Fuck. He wasn’t a child. He didn’t need someone to take bloody care of him. He just needed a sub, and like it or not, Chelsea Dennis might be the answer to his problems.
Taggart stepped up, his hand out. “Knight. Good to see you. Sorry about Jake. He’s had a rough day. He got a pat down at security. I’m pretty sure Adam arranged that. He’s been pissy about it ever since.”
Damon clasped his friend’s hand. Yes, Big Tag was a pain in the arse, but he’d been a damn fine friend. It had been Ian’s home he’d gone to once he’d gotten out of hospital. It had been Ian who pushed him to get strong, who hadn’t given him a minute’s pity.
Penelope likely would have held his hand and baked him biscuits. Yeah, he didn’t need that.
“I’m sorry about dragging Dean away.” He couldn’t even understand the idea of ankle biters or changing nappies. Jacob Dean was a stone-cold killer. He’d moved through the ranks of US Special Forces, gaining the nickname Ghost for how quietly he could move, how easily he brought death to the enemy.
Now he wasn’t quiet. He was bitching at some poor shopkeeper about his coffee.
“I told him he should have read his job description. It plainly states that he’s an International Super Spy,” Taggart explained. “If he’d wanted to stay in Dallas, he should have applied for Regional Super Spy.”
Jesse pulled his jacket open. “Big Tag made us badges and everything.”
Sure enough he was wearing a cheeky name tag. Jesse Murdoch—International Super Spy.
Sometimes he didn’t understand the Americans. “Well, thanks for coming so quickly anyway.”
“We had a choice?” Weston asked, buttoning his suit coat. He wasn’t wearing a cheeky name tag. He was dressed to the nines, his suit impeccably tailored without a hint of wrinkling. The bastard must have changed. No one could get through a nine-hour overnight flight, hours in immigration and customs, and still look as perfect as Simon Weston. He glanced around the station as though looking for whatever was going to try to kill him next.
“Simon, chill,” Taggart ordered with a smile on his face. “It’s all good. Charlie here isn’t in Brit jail and we had a nice first-class flight.”
It was time to fuck with Taggart. “I’m so sorry, Tag. You do understand that we’re not actually reimbursing you for that. The deal was that you would do us some favors. Favors that don’t include any exchange of cash.”
Ian turned the funniest shade of red.
His wife stepped up, a frown on her pretty face. She put a hand on her husband’s shoulder as though physically restraining him. “He’s joking, baby. I already got the paperwork started. Now follow Jacob and get some coffee. We’ll expense that, too.”
Ian pointed a single finger Damon’s way. “I will kill you and bury you. Don’t think I won’t.”
He stormed off, and Damon couldn’t help but chuckle.
Charlotte turned that frown to Damon. “Don’t tease him. Do you know what the rest of us have been through? Do you have any idea what a first-class flight costs at the last minute? He’s turned into a penny-pinching asshole. He yelled at me the other day for buying raspberries for four dollars. Four freaking dollars. I’ve heard lectures on getting nickeled-and-dimed for months and all because we had to write you an enormous check. So you will pay for everything while we are here. Are we understood, Knight?”
She was awfully cute when she was mad. And she had written SIS a massive check in exchange for keeping her very nice arse out of jail. She’d also given them information the analysts were still going through. She’d been The Broker, a powerful information dealer. “Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded slightly and seemed to catch sight of something. “Oh, thank god. The champagne bar is open. You’re paying for that, too. Let’s go, Chels.”
Simon followed the women, Jesse yawning at his side.
Damon watched as they walked away and realized why he’d really called them in.
He’d wanted a team. Even if he didn’t really belong to the team, he wanted one around him.
Thirty minutes later, he, Ian, and Charlotte were ensconced in the limo Damon had hired to take the Taggarts to their very posh London hotel. The others had scattered, taking up their respective covers, though they would all come together at The Garden later.
He pulled out the documentation he’d had made up for them. “Here are your passports and itinerary. I think you’ll find the hotel adequate.”
Taggart took the files but didn’t look at them. Instead his eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with this op?”
“Besides the fact that the previous operation leader and his partner were in an accident?”
“Yes, besides that. Now that we’re alone, I want you to level with me.” Taggart always could read between the lines. It was what had made him a brilliant Agency asset.
There was so much wrong about it, but Damon knew where to start. “I don’t know, but it seems odd that Nature’s Core suddenly decided to get violent.”
Charlotte put a hand on her husband’s thigh, the motion so subtle it was obviously not even conscious. “Didn’t a couple of kids get hurt in a demonstration in Frankfurt a few months ago?”
Taggart ran his hand around the back of her seat. “It’s not the same, baby. That was a protest that got out of hand. This is different. This is far more sophisticated. They’ve always been against biological testing, but now they want to unleash a bioweapon in London? It makes one wonder exactly who’s in charge.”
This was the other reason he wanted Tag with him—because he was a paranoid bastard. “We suspect one of the women on the cruise is working with the terrorist cell. I asked Adam to check into the registry and find anyone with strong corporate or intelligence ties.”
“Fuck me. You think it’s Baz.”
“No. I worry it may be The Collective.” Baz didn’t matter. The Collective was all that mattered. If Baz got caught in the net, it would be outstanding. But he wasn’t going to allow his anger to rule him. Emotion was not his friend. He needed to remain cold, calculating.
Taggart turned thoughtful. “And MI6 doesn’t believe The Collective exists. What the fuck is Ten thinking? I read that report he submitted. It’s a load of BS. He’s playing some angle.”