The End Game

She heard sirens. She had to get away before they got here. She couldn’t be captured, it wasn’t an option.

She clutched the quickly heating side bars. Down, down, get moving.

Something tore inside her. The pain crashed over her, a tsunami. She felt blood ru

She was nearly down when she fainted and fell, boneless, to the hard asphalt.

22

KNIGHT TO A4

Upper East Side

Manhattan

Nicholas wasn’t surprised to find Nigel in the kitchen, reading a book, a lead crystal lowball of Talisker Storm, neat, sitting by his elbow.

“Waiting up for me?”

His butler raised an eyebrow, looked him up and down, and sighed. “I see you’ve ruined yet another pair of pants, that lovely Spanish leather jacket your father gave you for your birthday, not to mention the bespoke shirt from Gieves and Hawkes. And the shoes? My, Mr. Gunderson would weep to see them.” Another sigh, a shake of the head. “They go in the trash bin as well. Barneys rejoices. And Barneys’ children, since we’ll be paying their college tuition for years to come.”

“Ha bloody ha.”

“You and Agent Caine were at the Bayway Refinery, weren’t you?”

Nicholas nodded.

“And that means, then, that you two plunged into the flames and rescued workers? That explains the missing sleeves, the black face.”

Nicholas saw the carnage again in his mind and nodded again, numbly.

Nigel paused for a moment, saw what a tight rein Nicholas had on himself. He lightly laid his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. “You did well. Now, what can I do?”

Nicholas snapped to. “There’s really nothing, but thank you. Please go to bed, Nigel. I’m fine. I think a drink might be a good idea, though.” He poured himself at least three fingers of Talisker and drained it in a single gulp. The liquor shuddered through his body, warmed him to his ruined shoes.

“Did that help?”

“Yes, yes, it did.” Nicholas eased into a chair, watched Nigel pour him another.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Your mother called. The news of the refinery explosion already made it to England. I told her I believed you were at Lincoln Center, watching a play.”

“That was well done of you, Nigel, thank you.”

“I don’t think she believed me for an instant, but bless her, she didn’t push it. You can expect a call from your father and grandfather tomorrow. Early.”

“Everything is all right back home?”

“Yes, everything is fine.” Nigel studied Nicholas’s face for a moment longer, then said, “You should soak up the Talisker before you go to bed. There’s cold chicken and orzo in the Sub-Zero.”

“No, I think I’d like to keep the bad away a while longer,” Nicholas said, and he nodded at the bottle of Talisker. “This will do nicely.”

Nigel didn’t move.

“What is it, Nigel? Is there really something going on at home I should know about? And you’re protecting me like you tried to protect my mother?”

“I’ve known you all our lives, Nicholas. I’ve seen you angry and frustrated, but not as much as you are now. I’ve seen you even dirtier than you are now, more banged up, seen you inches away from losing that infamous Drummond temper. But you want to know something?”

Nicholas’s eyebrow shot up. “Yes?”

“You’re enjoying yourself.”

The Talisker spurted out of Nicholas’s mouth.

“No, no, Nigel, you’re wrong. All the bonkers crap that’s going on? No, no, I am not enjoying myself.”

Nigel merely shook his head. “I’d say you’re downright giddy. I was worried about all the change, but I’m glad to say the move to New York suits you very well. Your grandfather will be pleased to hear it.”

“You’re dead wrong about the giddy part—well, I hope you are—and you’re quite right: New York and the FBI suit me very well. It’s only a pity they don’t give agents clothing allowances. And stop talking to my grandfather behind my back.”

Nigel gri

Horne, Nigel’s father, was the Drummond family’s butler at their home in Farrow-on-Grey, and had been a part of Nicholas’s entire life just as Nigel had. A wave of homesickness hit him, or maybe it was the Talisker. He realized he missed the weekly breakfasts with his family. He missed the lime trees bordering the long drive, and the labyrinth gardens. He even missed Cook Crumbe’s awful porridge.

Nigel said as he came back from the kitchen, “I’m very sorry about the tragedy tonight. But now it’s time for you to get some sleep, Nicholas. Even for you, it’s occasionally necessary. Good night,” and Nicholas heard Nigel humming as he walked away.

Was Nigel right? Was he giddy? No, not that word, it was more that he knew he was completely and utterly involved, every single fiber in his body was sharply alive, turned on high. He’d accepted long ago that he was a predator, remembered his mother had told him he had the push-it-to-the-edge danger gene, and surely that was a good thing for the FBI. And this ridiculous COE group was still ru

And he had Michaela, and wasn’t that a bit of miraculous luck? He couldn’t imagine his life here without her. Like him, she was fairly bursting with life, ready to tackle anything, always straight ahead, that was Michaela. Did she have the danger gene, too? Yes, very probably.

As he washed out his glass, he admitted to himself that he was indeed doing well here in New York. And, evidently, Barneys was doing well, too.

He took a hot shower, pulled out his first-aid kit and smeared some burn cream on his palms, then climbed into bed, his mobile next to his head.

But he couldn’t sleep, too many unknown faces tracking through his mind, too many codes he had yet to untangle.

•   •   •

Mike was in her ancient bathrobe, eating a cold slice of pepperoni pizza, when her cell rang. She was tempted not to answer it, but of course that wasn’t an option.

Nicholas. No surprise he was still working. She wished she could give him all the freedom he wanted and fewer rules, but alas, she wouldn’t be that high on the FBI food chain for many years to come. And how high would Nicholas be by the time they hit forty?

Mike sat down at her small work desk, stared at the mess of papers—bills, mostly. Maybe she should dust. Or not. She swung her feet up onto the cluttered surface, put the phone on speaker. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Why aren’t you?”

She laughed. “I’m eating. Cold pizza.”

“Booze is better. Mike, I’m as sure as can be there’s a new player in COE.”

“Talk to me.”

“Remember Paris? When we chatted with a young gentleman about his future?”

He was speaking, of course, of Adam Pearce, a brilliant young hacker who’d been invaluable in stopping that madman Manfred Havelock. After an obligatory three months in jail, they’d gotten him out, and now he worked for the FBI. She understood why Nicholas hadn’t used his name on an open line—the FBI were also responsible for keeping him safe until Adam’s antics against foreign governments were smoothed over.

“What about our young friend?”

“I want to use him. He’d be great bait.”

“So soon? He’s so young and he’s been through a lot. This is a major case. It may be too much too soon.”

But Nicholas understood Adam Pearce, recently turned twenty years old. “He’s tough, talented, and I think he’d be perfect for the role. We have to get inside the organization. Their previous help was murdered. They’ll need someone new to continue the attacks. What with the cyber-attack and Bayway, I’ll bet another young hacker with a grudge against the world can’t wait to join the fun.”