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- Herausgeber: Decent Fellows Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
After a series of terrorist attacks on fracking sites owned by a Gas multinational named Drilsink, Sir James Aiken’s agency is bought in to find the radical Eco-terrorist group responsible. He sends Sam and Declan to work undercover at Imperial College where Intel suggests the group are recruiting. While Sam works behind the scenes, Declan takes on the identity of Geologist Dr. Tobias Hunter and soon makes an enemy of a fellow science geek- a man who Declan comes to despise more than Sir James Aiken! When the operation moves from London to Munich and then Vienna, Sam, and Declan are thrown headlong into a spy scenario straight out of the thriller novels they love to read—but with a distinct and disturbing sexual twist! Sam meets an old friend and uncovers shocking information about James’ past. With Erik Madsson still imprisoned inside the A.L.L. HQ, James comes to realize that he should have listened to his son. Keeping the enemy inside his own home is about to be the biggest mistake he has ever made.
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Inhaltsverzeichnis
CHAPTER 1
NEW ORDERS
CHAPTER 2
MOVING OUT
CHAPTER 3
DR. HUNTER
CHAPTER 4
HELLO NEIGHBOR
CHAPTER 5
The RSM
CHAPTER 6
SCIENCE PORN
CHAPTER 7
HISTORY LESSONS
CHAPTER 8
NEED YOU NOW
CHAPTER 9
CATCH UP
CHAPTER 10
THIN BLUE LINE
CHAPTER 11
BREAKTHROUGH
CHAPTER 12
GEOLOGICAL TIME
CHAPTER 13
FOLLOW THE LEAD
CHAPTER 14
PARKLIFE
CHAPTER 15
INTEL
CHAPTER 16
HERE KITTY KITTY
CHAPTER 17
THE ARCHIVES
CHAPTER 18
ECO-REV
CHAPTER 19
BANG!
PART TWO:
POWDER BURNS
CHAPTER 20
MUNICH
CHAPTER 21
CONFERENCE
CHAPTER 22
MAKING A MEAL OF IT
CHAPTER 23
THE CLEANER
CHAPTER 24
MISSION STATEMENT
CHAPTER 26
NO REST FOR THE WICKED
CHAPTER 27
EYES ONLY
CHAPTER 28
OH VIENNA
CHAPTER 29
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
CHAPTER 30
WHAT DO YOU KNOW?
CHAPTER 32
TRAUM GARTEN
CHAPTER 33
IN THE CLUB
CHAPTER 34
HIGH KICKS
CHAPTER 35
OUT
CHAPTER 36
IN DREAMS
CHAPTER 37
MEMORIES FOR BREAKFAST
CHAPTER 38
RISKY BUSINESS
CHAPTER 39
KOMPROMAT
CHAPTER 40
ECO-KLEEN
CHAPTER 41
LECTURE
CHAPTER 42
THIS IS IT!
CHAPTER 44
UNRAVELING
CHAPTER 45
PERFORMANCE
CHAPTER 46
DO IT!
CHAPTER 47
DARKER
CHAPTER 48
ESCAPE
EPILOGUE
Part 1
EPILOGUE
PART 2
POWDER BURNS
SHATTERPROOF BOND #5
Isobel Starling
www.decentfellowspress.com
Copyright © 2019-2023 Isobel Starling
First Edition:
ISBN: 9783757947262
All rights reserved worldwide. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, except for the purposes of reviews. The reviewer may quote brief passages for the review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The characters and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between characters and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The use of real-life locations is for fictional purposes. The plot, actions, and characters in this work are fictional and in no way reflect real-life occurrences at these establishments.
The mention of or reference to any companies, products or film reference to ”The Princess Bride”(1987) and the book of the same name by William Goldman in these pages is not a challenge to the trademarks or copyrights.
#NOAI
Powder Burns, Copyright © 2019 -2023Isobel Starling
Cover Art Design by Isobel Starling
Many thanks to my family for their love and support
Special thanks to Medical Consultant: Dr. Gaby Murillo
The story so far…
Over a year ago, Sam Aiken and Declan Ramsay met at a Scottish wedding. The two men were linked by the bride and groom—Sam’s sister Annabelle and Declan’s brother Oliver. They were also linked by their employer, Sam’s father, the domineering, rich, and homophobic Sir James Aiken, and they were linked by a shared love of The Princess Bride movie.
Businessman Sir James Aiken has his fingers in many pies and his real estate company Aiken Luxury Lettings, known as A.L.L, it is not all that it seems to be.
Declan Ramsay, a thirty-four-year-old depressed, commitment-phobic Scotsman was stuck in emotional limbo and in denial about his bisexuality. He worked for Sir James as a property portfolio manager and was clueless about the real purpose of A.L.L.
Sam Aiken, a solitary, gifted twenty-three-year-old gay man, and Sir James’ only son was officially an interpreter for Aiken’s Middle-East property deals, but in reality, he worked an agent for the A.L.L covert agency doing a dangerous, highly-skilled undercover jobs in parts of the world where expressing his sexuality would put him in danger—which suited his father just fine!
Neither of the men had met before the Scottish family wedding, and events at Dunloch Castle changed both of their lives forever. Sam and Declan fell hopelessly in love —and then Sam vanished.
Three months of silence passed, making Declan doubt his sanity, and when Sam returned Declan was given a choice that was no choice at all. If he wanted to be with Sam he was required to join the security agency or Declan’s life would be in danger from knowing Sir James secrets.
Declan’s skill set, physical prowess, and inquisitive mind made him a perfect recruit for Sir James Aiken’s agency. James was a decorated ex-MI5 agent and he’d had designs on Declan for some time, having him under observation since Declan left university twelve years before.
Sir James arranged training for Declan at a Moroccan Black-Ops site, and on his return, pitted Sam and Declan against one another in the harsh backdrop of the Scottish Highlands to test how they would work together. Instead of breaking their bond, the near-death experiences that followed made Sam and Declan realize how deeply they loved one another and that there could be no one else for either of them.
It was clear after the attempt on Sam’s life in Scotland that Sir James Aiken had some fearsome enemies—one of whom had sent an ex-Special Forces mercenary Erik Madsson to kill Sam.
A.L.L captured Madsson, the man who had tried to kill Sam twice. Madsson now lingers as a prisoner in the subterranean basement of A.L.L’s London HQ, while James’ right hand Akiko Kimura tries to break him down and find out who put a hit on Sam.
The interrogation of Madsson leads to the discovery of a Middle-East connection, a cipher for the organization who wants to make James suffer, and a name that tickles Sam’s memory.
While Sam and Declan move on to their next mission—infiltrating a shadowy eco-Terrorist group, behind the scenes agents work on trying to discover the name and location of Sir James Aiken’s adversary, and Sir James is about to discover that keeping a mercenary imprisoned inside his own home is about to be the biggest mistake he has ever made.
****
“Why do you wear a mask and hood?”
“I think everybody will in the near future” was the man in black's reply.
“They're terribly comfortable.”
‘The Princess Bride’ by William Goldman
PART ONE:
OPERATION:
FIRE ANGEL
CHAPTER 1
NEW ORDERS
Declan Ramsay stood with his back pressed against the wall outside Sir James Aiken’s office. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like an ordinary, well-groomed businessman, but he was nothing of the sort.
Declan’s job had changed in the past year, moving from Aiken Luxury Lettings, where he’d managed Sir James’s property portfolio, to be fast-tracked into a new role as an agent for A.L.L, Sir James’s personal covert intelligence agency.
One of the perks of Declan’s new job was that it afforded him luxuries, like fast cars, fancy hotels, and designer suits. The Gieves and Hawk dark navy suit he wore now fit snuggly to his honed physique. It was paired with a pastel blue shirt, and lavender tie that his husband Sam had helped choose that very morning. The Scotsman’s beard was trimmed tight to his jaw and his dark brown hair swept back from his high brow. Physically, he’d never been in better shape in his thirty-five years. He displayed the business-like confidence of a man who was in control of his life and his career.
However, now that Declan was out of Sir James’ office he could let that mask slip without losing face. His shoulders slumped and he let out a long, torturous groan as his head lolled back and landed heavily against the wall. The truth of his situation was crystal clear. Declan Ramsay did not feel in control of his life, not one bit.
Declan and his partner Sam had endured an hour-long mission briefing with James and his right-hand woman, Akiko Kimura, who was known as Mrs. K. What had become of Mr. Kimura was still a mystery and neither Sam nor Declan had the stones to ask!
Declan wasn’t happy with what had occurred during the briefing. The challenges of the upcoming assignment would put his recent training to the fore, and surpass all he’d experienced during the week he spent undercover in the Highlands. He was to embark on a protracted, deep-cover mission—Declan’s first, and while he was surprised by James’ trust in him to get the job done alone, he did not feel prepared for what that entailed.
Declan initially believed he would be working closely with Sam for the assignment, an arrangement he was more than happy with, however, during the briefing Sir James dropped the bombshell that ‘something had come up’ and therefore Sam was needed elsewhere.
Since meeting Samuel Aiken some fourteen months ago, Declan’s life had become a rollercoaster of uncontrollable love and passion laced with secrets, lies, and danger. Declan could not get off the ride, even if he’d wanted to—which he did not. He’d fallen hard for Sam and a month ago they had married. It was Declan and Sam against the world, against their unseen enemies, and against the malevolent power and duplicity of Sam’s father, Sir James Aiken.
Therefore, the fact that they wouldn’t be on the job together unbalanced Declan in a way that startled him. He clenched his jaw with frustration and stared into space. How did James do it? The man found it so easy to get under his skin. James was a tick and Declan wished he had a sharp implement to dig the man out of their lives.
“C’ mon.” Sam cajoled,
“It’s not that bad!” He insisted, trying to jolt his husband out of his maudlin mood.
“Three months, they had three fuckin’ months to get Intel, an’ wi’ all of their contacts an’ money they’ve still not got a solid lead fer us. I’m gettin’ thrown into an undercover job with fuck all te go on!” Declan growled, his jaw tense with anger. He felt a pang of guilt as he vented. It wasn’t Sam’s fault his Da was an arsehole!
Sam laid a hand on Declan’s shoulder and squeezed. It was as if James was setting Declan up to fail. But then again, Sam knew from experience that James measured each agent’s performance by the job they were on, not on past success or failure. Every mission meant that they were back to zero in James’ estimation and all agents were required to prove themselves once more.
“Look. It’s too early for lunch, let’s go for a walk, and check on the guest?” Sam suggested his brows rising in hope. He knew Declan’s mood-swings well and therefore understood that Declan needed to pace-off his stress or there was a strong possibility he would turn on his heels and charge back into James office to have it out with him. That would not do!
Sam shared the same uneasy feeling in his gut about this mission as Declan. Both agents had perused the environmental research that was supplied in a steady stream over the months Sam healed from his injuries. They believed that they would be on the mission together from the get-go. At James’ announcement that he was to be seconded elsewhere, Sam saw the expression of shock on Declan’s face swiftly turn to stony repressed anger.
“Come on Buttercup, let’s walk.” Sam urged again. He hooked Declan’s arm and pulled him down the hallway. Still wearing a tight-jawed pout, Declan complied, falling into step beside his husband of four weeks.
“I don’t bloody like it. No’ one bit. What’s the point o’ sayin’ were partners if he puts ye on another assignment? He’s messin’ wi our heads again.” Declan harrumphed as they walked.
Declan pushed the door exiting from the stylish, corporate part of Sir James subterranean HQ. They stepped into the central vestibule where the gentle watery light from the lap lane in the ceiling above reflected on the clinical white walls and bare cement floor.
Declan unhooked his arm from Sam’s and strode to the door on the opposite side of the hall. He knew all-too-well that this door led to the part of the complex that had none of the plush carpets, avant-garde wall art, or designer lighting. This part of the complex gave Declan the willies. It was where interrogations and ‘interviews’ took place—it was where a lab and a fully-operational medical theatre were secreted to allow agents injured on missions to get fixed-up without needing to have the details of their combat injuries on a hospital file—and it was where lockdown cells were located. As far as both agents knew, there was only one long-term guest!
“What’s the other job he’s got yez on anyways?” Declan grumbled as he slapped his palm on to the tablet screen be scanned. The door release clicked for them to enter the sealed-off area.
“Sorry, darling!” Sam tapped his nose.
Declan pouted. It was a ‘need to know’ assignment and apparently, Declan didn’t need to know where the hell his husband would be working. I’ll be the judge of tha!
As they strolled down the bare concrete corridor their counterpoint footsteps echoed eerily. The air always smelled way too fresh in this part of the complex, as if the air-con worked overtime to rid the halls of the evidence of whatever went on behind the lines of doors without handles, and rooms that held secrets Declan didn’t even want to speculate about. Digging down and building underneath London meant you faced meeting archeology, ancient waterways, sewers or the Tube network. No matter what, much like secrets, when the weather was wild and the overburdened Victorian sewers below filled to bursting, bad smells found a way to seep in.
As they walked Declan mulled over the details of the upcoming mission.
An Energy multinational named Drilsink, engaged A.L.L to discover who was behind the Eco-Terrorism that had blighted their attempts to drill for shale gas at test sites around the UK. The sparse Intel they’d received told that environmental radicals were actively recruiting at UK universities—with the prestigious Imperial College, London the latest target for recruitment. The last attack against a Drilsink site resulted in the death of a security guard and his Alsatian, sentimentally named, Barky McBarkface. Declan requested ID’s for any of the activists involved in the previous attacks so he could look into their backgrounds and see if there was any connection to Imperial, but Drilsink couldn’t provide one damn name, and the only CCTV footage of the last attack was grainy, therefore the culprits didn’t get a hit when the footage was run through facial recognition software.
Declan’s role was to take on the persona of Dr. Tobias Hunter, a Geologist who specialized in hydraulic fracturing, and with that identity, he was to start his search for activists within the population of the prestigious London university. The stately, stern tone of Sir James Aiken rattled in Declan’s brain.
“We do not tend to think of environmental activism as being in the same category as other types of terrorism.” He’d explained during the mission briefing.
“However, INTERPOL, MI6, and the FBI define eco-terrorism as a deeply significant threat. The world runs on energy and will grind to a halt without it. Those who seek to commit acts of sabotage and violence to prevent progress are a danger to the free world and must be stopped.”
Declan wasn’t quite sure who Sir James was trying to kid. He knew his father-in-law’s property empire was only part of where James made his money. Sir James was deeply invested in energy markets too and Declan would not have been surprised to discover James had shares in Drilsink.
After walking for several minutes with Sam by his side, Declan paused at a door and pressed his ID card to the reader. The door released and Declan pushed it open. Inside the small observation room, a dark-suited agent sat in front of a bank of screens with a keyboard, a mic, and an open bag of colorful Jelly Babies, the contents lined-up in a row across the counter in front of him. Sam followed Declan into the room and closed the door behind him.
The Afro-Caribbean agent had a boyish complexion, hazel eyes, and close-cropped black hair. He sat up sharply, seeming shocked to have visitors. He removed his ear buds, and from the tinny sound of thumping bass, he was not listening to the audio coming from the cell he was supposed to be monitoring.
“What’s yer name, sonny?” Declan asked.
“Lyron, err. Agent Rockhopper, sir. Sorry, I don’t get many people popping by.” The agent said, his accent having a Brummie lilt. He looked surreptitiously at the line of jelly babies on the counter, grimaced, and swept them back into the bag.
“We’re—” Sam began, but the agent interrupted.
“Oh, I know who you both are! Desert Fox, Lucky Boy.” The agent admitted his eyes wide with admiration.
“We just wanted te check up on our wee house guest”, Declan informed trying to hold back an embarrassed smile.
Sam moved closer, stood behind the agent’s chair, and took in the view of the console. Agent Rockhopper controlled everything from the air Madsson breathed, to the lighting, temperature, and audiovisual stimulation. Meals and clean clothing were delivered via a dumb waiter shaft; therefore, Madsson was in pure isolation with no human interaction.
Sam glanced up at the bank of screens. He was looking into a cell, fitted out like a budget European hotel room with a one-piece molded plastic bed built into the wall. Erik Madsson sat on the bed wearing grey sweat pants and a matching grey t-shirt, absently cradling his bandaged left hand. He was staring at a TV screen that, like everything else in the room, was built-in and had no sharp corners or removable pieces.
Madsson had failed in his attempts to kill Sam twice in four years and Sam was clueless as to why he was the target—other than being the only son of Sir James Aiken. Therefore, disguised as Swedish Consular Affairs attaché Björn Östbring, Sam used suggestion and hypnotism to interrogate his nemesis to try and discover who had put a hit out on him.
During the unorthodox interrogation Sam extracted two names from Madsson, the first was that of Ali Amir Alzzalam, an Afghan warlord who Madsson said was his savior—his God, no less because he’d freed Madsson from a “hell hole” prison in an unspecified desert in Afghanistan.
The second word was a cipher THE LAB PA which Madsson spat out just before he was overcome by a seizure brought on by the mental stress of the interrogation. The word was simply deciphered into ALPHABET. Sam knew it was significant. He’d heard it used before in conjunction with something in his past, but he couldn’t place where and it was bugging the hell out of him.
“What’s he watching?” Declan asked casually.
“Oh, he’s on Season Two of Strictly Come Dancing”,Rockhopper said gleefully, and Declan couldn’t repress a smirk.
“He gets three episodes of TV shows per day. He’s already watched all two-hundred and ninety-five episodes of Last of the Summer Wine, and we’re working through Homes Under the Hammer.”
“Jesus!” Declan was well aware that the use of sound for interrogation was against the laws of International Human Rights. He didn’t know if giving Madsson the daily routine of an elderly British granny would constitute torture though.
“Viper said that Brightnail is pretty damn ingenious and needs to be subdued. We’re experimenting doing that without drugs for a while to see how he reacts. I can’t take my eyes off him for a second. I’m to make sure that after TV time and lunch, he listens to BBCWoman’s Hour and a sitcom on the radio in the afternoon. The night-shift has it easy. He’s so pissed-off and compliant by then he sleeps like a log!”
Sam felt somehow removed from the conversation Declan was having with the other agent as if their voices were coming from another room. He observed his nemesis watching television. He considered Madsson, his bright blond hair uncombed, his cold, detached arctic blue eyes staring at the TV screen while he held his bandaged, injured hand to his chest like a swaddled baby. Sam was pleased to see that the fingers on the hand he had run through with a cake knife were crooked and it seemed that Madsson could not straighten them.
“His sniper days are over!” Agent Brody had declared gleefully when Sam asked for an update soon after the interrogation. Seeing the state of Madsson’s hand Sam hoped it was true, and that the bastard wouldn’t even be able to hold cutlery, let alone shoot straight. Madsson now had scars that would never fade—just like the ones he had given to Sam.
“Has he been any trouble at all?” Sam enquired his voice sounding distant and detached.
“Nope. Since the interrogation and the surgery on his hand, his behavior’s altered a lot.”
Sam was intrigued. “In what way?”
“Before your interrogation, he was in training—obsessive, as if he was waiting to be called to battle. But now, it’s like all the fight’s all gone out of him. He’s surrendered; y’know. He makes no demands anymore, just watches TV, eats, shits, and sleeps. Now he can’t use his hand he’s stopped his exercise regime too.”
Sam was beginning to feel a little sorry for Madsson. Incapacitation had nearly driven Sam mad. Then, without warning, Sam saw the prisoner move. He gasped and took a swift unconscious step back. Madsson had darted up from his bed and stood erect in the center of the room, his head held still as if he were listening for a footstep or the crack of twigs in the forest. He then turned in a full circle, sniffed the air and glared menacingly at the security camera. The look in Madsson’s eyes was all malevolence. It was a look Sam had seen many times before and it chilled him to his core. Madsson smiled and then, carefully he said,
“I know you are there, Samuel.”
“SHITE!” Declan could not hold in the curse.
Silence reigned for a stretched-out moment as all three agents held their collective breaths. Then Madsson spoke again.
“I need you to understand, I am not done playing with you yet, Samuel, not by a long shot.” The Swede said the words matter-of-factly.
Declan impulsively stepped to Sam’s side, threading his hand into his husbands. The men turned and looked at one another; the alarm at hearing Madsson’s threat running through them both like an electrical charge.
How did Madsson know Sam was in the control room? The room wasn’t directly next door to the cell. It was baffling and downright creepy. Although what just happened was disturbing, Sam found it curious that Madsson behaved like he still had the upper hand in their sick, unwanted relationship. But Madsson was no longer in control. Did he remember the interrogation at all? Sam had bested him—controlled him. Madsson became pliant and subservient, bowing to Sam’s questioning. Sam discovered that Madsson possessed such a suggestive mind that whoever implanted the orders to target Sam for assassination had truly fucked him. Sam’s interrogation peeled back the layers and extracted information that Mrs. K, with her drugs and weird serums, could not get the man to reveal.
“Bloody-hell! I’ve never heard him speak like that before. Creepy bastard!” The control agent exclaimed. Concerned by his prisoner’s sudden awareness Agent Rockhopper pressed a few buttons on his console and the jaunty tones of the BBC Radio drama “The Archers” theme tune was played into Madsson’s cell.
“I think we’ve seen enough, aye,” Declan said, and Sam nodded.
“Good luck, Rockhopper!” Declan called as he turned to leave.
Sam exited the control room without saying a word, but as they strode back down the corridor, to Sam’s ears, fading tones of that jolly 1950s radio theme tune had never sounded so sinister.
****
CHAPTER 2
MOVING OUT
It was not as if Declan hadn’t known what was coming, but now the day was here at last when he and Sam would both move out of their Mayfair apartment—and away from the normalcy they cherished.
Declan paced the hallway and watched as Sam busied himself around the apartment collecting his belongings—a favorite pen and a notebook, which he popped into his messenger bag beside the front door.
Declan couldn’t believe how much the thought of living apart from Sam stressed him out. He’d waited so long to find the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, and now he and Sam were wed they had yet more obstacles to contend with. Declan felt completely out of his depth with the thought of working without Sam’s support. Sam had spent eight years as an operative, and his knowledge far outweighed anything Declan had experienced in his months as an agent. Sam was used to thinking on his feet—of becoming whatever tool James needed him to be to get the Intel he required. Declan tried to tell himself James wouldn’t put him in the field if he didn’t believe he was the man for the job. And he tried to shake off the gut-churning feelings of anxiety and dread at the thought of being parted from his husband for an unknown length of time, but his self-esteem had left the building, and maudlin thoughts lingered like a malevolent shadow in his mind.
“Can ye not give me anything? No’ even a wee clue?” Declan hollered as Sam continued flitting around the apartment collecting his possessions.
“Will it be dangerous? Will ye need a weapon? God’s I don’t even know which country you’ll be in.” Declan mother-henned.
Sam looked up from his task and met Declan’s worried gaze. There was still so much about Sam’s work life that he was not permitted to share. His gut coiled like a spring as he’d observed Declan pacing up and down in front of the apartment door like a guard dog, growling anxiously every time Sam made a move toward it with another item for his bag.
“Look”, Sam’s shoulders sagged. “I’m allowed to tell you that I’ll be in the UK, and I’m gathering Intel.” He conceded.
“I will be armed—with my natural wit and derring-do!” He joked, wagging his brows to try and make light of the difficult situation.
“We’ll be apart for a few weeks, that’s all, and then when I join you at Imperial it’s more than likely we’ll see each other every day”, Sam consoled. He pulled the zipper on his suitcase closed and dragged the luggage from the lounge into the hallway dropping it beside his husband. Declan eyed the suitcase as if it were the enemy and Sam heard a growl rumble in his husband’s chest like the roar of distant thunder warning of an impending storm.
There was a moment of tension as the men observed one another pensively, the mournful looks in their eyes communicating that they were on the same page. This mission was damned inconvenient for their relationship. Neither man wanted this.
Declan was the first to make a move, reaching out, hitching a finger into a belt loop on Sam’s jeans. He dragged him closer to press their hips together. Declan’s hands slid around and planted possessively on Sam arse encouraging Sam to fit snugly against his crotch. Declan rested his brow on Sam’s and let out a mournful sigh against his lover's skin.
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be a brave boy an’ survive fer a couple-a-weeks wi’out ye.” Declan said in a low, tender Scots growl.
“It’s gonna be hell though. I won’t be able to touch ye,” He said, letting his fingers roam to map the contours of Sam’s face,
“Te kiss ye,“ He laid soft, warm kisses along Sam’s smoothly shaven jaw line.
“an’—“
“—do all the naughty, naughty things we do so well together”, Sam sighed out, finishing his husband's sentence. He met Declan’s eyes and saw despair there, and it made his heart ache like the stab of a thousand needles.
“Aye,” Declan agreed sullenly.
Sam kissed him then. It was an achingly tender kiss filled with longing, and Declan kissed back with all the need and possessiveness of a man about to have a treasure taken from him.
Sam usually jumped to the challenge of each new mission. He’d been trained and honed to be an exceptional agent. No matter what he thought of his duplicitous father, Sam actually enjoyed the work. But that was when he’d had no ties, no private life, and nothing to fight for. James knew now that Sam had a partner who would pull him from death’s grip. He had a man who would fight hand-to-hand to prove that he was a match for anyone who put Sam in danger. So, to Sam, it felt like James was parting them to prove a point—re-establishing the hierarchy in their work relationship and reminding them both who’s the boss!
With his solo assignment, Sam was going to be alone again, and a lot of water had passed under the bridge since the last time Sam had worked solo. He’d grown to rely on Declan in his daily life. Declan cared for Sam in a way that he’d never experienced before. Sam embraced the domesticity and comfort of having a home and husband to return to each night. It was everything he’d longed for while living at anonymous hotels in his old single life. Knowing he was coming home to Declan—to laughter, warm embraces, great meals, and toe-curling sex would be a hard habit to break.
Did this mean Sam had lost his edge?
Living apart from Declan meant that Sam would now have to look after himself again for the duration of the mission—and to reinvent himself once more. He would miss the warm physical presence of Declan; he would miss the security of his husband’s embrace and his unflinching care. He would even miss his broody mood swings.
“I’ll not be too far away, Buttercup.” Sam attempted to sound chipper but he fooled no one.
“And maybe this will be good for us. We kinda did things backward, don’t you think? Here we are, married, but we never actually dated—maybe you could ask me out on a date sometime?—If you’re very lucky I might even say yes!” Sam flirted. He fluttered his long blond lashes coquettishly and was relieved when Declan’s pinched; sullen mouth broke into a toothy grin.
“Aye, I suppose we could work somethin’ out—turn this te our advantage.” He reluctantly agreed.
“Do ye have the book?” Declan queried. Sam nodded and gestured to his open brown leather messenger bag where a mass market paperback copy of “The Princess Bride” By William Goldman peeked out of a pocket.
“I’ll send you a message when I get settled.”
Declan pulled Sam in, buried his head in the crook of Sam’s neck and inhaled his husband’s musky scent mingled with the zingy citrus shower gel he’d used that morning.
“Look, we’ll be fine.” Sam gentled, running his hands through Declan’s new, dyed, dork style haircut.
“A little bit of variety and excitement will keep us both on our toes—”
Declan was just about to enquire further about what Sam had in mind when his phone rang, making both men flinch.
“Shite, I’ll have te get that.” He said regretfully and then pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. Declan eyed the screen and then traded a wary glance with Sam. He put the phone on speaker,
“Running Bear, I’m here wi’ Desert Fox—”
“Good”. The deep, growly American voice rumbled.
“Listen, I’ve got an update on Ali Amir Alzzalam—also known as Ali the Devil.” Brody paused.
“Yes!” Sam and Declan said in unison.
Devon Brody was the agent who’d assisted Declan with Sam’s rescue from the sinkhole in the Highland cave, and he had secretly voiced his disgust at Sir James’ ill-use of his only son. Brody also put himself forward to be a spare pair of eyes watching over Sam when he’d left the hospital. The man was a stalwart—loyal, reliable, hard-working and built like a bull. Both Sam and Declan knew Brody had past experience in Afghanistan and that he still maintained connections in the US Military.
“I met with Viper. It’s been decided that I’ll be off-grid for… I don’t know how long.”
“James is sending ye to find him?” Declan suggested.
“I couldn’t possibly comment on my mission,” Brody said dryly.
Sam and Declan shared a glance. It was clear to both agents that A.L.L needed to locate the warlord Ali Amir Alzzalam—A man who somehow evaded detection and of whom no photograph existed. Declan wasn’t even sure if he was real because he sounded as fictitious as The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui—a boogie-man invented to put fear into the hearts of those who climbed in the Scots Highlands. Ali the Devil sounded like a similar fiction to terrify the indigenous Afghani tribes and the allied forces fighting the Taliban.
If Brody could identify whether this man was real and pinpoint where he was holed-up then James would use his money, power, and influence to get some answers as to his connection to Erik Madsson, and whoever was using Madsson as a puppet to target James’only son.
“Look. I gotta go. You guys look after one another. I’ll be in touch!”
“Safe travels,” Sam said,
“Aye, may the Gods be with ye my friend,” Declan added, knowing all-too-well that Brody was entering a war zone and they may never meet again—just like Declan’s long-mourned childhood best-friend and secret first love.
So, investigations were continuing. Sam and Declan shared a curious look. Sam doubted his father would keep them in the loop with the progress of the probe into Ali the Devil. He and Declan had already discussed the outcome of the interrogation themselves and proceeded with their own private investigations with help from Sam’s hacker friend, Kei Nakamoto. Now that Brody was out of the picture they were losing their only true ally within the A.L.L organization.
“D’ye think he’ll have much luck tracking down this Ali the Devil fella?”
“Well. It took nearly a decade for the US to track down Bin Laden and they had the distinct advantage of knowing what he looked like. No one has a photo of Ali Amir Alzzalam so Brody’s got his work cut out.” Sam collected his watch from the hall table and secured it on his wrist covering the scar left by the survival bracelet that had prevented his descent into the Highland sinkhole.
The door buzzer sounded. “Damn it. My taxi’s here already!” Sam huffed sorrowfully as he reached for his husband’s hand.
Declan entwined his fingers into Sam’s and pulled him into an embrace. He kissed Sam mouth tenderly, savoring his hum of approval and the way Sam’s body grew limp and near melted into him. Declan would miss the kisses so much.
Sam pulled away. “One more thing—” He said, leading Declan into the lounge.
They paused in front of the marble fireplace, the mantle displaying the Cliffs of Insanity statues of The Dread Pirate Roberts dueling with Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride. Sam met Declan’s worried gaze, and then slowly drew his silver wedding band from his finger. The ring was inscribed with the movie quote: There is no room in my body for anything but you. Sam placed the ring against his lips and planted a kiss, then threaded it over the sword held aloft by The Dread Pirate Roberts.
Following his husband’s lead, Declan removed his wedding ring and, after holding it and rotating it between his fingers for a moment of contemplation, he read the heartfelt inscription that completed the quote with the words: My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. Reading those words from Sam always gave Declan butterflies in his belly.
“I love you, ye know,” He said to Sam as if there were ever any doubt. Then he kissed the ring and threaded it over the sword held by Inigo Montoya. It slid down to rest against the sword hilt.
This was it. Sam’s taxi was downstairs, and so, for all intents and purposes, their relationship was on hold. The mission, codename: Operation: Fire Angel had begun.
****
CHAPTER 3
DR. HUNTER
Declan stood alone beside the fireplace ponderously eyeing the silver wedding bands that he and Sam threaded onto their heroes dueling swords. He recalled the exchange of rings on their wedding day at Kensington Town Hall, where Beatles, Princes, and minor celebrities had wed. Warmth spread through Declan’s chest and tugged at his heart. A tear escaped from his eye at the memory.
Their wedding day was the simplest of days. Neither wanted a fuss—a registry office wedding and then dinner at The Ritz suited them just fine. They’d both just wanted to say their vows in front of their families so there were no more secrets—and for Sam to be able to walk unaided. But, as Declan now understood by marrying into the Aiken clan—when one burden finds release, it leaves space for new burdens to fill the void.
Declan had only worn his wedding ring for six weeks but now he felt a little naked without it. His wristwatch alarm beeped reminding him that he had an hour before he needed to leave their Mayfair home too and move to his cover address—one of those sterile, designer, box apartments that were all too common in the City of London these days.
He strode to the bathroom and glared, steely-eyed into the mirror at his own clean-shaven reflection. The removal of his thick, dark beard should have made him appear years younger, however; with his hair dyed salt-and-pepper and styled with a geeky fringe swept down to cover his high brow, the illusion of youth vanished.
Inside, Declan felt nowhere near his true age of thirty-five. When he was a boy, he’d considered people in their thirties to be grown-up—virtually ancient, and now he’d reached that age, he found it strange that after thirty-five years on earth, he didn’t feel that grown-up at all, especially because his life was just beginning.
Declan considered his reflection and then ran his fingers down over the ridges and hollows of his bare, hairy chest to the tight abs he’d fought so hard to hone over these past months. He rubbed broad hands over his face as if to massage the tiredness from his skin, and he let out a bear-like groan.
Declan picked up an alcohol swab from the line-up of items on the counter. He wiped it over his freshly shaven chin and above his top lip. It smarted for a moment in the same sharp way as a splash of aftershave. The fake salt and pepper Van Dyke beard and moustache combo that lay beside the alcohol swabs was woven from grey and black human hair. It was made and initially fitted by Manuello, Sam’s contact at the National Theater warehouse. The one-piece facial hair postiche was robust enough that it could be removed and applied numerous times, so it was perfect for a stage actor to use over countless performances, and it could be washed.
Declan unscrewed a small pot of amber liquid and then dipped a flat-tipped sable brush into the spirit gum. He applied it in dabs to his chin and around his mouth, and then waited a moment for the gum to become tacky. He tested it with the end of the brush and satisfied; he picked up the beard and moustache and then applied them to his face, holding in the urge to smile at the immediacy of the transformation to his appearance. He offered himself a pensive, studious look in the mirror and then, with the beard sticking fast he manipulated his mouth, testing that the fake facial hair sat naturally and did not pull away from his skin.
Finally, Declan reached for a pair of chrome rimmed spectacles that held fake clear lenses. He fitted them on his face, flattened down his salt and pepper bangs, gave his new beard a studious stroke with thumb and forefinger, and then smiled. The man in the mirror, Dr. Tobias Hunter, smiled back. A rush of adrenaline and excitement flooded into Declan’s blood as the confidence he’d believed lost, returned. Declan knew then that he could do this. He was delighted with the transformation and he could play the part of Tobias Hunter. Sam was right. This dressing up lark was fun.
“Good morning.” Declan’s sexy Scottish accent was gone, replaced by a Mid-Atlantic accent—English with a hint of an American twang.
“It’s just awesome to meet you at last Dr. Hunter, I’ve heard so much about you.” He said to the reflection.
“All good, I hope?” He replied to himself with a grin.
Declan cleaned the brush, then added it and the spirit gum to his toiletries bag and carried it with him as he left the bathroom. He fitted the bag securely into a regimentally packed suitcase and then grabbed the tablet computer from the bed that Mrs. K had supplied loaded with information about the real Dr. Tobias Hunter. He sat on the end of the bed and began to revise the information.
Dr. Tobias Hunter was a forty-nine-year-old Geologist, originally from the South of England. Hunter attended university in Cardiff and then moved to the United States where his specialist subjects led him to expertise in the area of ‘Hydraulic Fracturing’, commonly known as Fracking. Dr. Tobias Hunter was one of the many consultant Geologists who worked for the burgeoning US Gas industry. He evaluated sites over a vast area of New York State, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and West Virginia that lay on the gas-rich Marcellus Shale bed.
After more than twenty years in the US, Dr. Hunter had become despondent. There were the angry environmentalists ever-present outside his company’s office block whose threats left him in a state of constant anxiety and in need of twice-weekly visits to a psychotherapist. And in turn, Hunter lived like a hermit.
Dr. Tobias Hunter decided to seek alternative employment back across the pond. His job search led to him receiving a phone call from a British businessman, Sir James Aiken, who made Hunter an offer that he could not refuse. The post was accepted. But, unbeknown to Dr. Hunter, he would miss out on a few extraordinary career opportunities that were applied for on his behalf—and without his knowledge or consent.
The first opportunity was a three-month post as a visiting lecturer for the Earth Sciences Faculty at Imperial College, London. Then, the second opportunity was the presentation of a paper on RedefiningFracking in the British Isles at The Global Ecology Conference in Munich.
Luckily, Sir James Aiken directed one of his agents in the US to clone Dr. Hunter’s laptop full of research, and A.L.L had a man on the ground in London who could assume Dr. Hunter’s identity—Agent Declan Ramsay.
The other identities Declan used while working for A.L.L. were fictional, so working with a real person’s details was exciting. The personal files Declan perused on the tablet contained the few images that A.L.L spooks found on the Wayback Machine Internet Archive. The archive site was available for use by anyone from covert agencies to journalists and private citizens who wanted to review information on now-defunct websites, news reports, or to chart changes to website content.
Hunter was not a fan of social media so did not even have Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram accounts. However, an analyst discovered Dr. Tobias Hunter on a science website from the mid-nineties, accompanied by a bio and an additional headshot of a bearded man who looked similar to the actor on the front cover of the 1970s board game ‘Mastermind’.
Declan was disappointed that Tobias Hunter conformed to the stereotype of a science geek, and looked, well… stale, bland and boring, but he figured that it had been over twenty years since the photo was taken so Hunter should have evolved. So, with a little artistic license he could work some changes into the look of his character.
Declan clicked on a video and viewed Hunter’s last recorded public speech. He was presenting a paper on the subject of Hydraulic Fracturing at the 2003 American Geophysical Union Fall Meeting. Protestors from the group New York Water Watch had secreted themselves into the auditorium of the convention center and began to heckle during his speech. Hunter was not a natural public speaker by any means, but it was useful for Declan to hear his Mid-Atlantic accent and get a sense of Dr. Hunter’s delivery. Declan knew that, with his own degrees in Geography and Geology, he could easily slip into a Scientists persona and ‘talk the talk’.
Dr. Hunter wasn’t the most dapper of men, and so Declan dressed quickly, taking none of his usual care with his appearance. He donned a cream shirt, a second-hand beige tweed suit, and topped off the look with a grey tie, all of which Sam had purchased for him in a charity shop. Declan slipped his feet into a pair of brown loafers and then, casting a studious last glance in the mirror to marvel at the full picture of his disguise, he collected his suitcase up from the bed and headed for the front door.
In the hall, he saw the two other large black suitcases that waited there. The sight of them, filled with everything he would need for the foreseeable future made a weight sink in his stomach. Jesus, numpty, grow a fuckin’ pair, will ye? Declan and Sam needed to stay away from their home for the duration of the mission. This was not going to be easy and Declan’s chest already felt tight with separation anxiety.
CHAPTER 4
HELLO NEIGHBOR
A.L.L. property agent Matthew Fisher strode into the foyer of No 1 West India Quay, Canary Wharf, London. Six-foot-two, and slender, Matthew cut a graceful, elegant silhouette dressed in a smart dark navy business suit with a pale pink shirt and a muted lavender tie. His leather brogues made a tip-tapping sound with each step. The steps stuttered occasionally, revealing a slight limp as he walked.
The landmark building at West India Quay was in the redeveloped docklands area of Canary Wharf, in the Borough of Tower Hamlets, East London. Renowned worldwide as the new financial heart of London, Canary Wharf was where big businesses and luxury high-rise living gravitated. The building at No 1 West India Quay was shared occupancy, between The Marriot Hotel which took up the lower twelve floors of the block, and then the upper twenty-one floors belonging to private investors—and several of the apartments were owned by Sir James Aiken.
Honeyed autumn sunlight beamed into the open plan foyer of the glass-fronted building, casting a golden light onto the polished marble floor. Matthew approached the reception desk and smiled knowingly when he recognized that Andre was manning the desk today.
Andre was well-turned-out in his sharp Marriot branded uniform of black suit, white shirt, and a branded claret red tie. His mousy hair was gelled back, and his skin appeared moisturized or oiled, making his flawless, lightly-tanned face appear waxy as if he were a Ken Doll. Andre looked up from the tablet screen he’d been typing on, his eyes widening with pleasure at seeing Matthew approach.
“Ah, Mr. Fisher. Good to see you again”, he said jovially. “I've got a delivery from Fortnum’s for you.” Andre turned and then bent down to drag the item from beneath the counter behind. Matthew couldn’t resist a cheeky ogle at the young man’s arse as Andre hefted a large wicker hamper case with the initials F&M stenciled on the front in black letters, and placed it on the counter.
“Oh, thanks. That’s for the new tenant, is she here?“
“She arrived fifteen minutes ago. I suggested that she wait for you in the café—complimentary beverages of course!” Andre winked.
“Thanks, Andre, you’re a star.” The receptionist glowed at hearing the compliment.
“I’ll go and collect her and we’ll pick up the hamper as were passing. Does she have much luggage?” Matthew asked. The receptionist barked out a laugh.
“Does she ever! I’ll call Joachim to bring the bags up. Twenty-fifth-floor Apartment 105, yes?”
“That’s right, thanks mate.” Matthew turned on the balls of his feet, and took off at a graceful pace, almost floating over the marble floor following the heady aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
It was ten a.m on a Monday in late September, and with the clement weather, the café was nearly empty apart from two staff members busying themselves behind a glass-topped counter. A couple of businessmen typed frantically on laptops, and one female customer was fiddling with her phone.
The woman wore her long lustrous auburn hair loose, draped forward over each shoulder creating a curtain effect, shielding her face from view. The complimentary coffee tray was set out on the small, round table in front of her with an oversized coffee cup, a selection of untouched mini-pastries, and a side plate. The cup of coffee was half consumed—a brilliant red lipstick print standing out on the rim of the bright white cup.
As Matthew approached he could see the woman was engrossed with typing a message on her phone. Long, devilishly sharp red fingernails tapped eerily against the screen, sounding like the steps of a scuttling spider.
“Aww Shite”, The woman spat frustratedly with an unmistakable Scottish lilt to her accent. She jabbed at the screen and then started tapping again. Matthew stepped to her side and queried,
“Miss Jamison?” The woman startled.
Matthew Fisher was a very particular kind of man, and his tastes were curious, to say the least. He had many kinks, and among his kinks was a taste for shoes, women’s shoes to be precise. Whenever Matthew met an attractive woman he couldn’t help but consider her shoes. In this instance, Matthew’s eyes widened when he recognized the black and white T-strap kitten heels Amanda Jamison wore as a pair he’d salivated over while browsing on the Love Honey website. His heart skipped as his gaze followed the curve of her calves clad in sheer black stockings with a gorgeous flock pattern design running up the back of the leg. Sweat beaded Matthew’s brow. His first thought was to excitedly ask her where she’d purchased them, but no; he was working and must keep his professional composure. Matthew took a steadying breath, centered himself, and offered his hand.
“Hello, Miss Jamison. I’m Matthew Fisher, property agent for Aiken’s Luxury Lettings. Sir James has instructed me to welcome you to West India Quay.” He said with a slight courteous bow.
“Oh, I’m so sorry sweetie. I was lost in sendin’ a wee message. I just cannae get used to this new-fangled phone Jamesie sent me.” She said with a lighter, sweeter Scots accent than the coarser one Matthew had initially heard. He was sure this voice was a little too saccharine to be her true voice and was surprised by the fact she called his domineering, frankly scary boss ‘Jamesie’.
Amanda’s scrutinizing eyes grazed up Matthew’s tall, lean elegant form.
“So, you’re the welcome party!” She cooed flirtatiously, her mouth betraying a wicked smirk. As a former ballet dancer, Matthew was a well-made man and exuded natural poise and grace in every move he made. He could tell immediately that Amanda’s sparkling eyes liked what they saw.
“James surely knows how to show a girl a good time!” She flirted. “Nice to meet you Matthew”, she said, her Scots accent taking on a wispy, sex-kitten quality as she clasped his hand firmly and gave it a sincere shake.
Matthew blushed and realized then, when Amanda clasped his hand, and he felt the strength in her grip, that there was something quite singular about her too. He glanced again at the size ten kitten heels she wore, and then at her hands and figured that, yes, he was correct. She was transgender. It was a pleasant surprise. Matthew had a lot more in common with Amanda Jamison than she yet knew. He would have to tell his Dom, Austin, about this flirtatious interaction. It drove Austin crazy to hear about anyone coming-on to his boy.
“Um, we can head up to your new apartment now if you’re ready. I have the key card.“ Matthew looked at the mound of luggage Amanda brought with her. How long is she staying in London? He asked himself. Amanda had packed four large suitcases, three smaller bags, and a voluminous handbag. He wondered why any woman would need a handbag that big and what the hell was in it that was so important.
“I’ve arranged for your luggage to be brought up by the porter, is that okay with you?”
Amanda stood and her hands smoothed down her figure-hugging black and white bodycon dress—not that there were any wrinkles in the fabric. She looked up at Matthew and caught his eye.
“Could ye maybe gie-us-a-hand wit’ the wee bags an’ the porter can take the big un’s?” She suggested sweetly.
“Oh, yes, of course, of course.” The cases were all brand new, very expensive, Vianuchi label. Matthew knew nothing about Amanda Jamison, except that his manager Raj Chandra had been given strict instructions. Sir James specified Matthew must be the property agent dealing with Miss Jamieson. Sir James was giving her a free apartment and seemingly some high-end gifts and extra special attention. Matthew’s orders were to show her to the apartment, and ensure that all of her needs were catered for.
There was familiarity in the way Amanda spoke of James rather than the more official Sir James. Could she be a naughty little secret his ever-so-proper boss was hiding in one of his properties? He found it curious that Sir James would install Miss Amanda Jamison in this particular building when Aiken’s owned property all over the British Capital.
Matthew hitched the strap of a bag over his shoulder and dragged two smaller wheeled suitcases.
“Christ, what have you got in here? Rocks?” He groaned witheringly, the thought leaving his mouth before he could censor himself. He winced and moved off following the tip-tap of Amanda’s kitten heels on the marble floor.
Amanda snickered. “Och, no, Darlin,” She turned back and gave him a wicked grin,
“Not rocks, just lots and lots of shoes.”
Matthew stifled a whimper. She was a woman after his own heart! He was torn between the urge to stop and unpack the bags and see what delightful shoes were within, and in leaving the cases for the staff to deal with. He was not a porter, and he wondered if he was being paid enough to lug this woman’s heavy cases around.
Matthew spotted Andre at the reception desk and was then reminded of the hamper.
“Uh, Miss Jamison, sorry, hold up!” Matthew called. “Sir James sent a welcome hamper from Fortnum’s for you. I’m afraid don’t have a spare hand—”
“Oh, Jamesie’s is such a sweetheart.” Amanda cooed. Sweetheart was the last thing Matthew could ever think to call his boss. A tyrant and control freak was closer to the mark.
“C’mere, let me take this bag,” Amanda suggested, taking the handle of a wheeled suitcase from his grasp, and you can carry the hamper.
