watched the long black limousine creep into the construction site near the north dock of Canary Wharf, in the shadow of the tall HSBC building. The huge cranes at the dock sat as silent sentinels this time of night. He moved out of the shadows so the limousine’s driver could see him. Eric Koller followed him. The limo changed direction and eased to a stop forty feet away. The driver killed the engine and flipped off the headlights.

  Trevor stayed put. He could feel Eric’s anxiety pulsing behind him. The construction site seemed eerie and a fitting place for this meeting. A jaw crusher sat perpendicular to two ten-­foot stacks of gravel; an equally tall pile of long pipes hemmed him in on the other side. Nothing moved. Even the hum of the few cars still out at midnight seemed far away.

  After an endless minute, a man emerged from the front passenger seat and walked toward them.

  Eric tensed up, muttering something.

  “ . . . dangerous. . . .”

  Of course it was dangerous. This whole mission was dangerous; but insisting on meeting the brains behind the anarchists who called themselves the Philosophy of Bedlam was doubly so. A calculated risk. It was a good sign that the man had agreed to meet, but that didn’t lessen the pucker factor one whit.

  Nor did the fact that he had the cell’s leader at his back.

  The man from the car stopped a few feet away. “All right, Eric?”

  Eric nodded, but didn’t come forward. “No one followed us, Mr. Smith. It’s all gravy. This is Trevor Willoughby. Like I told you, we fought together in Northern Ireland back in the day. He’s sound.”

  The man frowned. His short, compact body looked soft to Trevor. Neat hair stopped well above the collar of his starched white shirt. The creased wrinkles in the shirt told Trevor he’d worn a suit jacket today. “So what’s the purpose of this meeting, Willoughby?”

  “I meet the man I’m risking my life for. I take his measure, or I walk.” As he had when he’d been undercover as a new officer with the Special Air Ser­vice, he dropped his voice into a growl. Rough. Threatening.

  Mr. Smith continued to scowl. Trevor supposed he was trying to look threatening, but his attempts were laughable.

  “Very well,” the man said finally. “Our focus is the ridiculous trappings of a corrupt society. ­People need to wake up and realize how much government money is spent on useless pastimes like making movies instead of feeding the poor.”

  Trevor feigned outrage. “On that we agree. It’s bollocks that faux celebrities warp public opinion. They’re not the gods they pretend to be. They’re just stupid, self-­centered fools. But it’s been proven time and again that socialism doesn’t work.”

  Mr. Smith’s lip curled. “Socialism is just another form of bondage. A privileged few ruling sheep. We’re for Great Britain shaking off the blinders, so our ­people realize government does not have their best interests at heart. Skewed policies keep Britons as little more than slaves.”

  “We don’t need a government to control us,” Eric said. “It’s long past time the English butt out of our business and let us live as we want. In Ireland and everywhere else.”

  “I hear you.” Trevor nodded to show he understood. “Now, how about the meeting I asked for? I talk to your boss. I thought I made it clear. I don’t deal with flunkies.”

  Mr. Smith widened his arms, turning his palms up as if to say, “Here I am.”

  Eric frowned. “Jaysus, Trev. You’re gone in the head. Stop messing about.”

  Trevor’s lip curled. “Not bloody likely. He’s just a kiss-­ass. I want to talk to the real Mr. Smith.”

  Both the man and Eric shot Trevor startled looks.

  “What makes you think—­”

  “He is the—­”

  Trevor cut a hand through the air, effectively stopping both men. “No. You’re not. I want to talk to the man in the back of the limousine, not the lackey in the front.”

  The man stilled. Trevor read the indecision on his face.

  “Now. Or stop wasting my fucking time,” he snapped. His mission hinged on finding the brains behind the brawn. If Eric’s cell fell, another would simply rise to take its place.

  Finally, the man shrugged and walked back over to the limousine. The back window rolled down, and the man bent over to speak to whoever was inside. When he returned, he jerked his head at Trevor.

  “He’ll talk to you.”

  Trevor stalked past him, Eric and the man following. The driver exited the vehicle on an intercept course. Massive shoulders and bulging biceps declared him the muscle. He put out an arm, halting them.

  “Just him,” he said, pointing a sausage-­sized finger at Trevor.

  Annoyance flashed across Eric’s face, but he obediently wandered to the bonnet of the limousine and lingered there, lighting up as he waited. The flunky returned to his seat in the front of the limousine.

  “Arms out,” the driver said, voice and face expressionless.

&
nbsp; Trevor raised his arms and suffered the man to pat him down. He found Trevor’s .380 and stuffed it into his belt. Jerking his head, he led the way to the back and opened the door. Trevor ducked inside, settling into the seat directly opposite a man sitting in the deepest shadows.

  Trevor could barely make out the graying blond hair and lines on the fifty-­ish face. The unwelcoming stare. The real Mr. Smith had a slender build and wore an unbuttoned suit coat.

  “Always a pleasure to meet Eric’s friends.” The cultured voice rolling out of the darkness contained an undertone that wasn’t British English. Trevor strained to identify it.

  “So who’s the suit? He looks like a bloody bureaucrat. Come to think of it, so do you.”

  The man’s dry chuckle held little humor. “He’s no one of consequence. My accountant. And I assure you that I am no bureaucrat. Just a man who sees a problem that needs repairing. Now. To what do I owe the honor?”

  Trevor leaned forward, looking directly into the man’s eyes. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Trevor couldn’t put a name to the face. “I make it a habit to know exactly who I’m working with before I risk my life. No exceptions.”

  “An understandable precaution.” His tone suggested he did the same.

  “So precisely who are you? Why would a suit want to dismantle our government?”

  The man’s voice grew icy. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m Mr. Smith. Consider me the money. As for as anything else, my reasons are mine alone.”

  Trevor sat back, dropping his voice even lower. “Well, that bloody well explains nothing.”

  Mr. Smith tapped his fingers on his leg. “I’m meeting you as a courtesy to Eric. Don’t overstep your place. You’re easily replaceable.”

  “Untrue. Each person in your cell brings his own expertise to the table. Safecracker, arsonist, hacker. I’m the only explosives expert. Your last bloke blew himself to bits, I believe?”

  The head of the joint MI-­5/SAS task force, Brigadier Lord Patrick Danby, had informed Trevor that the dead man was the only clue to finding the anarchists. They identified him through dental records as Jing-­sheng Qiū. He had been a textile mill worker in Leeds before moving to London and joining the Philosophy of Bedlam.

  Mr. Smith slashed a hand through the air. “An unfortunate turn of events.”

  Unfortunate? A man had died. A terrorist, to be sure, but Smith’s callous disregard for Qiū’s life vibrated in the quiet of the limousine.

  “The man knew shite,” Trevor said, burying his disgust.

  “I trust you will not make the same mistake?”

  He forced himself to laugh. “Not bloody likely. Pipe bombs are some of the most dangerous to use. Even something as small as static electricity can set them off. As Eric tells me, Qiū was fifty feet away when it exploded, and the shrapnel still killed him. I prefer plastic explosives. PE-­4. Stable until detonated.”

  “And you can acquire this?”

  “Already have. My question is, why should I waste it on you?” Trevor had to walk a razor wire to learn who the head of the snake was, and to be accepted as an anarchist.

  Mr. Smith nodded. “A fair question. Let’s just say I have certain interests in the weapons arena. Government agencies scrambling to stop terrorist bombings won’t be searching for me.”

  He was an illegal arms dealer? Maybe that’s where Trevor had seen him—­on a wanted poster. He sat back in the soft leather. “So this isn’t about ideology for you. Just money.”

  Mr. Smith laughed. “There’s no such thing as ‘just’ money, Mr. Willoughby. Now. I’ve answered your questions. You answer mine. Do you support the anarchist philosophy of my Bedlamites?”

  The cover MI-­5 had given him was rock solid. No one here knew he was Trevor Carswell, British SAS. Trevor had known what lies he would tell before he insisted Eric introduce him to Mr. Smith. “I don’t give a shit what your anarchist philosophy is. I want to bring the government to its knees. Starting with the bloody National Health Ser­vice all the way up to Her Fucking Majesty and Parliament. If you’re the real deal, I’m in.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s none of your business. Just be assured I’ll do what needs doing.”

  The man stared at Trevor for a moment, then picked up a file folder from the seat next to him. “But it is my business. I, too, make a point to know with whom I’m dealing.”

  He opened the folder and flipped up the top page. “Trevor Willoughby, born April 23, 1980, to blue-­collar parents. The oldest of five children, which kept your parents poor. Spent your teenage years getting into fights. Vocally critical of the disparity between the social classes. Joined the Provisional IRA in 2004, left in 2005 to join those trying to reestablish the Saor Éire, which failed. Was there not enough action for you, Mr. Willoughby?”

  Trevor didn’t answer. So far, his cover was holding.

  Mr. Smith shrugged, and flipped to a new page. “Married in 2011, divorced in 2012, when you caught your wife cheating. You beat the man half to death and spent eighteen months in prison for it. Daughter diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia while you were being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure at Gartree. National Health Ser­vice wouldn’t cover the cost and you couldn’t. Daughter died last year.”

  “All right,” Trevor gritted out. “Enough.”

  Mr. Smith put the folder back on the seat. “You’ll get your chance with the NHS, Mr. Willoughby. But I have something else in mind, first. Are you interested?”

  “Bloody hell. Yes.”

  Chapter Two

  June 13. 5:15 p.m.

  August Museum of Modern Art

  SHELBY GIBSON FOLLOWED Floyd Panderson as he led her into the Suffolk Gallery of the August Museum of Modern Art. The fifteen-­by-­nine meter exhibition hall held artwork borrowed from other museums for this special exhibit. Paintings adorned the alabaster walls, crowned by Edward Shamblet’s Memories of the Gods. The centerpiece of the exhibit measured an impressive one hundred forty by ninety-­two inches. Various gods and demi-­gods fell from Mount Olympus, chased from their home by demons and monsters.

  Normally, she loved visiting art galleries and museums. Bad luck had been plaguing her all day, though, starting with a dead car battery, following her onto the Tube, where her briefcase had been stolen, to the blisters developing on the balls of her feet from walking too far and too long in her strappy high-­heeled sandals.

  Pedestals supporting sculptures in various shapes and sizes dotted the room. Both visitors and artists with sketch pads perched on leather-­topped benches placed at convenient intervals down the center. Others wandered from painting to painting, reading the plaques on the wall near each one. This close to closing time, a docent moved from person to person, letting them know they had a mere fifteen minutes left to gather their things and leave. The artists began to pack up their sketching materials.

  Floyd steered her toward the left wall, to a twenty-­four-­by-­thirty-­six-­inch painting. As the curator, closing times were meaningless to him. The docent nodded respectfully to him as he herded the last few visitors back out into the lobby.

  Floyd brushed a hand over his neat hair, then smoothed it down his tie before continuing his lecture. “In the early twentieth century, Fauvism gave way to the cubism of Picasso, Georges Braque, Juan Gris, and others. They all came at it from different directions, of course. This painting is Still Life with Acorns and Apples.”

  The small, square brushstrokes and bold colors reminded her more of Cézanne’s later works than anything by Juan Gris, but she kept her peace and let him talk.

  “I have a particular fondness for the cubists. In fact, I have something in the works to possibly acquire a Picasso.”

  Shelby’s brows shot up. “Really? That would be a major coup for such a small museum. It could triple your annual visitorship.”

  “I know.” Floyd soun
ded smug as he slid an arm around her shoulders. “Do you know what my favorite Picasso quote is? ‘It is your work in life that is the ultimate seduction.’ The passion in these paintings, and your love of art, makes me realize life is too short not to go after what I want.”

  She knew what he wanted. He’d made no secret of his desire. She tilted her head away and stepped free as he nuzzled her ear. He reluctantly let his arm slide away as she approached the painting for a closer look. They’d only been dating a few weeks, and despite his efforts to talk her into a more intimate relationship, she just wasn’t ready to take that step. They had so much in common. A love of art. Similar tastes in literature and music. Floyd—­attentive, sophisticated, and urbane—­had a handsome face and trim body that should have appealed to her. Why was she hesitating?

  “My favorite painting from the early modern period is The Kiss by Gustav Klimt. I have a reproduction in my office downstairs. Would you like to see it?” Somehow, Floyd had moved closer again.

  “I thought your office was in the lobby? Who painted this still life?” she asked, to distract him. She bent forward to read the plaque.

  But Floyd had straightened with a frown, turning back toward the entrance to the gallery.

  “What is it?”

  “Shh! Do you hear that?”

  Shelby caught the shouting a moment later.

  “Blast it! Some patrons are beastly. It’s probably someone whining we’re closing. I’ll get it sorted in short order.” Floyd strode to the gallery’s exit, Shelby following close behind. As he stepped into the lobby, he stopped so abruptly that she ran into him.