The Valiant Read online

  "And what thread is that?" Ari asks.

  "We have never been able to tie Marquis Dupree to the dirty underworld, but we've been hearing buzz from a few sources in organized crime that Worthington just might be the man Dupree uses for the illicit side of his pharmaceutical business. Worthington trades drugs, weapons, and currency, depending on your needs, often in the same deal. Our source indicated that something big just came through his pipeline. It's not much to go on honestly. And the fact that his party is next door to someone we know is a lucky break. If Dupree was in on the hiring of the assassin, which the Moneyman indicated under extreme duress, then our cases could be colliding here. If they do, this is the team I want on it. Just because the bombs are in London doesn't mean they are going to stay here. We know that something is going to start in Montrovia. Considering that one big event starting soon is the Olympics, which hosts athletes from nearly every country in the world--"

  "It would definitely have worldwide ramifications," Ari agrees.

  "I don't think so," I say without thought.

  "Why do you say that?" The Bartender asks me. "It makes sense."

  "Because I don't think they would destroy Montrovia in that way. It's perfect now. Our father thought so. Arcadia is perfection. If Arcadia is the goal, they wouldn't cause an environmental catastrophe that would have long-lasting effects."

  Intrepid shakes his head, not wanting to have a theoretical discussion. "Fine. We have no idea what they are going to do with the bombs or where they will detonate them, but at this point, it really doesn't matter. We need to find them and stop it. It's imperative, Huntley, that you make contact and get the man alone, preferably getting an invite to his home. We need access to his laptop and cell phone."

  "You had access to the Moneyman's electronic devices. Have you found anything useful there?" I ask. "Will getting those items be enough?"

  "A large portion is encrypted, and we're having trouble breaking through," The Bartender states. "What we were able to find were obsessive files about each of his girls, and once we have it all compiled, we'll be giving it to the proper authorities. We believe the information will help break down much of the sex trafficking in London."

  "Thank you," I say, giving him a fist bump. "It needs to be stopped completely."

  "The team has been working around the clock," he says proudly.

  "All right," Intrepid says, "I think that's it. Dr. Kate has acquired suitable attire for us." He turns to The Bartender. "You may speak with Huntley in private now."

  Everyone files out of the room, leaving us alone, but it's not good enough for The Bartender.

  "Come with me," he says, leading me out to the garden where he takes a seat on a bench.

  I sit down next to him. "Am I in trouble?" I ask, feeling a little like I've been sent to the dean's office.

  "No, I just wanted to give you this in person. I wasn't sure who knew about it." He hands me my father's watch. "The first thing I did was take it apart and remove the tracking device."

  I wrap it around my wrist and fasten it. "Thank you."

  "I secretly made a couple of modifications. It now takes pictures, records video in the dark, and has a built-in GPS jammer, which is illegal in most countries. Be sure to turn that function off before you fly," he says with a laugh.

  "All that and the darts?"

  "Yes," he says. "But only midnight darts from now on. Things are going to get more dangerous for you as you move up the chain. Although Henri and I are working with the British agent, our alliance falls only with you. Do you understand?"

  "I do. But you two had better not hurt anyone I care about, including Intrepid, or I'll hunt you down myself. And, this time, I won't care about Chauncey being an orphan."

  He reverently bows his head and leaves through the gate.

  We've barely stepped foot in the party when the British lads, who seem to have already had quite a few pints, noisily fawn over our presence as we exchange hugs and kisses.

  "I will never in my life forget how you made the birthday boy ride in the limo with you when we could literally see the casino," the redhead says, laughing hysterically.

  "It was the shoes!" I counter as Wesley joins us. "Happy birthday!"

  He gives me a rakish grin, and then he wraps his arms around me and gives me a sloppy kiss on the lips.

  I'm still in his arms and laughing when a tall, thin girl with long, dark hair and an irritated look sticks her hand out.

  "I don't think we've met. I'm Wesley's girlfriend."

  "Do you have a first name?" I ask politely.

  Wesley is still all over me, clearly inebriated, making it a tad awkward.

  "It's Jodi," she replies curtly.

  I hold out one hand while holding her boyfriend upright with the other. "And I'm Huntley."

  "We met Huntley and her brother in Montrovia and became lifelong mates," the redhead tells Jodi.

  Jodi's face goes from irritated to angry, the tops of her ears turning red. "So, you're the slag?"

  I look at the boys in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't know what that means, but it doesn't sound good." I push Wesley toward her. "Here, why don't you deal with your sloshed boyfriend? He's a little too hands-on for my liking right now."

  This gets Wesley's attention and, thankfully, his hand off my ass. "Jodi. Jodi. Jodi. It's my party. Have some fun or"--he turns to his buddies and yells--"off with your head."

  "Off with your head," his buddies chant in unison and then immediately slam their pints.

  "Drinking game," one of them tells me when I raise my eyebrow.

  I slide over next to the redhead and then prop the birthday boy against him.

  "I don't recall your name on the guest list," the girl continues, not backing down.

  I realize she's been hitting the sauce, too. Clearly, they were pre-partying, something I don't have the time to deal with.

  "I invited her!" Wesley yells out, causing his chums to clink glasses and drink again.

  They all start talking about how they can't wait to go back to Montrovia, how they need a boys' weekend, and how they are going to win big at the casino.

  "Huntley," the redhead says, straightening himself to stand tall and proper, "if I come back to Montrovia, I would like to request a sail on His Majesty's royal yacht."

  To which all the boys agree, holding up their glasses and drinking more, this time toasting me.

  I can't help but laugh. They are incorrigible. "I think I can arrange that."

  "And how are you going to do that?" Jodi snarls.

  "'Cause she's dating the man who owns it," the redhead blurts out before I can reply.

  "Prince Lorenzo?" the girl asks.

  "He's the king now, but yeah."

  She holds her arms across her chest. "I don't believe you."

  I breathe out of my nose, like a bull ready to charge. Huntley's done being nice. I'm tempted to give her a tranquilizer dart just so she doesn't ruin Wesley's party before I remember I only have midnight darts. I decide to make my point in a different way. I simply make a call.

  When Lorenzo answers, he says, "Your plane has just arrived in London and is awaiting you at the airport we always use."

  "You are the sweetest," I tell him. "Thank you. But the reason I called is because I'm at Wesley Windsor's birthday party."

  "I hate that guy," Lorenzo says.

  I ignore his comment and say pointedly, "I knew you'd want to wish him the best. I'm putting you on speaker. Say hi to Lorenzo, everyone!"

  There are more cheers.

  "Many happy regards for your birthday, Wesley. It was a pleasure to have you in my country," Lorenzo says diplomatically but then adds, "Next time you visit, may you win back some of the money you lost." His voice softens. "I miss you, Huntley."

  I quickly take the phone off speaker and say good-bye. Wesley's little sister, Isla, and her friends are watching me and appear to be swooning over Lorenzo's sweet words.

  Intrepid comes to my side and hands
me a tumbler. I take a sip of the fizzy drink, hoping it is spiked. Who knew a friend's birthday party could be more stressful than a mission?

  "Worried about getting drunk and taken advantage of, William?" I tease when I realize it has no alcohol. "Where did Ari go? I swear, he ditched me the second he got to the party."

  Intrepid points toward the bar where Ari is watching the neighboring room like a hawk.

  "That boy has definitely not learned the subtle art of surveillance yet."

  "I should probably go tell him that," Intrepid says, "but I thought I should come save you from the jealous girlfriend first."

  "You can save me anytime--wait. Isn't that him?" I switch my position, putting my back to the room across the hall so that Intrepid has a good line of sight.

  "Make your move," he says. "Remember, your only goal is to get a date. His men are armed, so if they won't let you in, don't push it. Maybe you should--"

  "Go to the bathroom, pretend to be drunk, and slip into their party room by mistake?"

  "You read minds, too?"

  "One of my many skills," I say, going to the bar for a glass of champagne.

  A few minutes later, I take my drink to the bathroom, swaying as I walk down the hall.

  I touch up my lipstick, dump the glass out in the sink, and then wander into the target's private room. Ignoring the glares from the beefy men guarding the door, I teeter my way straight to the bar where I put my hand on my target's forearm in an attempt to balance myself.

  I give him a goofy, drunken smile and slur, "I'm Huntley. I don't think we've met yet." I turn to the bar, setting my empty glass on it. "More champagne, please," I say to the bartender. "Actually, maybe you should just give me the bottle. I'll share, I promise."

  One of the big men from the door puts his hand on my shoulder.

  I look up at him and smile drunkenly. "Heeey, you're reeeallly tall."

  "Miss, I'm going to have to ask you--"

  Worthington shakes his head at the guard and says to me, "I think you are supposed to be at the party across the hall."

  I scrunch my nose and turn around in confusion, losing my balance in the process. Then I slap my palm to my face in embarrassment. "Oh my gosh. I am so sorry. I totally crashed your party. Don't mind me. I'll just be going now."

  The man wraps his hand firmly around my wrist. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Sebastian Worthington, and it just so happens that it's my birthday, too. Will you stay and have a drink with me?"

  "Uh, sure," I say, pretending to carefully consider his request.

  He turns to the bartender. "Please bring us some vodka from my private reserve."

  "Could I have a glass of water first? I think I did too many toasts. And I haven't eaten all day, worried I wouldn't fit into this dress."

  "Where are you from, Huntley?" he asks as he looks me up and down. Mostly down. "You look familiar."

  His focus seems to be on my cleavage, so I puff my chest out in a dramatic sigh.

  When his eyes finally make their way back up to my face, he points at me and says, "I know. You were dating Prince Lorenzo when I was in Cap for the Grand Prix."

  "Yes, I was."

  "Is he here with you now?" the man asks, scanning the neighboring party room.

  "Uh, no. He's king now, and I'm just the girl who happened to get kidnapped with him and almost killed."

  "So, no royal wedding?" He chuckles.

  "Definitely not," I say, leaning closer to him.

  "Did he love you and leave you?"

  "More like I went from future princess to orphan gold digger in the tabloids, which is kind of ironic, considering I'm worth billions."

  "Billions with a B?" he asks, nearly choking on his drink.

  This is the point of my mission where I have to decide how to play him. Even though this is just supposed to be a routine surveillance, I know there's more on the line. With the backpack nukes in play, I need to figure out how to make him so interested that he will want to take me home tonight.

  I still haven't replied to his billions comment because I need to play this right. And I'm not sure which way to go--the girl who isn't impressed, the girl who's up for anything, or the damsel in distress. Based on the amount of security present, I think I'll try the latter.

  The bartender returns, presenting the vodka. While he sets up two shot glasses, I grab the bottle, take a chug of it, and then hand it to my target.

  "Sorry, I need more to drink if you want to talk about my life. Cheers to your birthday and to my old life."

  "Are you upset about having billions?" the man asks, looking perplexed.

  "It sounds dumb, I know. People think I'm so lucky, but I don't feel that way."

  "Why not?"

  "My parents were killed in a car accident when I was young. I was sent to boarding school. I was doing fine on my own, and then some lawyer called me and told me that the man I knew as my father wasn't my biological father and that my real father was some rich dead dude who left me and the brother I never knew I had, like, a gazillion dollars. I quit school, bought some fast cars, and rented a villa in Montrovia. Shit's been rolling downhill since.

  "So, I've come to seek solace in London. I mean, it's supposed to be a nice place, and it's got a queen and all. And I'm really excited because I got invited to a party for this cute guy who I might or might not have hooked up with in Montrovia. He's all happy to see me, but his girlfriend is not. That has led to too much champagne and me clearly being in a downward spiral that will probably find me looking for my knickers in the morning in someplace that I won't remember going to."

  The man takes the vodka bottle away from me and hands me a glass of water instead. "When you go home with me, I want you to remember every single detail."

  I smile because this is looking good. He's already expressed his desire to take me home.

  "You seem so nice," I purr.

  When Worthington trails his finger down my arm, I have to force myself not to shudder. Although not as physically unattractive as the Moneyman, he has ice in his eyes.

  I'm ready to make my move by suggesting we get out of here when I hear a shout as a single gunshot rings out. The target pushes me to the ground and runs behind the bar as a team of eight, wearing black suits and balaclavas to cover their faces moves into the room, taking up strategic locations.

  Time seems to slow down. For most people, panic causes a rush of adrenaline and the fight-or-flight instinct kicks in.

  What I notice is that the men aren't spraying the room to mow everyone down but are shooting with practiced military-like precision, taking down every one of Worthington's guests in a heartbeat.

  I keep my eyes wide and my body still, like I'm frozen in fright, knowing it's the key to my survival. Part of being well trained is knowing when not to fight. Even I can't take out a firing squad.

  "Where is he?" one of the gunmen shouts at me.

  I slowly point my thumb in the direction of the bar but my target--and, obviously, their target--is gone.

  "Get the backpacks," their commander orders.

  His men do as they were told, pulling military-green backpacks that appear to be the ones everyone is looking for from underneath the gift table.

  I quickly realize that this wasn't a birthday party but rather the exchange point. That the reason there are eight gunmen when three would have sufficed is because they each need to carry one of the hundred-pound packs. Normally, this would involve an exchange of product for cash, but in this situation it appears that the gunmen are taking the bombs by force and killing anyone with knowledge of them.

  "And bring the girl," the commander says.

  When a dark hood is thrown over my head, I allow myself to be hustled downstairs and into a waiting vehicle.

  I have no idea where I'm going or what will become of me, but at least I know where the bombs are.

  And right now, I might be the only person capable of stopping a nuclear disaster, which is something none of us anticipated.
/>   The engine roars, and as we pull away, I hear the sound of a bullet hitting the car.

  "Someone is shooting at us," the driver says, taking a hard right that knocks me into whoever is sitting next to me. He doesn't feel very tall, but he is solid and doesn't budge. Of course, he can see where we are going.

  I highly doubt this vehicle holds eight men. More than likely, they were split into two teams, each one taking their backpack with them as a fail-safe. Better half than none.

  That means, even though I could shoot the driver with a midnight dart from my watch, prick the hand of the man to my right with the poisonous tip on my black diamond ring, steal the gun I can feel holstered on the man to my left's hip while simultaneously elbowing him in the face, and shoot the man in the passenger seat before shooting the man on the left of me with his own gun, I need to find out where the other bombs are.

  But then I realize a normal girl wouldn't just sit here, plotting their demise. She'd be freaking out.

  "I didn't know that man," I whimper. "Please let me go."

  "Don't lie to us," the man sitting to my left says, backhanding me and causing my cheek to instantly swell. "Sit there and shut up, or I'll kill you."

  I do as I was told but make my breathing ragged, like I'm silently sobbing.

  I hear the driver curse in Russian as another bullet strikes the vehicle. Obviously, whoever is chasing us doesn't know that we're carrying nuclear bombs and that they should follow discreetly instead--which means, it's my brother, who doesn't have a discreet bone in his body.

  "Motorbike. On our six," the passenger says.

  "Are we going to die?" I fake hysterical sob. "Why is everyone shooting at each other?"

  My only response is a gust of wind rushing into the vehicle as windows are rolled down. The man to my left grabs the gun from his holster, then leans out the window, and fires.

  "Can I take this hoodie thing off?" I beg. "I get carsick if I can't see where I'm going."

  The man to my right responds by shoving a gun into my side and cursing at me. "We need your boyfriend, and we're going to use you as collateral."

  The vehicle takes another sharp turn, so I make gagging noises, hoping it will be convincing.