 
PASSION PATROL SERIES

POWER

Hot Cops  
Hot Crime  
Hot Romance

by  
Emma Calin
POWER

First published 2019

By Gallo-Romano Media

copyright © 2019 Emma Calin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Dedication

To the wonderful scientists at Facoltà di Agraria - Portici - Università di Napoli Federico II, Italia.

Table of Contents

Power – The Story

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POWER

**By  
Emma Calin**
Chapter 1

It was a knife. Power had shifted and the guy facing her possessed it. Despite her uniform and the authority of the law, she was a static target of blood and tissue. Her eyes flicked between the blade and the face of what she'd thought was a homeless guy. Late thirties, dirty wild beard, eyes hard and merciless. A second before she'd been checking the street for security threats. She'd bent down to speak kindly to some ragged lost soul lying by the plastic sacks of trash. He'd turned like a cobra. She'd jumped back. She could hear the pumping of her blood. Her mouth was dry. He could lunge before she could draw her baton or deploy her CS gas spray. Defense of her body core would slice her hands and tendons. She needed time.

"Hey! How are you feeling fella?"

His face twisted. He let out a dark growl. Her hand inched toward the gas canister on her belt. She'd have to flip off the fastener, draw and aim. His eyes fixed on her hand.

"No trouble, my friend. Just wanted to see if you're OK?" she said, calming her voice and breathing.

The guy looked down, still pointing the knife at her belly.

"It's cool, no worries, OK? It's all good."

"Fuck you."

He didn't move, but was still dangerous. The weapon was a twelve-inch chef's knife. More than likely he was mentally ill and wasn't even in the same universe of perception. For the last ten seconds she'd been aware of nothing but the threat facing her. Now to her left and from behind, a guy strode in. His head was down, his right arm and shoulder pulled back, his hand a fist. Like an eagle striking its prey he swept the blade aside and drove a blow hard into the attacker's gut. In an instant he crumpled to the ground. The stranger stamped on the hand still clasping the knife and kicked it away.

"Did he touch you, ma'am?" He spoke with a confident voice, like a movie star cowboy. "I'd tie him up, if I were you."

Metropolitan Police Constable Olivia Johnston-Denny reached for her cuffs. All the same she was indignant that this man had intervened. She'd begun to feel in control. The suspect was groaning on the floor.

"He's in pain," she said.

"It's just so great when a plan works out."

Didn't this guy care? Where was his social awareness?

"Look, thanks but he's more to be pitied than blamed. He'll have all kinds of issues with drugs, relationships, and mental illness."

"Doesn't alter the length of that blade, officer."

She bent down, snapping the cuff onto a pale wrist. The backs of his hands were smeared with dirt. The prisoner flailed out with his free arm. Her savior grabbed it and bent it like a straw for her to apply the other ratchet.

"Guess that's spoiled his day," said the stranger with a laugh.

He really did sound like a cowboy. He also looked hot and arrogantly aware of his good looks.

"Sir, thanks. He could have hurt you I know, but...."

"Yeah, but he didn't see me coming. He was looking at you. I mean any guy would."

She glared into his smiling eyes. This man was pretty much full of himself, sexist and flippant.

"I'll need a statement from you."

"Sure. I can state right here and now that you're from Scotland, right?"

He was getting right under her skin. Sure, she was from Scotland, but it was none of his business.

"Everyone is from somewhere, even this poor bloke."

"Keep talking, I love that accent."

This was ridiculous. She drew a deep breath, shot him a sharp look and took care of business. She pressed her shoulder mic' button.

"Whisky Alpha three seven zero. Transport for prisoner. Nine Elms Lane. Over."

A male London voice hissed back.

"This early in the morning? What ya caught, Ollie?"

"Jack the Ripper."

"Christ! We've been waiting over a hundred years. OK. Van on way. Tea's up in ten."

She smiled. It was good to have a team around her, but she had to swallow the "Ollie."

"I'll wait while the cavalry comes over the hill," drawled her companion. She didn't mind having him there. She didn't like his attitudes, but hell she could overlook his flaws for an hour or two. She knew it wouldn't be professional to get into personal conversation. She was only just out of her probationary stage and her best friend was still the Met Police rule book.

"So, you think _I_ _'ve_ got an accent, Cowboy?"

"Sure, and how did you know my name was Cowboy?"

"Well, you're not from Edinburgh and you're sure not from London."

"You—only you in this world is ever allowed to call me Cowboy, OK. That's our little thing for the rest of our lives."

"The rest of our lives together will be about five minutes."

The stranger smiled a slow smile that spread like the rising sun on a cornfield horizon.

"You said you wanted a statement and I want to state everything I know to you just to hear your voice, wee Lassie."

She couldn't help it. She started to giggle, then laugh, pulling off her hat and letting her red hair flow free.

"Is that Lassie the Hollywood sheep dog?"

"It's Lassie the warrior maiden of the glen."

To be honest with herself she could just hug him. She'd been afraid and the sense of relief was surging through her body. His boyish confidence and man force just zinged to her inner woman. She was twenty-four. This man was early to mid-thirties. In the distance she heard the wail of a police vehicle siren. It was the dawn of a bright late January London day of bare trees and wind-whipped rags of scudding cloud. And Olivia Johnston-Denny, granddaughter of the Duke of Falkirk, was clinging on to everything she'd ever believed about men and about life. The prison truck pulled up, blue strobes creating the theatre of everyday tragedy. The cowboy stepped back while they loaded the prisoner. She realized she didn't want to just slip away from this man without knowing more. She could walk away from any male, any heartless alpha mansplaining patriarch. Anyway, he'd be married with kids and a blonde wife who knitted stage costumes for their perfect children. She also ran the Ford Motor Company when she wasn't giving TV interviews about her beauty and intelligence. You could hate a woman like that simply for submitting to testosterone dominance and the cliché of the nuclear family.

She mumbled the official statement of rights to the prisoner and jumped up into the vehicle. Cowboy was smiling.

"Better not forget the knife. Careful it's sharp," he said handing her the weapon, handle first, like a gentleman. "I'll be at the embassy all morning. The name's Jackson."

"Like the seventh president. Anyway, which embassy?"

"Hey! That's impressive for a Scottish lassie. The Cowboy Embassy—the big new place with the horse rail outside."

She had to laugh. This guy really was a patronizing mansplainer. The new American Embassy was a couple of hundred yards away. She knew very well he was from there.

"If I need you, I'll just ask for Mr. Jackson."

"Jackson T. Paine if you want to be technical."

"Congressman Jackson T. Paine, right?" she repeated. "You're addressing parliament this afternoon."

"Sure. Lucky you caught me on my coffee break."

"I'll call you. I guess the Cowboy Embassy has a phone line."

"There's wires along the railroad. You'll get through if the sheriff's shot all the bandits."

An officer was pushing the doors closed. The cowboy waved and turned away. He was a chauvinist barn door hunk. His suit accentuated his body. He raked his hand back through his dark brown wavy thick hair. She hated him.
Chapter 2

Her prisoner squirmed and cursed on the floor. It was a five-minute ride to the Wandsworth Custody Centre. A heavily built old sweat cop was her escort. She knew him by sight, but he wasn't the type who conversed with shiny college girls just out of the box.

"Sarge won't want this heap of stinking shit all day," he said wearily.

She knew he was right. She nodded.

"That guy back there was Jackson T. Paine. He's the independent congressman who's come to give a speech at Westminster."

"Sounds like something to miss. They're all the bloody same. Just out for themselves. Full of wind and piss."

His reply was just so predictable.

"He might be a bit different."

"They all start out like that. Then the bankers and the big business crooks start pulling their strings. They need a fortune to get elected."

"Did you ever consider a career in the diplomatic service?"

"Nah, I'm not cynical enough." The old cop was laughing. "You did good there. That's a mean knife."

The compliment warmed her.

"Thanks."

He turned his eyes to her and looked her over.

"You're that fast-track kid with the university degree in politics, right?"

"Didn't know I was famous."

"With that hair no one's going to forget you."

Why did these unreformed men think they could make personal remarks?

"I'm a token red one. They needed to make up the quota."

He laughed again.

"You're OK. You're on my wavelength. I'm Mike."

"Olivia."

"They call you Ollie."

"I call myself Olivia."

"I'll stick with the crowd, Ollie."

"That's cool, Micky."

He laughed again. The van was pulling up.

"OK. Let's shovel shit," he said.

So often she had to bite her lip. These old soldier types were dying out, but they'd come from a different universe where criminals were disrespected and sometimes caught a slap. She knew this wasn't the way. She was on the promotion fast-track and soon she'd have the authority to bring better ways to these old timers. They slid the prisoner out of the vehicle face down and stood him up.

"You fucks," he groaned.

The rest was predictable. He refused to give his name. She searched him, took his prints and mug shot, then put him in a cell. The place stank of disinfectant, human sweat, and grinding dirtiness. The police surgeon declared the prisoner was mentally ill and called another doctor. He was transferred to a secure psychiatric unit. Olivia knew the rest of the story. He'd be put on medication, he'd improve, he'd be released, and the story would repeat. At least she wouldn't need a statement from Cowboy. She had no legitimate reason to call him. Maybe it'd be polite to thank him. Maybe she liked that little twitch he'd given her, maybe later she'd privately think of him. It was nice to have a face, a voice, a focus.

She filed the case papers and got a coffee. She needed a ride back to Battersea, her own station.

"Olivia. We need a word together."

The female voice snapped her out of her daydream. She looked over her cup to see Superintendent Shannon Aguerri standing in the doorway of the restroom.

"Sure, ma'am."

She followed the older woman to her office. The superintendent had only just been posted to Wandsworth and few officers had actually met her. Shannon Aguerri was a legend, a beautiful mixed-race woman of about thirty-six, a true cop's cop, married to some sort of aristocrat. She motioned for Olivia to sit, and spoke with a smile in her voice.

"When shit hits fans you just have to be standing in the right place," she said.

"How's my positioning?" asked Olivia.

"It's OK. Nothing we can't wipe off. Look. This won't surprise you. An alleged cell phone video in very steady pro quality HD reached the CNN news room at 8 a.m. An anonymous passerby spotted the world's most beautiful sexy politico fighting for truth and justice on the streets of London. By 8:15 a.m. it's gone so viral that the World Health Organization is stockpiling YouTube vaccine."

"Jackson T. Paine?"

"How did you guess? Olivia, just tell me that you're not part of a set-up, you're not his secret lover, the mother of his love child or a donor to the 'Keep It Strong, Keep It Kind' movement?"

"Not guilty, so far. Was I set up?"

"Fuck knows, honey. He has political enemies who are already screeching so. This stuff is playing so big that he could stand for pope and win. The bad news for you is that the world of politics and the media hellhounds want to check it all out—with you, my dear."

"Um, this could be life-changing, yes?"

"Right."

"So, I tell them the truth."

"This is truth through the prism of politics and the rainbow sure ain't going black and white any time soon. Our back-room staff and the intelligence services are looking at the images. There's a faint inaudible soundtrack so perhaps we can lift the voice off the background and know everything you both said. Last check—promise me you are _not_ involved in this?"

"No."

"OK, I'll update the Foreign Office and the prime minister. Jackson's enemies will do anything to prove he's a fake. One opposing news network has already interviewed some creep who swears you're a porn actress called Ginger Bush dressed up in police kit."

"I can prove that's not true, ma'am. I keep things neat, if you follow me."

Superintendent Aguerri let out a shriek of laughter.

"Too much information and for Christ's sake keep that to yourself. Here's the bottom line. Until this blows over, you're out of sight. By tonight everyone over five years old will have seen the footage. Anyone who knows you will recognize you. We need you to be invisible. I believe it's all genuine but one of his press aides had a decent camera and saw the PR possibilities. We can't risk any sort of suspicion that the UK government would favor this guy. His enemies are saying that he wants to help the British get a free trade deal with the USA. It's bad enough he was invited here to speak to parliament."

"So where can I go? What do I have to do?"

"Well, you can't go home to your apartment in Bloomsbury. Help me out here. You're from Scotland, I think?"

"Yeah, don't tell me I've got to be a maiden in a castle tower?"

"Maidens aren't my style. Are you joking about castles? I did hear you have an old family home."

"Blackness Castle on the Firth of Forth. They made the Ivanhoe TV shows there. It faces the sea. It's pretty grim in winter."

"Grim enough to deter the press. A lot of these guys don't like to operate too far from Starbucks or a lounge lizard cocktail bar."

Olivia was thinking. If only she'd been wearing a body camera everything would be clear. It was just an early morning street check around the American Embassy area. She'd graduated from university with a first-class degree. She'd been top student at Hendon Police College. She'd been accepted onto the fast-track career program. Being labelled as porn star Ginger Bush would stick for the rest of her life whatever she achieved. That Jackson T. Paine had de-railed her, but it didn't have to be a wreck. Bloody Jackson T. Paine....

"Is he married, ma'am?"

"Paine? No. I'll be honest with you. I've met him socially in the USA and I like him. Politics has turned toxic and divided everywhere. This guy could pull off a new deal with his ideas and you know—reaching the female response."

Olivia understood her. She repeated her question.

"Not married then?"

"No. Long-term girlfriend is a journalist war reporter. They split cos her editor wanted her to be politically neutral. She chose her career."

"Kids?"

"No."

"Girls? Lovers? Scandals?"

"Only Ginger Bush so far."

"That guy was dangerous. It feels like Jackson's a brave man. He didn't move like a trained fighter. He rushed in like a regular Joe, kind of angry that.... You know."

"Like kind of wanting to protect a woman who's facing a piece of shit with a knife. I'd buy into that," said Superintendent Aguerri with a raised eyebrow and half grin.

"Yeah, all that sick chauvinist male patriarch chest-beating stuff."

"Gets in my panties every time, sugar. I'm thinking he hit your spot, but you don't want to say it? That's why he could be president in 2024. That's why his followers love country music. That's why keeping it strong, keeping it kind is a powerful message, like the man you dream of protecting and loving you. He's not a career politico and you might have spotted he's a sexy hunk."

Olivia drew in a deep breath. This woman was in the stratosphere of police importance. She had influence and connections. Could she be a proper feminist or even a woman and feel this way? All the same she could be a tremendous ally in her own career climb. She bit her tongue.

"I could never fall for that hero stuff. I didn't need him to barge in."

"No man is an island, Olivia. Needing the other person is what makes us a person."

"Male hero mythologies patronize and neutralize the female integrity and dignity."

Her boss sat back in her chair and spoke with a seriousness that surprised Olivia.

"I'm guessing that's from some university book. First or second day at police school they tell you never to treat anyone as a stereotype, right?"

"Yes," she answered slowly, sensing a trap.

"So, don't stereotype yourself. You aren't a text book or a synthetic attitude. Around me, feel free to like men if they're good. Feel free to love a man, if you do. I don't take any shit from anyone male or female. You'll be a better cop by having an open mind."

Olivia nodded. She guessed she'd been mildly admonished. For certain she didn't want to argue with her superior. All the same, this woman was from the bloody stone age. Maybe, despite her rank and reputation, she'd never been to university? Her mind flicked to Jackson T. Paine and the tiny tingle she'd felt around him. How could Superintendent Shannon Aguerri know him socially?

"Ma'am, thanks for your frankness. It must have been cool to meet him."

"Yeah, my husband has a lot of business in the States. Politics needs a lot of cash and Jackson's team was running a fundraising rally. He hasn't got the big biz backing. Basically, he's a farmer."

"A real cowboy on a horse?"

"Well, that's the image. Now, let's hope some other big news story knocks this one off the top. Your knife man has gone off to a secure mental hospital, so you don't need to contact Mr. Paine. So, don't, OK."

Her tone was firm. Although she had no interest in him, Olivia swallowed her disappointment. After all, if people were talking of him as president in 2024, he'd be quite a guy to know. The last thing she wanted was to let her boss know she cared.

"I don't think I could bear all that big handsome strong and kind man stuff. I mean, that's so obviously just PR for the naive masses. Educated people know masculinity is so, so toxic. I can't believe sophisticated folk would buy into that stuff."

Shannon Aguerri smiled.

"Not everyone is as sophisticated as you, Olivia. Those _naive masses_ are the people we serve so it's suited me well enough to stay on the same wavelength. I hope you don't mind me saying you could lead quite a lonely life."

Olivia avoided eye contact. This interview hadn't gone well.

"So, what happens to me now?"

"Olivia, look you're a good cop—a brave cop—and I'm proud to have you on the team. Jackson doesn't want any chance of a smear and there's plenty of enemies out there with buckets of shit. We'll get you back to your place in Bloomsbury so you can pack a bag. We can hide you or you can slip away to your castle. While there's any chance of some story about porn star Ginger Bush with the congressman there'll be big budget hounds out there hunting you down."

"So, this is what fake news looks like from the inside."

"Honey, it's all just news. This is our world. Just maybe there's a guy out there to bring us all back to sense and maybe decency."

Olivia smiled faintly. Surely her boss wasn't some dumb fan of a guy like this? Sure, he was handsome and had some sentimental old days charm, but a modern woman wouldn't allow herself to be seduced by that.

"I'll call my folks; I'd rather go there."

"Great. I know Jackson will be grateful. We live in a world now where no one, man or woman, with any sort of past can ever escape. There's always going to be an ex or a jealous would-be out there to dish some dirt from school days or even childhood."

"So how can these folks live a proper life?"

"They can't." Her boss smiled, stood up, and walked to the door. As Olivia reached her she was surprised to receive a warm hug. "Thanks for taking this on the chin. Being a cop isn't a normal life. If you don't mind me saying, you've got a very special look with those big brown eyes and hot red hair. You made a big impression on the future president."

Olivia was speechless. Could she compliment her boss on her flawless coffee skin and blue eyes? She thought not.

"Thanks... thanks," she mumbled.

She felt completely out of her depth. It was weird that a homeless guy had sprung up so fast, like he was muscular and fit. What did it matter? A crazy guy with a knife was the easy part of being a cop.
Chapter 3

She slumped into the front seat of the black Jaguar XF waiting in the police station yard. Several thoughts were colliding in her mind. Had the whole deal been a set-up to gain kudos for Mr. Cowboy? How had Superintendent Aguerri known that he'd liked her hair or look or whatever? She'd said she'd met him socially. Was this kind of stuff normal? There was a lot to research, maybe starting with the political movement Kick 'n' Kiss —keep it strong, keep it kind. She glanced across at her driver. Another bloody female! Secretly she wanted the company of a male, just to see how she felt in light of what Shannon Aguerri had said. Maybe she could relax her attitudes a little; with the right kind of man of course. Her blonde companion was wearing a pinstriped pants suit that looked expensive, possibly Italian. Her hair was spiky and short, almost aggressive.

"Olivia, hi. I'm Kaitlyn. I'm going to ask you to move to the back seat. The rear windows are darkened one-way glass. The idea is to keep you out of sight, and we don't want any photos."

"Bloody hell. Does anyone care who or what I am?"

"Yup, they sure do. It's not about you. It's about a cowboy who could break the mold of politics. There's plenty of ruthless folk who want him destroyed."

"And plenty of stupid swooning women who want him, well, want him in some way."

"Like in bed," laughed her driver watching Olivia in the mirror as she put on her seat belt.

Olivia sighed. What was this? Another female, the same trouble in her panties around this man.

"Would you want that?"

"Sure, if I wasn't fixed up. How about you? Even if you've got a boyfriend I won't tell."

Olivia did _not_ have a boyfriend. So far no one had penetrated her outer perimeter fence. Sure, she'd had a go at sex but only in order to fulfill the expectations of society. She rested her head back as the car moved away. She could be the queen or a government minister behind the dark glass. No one could know what she was thinking. Yes, she would like Jackson T. Paine in bed. Yes, he'd liked her look and the news had thrilled her. Yes, she felt a little bit sexy, that ridiculous little flutter of need in her belly, that little tension with a face to focus on, that could build her up, urge her to release while they kissed....

"Well, don't tell me you wouldn't."

Olivia jolted out of her thoughts. The driver had asked her a question.

"Yeah, I would. I would."

There, she'd done it. Admitted it. She found herself smiling.

"Are you a cop or a government chauffeur?"

"I used to be a cop but these days I kind of freelance. I keep busy. Today I'm a getaway driver. First, we head for Battersea Police Station and then on to 42 Cartwright Gardens WC1. That's a pretty swanky address for a foot soldier."

"It's only a studio flat. Just room for me and Spike."

"Will your boyfriend cope with you going away?"

"Should do. Spike's a cactus, but he's got more conversation than a lot of men."

Kaitlyn stiffened at the wheel, adjusting her ear piece.

"Shit. Hold on," she snapped.

"What's up?"

"Someone's taken a pot shot at your cowboy. Sounds like a secret service agent returned fire. This is fucking crazy. This was bound to happen."

Olivia was lost. This whole show was unreal. Her driver seemed far more involved than just a regular worker.

"What the fuck? What was bound to happen?"

"For two weeks they've been promoting this bloody speech. This messiah of new political hope was going to be at parliament at a certain time. Any idiot would know where to be and when, if you wanted to take him out. The FBI knew it. Shannon Aguerri knew it."

"Is Jackson OK?"

"Sounds that way. Met police have liquidated the shooter. Luckily it should end up as a news management problem. There were teams deployed and ready."

Olivia needed to sit down quietly with a notepad and think things through. She was bright enough to realize there was far more to this than she knew. Why was this man so important for Christ's sake?

"Do you know Superintendent Aguerri?"

"Shannon, sure. We've worked together before."

"Look, I'm a basement cop. I've done two years and a lot of very routine duty. Excuse me if I seem stupid but what the hell is it with this man?"

"Olivia, this innocent big dope of a man who thinks everything is simple has vowed to smash organized crime, turn politics kind and honest by being strong and certain about what is good. Oh, and then in the afternoon he's going to re-make the financial system of the world to spread the wealth so folks don't fight over it. Normally no one would give a shit. He'd be some student idealist or religious nut. This man has looks, courage, and charisma. He's also honest and clever. The bad half of the world wants to take him out before he gets to be president."

"He's just a man...."

"Yeah, like the song from J.C. Superstar. The history of the planet is about powerful individuals. _Individuals._ Everyone from Cleopatra to Winston Churchill has written their names on the same list. No committee ever ruled the world."

Olivia took a deep breath and sighed. In a couple of hours everything had changed in her life. At university she'd been a top student. She'd taken on all the modern ideas. She'd felt a certain sense of importance. In the police she'd jumped the hoops and followed the rules. She'd learned a lot about life but had tried to ignore many clashes between her education and the realities of existence. Suddenly she'd run into a man who'd bulldozed all her attitudes, and two women who were just on a different level. They operated with a suave sense of power and confidence and for sure they knew far more about most things than she did.

It was a short stop at Battersea Police Station. Sniper units and dog teams swarmed all around the American Embassy. She ditched her uniform and threw on her jeans and leather biker-style jacket. She picked up on the story so far. Jackson had exited the embassy in an armored Cadillac. A gunman in the back of a stolen London taxi had fired several rounds from a heavy caliber machine gun bolted to the floor. A secret service agent had exited an escort vehicle to return fire into the side window of the black cab. His courage had saved Jackson's life. The shooters made off but ran into an armed Scotland Yard unit which had neutralized them. The armor on the Cadillac had done its job even though it had been shot to pieces. Jeez! Someone really did not want Jackson T. Paine in politics.

The Jaguar XF cruised away into the swirl of London traffic. She was headed for her studio flat and then she was travelling back to Scotland—even though she hadn't even called her folks. She pulled out her cell and made the call.

"Mum, it's me."

The Scottishness of her mother's accent and style jolted a smile in her soul.

"Ay, is that my _bairn_? The wee porn starlet Ginger Bush?"

"Ay, that it is. Obviously you've watched the news."

"Not exactly, lassie. I've two police officers from _Glasgae_ taking a wee dram in the kitchen _wi_ ' your father. They tell me you're paying us a visit."

"Mother, I was hoping—"

" _Och_! Get yourself up here child. I've told your bosses I'll be keeping you for a Burn's Night haggis, or it's no deal."

"What did they say?"

"They said to save some haggis for them and enjoy the break. We love and miss you, Olivia. We never wanted to lose you to London...."

Her mother's voice trailed off in emotion. Her family had accepted her separation from them for her education, but had always craved her return. She knew the nights her mother woke in fear imagining the dangers of a London patrol cop miles and miles away. Yet this was her own life, the hard streets of crime and the opportunity of a career, maybe to the top. Often her mother had sent her text messages and she'd forgotten to reply in all the bustle of her big city life. Now she felt alone, vulnerable and out of her depth. Many of her educated beliefs had lost their certainty. She wanted to reset her factory settings, restore her default positions. In shameful unsophisticated uneducated human terms, she wanted to go home. She wanted to go home.

"Love you, Mum."

She clicked off, seeing her mother's face in her mind. She was still beautiful. In fact, her beauty had deepened over her fifty years. She'd qualified as a lawyer, but had spent much of her life bringing up three children and following her father's career as a globetrotting professor of economics.

"Home sweet home," said her enigmatic driver as the Jaguar pulled up in the elegant terraced street. "I've got a short meeting at Scotland Yard. Fix what you've got to fix. You've got at least an hour, but not two. Do _not_ place any call or answer your phone to anyone. I'm trusting you. _Capisce_?"

Olivia nodded. This Kaitlyn was some odd species of driver. She was obviously used to giving orders. What kind of meeting could a low-level chauffeur have at Scotland Yard?

"Sure. How am I getting to Falkirk?"

"I'll tell you that when I come back. Now go."

Kaitlyn's _do as you're told_ tone was final. Some fucking women were so bossy. This wasn't the time or place to bite back.

Olivia stepped out into the early dusk of a January London afternoon. A world of cultures and dress paraded on the pavement, wheeling suitcases to and fro the luxury four-star Judd Hotel a few yards from her modest apartment. Even through her fatigue and confusion, she took in this ad hoc carnival. So, this would be the world that a man like Jackson T. Paine would try to unite with strength and kindness. That would be quite a job. That would take quite a man. Bloody man. Didn't a man like that realize the complexity of things? Didn't he understand the fluidity of identity and gender where modern people lived? Good and bad were relative and uncertain and the greatest evil was to be judgmental. How the hell could life be just about a stupid woman wanting some man with a hard cock—a cock hard for her? Some stupid jerk with a hero complex, with some pathetic caveman need to project his ego by protecting a woman? Thank heaven she was above all that shit.

Her studio was small. An adequate bathroom to the right and a double bed straight ahead. A small cooker, a fridge, a toaster, a wardrobe and just about room to take four steps. Even so in twenty-first century London, this was unaffordable luxury for most citizens. Her family had helped her and for that she was grateful. She had a last look from the window. The open area of the crescent was laid out as hard tennis courts where residents could play. She pulled the curtains and stripped off. Bloody hell she was damp and betrayed by her body. Her thoughts of that man, the knowledge that he'd liked her, had seeped into her, thrilled some primitive nerve in her gut. Weakly she'd let herself think of him—OK, think of her own need for something male around her. Some other sea to swim in outside of her solo identity. Some warm sea where she was desired. Where she excited a man, where a man would crave her juice and his cock would swell with longing for her. She snapped her mind back to the present. She had to pack a bag, clean up, and be ready when Kaitlyn returned. A half-drunk bottle of red wine was on the worktop. It would be a shame to waste it. She poured a glass and sat down. The alcohol hit her empty stomach. She liked the feeling, that feeling of separation from constraint. What was it the Latins said? _In vino veritas—_ in wine the truth. She shouldn't drink. She liked it too much. After a drink she was someone else. She'd kept her panties on. It wouldn't matter if her hand rested on the fabric. She took another drink, got up, drained the bottle, sat back down. Her hand pressed a little. Yes, she kept things neat, extravagantly waxed. OK she liked the feeling of her flesh against the silk. It was a harmless secret pleasure. She finished the wine. She jolted as her hand slipped inside her panties. They'd explained at university that masturbation was a feminist act. It was her power to deny the male, to be her own power of self-love. God, she was wet. She soothed her swollen inner lips, pressed against her clitoris. That need, that need not to stop. So wet, so wet. That bloody man had made her wet. That man, that man. She spread her legs and eased a finger into her inner heat. That cock, that fantasy of his hard cock spurting out his juice, that deep-voiced groan, the pulsing gushes of seed. She needed to release. Her fingers were inside, pushing forward. Her other hand circled her clitoris. This wasn't her, the wine was her. She needed, she needed....

Her orgasm grunted out of her throat. The cock was hard in her pussy, pulsing out its ecstasy in rhythm with her spasms. She sighed, feeling the tremors still rippling in her belly, still tingling in her thighs. Her hand still soothed the silkiness of her own flesh. This was self-love, self-awareness of her female form. She withdrew her hand from inside and brought it to her nipple. The truth of life, its nurture and continuance was the female. This self-love was independence, self-pride, self-admiration, self-acceptance. There was still a tension in her groin, her woman shaft still hard and twitching at her touch. No bloody man this time—except his eyes, a kiss, his tongue, his mouth at her breast, his tongue in her hot groove. God, she was coming, trembling out shudders of physical abandon. She'd never come like this. She'd never come at all with a male. Waves of physical joy shivered through her. She was biting her lip, feeling so free, so naughty, so greedy. All men brought themselves off. For sure Jackson would be no different. He'd touch himself. Did men have to think about a special woman? A hot cock needing to come, shoot out his cum, straining, his hand moving faster. She could hear the sound of her own wetness. His cock was wet with juice, his cum was nearly there. His face was focused as he held on for the moment. His groan was an animal passion of pouring release. Her hand responded to her vision. That hard button, her stiff little shaft about to burst like an opening bud, bursting, bursting. She held her pelvic tension tight, holding on, holding on. Oh God, oh god, now. The joy of release swept through her like an avalanche. She let out some primal sound, but she didn't care, keeping her hand firm as she almost sobbed out her jerks of lust. This was new territory. Three times. Bloody man.

She took a deep breath, showered and packed her case. She lingered at her underwear drawer. Should she take Ronaldo, her intimate silicone comforter? She'd never have bought him herself. She'd attended the lectures on feminism and sex toy politics. One professor had rejected them as corporate business products promoting patriarchal dominance. Another had seen the dildo as a means of seizing feminist control, a personal political act neutralizing and castrating the strutting penis possessor, the male. She'd discussed the conflict with her friend Rena who'd laughed and done no more than order a life-like vibrator on the internet then and there. A couple of days later she'd handed her the package with a wink and the words.

"When a cow's got an itch, it finds some way to scratch." Rena studied biology and had a matter of fact approach to life. She didn't _identify_ as a woman. She _was_ a woman and received the attention of males to confirm it. She packed him just in case and closed the lid. To travel she chose jeans, trainers, and a warm fake fur-trimmed ski jacket. She liked her casual look and she felt good. There was a new sense of joy in her bones and in her belly.
Chapter 4

It was in the winter darkness of the London rush hour that Kaitlyn returned. She double-parked the Jaguar and blasted the horn. Olivia scrambled in.

"How was your meeting at Scotland Yard?"

"Can't tell you so don't ask. I don't want to fob you off with a lie so that's the way it is."

This woman wasn't butch, but she had some hard sense of business that wasn't inclusive or considerate of sensitivity.

"That's cool. Where are we going?"

"City Airport. You've got a private flight to Edinburgh. Scottish police Special Branch officers will meet you and take you on to Blackness Castle. Don't place any calls."

Olivia eased herself back in the seat. She supposed she had to accept instructions from this civilian woman. The car was clearly a government vehicle equipped with a Metropolitan Police radio and text messaging module.

"Can you tell me what's happening to Jackson?"

"He gave his speech on how to bring about world peace and love by using a horseshoe and a lasso. The news of his little gun battle has been squashed for now. That means his slaying of your dragon video is still playing big. There's folks around him who want it that way. At least, that's my guess. The bad guys are still yelling it's a fake. H.M. Government want no part of it and don't want you on the TV telling the world he's a hero."

"Why not?"

"Cos my dear, diplomacy means staying publicly neutral. It means treating the truth like the chocolate inside the Christmas tree Santa. When it's no longer Christmas you may get to eat it."

"Thank god the secret service agent was there."

"For sure and even luckier since he wasn't even supposed to be here. Jackson T. Paine is just a congressman. The secret service handles presidents and vice presidents. In this case the president authorized the cover."

"Why?"

"If Jackson stands for president it won't be until 2024 so he's no political threat. He's going to be so big that all the others will be fighting him and leaving the current administration out of it. That suits the big guy."

"Will he be that successful?"

"If they can't kill him or smear him, he may well be that big. So far, they haven't killed him, so for now Ginger Bush and the fake dragon slayer is their best hope."

"This world is crazy. News, fake news, news about fake news...."

"Men with dicks who wake up and identify as women. Kids running around with knives to make London the stab-capital of the world. Terrorists who hide in untouchable religions. Keep it strong. Keep it kind. That's all Jackson T. Paine wants to tell you. Kick 'n' Kiss rings a lot of bells for a lot of folk."

"And he's attractive."

"Yeah, he's a dish to women and he can do the Superbowl muscle car talk if he has to. He's deep and well read."

Olivia reflected for a moment. It almost sounded as if this Kaitlyn had met him or at least was very aware of him. Superintendent Aguerri had met him. WTF? She couldn't stop herself asking one last question.

"Have you met him?"

Kaitlyn gave a short laugh.

"I've been around when he's been meeting colleagues. Look, let the dust settle and I'm sure Shannon will clear up a few things. For now, just relax."

The tone of her driver was final. They were at Canary Wharf, the pulsing heart of London finance. Above them the great glass towers of corporate power poured electric logos out onto the misty London riverside night. The traffic had stopped.

"Just sit tight," snapped Kaitlyn.

She flicked a couple of switches. Blue police lamps reflected from the back of the car in front. She hit a siren and swung out of line. Obviously, the car had concealed police equipment. She felt herself pulled back by the acceleration as this strange driver piloted the vehicle through static jams at racing car speed. Christ, this woman really was an ace. She'd heard of these Hendon-trained pursuit guys, but this was incredible. Within ten minutes she was moving sedately alongside a white executive jet aircraft on the tarmac of London City Airport. She noticed the USA flag on the tail but there were no corporate or airline company markings.

"Phone switched off and no calls, remember," said Kaitlyn.

Olivia slid out and mounted the steps into the aircraft. This was nothing like regular passenger coach-class travel. A young suited guy took her small case and showed her to a wide deep spacious seat with extending foot rest. Already the engines were powered up taxiing out for takeoff.

"I expect you'd like drink?" said the young really quite pretty guy.

Jeez, she'd already sunk half a bottle of wine and then relaxed some more. She shouldn't.

"A glass of red wine would be lovely, thank you."

She was so weak, so bloody naughty and weak. In a flash he returned with a half-bottle size glass of warm smooth fruit instilled wine. She took a second sip.

"Wow! That is so gorgeous. What is it?"

"Californian of course. Napa Valley Merlot 2014."

"And whose plane is this?"

"It's a Gulfstream C37b. It's operated by the US military, ma'am. It's only a short hop to Edinburgh so I'll let you relax. Belt up for takeoff."

He slipped away behind her. She took a good slug of wine. No one had asked her if she liked flying. She did not. She sank back, eyes closed. Once again, the wine was imprisoning her with its soft seduction, robbing her of care and restraint. When she'd gotten out of bed this morning her life was a succession of educated certainties. She'd been in charge and on her way upward on her own terms. Until today she hadn't realized how much she'd been suppressing of her own desires, losing the truth and longing within her in a cloud of attitude. She glanced from the window. The urban lights below were maybe Birmingham where several million beings had gotten through the day. She was so small and yet a man like Jackson T. Paine had cared about her, had liked her look. How pathetic for an independent woman to be moved by that stuff, turned on by that stuff. The cabin music was not to her taste but yet she smiled, finished the wine, and sang along in her heart. The young guy took her empty glass. She tried not to slur her question.

"What's the music?"

"Taylor Swift—Love Story. Jackson loves this song."

"It's just kind of old-fashioned boy and girl fall in love stuff isn't it?"

"Yeah, that's why he likes it."

"What's he like?"

"He's strong and he's kind."

"Hey, what is this, a script?"

The young man stood back and gave her a long look.

"Ma'am, your question sort of gives me the idea you're the one with a script. To me it's a catchy song by a girl with a lovely voice. To me Jackson T. Paine is a straightforward strong and kind man who's going to change this world. You can call it a script if you want cos that's the way it's going to be."

She felt as if she'd been smacked. Bloody wine. Bloody man.

"OK, it just sounded like an automatic PR response, you know?"

He smiled.

"No sweat, ma'am."

"Is this his plane?"

"No, it's not his but he has use of it on this trip."

They were beginning to descend into Edinburgh Airport. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for two ordeals—the landing and then her mother's interrogation on romantic matters. The plane taxied to the terminal. A police Landrover was waiting on the tarmac, the windshield wipers flicking away the snow. A plainclothes officer was in the front seat with a uniformed driver.

"Ay, we're just going to run you up to Blackness Castle. It's a wild night out on the Firth of Forth."

God, this seemed a universe away from London and the bookish grandeur of Bloomsbury. In less than twenty minutes she was looking up at the grey stone walls of the castle as the wind and sleet howled in from the sea. Her parents didn't occupy the whole place but maintained a ground floor apartment. It was a tradition that they used the draughty south tower dining room to host a Burn's Night supper with the guest of honor her grandfather, the Duke of Falkirk.

Her mother rushed out to the Landrover and threw a heavy tartan blanket over her.

"The wind will freeze your tears, child."

Olivia sighed. Could she bear this? How long would she have to stay hidden from the world? She knew she'd joined a disciplined service where she had to take orders, but everything seemed over the top. A fire blazed in the grate. Her mother stood back from her, pinched her cheeks and sighed.

"You're a skinny _bairn_. We'll have to feed you up."

"Mum, I'm fine. I'm only here for a couple of days."

"Ay, that's what Mr. Paine seemed to think."

Olivia stared at her mother. She was a strong character, beautiful in a striding warrior manner.

"Mum—Mr. Paine? What?"

"When he phoned dear. It turns out his great grandfather came from Aukenheath in Lanarkshire. He was a coal miner recruited in 1873 to work in the mines in what became Oklahoma. He married a Choctaw woman and staked a claim in the 1893 land run."

"How do you know this? What do we know about American history?"

"Mr. Paine told me. I've invited him to the Burn's Night supper tomorrow."

Olivia slumped down on a long high settee.

"Mum, I've been hidden here to be nowhere near Jackson T. Paine. I've been ordered not to make any phone calls. Now you're telling me that this very man has called you here?"

"Yes. He wanted to say how bad he felt for all the disruption."

"But how did he get this number?"

" _Och_ , I didn't ask. He said it was safe to use a landline."

"And he's coming here to eat haggis, listen to poems and bagpipes?"

"That he is. He seemed thrilled dear. I must say, a mother's instinct you know, he seems very taken with you."

"Jesus Christ, Mother! What the fuck?"

Her mother's eyes widened in horror.

"I'm shocked, Olivia. I suppose you pick up that gutter language from criminals?"

"The gutter, but mainly cops. Look, I'm sorry. I'll have to contact my bosses. I just don't understand."

She was on the verge of tears. Her mother had gone to the kitchen, returning with an enormous bowl of thick scotch broth and chunks of thickly buttered bread.

"Stay by the fire, dear," she said setting the food down on a small occasional table.

She ate gratefully. All she'd had was alcohol.

"He'd be quite a catch," her mother began.

How long had it taken her mother to launch her first romance missile? Olivia found herself laughing.

"He's a stereotypical patriarch from another generation."

"He's thirty-four."

"He's a bloody man and he sure isn't woke."

"Ay lassie, that he is and there's plenty of women have noticed. It seemed to me he was fully woke."

" _Woke—_ socially aware of issues and stuff. It's _the_ word for caring people."

Olivia was well aware that her mother was being deliberately obtuse.

"I expect congressmen are quite aware. They say he'll run for president in 2024."

"Well, whoopee for him then."

"Ah child, you wouldn't be so hostile if there wasn't a spark."

Olivia pushed away her plate angrily and stood up.

"I can't bear this. I just can't do with all this Jane Austen chasing Mr. Darcy crap. I don't want any man. I identify as trans-neutral."

"Sounds like a car gearbox," replied her mother with almost a giggle. "You're tired. Your room is just as you left it—except I did borrow a couple of romance books. Some of that stuff is quite pleasantly stimulating to an old woman, you know."

Her mother was impossible. So now she knew she'd read some stuff at the hotter end of the scale. And wanted her to know that she knew. All that had been before university, when she'd been a curious frustrated young woman. Before she was fully _woke_.

She checked her cell phone. No one had called her, there were no updates on anything, not Instagram, not even email. How could that be? She checked her data setting. Could she be blocked? She was starting to get paranoid. She needed to call Superintendent Aguerri. Should she be here when Jackson T. Paine breezed in? Gratefully she slipped into a bed warmed by an electric under-blanket. She knew her mother cared and loved her. How she would love her child to hook up with that bloody man. How ridiculous.
Chapter 5

She slept the sleep of the just and innocent. She found sunlight pushing in around the blinds. It was nearly 9 o'clock. She knew she'd been dreaming and found her hand just a pleasant presence in the warmth of her groin. Dear lord she'd experienced something yesterday and still she felt more alive. She needed guidance and so far, no one important had thought to contact her. She picked up the landline extension phone and called Wandsworth Police. A few minutes later she was connected to Superintendent Shannon Aguerri.

"Ma'am—" she began.

"Hey, it's Burns' night," replied her boss.

"Yes, I know. Look I don't know how to say this...."

"Honey, I know. Your mother's invited Jackson.

"How did you know that?"

"He told me. He wanted to know where he could buy the kit."

"Kit?"

"All that plaid kilt and stuff. Kaitlyn took him to the Highland Store in Great Russell Street first thing. Jackson's so excited. They opened up early just for him. He should be in the air by now."

Olivia let out a long sigh.

"Ma'am, I'm up here so no one can connect us."

"Yeah, good job no one knows where you are. I'm sorry but the boys had to cut your data and your cell phone connection."

"Shit. So that's why it's dead. What boys?"

"The boys from _up the road_."

"Sheesh...."

Olivia's voice trailed off. Cops knew that the _boys from up the road_ meant the intelligence services. Her two years on the beat had exposed her to the humdrum world of stabbings, narcotics, suicides, burglaries, car wrecks, and bar room fights. Suddenly she was involved with a different league.

"Ollie, just chill and stay non-public. It's not ideal I admit and if I had my way, he'd be on his way back to Oklahoma. His press statement for the day says he's visiting the American Consulate General in Edinburgh. Then he's going to his great-grandfather's birthplace in Lanarkshire. Tomorrow he's swinging a golf club at Trump's place just up the coast from you at Aberdeen."

"And tonight, he's here for the haggis."

She noted her boss had also decided to call her _'Ollie.'_ This wasn't the moment to get spiky.

"Uh huh, so enjoy the party. World news has moved on to some actress saying she had sex with that North Korean guy Bum Dim Sum. He said he'd launch a nuke if she didn't give him a blow job. That'll keep them busy for a couple of days."

Olivia had to chuckle.

"Is it true?"

"A story is always truly a story. Who cares? If it's true, it's news. If it's fake, it must be the Russians, so that's even bigger news."

"And what about that _incident_ with the taxi?"

Olivia was beginning to realize she needed to be careful about what she said on the phone.

"Yeah – I'll go over that with you when you're back in town. It was a one-off."

She picked up on her boss's tone.

"I don't suppose you know when Jackson will be arriving here?"

"Well, my guess is he'll want to spend as long as possible around his flame-haired lassie, as he calls you. I'd spruce up if I were you. We'll speak again tomorrow _. Ciao_."

Olivia clicked off. Flame-haired lassie indeed. This was classic male objectification of the female as no more than a collection of attributes. It was classic denial of her personal worth and dignity. She'd read books on this very subject. The male dominance had become normalized and only truly _woke_ females were alive to the routine insidious abasement of their status. As if some stupid woman would get a little tingle knowing some handsome man noticed her. Thank god she knew better. She decided to spruce up.

Her father was in the kitchen. She kissed his white-bearded cheek that in her memories of childhood was a deep auburn.

"Olivia, my brave wee constable. It does me good to see you."

"Good to see you, Dad. I'm sorry to land on you like this."

"It's a treat and a joy. I'm excited your friend Jackson is coming. I watched his performance with your knife man. He was even better in parliament."

Olivia rolled her eyes. Another bloody fan.

"Dad, you're a professor of economics. You travel the world. Surely you can't be impressed with a guy who's basically a cowboy farmer? He's a populist and just says very simple things."

"He says simple good things and tells you what he thinks is good. People who want to control you always tell you how complicated things are. They want you to let them deal with things because everything is too complex for an ordinary person. They're the real menace because even if they're right, they leave everyone else behind. The man behind you is often more dangerous than the one you can see."

"So, economics is simple enough for an ordinary person?"

"Hah, that's a good answer. If Jackson T. Paine ever gets to be president, he'll have experts around him and a good cowboy knows how to round up the right team."

She shook her head. Just what the hell did this Jackson have? Maybe she'd get the chance to find out. Her father went to the door.

"You mother's waiting in the car. We're off into town to get some things for the Burns' supper. We'll be back about four. Make sure you get a bite to eat. There's salad and cold cooked chicken in the fridge."

It was 11 o'clock. She poured some tea and went to the family desktop computer at a desk in the dining room. It would be rude not to check out Congressman Paine. Thinking of him was pleasant, more like super pleasant, like low down slightly heavy tingly twitchy. She scrolled though photos, noted his birth near a town called Tulsa. He was ten years her senior. Not that she would ever be involved with him. Outside she heard a vehicle. Her parents must have forgotten something. She glanced out of the window to see a white left-hand drive Chrysler Voyager displaying UK diplomatic registration plates. A guy was stepping out, collecting a brown cowhide holdall and a suit carrier from the rear and turning to look up at the grey stone castle and to the sea of the Firth of Forth beyond. A flicker of joy, a thrill shot through her. It was wrong but she didn't want to stop it. She wanted to open the door and go out to him. Some spring broke, some tension in her snapped. The day outside was bright, cold, fresh with salt and the cries of gulls.

"Hey, I hope you like the view, Cowboy?" she said, smiling and walking to him, almost having to prevent herself from skipping.

"I sure do. Look, your mother said to come over when I was free. So, I got on with getting free."

A penny dropped—from a great height. Of course, her mother and father had had to go to town. She was a conniving bloody devious woman. Of course there was a cold chicken and salad in the fridge. Like why? She stood at his side looking up at the building. It was austere and forbidding, almost an island. A pier pointed out into the water while beyond was the iconic Forth Railway Bridge. Her heart was pounding. She was afraid to betray herself by speaking. Could you meet someone and there was some sort of something, like something like a comic strip POW! She knew she was only seeing it that way because she'd been programmed into a gender-stereotypical role play by conformity propaganda prince and princess love stories. But bloody hell. POW! And she had him to herself. He smiled and spoke low and slow.

"You know there's not a lot of coast in Oklahoma. This is so wonderful. It's so wonderful to be here."

"I'm glad you like it."

He turned to her, sweeping her face with kind intelligent dark eyes. Was he looking at her lips on the way back to her eyes? He was. He was. God. Could he have come to see her? Couldn't she stop herself wanting that?

"I feel so bad about what happened. All this fake news about a set-up. I didn't know one of my guys was filming. I'll be honest. I made the decision to let him put it out there. It's no good being an ambitious man if you don't ride your luck if you get the chance. Politics is about image, but that image can be the truth too."

She couldn't pull her eyes away from his. He didn't have to have told her that. He could be talking about some lunatic firing on him with a machine gun.

"It's not so terrible coming home for a couple of days and it is Robbie Burns' birthday."

"Sure. The haggis, the bagpipes, and the poem. I've brought along my kilt. It's the traditional south Lanarkshire plaid cos those are my roots."

Of course, his teeth were perfect as he smiled. He was an American after all. He wasn't too tall. Six-feet-two. She was a willowy five-nine. Gazing at his face didn't crick her neck. She snapped out of her confusion.

"That's cool. We wear the Johnston tartan."

"That's what you call a clan, right?"

"Yes. Just us and the Mafia."

He smiled and nodded.

"I'm going to love dressing up. I'll get you to take a couple of pictures."

"For image-building?"

"For memories."

"Come on in. It's lunch time. Are you alone?"

"There's a couple of security agents in the area. If you spot them something's gone wrong."

She walked by his side. He was certain, in control, so bloody gorgeous. There was only the two of them. She didn't have to bother with being trans-neutral. She showed him to the spare room which her mother had meticulously prepared. The apartment had undecorated stone walls and high beamed ceilings. Each room had an open-fire grate and chimney although there was central heating. The window looked out on the shingle beach and the sea filled the gap between the castle and the distant hills.

She let him clean up while she prepared lunch. He strolled into the kitchen carrying two bottles of exotic looking single malt whisky.

"I hope your folks can use these."

"They sure will. Jackson, I've got so many questions. I don't want to spend the afternoon like some sort of amateur detective."

"You're a pro, Olivia. At least you're a pretty tough cop."

"Right. How do you know Shannon Aguerri? How does that racing driver woman, that chauffeur Kaitlyn, how does she know you?"

"These are easy questions, officer. You didn't tell me my rights."

She chuckled as she watched his good-humored smile. He was playing with her.

"OK, you don't have to answer."

"There is stuff I can't really share. All the same, I know Shannon Aguerri through her husband. He's a business man and you probably know the eleventh earl of Bloxington. Kaitlyn would love to know you called her a racing driver. She's a demon and lives for speed and action. Her partner is a guy called Randolph Quinn. He's a banker and a bit of an I.T. genius. He's a director of Sackman-Platinum Bank. I know them through fundraising events."

Olivia hoped she wasn't frowning. She was aware of Sackman-Platinum and its reputation.

"Isn't that bank a bit shady?"

"For sure. The name is a byword for greed and money laundering."

His tone was matter of fact. How could Mr. Clean associate with such people? How could cops mix with them? Simply she didn't want to give out any negative vibes. Not here. Not today.

"That lunch was delicious," he said. "Can we walk out on that pier and along the beach? I'll need an appetite for that sheep stomach and potatoes."

"That'd be great. There's light until about half past four."

She knew the wind would redden her face. She pulled on a duffel coat she'd owned when she was eighteen. She let her hair fall free but wore a green bobble hat. Jackson looked poised and smart in a North Face sailing-style jacket, blue jeans, and what she could only describe as cowboy boots.

"Let's go, ma'am," he said.

She half feared he'd been about to offer her his elbow to take. Mainly she was afraid she'd have taken it. They headed up the pier side by side. Her hand was by her thigh, not swinging, waiting, longing for him to take it. Would he dare? Yes! He took her hand, and with a small squeeze. She didn't even know him and yet she felt joy, joy, joy. She was holding his bloody hand like some girl in the Taylor Swift song on the plane. They walked on to the end of the pier. He was looking into the distance out over the water. She was watching him, waiting for him to turn his eyes back to the land, to take in the view of the castle, to take in her. She sensed he was hesitating, but he'd seemed so at ease around her. He looked down and then slowly turned to her, watching her lips, watching her eyes. Her life froze as he reached a hand to her cheek and stroked down onto her neck. He drew her slightly to him. She let herself soften. His hand pushed back tenderly into her hair and eased her lips to his. The universe was this kiss, there was nothing outside or beyond. His flesh was warm, soft yet firm. Zings of erotic need trembled in her belly. She pushed into his male body as his other arm folded her into him. Did she really know how to kiss? Was she getting this right? He held her face away a little and smiled.

"That was always going to happen, wasn't it?" he said.

"Yes, yes, yes."

"You knew that too?"

"Takes two."

"I've been thinking about you. I was giving a speech to your parliament and I was thinking about you."

"Why?"

"Cos you meet someone, and you don't know what you thought you knew."

"Jackson, we're worlds apart." She knew in that instant that he had the power to rip her heart to shreds if anything went any further. She'd built fences and ditches against this kind of risk. She needed an escape hatch. "I'm not ready. You liked my hair that's all. Someone tried to kill you. It's a sort of psychological rebound."

She knew she was just burbling. Kiss me again. Shut me up. Kiss me again. She was telling her eyes to signal. _Kiss me again_.

His lips were at her hairline, brushing lightly down her small nose. He raised her chin and explored her lips with tiny kisses. She couldn't hold back, grabbing his head and giving her deep woman kiss to this man who wanted her. She pushed her body against his in an ecstasy where she could almost hold herself tight enough to come. This would break her heart she knew and yet she couldn't stop. Perhaps she'd find he was a bastard; all men were after all. Dear lord, she was so happy.

"The wind brings tears," she said, re-taking his hand.
Chapter 6

It was deep dusk as they got back to the castle. As they entered the kitchen Olivia felt the examining gaze of her mother, who glanced at Jackson and back to her daughter, betraying herself with a quick smug smile. The bloody woman had radar.

"Mrs. Johnston-Denny, thank you so much for inviting me," he said, stepping forward, hand outstretched.

" _Och_ , you soft laddie. This is a joy, an honor and you with Lanarkshire blood in your veins."

Her father stood and offered his hand.

"A true honor to be among your family, sir," said Jackson.

"Likewise, Mr. Paine, a true honor indeed for us simple folk."

"Jackson brought us some very fine whisky by the look of it," said Olivia, glancing a smile at him. From the corner of her eye she saw a look of ecstasy on her mother's face to note their complicity. It was only a matter of time before women took over world politics. Her father seemed already warmed by a drop of scotch.

"Most generous, sir. We'll toast all Scots in the USA with some a little later. In the meantime, would you take a wee appetizing dram with us, Mr. Paine?"

"I sure would love that. Please call me Jackson. Olivia here calls me Cowboy but that's her private thing if you don't mind."

"Certainly. Then it's Hamish and Margaret."

Her father poured lavish measures of Glenlivet Founder's Reserve whisky into cut glass tumblers.

"Some people take a little water or ice," he added.

"I believe in nothing but the pure real thing, Hamish," said Jackson.

Olivia caught a flash of her mother's face charmed into ecstatic worship. This really was absurd but still utterly seductive. They drank toasts to the poet Robbie Burns, the peoples of America, the president, Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Stuart kings, the Queen, her family, and her dogs. It was time to focus. There was a table to set, swedes and potatoes to cook and mash, a cock-a-leekie soup to heat, and the cream of a cranachan pudding to whip and set in bowls ready to serve. A roaring spitting log fire had been lit in the fireplace of the south tower dining room. Lighting came from two enormous heavy metal chandeliers, more like farm implements than decorations. An oak table was set with twenty places. To her father this was birthdays, New Year, Christmas, and Easter all rolled into one. This was about being Scottish and being Scottish was all about being Hamish Johnston-Denny who would one day inherit the title Duke of Falkirk. Olivia's mother had steamed four giant haggis. It was time to get into costume. Her mother always wore the very traditional but impractical _Erasaid_. This was a full-length skirt with an over the shoulder sash, the size and weight of a cloak. Olivia wore her own calf-length pleated kilt skirt with a simple ruffled-collar silk blouse. She completed her look with a shoulder sash, secured with a large decorative kilt pin. Her father appeared in his kilt, complete with sporran, Prince Charlie jacket and waistcoat, socks, and tartan brogues. There was no sign of Jackson.

"Maybe he's struggling with the four-yard kilt?" said her mother. "Maybe you could tap on his door and enquire, Olivia?"

Her father coughed awkwardly.

"Maybe he won't be decently covered, Margaret?"

" _Och_ , the lassie's a street-hardened constable. She'll have seen everything by now."

Her mother winked and gestured for Olivia to attend to her errand. This was so embarrassing. This was her gender-enslaved mother humbling herself and all women on the altar of patriarchy. She wondered if he'd be dressed at all or if anyone had told him what a Scot wears under his kilt. She knocked on the door.

"Cowboy, got some trouble hitching up in there?"

"Nothing a beautiful woman couldn't solve."

She laughed. This was so, so corny. So much a sigh of joy in her heart.

"I'll send for one. My mother's busy, but there's a few in the village."

"I'll walk down there. I can't be seen as I am."

She opened the door. The whisky had hit one of the brain inhibition centers in one of her textbooks.

"That depends who's looking, Cowboy," she said as she marched in. He was simply fabulous, the bow tie, the waistcoat, the Prince Charlie jacket, the thick muscular thighs, the strong calves. The high tan western boots.

"What the fuck are those on your feet?"

"What the fuck are those lips of yours doing wasting time not kissing me?"

He held out his arms.

And then he kissed her. She was weightless. He tasted so clean, so male, so firm, so, so Jackson T. Paine.

"Oh god, god, god. Cowboy, you only just rode into town. Don't do this to me if you're ever going to stop."

He was smiling into her eyes.

"A man only breaks when the referee says break."

She took a deep breath. She was destroyed as a person. Defeated tribes of her formulas and attitudes were trudging away toward the border. He man. Me woman. Her life had been so simple when there had been so many complexities.

"I love them, but those boots aren't really Robbie Burns' style."

"Whose side are you on, cowboy or poet?"

"Didn't they say in the shop you'd need tartan brogues?"

"Sure, but sometimes a man has to walk tall. Also, I left them on the plane."

"So, you're not perfect and infallible?"

"Only in public."

She couldn't help but giggle at the look on his face.

"Traditions are meant to change. Come on, let's go," she said.

His hand traced softly up her throat and held her chin. She closed her eyes as his lips took hers in a knee-weakening kiss. She pressed against him, wanting, needing to press herself into him. The feeling was shamelessly erotic. She loved the sensation of her hardening clitoris against the fabric of her panties. She needed that secret pleasure of her pressure against him. Maybe not so secret as she let out a small groan.

"Hey, that's getting too good," he growled.

She pulled away, smiling up into his kind sexy eyes. These feelings were so good, so strong. She needed his touch. They could never be together after this.

"Maybe now is all the time we'll ever have?" she said. She couldn't believe she'd been so brazen. She held his eyes.

He pulled her to him and kissed her deeply, this time sharing the moist intimate heat of her tongue. She knew she was wet. Oh god, she didn't care. His hand came to the cheek of her ass, pulling her tight against the iron muscle of his thigh. God if he didn't touch her now, she'd shriek or burst. She'd never experienced this intensity of animal desire. She pleaded into his eyes. He kept a hand on her ass but brought the other to her thigh. She jolted, sighed and nodded an assent to his touch. He made a deep groan and let his hand trace up to the waist of her kilt skirt. She quickly released the strap. She was so bloody wanton, but a desperate need was driving her on. He re-took her lips as his warm hand slid to the fabric of her panties, then down to the smooth silk of her soaking groove. A spasm of pleasure shot through her thighs and belly. He groaned out a deep hum of lust as he caressed her soft folds over her hard clitoris. She held herself at her peak until all resistance broke and gushed like a dam of warm honey mixed with joy. She had no senses except the pulse and helpless ripples of release in her core and her belly.

"So beautiful," he hummed into her ear as he held her to him. "So beautiful."

She looked down, embarrassed and exposed to his gaze as she still shook with the force of her orgasm. She'd done nothing for him. She wanted to seize his cock, pull it into her need, her hot squeezing belly. Wanted him to come, abandon himself to her as she'd done to him. Her own desire had flattened all her fences of reserve and dignity. She glanced up at him. He had a smile as wide as a big screen movie.

"You're so lovely, so bloody sexy," he said slowly.

"I'm not like that. The whisky...."

He chuckled. God, that handsome strong face. His eyes were steady and deliberate on hers. He brought his hand to his lips, the hand that had touched her. He licked the wetness and watched her. He made his soft hum as his tongue tasted her juice. His eyes played a game of desire and insinuation. He wanted his tongue in her pussy, maybe longed for that. She'd heard of such pleasures but had never been there. He seemed unselfish, drawing pleasure from her need for him.

"That was a lovely surprise, Olivia. That smoothness is a thrill."

"Oh god, oh bloody god. Jackson, I'm lost here. I'll admit that."

"There's nothing we can't work on. Sounds like a simple job of drawing a map."

She re-fastened the strap and took a deep breath. She couldn't believe she'd let him touch her, let him see her come. Let him know his power to control her with her own desire. He stroked back her hair.

"OK partner. Let's go."

She went to the door, feeling his hand on her shoulder. She heard his voice.

"Olivia, there's no one in my life like a girlfriend. There's no reason we can't.... I don't want to be presumptuous, but just in case you were wondering."

She didn't turn. She wanted him so much. There were so many reasons why they couldn't. In any case she just had to get back her balance of mind. She had to answer him, but some stupid girl inside had grabbed the microphone of her soul.

"Christ, Cowboy, give a girl a chance will you. How could I resist a bit more of you in those boots?" She should have pulled out of the dive. But she had not. "Looks like we're partners tonight but we'll have to talk. Scotland Yard sent me here to keep me out of your picture, remember."

She swung round to see his face. Perhaps her thoughts would be written in her eyes. _Please don't tell me that's a game-changer. Please let me be near you again. Please...._

He looked straight back.

"What's a free man if he can't paint the picture he wants? What's more perfect than the truth even if a few folks don't like it? You have to manage a public life; power is a compromise with image and desire. I don't know the whole road there, but I know the direction."

This guy was so calm, so sure, so utterly sexy. He didn't really want her. Why would he? Confidence and power flowed out him. He didn't shout or bully. He just made you want him and now he'd seen her desperate for him. Christ, she'd come in her panties at his touch.

"I need some poetry," she said, taking his hand.
Chapter 7

Her grandfather, the Duke of Falkirk was a fine old gentleman. She believed he was eighty-nine. He had a fine bushy white beard worthy of Santa and looked magnificent in his proud Johnston tartan. Sharp blue eyes pierced out from under wild eyebrow bushes. He was standing in the grand dining room with his back to the blazing fire. Olivia spotted his quick appraisal of Jackson as they approached. His attention lingered on the boots.

"Grandfather, may I introduce—"

" _Och_ , no need. Congressman Paine, you honor us in our simple celebration tonight. I see you wear the South Lanarkshire tartan."

"With pride, sir."

The two men shook hands, with no mention of the boots.

"Well, do you want to be president?" asked the Duke.

"It'd be the choice of the voters, sir. The answer is yes. I won't be tricky and avoid your question."

The old man nodded.

"Ay, are you sure you're a politician, laddie? That's the first straight answer I've ever heard from one."

"Sir, a simple farmer couldn't lie to a duke, could he?"

"You deserve a wee dram of something special for that response, my boy. Follow me."

The two men walked away to a side table displaying an array of whiskies in a range of fabulously labelled bottles. Jackson glanced back with a wink that somehow winged into her heart. She felt her mother's eyes on her back.

" _Weel_ child, your Jackson's splendid in his kilt, is he not? He's got a look in his eye for you and no mistake."

"Mother, please...."

"That's why he's here. He didn't come to see some draughty old castle and eat a sheep's stomach."

"He came to show off his boots."

"Oh lassie, he's a man who's big enough to make his own style. You've got him on the line. Make sure you reel him in. Not too fast though."

Olivia stared into her mother's slightly reddened beaming face. Some madness had come over her with perhaps a touch of alcoholic courage.

"Mother, I'm going straight for the harpoon or spear gun. You can announce our betrothal or his death in the Scotsman newspaper tomorrow."

"Now you're being silly. You feel too much for him to hurt him."

"Bloody hell, Mum. What the hell do you know or think you know?"

"Ay, you youngsters spend too much time on screens. We've all got eyes and we've all got a face. They're there to be read."

"So that's that then. Have you chosen a wedding dress for me?"

"I'm well beyond that lassie. Me and your father are working on the children's names."

Her mother just had to be drunk. Possibly what she said was true, but she'd never admit such a thing if she were sober.

"This conversation is ridiculous. I don't even know him, and he doesn't know me."

Her mother grinned, reached out, and squeezed her arm.

"I've got to check the kitchen. The major is here with his bagpipes. I can see you're bursting with happiness, Olivia. If you do go for the spear gun don't hit anything serious." Her mother concluded her speech with a gesture at her groin. That was the end. The woman was sozzled and disgusting. Olivia found herself laughing and made for one of the other guests, the Bishop of Grangemouth who wore a clerical collar and purple shirt with his kilt. Maybe she could fix up a wedding.

Her father had brought in a firm of caterers. There were twenty guests, mostly well on the way to drunk. Olivia found herself small talking with the bishop's daughter of about her own age and the rounded lady mayoress of Tannochbrae who had chosen to wear her chain of office. The whole party had a patriarchal ambience. The men were gathered like back-slapping tribal elders around the whisky table. Jackson smiled across the room at her, all the while maintaining a conversation with Sir Archie Harrison QC, a family cousin and high court judge.

"I hate this crap, don't you?" whispered the bishop's daughter who was hiding her cell phone under her kilt. "I can't even get a fucking data signal."

Olivia offered sympathies as they settled at table. To her left was her uncle, Jock McTavish, an historian lecturer at the University of Glasgow. To her right was a bulky red-faced gentleman landowner she'd only ever known as the Laird of Forth. Her grandfather took the head of the table as Master of Ceremonies. There was a prayer, a poem, and various toasts drunk with whisky. First course was cock-a-leekie soup. She watched Jackson eating. He wasn't a man to sip from a spoon. He ate hungrily, finally wiping his finger, yes _that_ finger, around the rim of the bowl. He grinned and brought it to his mouth and sucked in at least half its length.

"Fabulous taste. Makes a man want more," he commented quite loudly to his neighbor, watching her eyes on his.

He was some sort of bastard—a bastard who could make you laugh, make you come, make you long for him, make you unable to look away.

Outside the bagpipes had begun their plaintive wail. A gentleman in tartan carried the steaming haggis into the room and paraded it around the table followed by the piper. Everyone stood in honor of the food and of course the poet Robbie Burns. A waiter served full glasses of whisky to all the guests. The platter was set down before the Duke at the head of the table. When everyone was settled, he began the sacred address to the haggis in ancient Scottish that few people including Olivia understood. About halfway through was the moment. Her grandfather raised his ceremonial dirk and sliced into the huge pungent bulging stomach. A mass of meaty steaming goo spilled out as he spoke the words, "Warm _, reekin'_ rich."

Eventually they got to eat. She had to keep her eyes off that bloody man. She simply had to. She'd drunk too much. There was a blur of speeches and recitals of poems. She was aware of her grandfather calling for order.

"Ladies and gentlemen. We cannot let the evening pass without a few words from our celebrated guest from the new world. A man with Lanarkshire blood in his veins. Sir, Congressman, could I invite you to give the traditional address to the lassies?"

She stared open mouthed at the old man. How the hell could he expect Jackson to do that? He'd had no time to prepare. How could he even know the traditions let alone quote from Robbie Burns? This could be disaster if he took the wrong tone. If he could pull this off, he was certain to make president of the USA. He stood up smiling, apparently relaxed.

"My lords, ladies and gentlemen, nothing has been or could ever be for the rest of my life such an honor. Ah indeed, the lassies, so beloved of the poet Robbie Burns. Twelve children by four different women in eleven years. Ay, it's amazing what people had to do before Facebook. But what a love he had for the female and who can blame him? Who can deny the beauty of his lines:

My love is like a red, red rose  
That's newly sprung in June:  
My love is like the melody  
That's sweetly played in tune.

How fair art thou, my bonnie lass,  
So deep in love am I;  
And I will love thee still, my dear,  
Till all the seas gang dry.

So beautiful, so moving—and just remember, gentlemen, if you want to understand the female, this is the way the lassies feel about their collection of shoes."

And on he went, completely at ease amongst sighs and laughs. How had he managed to pull this performance together? He was nearing the end. "My dear friends, they told me I'd need to make you laugh and all I had was my accent and these boots. They said I'd have to leave you with a love for the poet and for the lassies. How else should a man feel for a lassie but these lines from the poet:

But to see her was to love her, love but her, and love forever.

I give you the toast to the lassies."

The room raised their glasses. He held her eyes. She could not pull away. To see her was to love her indeed. So what if some lecherous oversexed poet had written these lines? So what? How could anyone believe such rubbish? And how was she going to get close to him before he was up and gone in the morning?

A fiddler came in and struck up the melody of "The Star o' Rabbie Burns." The men, by now drunk beyond care, set to singing. It was a chance for Olivia to get a word with Jackson. She gestured with her head for him to follow her. He nodded agreement. She waited in the corridor outside the dining hall. It was cold but she had no choice. A stone spiral stair led up to the battlements of the tower. This was crazy. He appeared, a wide grin on his handsome face. She would have no other chance.

"Come on."

He followed her up. The air was freezing, but the night was clear. Lights of vessels were dotted on the Firth of Forth. He took her into his arms, doing nothing but gently swaying. She spoke into his chest.

"That was brilliant. How the hell did you do that?"

"Well, your ma explained the format when I phoned. I had the chance to think it through."

That bloody woman was so devious and conniving. She needed... just what the hell did she need?

"Jackson," she began.

"Well, I'm playing golf at Trump's place tomorrow. Then I'm speaking at your Oxford University Union in the evening and then I'm headed back to Washington via Oklahoma."

"How did you know my question?"

"Arrogant assumption."

"That I'd be wondering where and when I'd ever see you again?"

"It's easy to read minds when they're thinking the same thing as me."

"And...."

"I'll be back in London in ten days. I'm on the House Armed Services Committee."

"You'll have forgotten all this by then."

"Not a chance."

"What do you want of me?"

"A kiss."

Without thinking she raised her lips to receive his. A ping of arousal shot through her. There was no politics for this feeling. Sensibly she knew this was goodbye, whatever he said. She'd follow his career, watch his performances, and keep this crazy interlude in her life in a sealed precious box. Once he was gone, she'd be free of his gravity, free to re-find her proper self.

"Someone—some people with resources, tried to kill you in London. It's way above my head but if they've tried it once, they'll try again won't they?"

"Yup."

"Just yup? I mean you must be concerned."

"Yup."

"Look, I buy all the male stoicism, silent hero angle but I never want to turn on my TV and see some horror like that. There's been no coverage of that attack and if you must know that's suspicious to me. Someone has some big power to keep that out of the news."

"You should be a cop."

"So, who was behind it?"

"Olivia, I'm just a foreign politician. I don't know how you guys handle sensitive information. I do know that Shannon Aguerri will be talking to you when you get back to London. She'll decide what you get to learn."

"How do you know that?" she asked, just a little angry at his casual dominance.

"She told me."

"My boss discusses my future with you?"

He faced her with a look of firm intent.

"You can interpret it that way if you want. If you want you can just relax and accept we're all just foot soldiers in some way. Hell, I don't even have a political party. I talked to Shannon cos I know her and respect her."

She let out a sigh. Somehow the mood had changed. He was in a different league of humanity. How could she ever have seen him as a boyfriend, some guy to take her to the movies or maybe stay in with a pizza? His horizons were infinite, at least, if he survived. She planted a kiss on his cheek.

"It's cool. Let's go sing Auld Lang Syne."

"Sure, a cup of kindness never hurts," he answered.
Chapter 8

In the morning he was already gone. She opened her eyes, knowing at once she'd had too much whisky. The next week would be dry. She'd heard movement in the apartment, aware her mother was speaking in a low voice. She'd considered getting up to see him go but had thought better of it. There was nothing much to say and, in any case, she must look dreadful without makeup, and hung over. Jackson T. Paine had shown her something of herself, something dumb and unthinking. Physical pleasure and abandon to desire was no way to live. The personal is political. Every book and every lecturer had said so. Only that bloody man knew of her fall into thoughtless animal stupidity. God—she'd let him touch her, let him see her come. Something like that would be every day for a man like him if he chose. He seemed to want her pleasure more than his own. Now she could see it as an act of cynical patriarchal dominance, taking pride in his own discipline as opposed to her weakness. When she wasn't in his presence, she could see clearly how she'd felt in that moment of desire. She could feel it even now if she let her mind go there. She closed her eyes.

"A nice cup of tea, dear?" Of course, it was her mother. Dressed, made up, and not hung over she sailed in like some kind of battleship, straight on the guns. "Jackson said not to wake you."

"Great—and he's the kind of man to hand out orders."

"Or the kind of man who cares about others."

"Mother, you don't understand the concept of toxic masculinity. The bottle isn't labelled toxic. It's labelled confidence, charm, brute force."

"I'm sure he understands all that, Olivia, but I'm sure he'll let you explain again when you next see him."

"That won't happen."

"That's not what he told me. He left you a note. I'll leave you to read it. You know that toast to the lassies was brilliant. His eyes came to you every few seconds. A man like that would steal any heart."

Her mother laid an envelope on the bedside table, smiled, and headed to the door and spoke with a finger pointed at Olivia.

"Don't deny yourself happiness because it's more fashionable to be miserable."

The tea was like rain on the desert. She studied the envelope. It was embossed with the seal of the USA Embassy. What could it possibly say? She opened it carefully, to keep it intact just in case she wanted to keep it. Inside was a sheet of embassy paper.

Dear Olivia, A clever politician shouldn't put too much in writing. I'm thinking of you now and I'll be thinking of you until we meet again. I took the liberty of getting your cell number from your mother and in return you will find mine on the enclosed business card. I'll call you. Your Cowboy xxx.

Men like this were manipulating bastards. He'd be with another woman tonight, someone sophisticated, a ruthless hard-faced bitch type craving power and money. He'd need a woman like that, deserve a woman like that. Idly she stored the number on her own cell. If he did call, she'd know who it was.

She'd almost forgotten she was a basement level street cop on the streets of London. Since the world had forgotten her alter ego Ginger Bush, the porn star, she assumed she could quietly resume routine patrol. She placed a call to Superintendent Aguerri.

"Ma'am, Jackson T. Paine has hitched up his wagon and left town...."

"Hey, Olivia. Sure, we need to talk."

"I need to be on late shift tomorrow afternoon. We're short of staff already without me skulking about in Scotland."

"Yeah, we'll cover your shift. Get back to London. Meet me in smart-ish civilian dress at Scotland Yard eleven thirty tomorrow. Just ask for me at reception."

"Wow, sure OK."

Her boss hung up. Maybe it was normal for Shannon Aguerri, but attending Scotland Yard out of uniform was a big change of mindset for a gutter-cop.

Although home was wonderful, she was so glad to get away. They parted at Edinburgh Waverley station, her ever-frugal mother handing her a large lunchbox of left-over haggis for her evening meal and a pack of sandwiches for her journey. As the train pulled out, she was happy to leave behind the ten-year-old child she would always be to her family. By 5 o'clock she slumped down on the bed of her Bloomsbury studio flat. It was an hour later that Jackson T. Paine called her. His voice sent a shiver across her belly.

"Hey."

"Hey to you."

"I told you I'd be thinking of you."

"I've been thinking about you."

She bit her lip. She really was a stupid female. She hadn't meant to say that.

"That makes me happy. I'm at your Oxford College to give a talk about Keep it Strong, Keep it Kind. There's some big brains here to tell me I'm a dim cowboy who just shoots from the hip. What can I tell them?"

"Tell them that dim cowboys built America and brought peace among peoples from all over the world. Tell them Europe's been trying to do the same for ten thousand years and is still working on it."

"Right. You're a bright kid. I'm making notes as you speak. You could be indispensable to a man."

"I was just shooting from the hip, Cowboy. I don't know if I'm right."

"Sounds right. Sounds wonderful with your voice."

"Jackson. What the fuck are you doing to me?"

"Can't see from here. Wish I could."

"Wish I could see you."

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Get a grip, Olivia. He's just milking like you're a prairie cow or something. Jeez, he patronized and diminished you as a _bright kid_. Fight back.

"My mother says I should just let myself be happy."

"Happy about me?"

"Yes."

She'd lost all resistance. She was pathetic.

"I've got to go. I'll call you after the show if I haven't been lynched. I kind of think these students are a bit against anyone labelled a populist."

"Ask them to define democracy and then tell you where it says it's not supposed to be popular. You can quote Abe Lincoln, the ancient Greeks, Voltaire or some guy called Thomas Paine, your choice."

"Olivia, I... touching you, holding you was so wonderful.... I just wanted to say."

He hung up.

She lay back with a sigh. Yes, yes, she knew she was wet. Bloody man. God that bloody man. She needed a cold shower and a long deep sleep.

Dressed in a deep blue wool pants suit she took the tube from Russell Square to Leicester Square and changed lines for Embankment. How complex were these Metropolitan machines of tiny powerless humans. For sure this was not the natural world of Jackson T. Paine. Why had she begun to measure everything in relation to him? She could run rings around him with sophisticated philosophies, she was sure of that. The guy was a regular Joe who just said what he thought. He was an absurd throwback to some imagined simple time. She checked her smart watch. Her stress level was high, her pulse at 118. If she fell in love, if such a bourgeois cliché of mainstream fiction could seduce an intelligent woman, would her smart watch detect it? She'd probably need to upgrade. Why was she even thinking that? Ahead of her lay a meeting with Superintendent Shannon Aguerri at her office in Scotland Yard. Why couldn't she just go back to her patrol work at Battersea? She took a deep breath as she waited in the hyper-modern reception area. She watched police officers and civilians coming and going. An elegant woman with long dark hair was at the reception desk. She wore a pinstriped grey business suit with a knee-length skirt. Her heels were high, making the very best look for her legs. Even to another woman she was beautiful, sexy, but unapproachable. There was something familiar about her, maybe she was like an actress. She had turned away from the desk and was approaching. She extended a hand. Olivia stood.

"PC Johnston-Denny?"

"Yes...."

"I'm Assistant Commissioner Anna La Salle. I'm standing in for Superintendent Aguerri.

Jeez! Now she knew the face. She was always on TV and the radio. She'd been head of counter terrorism during the Scimitar of Holy Vengeance battles. Her jaw must have dropped. What could this person want with her?

"Ma'am, sure, that's me."

"I need a coffee. Let's go."

Olivia shook hands and followed her to the elevator. Her head was spinning. WTF? WTF? Anna La Salle smiled warmly.

"Relax. You're not in the shit."

Olivia choked back a relieved laugh. She'd not expected such police canteen language.

"That's good to know, ma'am."

"Don't be complacent. The ground may look firm but there's always an ocean of shit just beneath. We all tread carefully in this job and I always ask for expensive perfume at Christmas."

Anna La Salle was laughing all the way to her deep grey eyes. She had power and ego, but was generous.

"That's good advice, ma'am."

"Have you got anyone to buy you perfume?"

Olivia glanced at the senior woman. The question was serious and posed with the object of getting an honest answer while Olivia was nervous and off guard.

"No, no one at all."

The lift opened directly into a spacious office with a view out over the river Thames toward the London Eye Ferris Wheel. The sky looked down on London with a clear, cold, blue eye of winter just winking at spring. Normally in her head-down scurrying life, Olivia would have found no pulse in nature. Maybe it was the poetry of Burns that had lifted her gaze.

"I'll fix some decent coffee. Go, take a look at the scene," said Assistant Commissioner La Salle.

What? What was this bloody woman on? This had to be a trap. All the same she went to the window. She took a deep breath. Even under this stress she thought of him, somehow wishing she could share this unique view.

"At my pay grade I get an espresso machine all to myself. Now that's what I call real importance," she said with a laugh.

Anna La Salle was no fool. She was using a folksy tone to show she had power and you'd better keep her in the warmth of her smile. She carried on talking.

"Right—double espresso—now we can conquer the world. Sit down and forget all the rank stuff and just answer from your gut. I've drawn your file. You're clever but you're still pretty green. How do you feel about yourself?"

"More redhead than green. More educated than clever."

Olivia watched the older woman's inscrutable beautiful face.

"Why are you a cop? You've got a first-class degree in politics from a top university. A lot of street cop duty is like working a garbage truck."

"A lot of politics is like working a garbage truck, but you can't come off shift and clean up. I wanted a career where I could advance."

Anna La Salle allowed herself a wry smile.

"Personal ambition, I can relate to that. Thanks for not saying you wanted to make a difference. What I want to know, Olivia, is whether or not I can trust you. Can I?"

"I would hope so, but it would depend."

"On?"

"On what I was trusted with."

"How about trusted with my life or my liberty?"

Anna's gaze was serious, hard and fixed. Olivia scanned her mind and heart. The truth was she didn't know.

"Ma'am, to be straight I don't know how tough or weak I am."

The boss sat back. Her lips tight, her eyes thoughtful.

"Right, that's a good answer so it's good place to start. I've something in mind for you, but I don't know if you're ready. Your little brush with Jackson T. Paine means I don't want you on the street where some hack reporter is going to dig up this Ginger Bush angle. Cops at your station will have contacts in the press. I'm putting you on a plainclothes squad running out of here. Let's see how you shape up. First you'll need to get some firearms training."

"What's the squad?"

"Specialist Crime Directorate Seven."

Olivia swallowed. This was crazy.

"The Flying Squad—armed robbery, cash trucks and bank holdups?"

"There's still a few old timers on that. How about kidnap, cryptocurrency operators, and weapons traders? There's still plenty of doors to put in and plenty of hard villains who don't want to get locked up. None of us know how tough or weak you are. For now, I'm very much on your side, so let's find out."

Olivia found her mouth quite dry. Elevation to a Scotland Yard squad from basement uniform patrol duty was nothing short of astonishing.

"Ma'am, excuse me if I feel like the amateur pilot in a movie when all the airline crew are dead from a killer virus and he's chosen to land the plane."

"Sounds like a bloody good film. He'd be my choice too. Don't worry, we don't just abandon people. Kaitlyn's going to be around. Shannon Aguerri will always be close. There's an operator you don't know yet and you'll never know much of him. His name is Bastian Wolf. You'll never see him at the office party or get an invite to dinner. If he shows up, trust him and do _exactly_ what he says. Exactly and immediately."

"Is he a cop?"

"He's an agent."

"Of...?"

"He has presidential authority, sanctioned by the British government."

"An American?"

"He works internationally. For now, just understand that crime knows no frontiers. We work with the FBI, the CIA, and a couple of bodies you won't know. The yanks have got the hardware, the personnel, and the goodwill. We take help from any friend in this world. As you develop you may learn more." Anna La Salle's tone was firm and final. "So, if Bastian Wolf shows up what do you do?"

"Exactly what he says."

"Right. No questions. No clever double thinking or moral backflips. No snowflaking or philosophical torment. I cannot overstress this. You'll be up against people who'll blow your head off while you wonder if the word gunman is a gender stereotype. Generally, it is but the girls are getting there, OK. If you can't accept this, you can walk out of here. We'll give you a quiet posting out of any press traps and you can climb the rank and salary ladder all the way to your pension."

What could she say? This was a whole new league. For sure she wasn't ready for this role but maybe no one ever was.

"Sure, I'll give it my best. What will I be working on?"

"A simple little case to start with. Some thugs stole a taxi, got hold of a heavy caliber machine gun and shot up an armored Cadillac. Where did that gun come from? Who was behind the plot? Should keep a few officers busy."

"Jackson's car?"

"Yeah. Your admirer, from what I've heard. Olivia, this is a free country and he's a significant man in the future of the world, if he stays alive. He does _not_ need you in his life. I don't want you to see him if he contacts you. Sadly, I can't give _him_ orders."

She didn't want to show it, but inside she was angry. This woman might be mega important, but this was her life. Anyway, the point was academic. Jackson was on a plane home.

"That's cool, ma'am."

Anna La Salle smiled with what looked like sympathy in her eyes.

"Olivia, we've all got our own stories. Bloody men can cause havoc in a life and believe me I've been there. He's clean but his opponents are street fighters. No gutter is low enough. If his popularity remains where it is, they have to smear him. His presentation is too simple to defeat. He's an independent. There's a fighter against him in every corner of his ring."

"Why do we care?"

"Who do you mean by _we_?"

"The Met police, the UK government."

"Let's just say there's people who want a better kind of leader, a better kind of society. There's folks like that all over the world. A few days ago, some idiot entertainer put up a fake video claiming he'd been attacked so he could play righteous victim. That shit is the flavor of the month. There's a hunting pack of sharks out there itching to prove Jackson's hero citizen show with you was a set-up. Contact with you could finish him."

"I know that."

"Be ready at eight in the morning. A car will collect you from home, but don't expect it every day. Dress as you like as long as its jeans and trainers. Now get going."

Anna La Salle stood and extended both hands to her as Olivia headed for the lift. She took them and looked into her eyes.

"You got caught up in something. Your life can never be quite the same as you'd planned. Suck it up and do your best. In the long run you won't lose by it."
Chapter 9

As she stepped back out into the winter sunlight of the Embankment she was torn between fear, happiness, and disappointment. Some little spark, too small to call hope but too bright to be despair had let her believe she would see him again. She ached in her bones for his kiss and his touch just one more time. Please, just one more time. Just as an abstract sensation and pleasure. No politics; just that joy in the soft flesh of her soul. He was a manipulating patriarch. A dominator posturing with primitive caveman sexual strength. His toxic masculinity would revolt a progressive modern woman. He'd uncovered her, had taken pleasure at her surrender. She'd melted into him. Christ, she had come against his touch while he rejoiced in her pleasure and weakness. He'd strutted as her conqueror, his hard cock wanting her, his hard cock longing, longing, longing. Oh God, he was reaching into her thoughts even now. She'd watched him taste the trace of her, had longed for that heat, had never known that lust of a man's need, had never pulled that human heat to her bursting human desire. Fuck, fuck, fuck, she was in a mess. Every clever person had told her the personal was political. Desire and orgasm with an oppressor was philosophical humiliation. Self-love was an act of revolutionary liberation. She needed to get home. If only she could see him one more time. She needed to understand her conflicts. If she saw him again, she could reject him, re-assert her status, tell him she'd regained control of her body. For a moment she focused on the work ahead of her. These Flying Squad types were burly hard men with years of service, often veterans of gunfights with armed robbers. They hung around tough pubs and vehicle scrapyards, gutted down meat pies and pints of beer with dirty hands at bare-knuckle fight shows. Perhaps she'd watched too much cop TV? There was a high risk she wouldn't quite fit in.

She needed a friend, but London was a lonely town. Her best mate Rena worked early until late usually six days a week, for a corporate biotech company in the city. Her own life on shifts meant her social life was normally around her workmates. She had good relations but no hard bonds among them. None of her old progressive university class could accept her new position as cop, a brick-in-the-wall enforcer of social injustice. Why had she joined? Was it time to walk away? And what if this Bastian Wolf character showed up? Could she take his orders absolutely without question, without her own intelligent judgments?

She decided to stroll to Leicester Square, along Whitehall and past the National Gallery. The pavement was crowded ahead of her. Tourists snapped photos and selfies with St Martin-in-the-Fields church as backdrop. She sensed a scuffle at the entrance to the square. A mugger had seized a guy's cell phone. A small oriental man was wrestling with a far larger individual in a hooded top, trainers, track-suit bottoms. She approached as if she were a civilian just walking by. Her heart was pounding. She was within strike range. She drew her arm back across her chest and rotated her body away from the target. The mugger hadn't picked up on the threat. She unleashed the coiled spring of her aggression. The hard side of her palm smashed up under the thief's nose. There was a crack of cartilage and squelch of blood. Yes! He staggered back. He was big, trying to keep his hood in place to avoid the CCTV. She took her chance and buried her foot hard into his groin. Yes! Yes! Now she was in trouble. The mugger was shrieking, and she hadn't identified herself as police. She hadn't told him she was arresting him. The tourist had snatched back his phone from the ground and made off into the crowd. She looked around for a friendly face, anyone who wanted to get involved. The mugger had started to run. She had at least to try to arrest him to justify her use of force. God, she'd been so angry and pent up. He was getting away, running with adrenalin-pumped desperation. He'd reached the far side of Leicester Square and she wasn't going to catch him. She pulled up and watched him swerve through the traffic at Piccadilly Circus. She knew the incident would be on CCTV, but the robber had never fully shown his face. In the life of the city it was nothing among all the teeming struggle of madness, desire, and consumption. In any case did she want all the paperwork and trouble? The evidence and the witness had gone. She'd not played to the rules and hell, how she'd loved hurting that bastard. She ought to file a report, what police officers called sloping the shoulders, covering your own back. If she found a witness, they might say she hadn't identified as police. If they hadn't seen the whole incident, they'd testify that some redhead nutcase had attacked a guy in the street, busted his nose and kicked him in the balls, maybe a regular couple dispute. She took a deep breath, pushed back her hair and strolled on. She might as well walk with just a little spring in her step. Of course, she was ashamed of her pleasure. No civilized person could congratulate themselves for violence. All the same a little test had presented itself. She'd been alone. No shoulder mic' to call in the cavalry. She'd heard the feminist word _empowerment_ often enough. She was smiling. She knew herself a little more. There was a vaguely pleasant pain in the bone of her hand. Yes! She had no fear. She was empowered.

It was mid-afternoon when she reached her studio flat. The streets were busy with students at the universities or parties visiting the British Museum. She knew herself in this slightly dusty bookish world. The woman who had thrilled at her own violence was a stranger. She checked her cell phone. No trace of Jackson. If there were powers who could block her data in Scotland, then for sure there were powers who could monitor her calls. She wondered how he'd flown. Could you even fly direct from London to Oklahoma? Where was Oklahoma? She found herself checking flights, reading Wikipedia entries on American history, looking at anything on Jackson T. Paine and his "Keep it Strong, Keep it Kind" movement. The afternoon was growing dark and she needed to eat. Someone was buzzing her intercom. There was no peace. These damned delivery guys just hit all the buttons. She checked the camera. She kept staring. The figure had an overcoat with collar up and a big scarf half hiding his face. He was holding a McDonald's paper takeout bag. He buzzed again. Did she want this?

"Jackson, what the fuck?"

"Sorry, wrong flat. I was looking for a lady."

"There's one in here somewhere. First floor."

She opened her door, heard his tread on the stairs, watched him come in. Her heart was pounding. She wanted to hug him or yell or cry or something.

"Didn't know if you were hungry, but I'll eat for two if I have to."

"What are you doing? I'm not allowed to see you. You should be out west somewhere standing tall in the saddle or roping steers with your combine harvester."

"Didn't know you'd studied agriculture."

"It's a new hobby, sort of eco-cop."

He put down his paper bag and retrieved a bottle of wine from an inside pocket. Her belly trembled. He opened his arms to her.

"Oh Jackson—dear lord."

He found her lips and held her tight against his hard body. It felt as if his two hands covered the area of her back. Madness, madness, joy and madness.

"I couldn't go back without holding you again."

His voice was so male. She drew it in to her mind behind her closed eyes. They were still standing, her door open to any passing resident. She pushed it shut with her foot. He just could not stay here. A bloody assistant commissioner had forbidden it.

"Who knows you're here? Who gave you my address?"

"Nobody and no one."

"So how...?"

"There was a letter to you on your mother's desk. She'd written on a forwarding address, so I took a photo."

"You're not just a hay seed, are you?"

"Better be. That's my image. Hayseeds are pretty cute. It's just that city folk don't know it."

"You didn't call me."

"That's how no one knows I'm here."

"Jackson, this bird _cannot_ fly. You _cannot_ be seen with me. They'll smear you over that damned YouTube vid."

He smiled, looking at her with those calm kind eyes.

"So, otherwise you want to see me?"

"Yes. Yes."

What was she saying? Where was her guile and self-control? He sat down on the edge of the bed, reached a hand to take hers. Her whole body was a tingle of joy, of need. If she sat beside him now, if she didn't pull away.... She replayed that special kiss, his touch on her silky wetness.... She had to think. She leaned in to kiss his lips. His hand stroked back her hair.

"My mother used to say that sometimes two people clicked," he said.

"Did you hear a sound? That click is my hungry signal."

She was playing for time _and_ she was hungry.

"I hope you like burgers. I can't walk past a Big Tasty meal offer."

"Not sure this stuff is politically correct, but I love it."

She folded out a small table and chairs and spread out the food. He sipped coke and poured wine. He ate and drank with big-handed strength and pleasure. She watched him, wanted him. What now, what now?

"Why me?" she asked.

He was washing his hands, those hands that had touched her that one time. He looked as if the question was sinking in. He answered in his slow, big sky voice.

"Because I saw a flame-haired girl with a cute sexy butt. Because I saw a brave woman facing down a guy who could kill her. Because you showed that bum compassion and respect. Because you know Socrates and Abraham Lincoln."

"Would you care to adjust the order?"

"Nope. It was the hair and the butt."

"Next time I talk to Lincoln or Socrates I'll tell them they came fourth to a butt."

"Old Abe would understand. Not sure about the Greek guy."

She laughed. His cowboy style was underpinned with a good deal of education. She cleaned up and sat down on the bed. He sat beside her. He spoke looking straight ahead.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you."

His hand had fallen to her thigh. A shudder ran through her. Touch me, touch me.

She lay back, watching him turn to look down on her. She was letting her legs widen. She caught his eyes following the movement.

"That was good thinking, Cowboy. Maybe I was thinking of you?"

His hand cupped her groin. He was watching her face, her need. She sighed, jolted, pressed her hand over his. Brazen, wet, longing. His hand was firm, teasing, circling, finding her spot. She rolled her head side to side, brought her hands to her breasts, feeling the bursting buds of her nipples through her clothing. A shudder of pre-orgasm rippled up and through to her fingers. She needed him to touch her flesh, that smooth silk that had thrilled him. In a flash she undid her waist and kicked off her pants. She was so wet; he would see her shameless lust. He was still seated, smiling in a dreamy haze, watching her face as he ran a finger the length of her hot groove on the wet fabric of her panties. He leaned to her sex, softly kissing the silk, darkened by her juice. She reached a hand to his dark wavy hair. He groaned a deep hum of pleasure. His tongue pressed into her cleft, nuzzling in the heat of an abandoned kiss. He stood, keeping his hand on the waistband of her panties. Her feet were on the floor, her legs wide apart. He knelt between them, kissing the flesh of her inner thighs, licking up to the seams of the covering fabric. This was a new territory of utter, utter surrender to need. It was all unstoppable now. His hands slid under her butt cheeks, drawing her down to the edge of the bed. She felt her panties ease away, his hand tender and firm on her sex. He stroked her, teasing, circling, pressing. She wriggled out of her blouse and bra, bringing her hands to her nipples, letting him watch her lust. She took a glance at him, soothing her thighs with his warm strong hands. She wanted to come just so, so much. He was spreading her outer lips, groaning out some timeless growl of nature. She lay back, feeling the moist heat of his tongue trace up through her groove to her clit. She stuttered out a cry as he found her place. Involuntarily she pressed her breasts together, holding, holding, holding the tension in her belly, climbing and climbing some staircase of oblivion. His flesh on hers was soft but insistent, keeping some drumbeat, bringing her up and up, thinking of his hot cock, thinking of his hot cum spurting, feeling the ocean wave start to turn and furl and spill. Now. Now. Now! Her orgasm burst out of her like a fork of lightning, through her legs and upwards through her whole body. Her inner sex squeezed and shrieked a joy of release, like an inner coil set free. Like a cloudburst, a hot rain poured in a pulsing swirl of thrashing jungle threads and vines that wrapped and gripped her flesh. Some animal voice broke out of her throat. She was no one and nothing but this orgy of joyous mystery. The first pass of the storm faded to a soft calm, a meadow, like a beautiful scene, a plateau on the climb of a mountain. Like a lover's kiss, like him kissing her inner flesh, knowing her soft skin, making love tenderly to that soul of her, that hot stiff little woman cock that was hardening again to meet his love, his need, his joy at what a woman was to a man. She wanted this, to show him her pleasure, her need so that he could carry it as his own in his heart and in his longing cock. His tongue was slow, running from her entrance to her clitoris, loving the juice of her. She began to climb that stairway once more. She brought her hands to his head, pulling him tight, wriggling her body to the point of her need. Letting out her sigh of release, now. She writhed and pressed her flesh against his lips, doubling her belly over him as the pulses of sex passion robbed her of any restraint. She lay back, biting her lip as the tremors shook through her thighs. Still there was a hunger, selfish and feral. She pushed herself against him, easing him to her entrance. He knew her need, bringing his hand to her hot flesh, slipping in a finger, then two, angling his touch forward, stroking some nameless longing inside her. His tongue re-found her clit, lightly circling in the same rhythm as his stroking fingers. He was holding her open, helpless pouring her juice onto his flesh, rejoicing in his passion for her release. Sharing, sharing, sharing this naked truth of natural life. She wanted this to pause, to last and yet the two sensations swept aside her grip of conscious control. She was wide and drenching against his touch—his tongue, his lips now kissing her woman lust pushed her on to an edge. Fuck, cum fuck my pussy, do it cum. She must have cried out as he soothed his fingers into the convulsing core of her orgasm, both inside her and in her clit. She kept her eyes closed, sensing he had moved but still squirming in her helpless release. It was his voice bringing her to consciousness.

"You are what beauty is to a man, my sweet woman," he said.

She opened her eyes to see him pulling off his clothes. His strong forearms were sun bronzed; his body was honed like a man who knew honest labor. She wanted this man so much, so jealously to be hers, possessed by an angry jealous bitch of a woman. This was hers. Fuck, she'd lost every shred of herself. She'd give him any love she had to ever love again with him like this. God, she hadn't thought of him. She could see the helpless blur of lust and need in his face. She knew this look. She'd watched herself come in the mirror. He was standing now naked, his hot cock wet with desire, straining upright, hard and longing to plunge into her. She shuffled up the bed, holding herself open to his gaze, letting her hands drift into her own wetness. How she loved this smoothness of her waxed flesh—such a secret pleasure, so often until now her solitary joy. He was so handsome, bending now to find a condom in a clothing pocket. He was kind and aware. If only she could feel his push, his release of juice inside her. He held her eyes, rolling on the latex, slightly masturbating his long thick cock. He groaned.

"Does it feel like my hot pussy?"

As the words left her mouth, she shocked herself. His eyes were soft and unfocused with animal need. He lay down at her side, drawing her lips to his in a kiss of tongues and the juice of her own passion. It was animal and sweet, sweet freedom. Could it be possible that she liked the taste of her own sex? This was the succulence of summer sugar and spilling ripe fruit. He moved above her, his hot shaft homing in to her sex, driving in with a slight push. She wasn't too experienced and the college boy who'd introduced her to the male wasn't this caliber of male. Now she was held open, helpless in the slight pain of ecstasy. There'd been nothing like this. His tireless strength started to overwhelm her. His rhythm and power made her grip his buttocks, hard and so strong. She was opening, feeling the scratch of an itch she'd never known, some blunter duller pulse deep in her belly. He paused to kiss her lips, search her eyes for ... for ... for what? For oneness, wholeness, for her to pull him in, for him to drive to her peak, to some new knowledge of her. To know this sense of fullness, this building sense of pushing down around him, tightening herself around his cock, feeling his need, reaching up to his face, his hair, tasting his lips in the cycle of his thrusts and now, now, now thrilling at his groan of release, spilling from him like the helpless happiness of warm sun, wine, and love. Yes, love, that unicorn myth she dare never admit. His pleasure pushed and pulsed into her. They were one. He was her shuddering pussy; she was coming with his spurting cock. They were one mass and mess of seamless lust. She kissed the passion of her orgasm into his lips, watched his eyes dull into abandon, raised the nipple of her breast to his lips. Let the man of him take the woman of her as his own, took the seed of him as her own body, sighed and growled a harmony of human flesh beyond the wisdom of any mind.

She slept, cradled in his arms. His body was muscular, his chest darkly haired. He had the sex musk of male in his skin. He might be twice her weight. How safe she felt, how empty at the thought of him going. She woke at midnight in the light of the streetlamps.

"I need to shower and get going," he said.

"Go now? Where?"

"I've got a lift on a military flight from a US air base. There's an embassy guy picking me up in forty-five minutes."

Well, she'd filled in his time while he was waiting for his transport. He'd fulfilled his mission, his challenge perhaps. She watched him move in the small room. He was just too big, his movements too direct and quick. She loved the contours of his triceps, biceps, and deltoid muscles. He was like the poster in her gym. She had no right to him and yet she was close to tears. She would _not_ let him see her desire for him.

"So that's that then," she said, trying to keep any emotion out of her voice. He was pulling on his clothes, checking his watch.

"Only if you want that."

"I didn't say that."

"It sounded like a statement."

He was a politician. He was forcing her to expose her thoughts before his own.

"Jackson, this is impossible."

"It's impossible for ten days, then I'm back for the NATO meeting."

Then she _would_ see him again. She'd wait, she'd wait.

"I could be career death to you. Congressman hero in relationship with fake video cop. You know how these bastards will savage you."

He looked at her, his eyes soft. He leaned in to kiss her.

"Honey, sure I don't want that. All the same it's a sad day when the truth doesn't work for folks. I'm not looking for press dramas simply because my real work is more important than fighting off that trash."

"You'll risk that for me? I'm a kid compared to you."

"Compared to me you're all woman."

"Is that enough?"

"It is if you're all the woman I want to get to know. What I really want to do now is to lie down now in the light from the street and hear your voice explaining the finer points of ethics."

"Ethics?"

"Yah, what's right and what's wrong dressed up by professors so regular folk get left out. If it's a bit dull can you talk dirty about that stuff?"

She was grinning, breaking into a laugh.

"Fuck off, Jackson. What sort of man are you?"

"I'm the sort of man who was trying to tell you I like you on all sorts of levels, OK."

His tone had just the slight edge of a slap. He really was a bastard patriarch. He was a bastard patriarch who kind of respected her mind.

"I'll start with Saint Thomas Aquinas. He was pure but I can sex it up a bit."

"You're wonderful, you know," he said.

"Oh Jackson...."

"I've got to go. I'm meeting the driver at King's Cross. I didn't want to give him an address. Olivia—there'll be no one else I promise you that."

She got up from the bed, hugged him and kissed his lips.

"I'll be here," she said simply, hating her surrender, thrilling to the sense of him wanting her, really, really wanting her. No wonder men treated women as inferior if this was all it took to rob them of their senses.

"Come with me now," he said.

"Naked?"

"Pack a bag, dress on the way."

"No."

"Was worth a try," he said with a smile.

"Be careful, Cowboy," she said to his back as he headed down the stairs.

"I left you something on the work-top. Time to get really educated," he called back.

She closed the door and saw a small bag next to the cooker hob. Inside was an old-fashioned CD. It looked like a Country and Western production. Cole Swindell—" _Break Up In The End_." There was a post-it note, in a bold handwriting. _Let's hope never. Keep it country while I'm gone. Thinking of you. Jackson x._

She turned it over with a sigh. If she started listening to this stuff and liking it there'd be no hope. She had to sleep.
Chapter 10

She was ready by seven thirty for her ride to wherever she was going. Anna La Salle had said she'd be training with guns, but she could just catch the tube to the firing range. The intercom sounded. She peeked out the window to see a ragged dented silver Mercedes S500 sedan double-parked outside.

"Is that Olivia?"

The voice was male, accented, maybe German?

"Who's this?"

"Wolf."

"Bastian?"

"Yeah, let's go."

"Who sent you?"

"You sound like a cop. Anna sent me. I've got ID so forget the false eyelashes and get your ass out here."

Now this male was the original throwback. She took a deep breath and took the stairs to the hallway. The front door had no glass so she would have no sight of him. He must be legit. She opened the door to a stocky white male, thirty-seven years, five-ten, big shoulders, cropped fairish hair, boxer's nose, a scarred brow and hard blue eyes.

"Did you really know who I was, Olivia?"

"Yes."

"No, you didn't. He walked past her into the building."

"Let's get your mindset re-programmed, OK. Some anonymous jerk's on the doorstep. You've seen a heap of shit car that sure ain't from Scotland Yard. You've got a back exit into the garden. You vault the walls to the end of the street, and you come back round behind him. If you're carrying a firearm, the catch is off, but you don't shoot your leg."

She swallowed. This guy was some sort of brute or madman or both.

"It's a lot of trouble to grab a package from an Amazon courier," she said.

For a moment he stared at her, but allowed himself a chuckle.

"Let's hope you can joke in the morgue."

"You said you had ID."

He pulled out a European driving license and a Dutch passport. She checked him over. She decoded the date of birth from the serial number on the license.

"When's your birthday?"

"Once a year—normally twenty-fourth November."

"Where are we going exactly?"

"We're going to shoot some bottles on a wall."

"Is that what cops do?"

"No, this is guerrilla style. The cops have house rules. You haven't enough service and you've not been assessed psychologically. Also, they won't give you advanced driver training. Let's see how we go."

She walked with him to the car.

"You drive," he said.

"This thing? It's five liters and huge."

"Well, we didn't have a six-liter model, so we'll have to make do."

Her mouth was dry. She'd passed her test in a Ford Fiesta and had hardly driven since. She'd never driven an automatic. She got herself comfortable, selected Drive and surged forward.

"Two pedals. One foot. Press to go, press the big one to stop."

Somehow, she aimed this aircraft carrier of a car through the London traffic, following Bastian's barked instructions. It was a baptism of fire, but she was beginning to enjoy the smooth power of the machine. Her instructor seemed pleased.

"Hey, you're loosening up. You were cool yesterday with that robber. He just didn't see you coming did he?"

"What?"

"I was in the area."

She thought quickly. He must have been following her, must have picked her up at Scotland Yard. What did he know? Did he know about Jackson? Did he realize she hadn't filed any report?

"Just who or what are you?"

"Colonel Wolf. I'm ex-Korps Commando Troepen. I'm working with Anna La Salle."

"You know about Jackson T. Paine?"

"Yeah, he's folksy and handsome. It's a winning formula, but not my own style."

She laughed. She was getting to like him.

"Why am I with you?"

"To put a far older head on your young shoulders and then keep it there."

"You saw that incident in Leicester Square yesterday. You know I hurt someone and didn't file a report?"

"It's a terrible world. I'd never do a thing like that myself. Anything you do is a secret between us, OK? Trust, trust, trust and it works both ways. You've seen too many faces, know a bit too much to back out _. Capisce_?"

" _Capisco_."

God knows what she was into. For sure he knew about Jackson.

They'd headed east out of London. The roads were filled with heavy container trucks. Old abandoned service stations and diners decayed on weed-strewn scrub. She knew they were near the Tilbury Docks. He directed her to a rundown industrial estate. He opened a heavy high metal gate and waved her in to park in front of what looked like a vehicle workshop. Bastian opened the trunk of the Mercedes and took out two holdalls, handing her one of them. A guy was welding a car, a van was in the air on a ramp. A greasy unshaven mechanic was smoking at the entrance. He nodded at Bastian as they walked in through the tools, containers of oil, and trailing cables. There was a sickening smell of fuel oil. She followed him to a back-partitioned office and closed the door. Bastian checked around, shoved a filing cabinet aside to reveal a trap door which he pulled open to show a rough wooden ladder leading down into total darkness.

"Put the bag straps on like a rucksack. Make your way down. When you feel the floor take two steps back and wait for some light."

"Is it far?"

"It's as far as you need to go to reach the floor. Go."

She got her feet on the ladder and started to descend. The smell was of damp, the darkness blacker than night. There were scurrying sounds and cobwebs. She felt a slight panic but kept going down. As far as she could tell there was no one above her. Was he coming? Was it a trick? Her mouth was dry, but still she went deeper, the ladder creaking and flexing. Her foot touched a surface. She'd reached some uneven ground. She took two steps back. A fluorescent tube light flickered on. The place was a brick-built vault. A rat scampered away across her feet. She looked back up to the trap door, maybe sixty feet above. Bastian was looking down at her.

"The switch is just here on the left," he called down, as he began to descend.

The bastard. Was it some kind of fear test? He arrived at the bottom. She held out her hands in a questioning gesture.

"Well done. Trust, _geddit_ ," he said. "This is our little shooting gallery. They're old tunnels and cellars from the Victorian docks. The workshop guys are ours."

She followed him to an open space with a long tunnel leading off. He clicked on some more lights. There was a weight bench and some weights. In the far distance she could see targets and sand bags.

"Right – let's get to work. First up the Glock 26 police-issue pistol. You can play with my Walther PPK if you've got James Bond ambitions. I want you to fire a sawed-off from the hip and empty a clip from a Heckler and Koch HK 121 machine gun into those targets with a single sweep. There's some other goodies like sniper rifles if we get bored. I'll show you the techniques, then I'll just be working out while you play freestyle.

She'd lost all context of reality. By the time she climbed back out of the hole it was dark and she was a new person. The power and recoil of the weapons was shocking at first, but she'd loved the sense of mastery. Bastian Wolf was total pro. He'd taken the chance to practice and the guy just did not miss. He poured her strong black coffee from a Thermos. His humor was drier than Arizona or at least how she imagined it. It was dark outside the workshop. She scanned the parking lot for the Mercedes. Bastian walked to a dark BMW 740 sedan.

"Where's the Merc?"

"On the way to a team up north, I think. This is ours for a couple of days. Never make patterns. Never go to the same book shop on a Saturday in the same coat. Change your cars, change your tube journey, if you read a newspaper change it, answer the phone with a different phrase. It's what we do."

"But you're not a cop?"

"Olivia, you've impressed me today, but for now just accept that Assistant Commissioner Anna La Salle has put you in my hands. Now you're tired and the driving conditions are smeary. You don't know the car. It's a tough drive back."

She nodded. So, there was human mercy, even in the Wolf.

"So that's why I want you to get in it and get us back just as fast as you can. It's a stick shift so you should feel at home. Don't run any lights but when you can, use speed. Floor it until you frighten yourself. Don't worry about traffic cameras. Go."

An hour later she pulled over into a parking bay in Russell Square, overshadowed by the huge stone bulk of the British Museum. She was physically drained, her knuckles white gripping the wheel. All the same she'd kept her focus and just kept pushing as Bastian snapped curt instructions. He turned to her with almost a smile.

"Well, that's your driver training. You did OK. No one died and my underwear's still clean. You're better than a lot of guys, but you're not Kaitlyn yet."

"You know Kaitlyn? She picked me up once to go to the airport. I'll never forget it."

"She's special but so are you in your own way. Tomorrow you're on the team but you won't see me. Get to the National Crime Agency in Vauxhall for 7 a.m. Take this basic cell phone and use it for all police business. If it rings pick up no matter when or where. The numbers you'll need are stored. Don't carry a private cell. Get some food, get some sleep, and well done. No street fights with muggers. Go."

She watched the BMW lose itself in the drizzling blur of the London night. So that was Bastian Wolf. She'd had some near misses driving back, but he'd smiled and encouraged her. Bastard men. Fucking bastard males. He could hold a handgun with one extended arm and hit the target time after time. He didn't know fatigue. She steadied her body and drew in some air. God she was so alone, a loneliness she'd not acknowledged until now. Why hadn't she seen it? She needed to eat, but couldn't be bothered with shopping or cooking. She got a pizza from the Valencia cafe in Tavistock Place where they knew her face, where she always got a friendly smile. In London this little recognition passed for community and friendship. She ate and got a shower. She put the Cole Swindell CD in her laptop and lay back. That bloody man had brought her this, wanted to share some element of himself with her. She let her mind flash back to his touch, his look, his kiss. Some genie was out of the bottle and the bottle was lost or smashed or floating somewhere without a message inside. A cowboy country male voice was singing a song about breaking up. It was so, so good to cry.
Chapter 11

She already knew the offices of the National Crime Agency in Spring Gardens, Vauxhall. Her walk from the tube station took her past the strange cream and green headquarters of MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service. God knows who knew what about whom. Was Bastian following her today? In the reception area of the NCA was the normal style desk. As she approached a hand touched her shoulder. A female spoke.

"Put on this badge and follow me."

She swiveled to see the short blonde spiky hair of this mysterious woman, Kaitlyn, the driver. Her face was friendly but tough. She had double ear piercings and a tongue stud. She wore black jeans, flower-patterned high Doc Marten boots and a sleeveless quilted jacket. Her left arm displayed a large tattoo of a female figure like some kind of ancient goddess. Olivia clipped on the ID and smiled back. It was great to see someone she knew.

"Were you waiting for me?"

"Sure, just stick with me. We've got a meeting now. Something's gone down and we're on it. We need a clean-skin and that may well be you. Just listen up and I'll fill you in once we get deployed."

"What?"

"Pin your ears back, say yes to everything they want you to do, then do it. It's so simple working here."

She wanted to ask questions. She knew Kaitlyn used to be a cop but now was something else. Did she work with the same people as Bastian? They took the stairs to the third floor and entered a room set with simple chairs. Perhaps a dozen plainclothed men and women were milling around. She spotted shoulder holsters under open jackets. The room fell silent as they entered.

"Guys, this is Olivia," announced Kaitlyn. "Unlike you she's a human being, so watch your manners."

A heavy black-bearded guy with a dark gravel voice handed her a black coffee in a plastic cup.

"Hi—Sparrow."

"He's the office pirate," said Kaitlyn, reaching out and tugging his beard. Olivia gave a weak smile of thanks. A tall balding man of about fifty in studious glasses and a shapeless grey suit stood up and clapped his hands.

"OK animals, here's the deal. Our friends have the target at a house in West London. As far as we know she's still unharmed but we're going in today. There's a team dug in. The ransom is due to be paid at eleven o'clock. They've swallowed the bait and demanded payment in the cryptocurrency Cashtag. Our colleagues at Sackman- Platinum have cracked the encryption algorithm."

Sackman-Platinum Bank? Olivia knew of them. Knew that Jackson T. Paine was somehow involved with seeking political funding from them. Knew they were a byword for laundering dirty money and tax evasion scams. This bloody bank somehow linked Assistant Commissioner Anna La Salle to Jackson and now these cops and these other agents like Bastian and Kaitlyn. Just what the hell was she into? The boss was explaining more.

"Right, once the payment is transacted, we can trace it. It _could_ be anywhere in the world but it's likely to be within normal Albanian Mafia networks in London. Once we've got a fix, we go in. Get tooled up and get to your strike locations. Kaitlyn, Sparrow and our new face—I'm sorry I don't know your name—see me downstairs. Let's keep it clean if possible."

As if someone had pulled a bath plug the room emptied. Dumbly she followed Kaitlyn downstairs to a small windowless office. The officer who'd been speaking was seated at a desk.

"I'm sorry, we've not met. I'm Chief Inspector Jake Noble."

"Olivia."

"Great. You look the part. I'll give you a very quick explanation. Albanian Mafia operatives have kidnapped the daughter of a Hatton Garden diamond trader. It's something they do when the boys need a bit more cash than they're getting from beating their trafficked prostitutes. We're dealing with vile ruthless bastards. They're well capable of taking the money, asking for more and more and then killing the hostage, or maybe just a gang rape, or both. These people never ever let a hostage go. They've got a cash cow and they just keep milking. When the time is right, we need to get the door of the house open and one of their thugs outside. There's four of them guarding her. A frontal attack on the premises could well be very messy. We want to get them off guard and that may mean just tapping the front door. You OK with this?"

"Sure," she answered.

"Great. You don't look like a cop. Try not to even think about being a cop. Kaitlyn's going to get you there, dress on the way. Good luck."

A grey VW cargo van was in an underground car park. Kaitlyn started the motor. Detective Sparrow took the front passenger seat. A second row of seats was behind.

"There's a stab and bullet vest, track suit and some sissy pink trainers back there. Get changed and I promise not to peek. Soon as you can strap in," he said.

She fumbled awkwardly to dress in the space behind the seats. Kaitlyn was driving fast but still smooth.

"OK, I'm done."

The vehicle pulled out of line as her driver hit the gas. She forced an extra lane where she had to, took traffic islands to left and right and used pedestrian space as needed. Olivia stayed quiet even though questions scrolled through her mind. Jackson had mentioned Sackman-Platinum when they were in Scotland. Hadn't he said that Kaitlyn's partner worked there? At least it kept her mind off what lay ahead of her today. They hurtled through Chiswick and hit the M4 motorway headed west toward Heathrow Airport. Sparrow was talking on a police frequency radio. They took an exit for Hounslow. Jets screamed in low overhead one after the other on the final approach flightpath. They pulled up in a residential road of houses with front and rear gardens. Kaitlyn tossed her a pack of elastic hair bobbles.

"Put your hair up in a couple of stupid girlie bunches. You look great."

The back doors opened and a man got in. He had a postman's sack and red jacket with official badge.

"Yo," said Sparrow.

"Yo," said Bastian Wolf.

Olivia's heart pounded. Her eyes shot to his. His gaze was cold fearless steel. His voice was calm.

"OK, we've got this. Now listen, there's not much time. Here's a bundle of pictures of your lost cat. When it's time you'll walk behind me into the next street. If you see anyone, you'll show them the picture and ask if they've seen her. The target is number seventeen. I'll be delivering mail on the opposite side of the street. You see me and come across to show me the picture. You're a bit desperate. You look like you'll do anything to find the animal OK? We'll be in plain sight of the bad guys. I take an interest and point to a few places. I say I've seen a cat over there. When I say, you go across to number seventeen. There's a car on the drive. You call out for kitty. You look underneath. You try the door handle. You poke around the bush in the front garden. You go to the front door, you knock. If no one comes you look in the window, tap on the glass. You go to the garage and call out for kitty. You try the side gate to the back garden. You keep it up until something happens or your cell phone rings. If you're confronted, you show them your pussy."

"Yeah, I've got it. What happens after?"

"It's always freestyle but there's people real close. If they fall for it someone will come out and tell you to fuck off. We're listening to their chat. We know they've got heavy bolts on that front door and the rear door is barricaded. We need that front door open."

She was terrified, not of getting hurt but of letting down these people whoever they were. She could tell Sparrow was a cop. God, she was pleased to see Bastian. He was rock hard, ruthless, and never missed. The radio crackled out some curt coded words. Kaitlyn started the motor.

"Go to work guys," she said.

She did just as Bastian had told her. He was thirty yards ahead, his post bag across his shoulder as she entered the street. She reached number eleven and began to walk across the carriageway at a diagonal to meet up with him outside. She showed him the picture; her mouth too dry to speak easily. He looked down at the photo.

"There's one in a ski mask watching from the front upstairs room and another one downstairs. They've both spotted us." As he spoke, he pointed to where he'd seen the cat. Olivia placed her hands together in prayer, pleading for it to her missing pet. He put a hand to her elbow and pointed some more.

"Come with me. I'll make a few more gestures then move back across the street. Go."

She entered the front garden. From the corner of her eye she saw a movement behind the window glass. She looked up, smiling and waving a photo. He gestured her away. She waved back, went to the window, holding the picture to the glass. She acted out more praying.

"Sir, sir, please—it's my grandmother's cat. She's been in hospital, please, please. Can I check the garage please, please?"

The man waved her away again. He was overweight, maybe forty-five with long greasy grey streaked hair pushed back into a pony tail. He had a thick moustache stained from smoking.

She went to the front door and started to knock, calling through the letter box.

"Sir, please. The postman has seen her. She might be locked in your garage. Please, please look for me"

She heard him come to the door.

"You fuck off you stinking bitch,"

She pushed a cat photo through the letterbox. She heard the man shout out something to someone else in the house.

"Sir, I'm going to look in the garage sir. Please, please."

She started to turn. She heard two bolts snap back. He stepped out of the doorway, baseball bat at his side. He opened his mouth to speak as Bastian fired over her shoulder with his silenced Walther PPK. He vaulted across the body before it fully settled on the floor. She heard two bursts of light machine gun fire as half a dozen Met police firearms unit officers dashed in from the garage. She was panting and trembling. The thug on the floor had lost most of his head. An eye was skewed and hanging on a ragged mess of pink flesh near the ear. She was fighting to control nausea and stood back away from the door. A woman officer was leading a pale dark-haired teenage girl through the hallway, using her hand to shield the horror from the child's eyes. She walked her away calmly to a plain Ford Mondeo which cruised off at once. The VW cargo van pulled up. Kaitlyn looked across, smiled and waved.

"You did good."

The accented voice behind her could only be Bastian Wolf. She actually wanted to hug him as he moved alongside her and touched her elbow to ease into step beside him. He was wearing a leather coat, a baseball cap and carrying a familiar holdall.

"What now?"

"Whatever you want. A drink, play some dumb internet game, catch a movie."

"What? There's a mess of death and crime in there. Reports, you know ... like coroners and public enquiries about police brutality."

"That police brutality is too official for me. I don't like to interfere with you pros. This sort of scum shoots each other up all the time. No police bullets were fired. They had a turf war with some other thugs and lost. Do you think anyone cares?"

"There are procedures...."

"Olivia, I won't tell tales about you wrecking that mugger's face and balls if you don't tell anyone I didn't like that guy's attitude to cats. If you caused me a big problem, it's possible I'd mention to Anna La Salle what you made of her orders not to see Jackson T. Paine."

"You're a fucking unbelievable bastard."

"So, no one would believe me. Hey, welcome to the team, OK."

"So, we just drive off?"

"Unless you want to be a cleaner or help with a body bag. I was a mailman once, but it got dangerous."

Olivia shook her head. If she kept quiet now, she'd be as implicated as everyone else. She thought of that poor kid who'd been held hostage. She'd felt a real buzz watching her walk free and unharmed to go back to her family. Assistant Commissioner La Salle had put her into the hands of this man. You had to trust someone.

"I'm cool with it, Bastian. I didn't want the paperwork."

They climbed back into the cargo van. Kaitlyn smiled up at the mirror to catch Olivia's face behind her.

"Good job kid, but you look half-baked in those girlie bunches."

She pulled out the bands laughing out of pure relief and confusion. Next to her Bastian pulled a mail sack from his hold all. Half of it was shot to rags. In a flash he dismantled an AK47 assault rifle. He caught her curiosity.

"Like I said, no police-issue kit involved back there. This is a terrorist weapon. Next time we get a free day I'll let you try one. For now, it's _ciao tutti ragazzi_."

The VW pulled up. He flexed his shoulders and settled his shoulder holster. As he adjusted his pants, she caught sight of a combat knife strapped to his calf. She watched him stroll to a dark green Mini Cooper parked in a quiet street.

"We need a drink," said Sparrow.

Kaitlyn reached across and tweaked his great bush of a beard.

"What's the use of one solitary fucking drink to a woman?"

Olivia laughed. She could use half a bottle of Scotch.

"What sort of man is that Bastian Wolf?" she asked into the void.

A deep black-bearded voice answered.

"That's what he wanted to know about you. You got that job cos he chose you, sugar."
Chapter 12

One drink was never going to be enough. They left the VW cargo van at the National Crime Agency offices and took a few steps to the Rose pub on Albert Embankment. Kaitlyn explained some ground rules.

"No discussion of work or anything related. There's MI6 down the road and the bloody place is crawling with spies and cops."

Sparrow stood up a bottle of Cotes du Rhone and a beer for himself. Kaitlyn nodded at several characters she obviously knew. Olivia threw back her first glass. She made a mental note that she was beginning to misuse alcohol. It didn't dampen her pleasure.

"So, what do you listen to for music?" asked Kaitlyn.

"Cole Swindell" she answered with a laugh, "I mean I just started yesterday."

Kaitlyn punched the air.

"Yo, that's got Jackson written all over it. He's just got to be a cowboy makin' up n'breakin' up in a pickup truck full of tears."

Olivia stared back at her. What did she know? She decided not to ask.

"It's not really my sort of stuff. I do a Punjabi Bhangra dance class at the gym. That music is addictive."

"I'm more hard rock, like Five Finger Death Punch. You should check out ' _When The Seasons Change.'_ I air guitar to Bad Wolves and I'm not too proud to blast Bon Jovi in the car."

The pirate, Sparrow, downed his beer.

"Girls, I got a woman at home and you know what a pain in the ass that can be. I'll catch you tomorrow."

Kaitlyn sprang up mimed a mwah kiss on both cheeks.

"I've told you to shave that Taliban shit off and you'll feel my pain-in-the-ass woman lips soft and sexy on your skin, big guy. How can you resist?"

Olivia shook her head. A few days ago, all the blatant sexism and disrespect for the integrity of identity would have offended and appalled her. Here she was laughing and pouring another drink. Inwardly she shrugged. There were so many questions to analyze when she'd settled down and had time to think. This bar wasn't the place to start.

"It's time I got going too."

Kaitlyn threw back the dregs of wine.

"Walk with me up to Embankment, I'll jump on a boat there. You can get the Northern Line to King's Cross."

"A boat?"

"I'm staying down near Tower Bridge."

It was a strange answer. She had to remind herself that Kaitlyn wasn't a cop. As they walked towards Westminster Bridge along the Embankment, to their left were the Houses of Parliament and the tower clock of Big Ben. What _was_ the meaning of power or indeed the law? She did need to know.

"Who do you work for, Kaitlyn?"

"I'm a freelance."

The answer annoyed her. She'd been party to more than one killing, and she had a right to know more.

"What sort of fucking answer is that?" she snapped back.

"Steady up, it's the only answer you're going to get today."

"There's an imbalance of power here. I get clues that you people know a lot about me and I'm not welcome to join in. If you're a closed shop clique I'd rather just move on."

Kaitlyn stopped walking and faced her.

"Three or four years ago I was just like you. Believe me, I understand. A couple of bosses kept telling me to suck it up and, in the end, I bailed out. There's a recruitment process, OK. Many are called but few are chosen. Part of the assessment is blind trust. We're working tomorrow and then we've got a couple of free days. Come to my place and we'll have a decent talk."

Olivia studied this older woman's face. She must have been thirty-two. An eight-year gap was a universe of time.

"Sure, thanks. I'd like that." She took a deep breath. "A question, OK. You said you'd met Jackson. What do you know about—?"

Kaitlyn picked up on her hesitation and reached out for her hand.

"Honey, I know."

"And?"

"And you did a great job today. If you get off on kissing a simple cowboy that's your business."

Olivia swallowed all her other confusions as they walked on across Westminster Bridge, Kaitlyn busy on her cell phone. They arrived together at a gangway leading down to a jetty close to the Embankment tube station. Craft ploughed up and down the river. A party boat spilled out music, lights, and laughter onto the rippling flow of the Thames. Women in long dresses danced inside. She envied them, probably none of them had seen death and violence that day. A boat was turning in a tight circle to come round the pier. The motor had a deep growl. The hull was dark, sleek, and somehow sinister. Kaitlyn took a few steps forward and leapt aboard. She called back as the bow lifted out of the water with the force of acceleration.

"Not too early. Nine will do. _Ciao._ "

Olivia watched it go, loud and fast downstream, its red and green navigation lights visible all the way to Blackfriars Bridge. Another bloody mystery. What sort of person had access to a machine like that?

As an afterthought she checked her mailbox in the lobby. An unfamiliar style of high-quality envelope carried her address in a big handwriting. There was no stamp. She hadn't received a handwritten letter since she was a child. After all that had happened in the day it was ridiculous to feel a sense of excitement. She hurried to her apartment, sat down and opened it, carefully using a knife so as not to spoil its sense of virginity. She pulled out a large folded sheet of lined paper.

My Dear Olivia, A politician has opponents and there are those who can monitor telephones and social media. Otherwise I would like very much to see you and hear your voice. There are those who would use any connection between us against me as you know. I've used certain diplomatic channels to get a short letter to you and I hope you do not find such a thing intrusive.

Some chance brought us together. I live in a synthetic world where so many things are artificial, so many things are lies, so many people hide the truth of themselves, so many rotten individuals use media to signal their right-thinking virtue. I saw you on that street that day and I saw the compassion, courage and sincerity that I crave for myself and I hope to promote in public life. When a man sees such qualities in a beautiful woman, he cheats himself of a wonderful chance if he walks on by. I must apologize for the way things developed between us. I moved faster than I should have done I know. It seemed there would so little time for us and it seemed you understood that too. I'm hoping so hard that you appreciate that what happened between us was very beautiful and sincere on my part.

I'll be thinking of you every spare moment until I come back to London, hoping I can hold you in my arms again. I am so sorry that our lives cannot be truly normal for now and I would understand fully if you seek a more regular situation. I'll sign off with that casual throwaway word that can bounce right back.

Love from Jackson x

PS. The diplomatic mail system is far faster than any regular post. If you have it in your heart to reply to me, drop something into the embassy and I will receive it. The staff are aware that you may call by.

She read it several times. What sort of man was this? The style was formal but warm. It was like something from Jane Austen or Louisa May Alcott, some world where gentlemen were gentle men. Every shred of her education had told her that no such thing was ever true. She held the letter to her chest, held herself back from a theatrical urge to kiss the paper. Was this a love letter? The circumstances had obliged them to step out of their own time and back to a different place. She read it again, hearing his slow deep cowboy voice, imagining his hand on the pen, those strong hands folding the paper. It looked as if he'd used real wet ink. How could such a simple thing bring her such emotion? How trashy everything else seemed by comparison with this considered expression of his feelings. Whatever happened she would value this letter. Even as she recalled the day, the fear, the danger, and the horror of gunfire and violence, her mind swung to him, his kiss, his touch. That touch, that moment when his hand had come to her thigh, her sex. God, she would have screamed if he hadn't set her free from that knot of desire. She lay back on her bed, hearing his voice, seeing his strong jaw, those kind eyes, feeling again the soft warm heat of his tongue and lips drawing her up into a bursting spilling wave of pleasure. And then on without limit to a sea of waves, a self-knowledge of abandon to joy. Merely these thoughts aroused her, awoke her to a new knowledge, that orgasm, that loss of self, was a beautiful truth. Unconsciously her hand had slipped down inside her panties. She pulled out of her semi dream, showered, made a sandwich, turned off the light and lay as she had with him, remembering how this same quality of light and shadow had spread across the muscles of his arms, shoulders, and ridged belly. A couple of years ago she'd traded her virginity for some hoped-for status as a full woman. A full woman indeed. For that, the modern world would need perfect kids, some fashionable dog to video for Instagram, and a Big Boss office with her name on the door. The encounter had been a skirmish, leaving no scars, but raising no flags, and she had never tried again. Jackson T. Paine had opened a door into her and walked right inside. In stupid songs, maybe sentimental country songs, those tear-stained lovers kissed that paper. She read it one more time and pressed it to her lips.

She was at the office by eight thirty. She had a chat with the Chief Inspector Jake Noble she'd seen the day before. She learned that the other teams had traced the ransom money and were dealing with the bad guys. She did _not_ ask how, for fear of the answer. She had a big inescapable question.

"Sir, this Sackman-Platinum Bank—you said they'd cracked the algorithm for tracing encrypted money transfers. These guys have a pretty dirty reputation. Are they on our side?

The tall bespectacled Chief Inspector nodded seriously.

"That's a fair question and a good one. These bankers are all about numbers. They don't see right or wrong."

"There are lots of banks and lots of clever bankers. Even at university there's books about these people and their involvement with dictators and drug lords."

Her tone was a little sharp. She meant it that way.

"I understand your point Olivia...." He paused and studied her over the top of his glasses. "The fact is that you ought to have been given more briefings and had more security clearances. It was felt that you could come in outside the normal process."

"You mean Bastian Wolf wanted me?"

"If he hadn't wanted you, you wouldn't have been there."

The Chief Inspector wasn't rude and wasn't pulling rank. He seemed fair, as fair as any brick wall of authority. Assistant Commissioner Anna La Salle had given her to Bastian and assigned her to this squad. It was also evident that they'd put her under surveillance, blocked her phone and for sure both the mysterious Kaitlyn and Bastian knew about her affair with Jackson. As her situation ran through her mind, her boss excused himself to take a call on his cell phone and moved away. She sat down at vacant desk where the view from the window was a tangle of train tracks leading away from Clapham Junction. It seemed an ironic comment on her status. She looked up to see the white teeth of Pirate Sparrow grinning out from his beard. He was carrying a thick official file. She smiled back, relieved to see someone who was evidently a straightforward basement cop like herself.

"How was that pain-in-the-ass woman at home?" she asked remembering his comments in the bar.

"Living up to expectations. She wants to stick me with an arrow of love, but I'm a moving target."

"Is her name Maid Marian? Can't you send her back to Robin Hood?"

"I put him in jail. That's how I ended up with her. She's a gangster's bitch and those women are too dangerous to cross." He gave a deep chuckle. Either it was true, or he truly loved a wonderful woman. She couldn't believe she was just soaking up this outrage of sexist debasement as humor. "This is an office day so here's some off-ish-yal paper shit. That shoot up on that American politician used a big, big weapon. It's a 14.5-millimeter KPV, sometimes called a Vladimirov. This is the motherfucker you see in the back of the pickup truck in every shit-hole war on TV news shows."

She was beginning to see the dark depths of Sparrow's cynicism. Inwardly she shuddered. Some people out there had obtained this degree of fire power to kill him. She had to stop herself thinking of him, that man who had sat and thought of her and sent her a word of love in ink.

"Your mission is to go through every sheet in this file. The gun is probably from Libya. There's soil and sand traces that check out. It's very worn but these guys just wanted to blast from close range. It jammed after sixteen rounds and that's why that man's alive. Everything that's come in from people like Interpol, Europol, the French agencies, DGSI and DGSE, CIA, FBI, individual agents, etc. is in this file. It needs flow charts, collation and analysis. Got it? Go."

Her eyes widened as she let out a long sigh.

"Jeez man."

"Gotta start somewhere. The boss gave it to me, but they tell me you're clever, well cleverer than me."

It would be good to stretch her brain and she didn't mind the compliment.

"Where would you start, Sparrow?"

He flashed his lighthouse beam of a smile from the dark seaweed covered rocks of his pirate beard. He opened the file to a cardboard marker.

"We don't know much about the ammo. This here's a dark web search to buy empty shell cases for a 14.5 caliber gun. I've not had time to track the seller. I'd try buying something simple like some nine-millimeter bullets or maybe a SIG Sauer P228. You know like you were a regular holdup guy or private bodyguard." He placed the file on her desk. "From what everyone says you were good yesterday. You should feel some respect coming your way today, so be proud. Kaitlyn's got dark web codes and I.D.s, so work together when she gets in. Just read through the file. A fresh pair of eyes can spot stuff you know."

She watched him walk away, communicating with high fives and fist pumps. It was time to work. It wasn't long before an atmosphere of sinister threat began to eat into her bones. Jackson T. Paine was a serious problem to whole criminal empires, and they knew it. A fearless yet naive sheriff had ridden out alone to face down the bad guys. He was riding into a valley where bandits had the high ground and loaded rifles. There had now been a serious attempt to kill him. A very senior politician with known links to organized crime appeared to be behind a lot of the action. Even so he'd gone to McDonald's, brought her a hamburger meal, had walked back to King's Cross just to see her, just to be with her like a regular guy. Oh Jackson, bloody hell, you crazy man.

It was an hour or so later that she began to note a link between so many of the fragments. Time and time again she noted the use of this dark web cryptocurrency called Cashtag. Payments were made and received within a network which couldn't be identified or traced. No regular banks or currencies were involved. She knew already that the kidnappers she'd encountered yesterday had demanded payment using Cashtag. She scanned through a report from a detective in Germany. One of the shooters who'd attacked Jackson was known to police in Berlin for drug trafficking. She read and re-read the final conclusion of the officer.

The suspect has informed us that his organization has an arrangement with Sackman-Platinum Bank to convert Cashtag payments into US dollars and vice versa.

She leaned back, turning over the implications in her mind. She didn't know too much about these new digital currencies. For sure Bitcoin was well known and wasn't associated with the mainstream banking system. Cashtag was a far darker deal. She dared not call herself a detective, but her instinct was telling her one thing. Cashtag was a creature of Sackman-Platinum Bank. They profited from any evil transacted. For some reason they'd helped the good guys in connection with the kidnap of that diamond dealer's daughter. She had no proof but perhaps a diamond dealer could be a good customer of the bank? Jackson had told her openly that Kaitlyn's partner was a big shot at this very bank. Through the window she watched the trains crisscrossing, stopping and starting to colored light signals. To an outsider it made no sense but inside the network there was a script and the best way to know it was to write it. She liked the metaphor.

"Hey, beautiful dreamer, I got you a coffee."

Kaitlyn pulled up a chair. She was dressed goth style in black, had a beautiful expensive long black wig, a pale made up face with stunning deep red lipstick.

"Thanks. You look fantastic. I wouldn't have known you."

"I dress up for Randolph, he's a geek at heart and they're all a bit kinky."

Olivia took a sip of the hot coffee. There were so many questions she could put, too many even to start.

"I think Cashtag is actually operated by Sackman-Platinum Bank," she said.

Kaitlyn smiled.

"I think you're a very canny Scottish lassie. Randolph always says that over-educating women will crash the planet."

Olivia raised an eyebrow.

"Does he? He works for them I believe."

"Who told you that?"

"Jackson."

"He's going to be president, but he's crap at politics. You were going to find out tomorrow anyway. I hope you can still come by?"

"Sure, of course. So, I'm right about Cashtag?"

"Yup. Now forget it and keep your mouth shut." Kaitlyn's tone was only just short of threatening. "Let's play on the dark web and see if we can buy you a nice gun or some heavy-caliber machine gun bullets. Have you heard of a TOR browser or Virtual Private Networks?"

Olivia shook her head.

"OK. Let's block the microphone and cover the webcam. We need real smart passwords and you use them only once. We're going down into the stinking dark of vileness."

By the end of the day they'd closed in on the suppliers of the ammunition that the would-be assassins had used on Jackson. For a bit of fun Kaitlyn had bought a Beretta 92FS semi-automatic pistol and five hundred rounds. For convenience she could collect from a "Parcelly" pick up point near the north side of Vauxhall Bridge.

"I do love a bargain," she explained, apparently without irony.

Olivia had begun to realize that once you step into another dimension, ideas like normality had no meaning.

"What will you do with it? I mean it's not legal."

"God, why didn't you warn me? Now I'll have to check it for prints, DNA, and any ballistic matches. It's always handy to have a surprise present. I always forget one or two birthdays in a year."

"Who were the shooters who came for Jackson?"

"Nothing too exotic I'm afraid. One was German and the other a regular Neapolitan Mafioso. Jackson T. Paine has big plans for organized crime, so the boys are getting in early. He's already changing the climate and more and more folk are waking up to his Kick 'n' Kiss message."

She thought of him. He was a fool but wonderfully heroic with his certainties of right and wrong. She felt Kaitlyn's hand on her arm.

"Honey, I can see how you feel in your face. You haven't asked me, but I'll tell you my opinion. Someone's going to get him. He doesn't get the top level of protection. He's got friends who do their best, but there's holes in the fences. Give him any part of your body, but not your heart. That's my blunt advice."

"He's not my sort of man. He's ten years older than me and that's a different generation. He's like that Tarzan stuff; me man, you woman. If I told him he needed to dismantle his gender binary prejudice he'd laugh and pop a beer."

"And I wouldn't fucking blame him. I can't bear all that confused shit. No one really believes it. If my man wants a pair of my panties under his boxers and it makes him horny for me, I love it. I'm wearing a T-shirt Randolph wore yesterday. There's a trace of man musk. Gives me a buzz you know. That's your binary dismantled."

Olivia looked down. Kaitlyn's brash frankness had almost embarrassed her. She'd not met women like this, except maybe her mother. If there were many of them, Jackson just had to turn up to get their votes. Didn't every thinking person feel enslaved by the gender binary system? Didn't every woman feel shame at the acceptance of daily passive abuse, micro-aggression and micro invalidations under the rule of toxic patriarchs? Didn't she pick up the subconscious trigger warnings all around her? Some madness came over her when Jackson was near to her or even when she thought of him. She lost her grip of truth and just longed for his touch and YES—wanted him to take her, absolve her of guilt and make her come and come, helpless to stop herself. This bloody man flipped some switch and she fell off the highway wanting only his hand to reach out for her. Kaitlyn seemed free enough. She carried guns, ran red lights, treated men as equals, but mocked and teased them. Her style was a bit butch, but her passion was hardcore femme. Couldn't she see she was acting out role plays of binary stereotypes?

It had gotten quite late and she'd only had black coffee all day. Kaitlyn stood, stretched and yawned.

"That's a good day, sugar. We'll close the trap on those dealers next time we're in. We're due a couple of days R 'n' R."

"How do I get to you tomorrow? I don't have your address."

"Be at the Embankment jetty for eleven thirty. I'll give you a ride. Sweet dreams."

Kaitlyn took her shoulders and kissed her continental style on both cheeks, not with air kisses but with something a little sensual, something of flesh and spirit.

"Sure. Do I dress up?"

"Yeah, for wind in your hair and champagne."
Chapter 13

For a few moments she stayed at the desk, once again watching the lights and tangle of trains rolling in and out of Clapham Junction. The ebb and flow, the heartbeat of a city's blood was like poetry, captive inside her and with no voice. If she could share her soul right now it could only be with Jackson. She stole some sheets of printer paper and an office envelope. He had invited a reply if she could find such a thing in her heart. The idea of composing a letter warmed her. She would be near to him in those words. She could stay and write in the office, but a letter to him seemed too intimate. She wanted to be home, at a place where he had been and she could imagine his movements, the light from the street on his face as he lay beside her. She grabbed a deli pasta salad at the local shop and sat down to write. There was almost a flutter of nerves in her stomach. How the hell did you do this?

Dear Jackson, it was a wonderful surprise to find your letter....

Hey Cowboy, That old fashioned ink is so cool LOL....

She threw down the pen, screwed up the sheets and turned off the light, the way the room had been when they had made love. She could smell his skin, feel the vibration of his voice, live again the moment of his touch. Her mind flicked back to the file on her desk and the dangers around him. In a mad world of political division and guns, everything could end with the speed of a bullet.

My lovely man, Thank you for your letter. I've read it many, many times, maybe hoping to find more words that your hand had written, more of you than words can convey. Like you, I wish we could talk on the phone or video call but I do understand all the issues. Jackson, I don't know how to handle this situation. I'm sitting where we were together in the same light and shadow, longing for you to be here. I don't understand my own feelings, but I want you to know how much I want to see you again. I'm thinking as deeply as I can about what happened between us. I guess if I were more experienced, I would try to hide the truth of how you made me feel, but I don't want those games. Until you came into my life, I had everything figured out. All my attitudes and statements reflected stuff I'd studied. Jackson, I don't want to waste this chance to communicate with you so I'm writing openly and probably stupidly from my heart. I've read and re-read where you say you want to hold me in your arms and that is where I want to be as my simple self, as a woman. Love from Olivia x.

She folded up the sheet of paper. It was hopeless. All she'd written was a garble of shallow common sentiment. The whole binary boy-girl narrative was a Hollywood fiction for the dumb masses. But, the act of writing had brought him to life as when he'd been with her in the shadows of the room. Some other girl inside herself had written the words and drifted back out into the hurrying namelessness of the London night. It was unthinkable she would ever send them. All the same it had brought him closer, made her long for him physically, betrayed her weakness, sent a ping of need to her core. She needed to stop squeezing her thighs together, stop holding that tension, needed to get that man out of her head. Even if she had to masturbate to release the spring, she couldn't let him fill her mind, bind him into her fantasy of desire. She pulled back from the brink and took a shower. She was totally in control. She knew in her sex she was aroused, could feel the hardness of her little shaft. How does a man feel when he comes? She got into bed and turned off the light, turning her face into the pillow. Kapow! He was there—a scent of him was there, his cologne, just an edge of clean sweat, a sigh of sexual union. Oh Jackson, Jackson ... oh, dear lord. She kissed into the soft palm of her hand, longing for his lips, feeling again the warmth of his tongue in her hot groove, seeing him standing above her with his cock so pumped with need for her, the tip already wet, longing to let go. Oh fuck, cum, cum, cum, fuck my pussy, do it in me... oh, Jackson.

Kaitlyn had advised her to dress for wind in her hair and champagne. She chose some practical thick black leggings and a warm polo neck sweater that grazed her thighs. She looked at the letter on the table, his name, Jackson T. Paine, in her own handwriting on the envelope. She'd woken in the night and re-read her plain words that carried nothing of herself to him. She smiled at a secret wickedness she'd never share with him. Her hand was moist, and deliberately she folded the paper, maybe laying down a trace of her woman flesh if he held it his lips. If she ever took it to the embassy. Of course, she would not but it was a thrill to think that just maybe some chemical messenger would send a ping to his cock maybe make him spill his cum growling her name. She no longer knew herself. She had to pull out of this dive into primitive lust. The morning was bright with a hard frost on the windshields of parked cars. She had time to get a Piccadilly line tube to Green Park and then the Victoria to Vauxhall. If she changed her mind she could walk along the Thames to meet Kaitlyn at Embankment. This walk in itself was an iconic tourist treat for a Scottish lassie. Oh, one day to share such things with him, hand in hand, laughing, stopping to kiss his lips, knowing that later in private they would abandon themselves to each other. With him, him, HIM.

As she sat on the tube, looking idly at the map with its complexities of crossing points, her mind turned to her work. Transactions on the dark web with Cashtag currency were like infinite tube maps with a billion lines and junctions. Yet yesterday Kaitlyn had de-coded them almost before they happened. If the whole encrypted financial network of criminality was open to investigation, there was about to be an earthquake which would change the world. Would anyone ever tell _her_ just what the fuck was going on? She came up the escalator at Vauxhall and paused on the pavement. She could stroll to her rendezvous with Kaitlyn. She could take the short riverside walk to the American Embassy. What the hell? She hadn't written Shakespeare, but it was something tangible of herself, that he would hold. No one would ever believe she'd kissed some paper because it had been close to him. Probably she was just a quick fuck and she would never see him again.

She handed the letter to a dusky dark-haired woman on the desk, noting her name tag, Ren Espina. With beautiful women like this in the world how was she ever going to keep a man like Jackson? She pushed the thought away. It was always good to know a name in a place where you had no friends. She read the name on the envelope and smiled.

"I'll check the list. Name?"

"Olivia Johnston-Denny."

The woman tapped on her keyboard. A wide warm smile spread across her face.

"Sure, Jackson's cleared you. Just put your name as sender on the back."

Olivia complied and handed back the letter.

"He'll get that tonight, Olivia. You have a nice day."

"And you, Ren. Thanks for the smile."

She stepped outside. Seemingly the magic wand of Jackson T. Paine could melt ice. Oh god, there were so many things she _coulda woulda shoulda_ said. She walked back along the Thames to her rendezvous with speed, mystery, and champagne.

She stood on the jetty, looking up at the latticed steel of the Hungerford Railway bridge. In the distance was an approaching fast craft, creating a considerable bow wave. She watched it turn like a ski boat and come alongside, the motors rumbling and growling. A driver in a black wet suit and wrap-around Gucci sunglasses was standing at the helm. Kaitlyn pulled off the hood to reveal her face.

"Grab a waterproof and take a seat," she shouted above the noise.

Olivia struggled into a one-piece oilskin suit and strapped in as Kaitlyn eased away from the pier. Once in mid-channel she opened the throttles sending plumes of water high into the air. The wind pushed her hair back into a red flamelike mane. The sensation was exhilarating as they sped down river. Soon ahead of them was the iconic Tower Bridge and the museum battleship HMS Belfast. As they flashed underneath, she noticed an enormous private yacht, more like a cruise liner, moored in open water. She noted the name "Platinum Demeter." The speed boat thrashed ahead, motors howling a wonderful pitch of precision engineering allied to poetic joy. Ahead of them stood the glass towers and architectural monoliths of Canary Wharf, the bling gemstone necklace around the turkey neck of globalized wealth. Dwarfing the HSBC and Crayon buildings was the Sovereign Citadel meant to look like a pile of gold coins. On the roof was a hundred-foot-tall statue of a vulture grasping a bankroll, the corporate logo of Sackman-Platinum Bank. Kaitlyn cut the motors and idled into a marina-style basin overlooked by the skyscraper of JP Morgan-Chase Manhattan Bank.

"This is what money looks like in its Sunday best," Kaitlyn shouted back.

"Sackman-Platinum still looks like a pimp."

"It's all about image, honey. A lot of these big grey suits went bust from greed in 2008. That vulture up there got fat. Sackman's could buy out this place with their pocket change."

Olivia looked around. She knew that she should be launching into a politically correct denunciation of obscene wealth. She held her tongue. How could Kaitlyn know much about these banks? Who owned this great dark shark of a boat? She stared up into the blue sky, watching the jets waiting in line to land at Heathrow. The great platinum vulture almost seemed to follow her with its diamond eyes as they cruised back out to the main river channel. This time she headed back towards the center of London at breakneck speed. Olivia caught the scream of her driver's voice yelling "Yahooooo" as the motors sang out a note of infinite power. Very soon they were approaching the sleek pure white hull of the Platinum Demeter luxury yacht. Kaitlyn made a quick call on a walkie-talkie radio. A door opened in the side of the vessel allowing them to nudge inside and tie up to a marble surfaced dock. Men in smart livery ushered them from the boat, through opening etched glass doors. She found herself in an atrium with glass elevators, soft lighting, and music. A woman with long platinum hair and a platinum business style suit smiled serenely and waited while they pulled off the protective clothing. Without a word she carried it away, gliding on impossible high heels. Olivia could contain herself no longer.

"Kaitlyn, just what the hell is this? I'm not going to sup corrupt champagne with crooks?"

Her companion beamed a warm smile.

"To me this is home, at least during this mission. If you don't want the champagne that means more for me."

"Home?"

"Yup, as long as my man keeps up the payments. I promise you there's nothing to fear. I'll show you to a suite where you can shower, straighten out your hair and fix your makeup. You do look a bit windblown and those waterproofs stink."

"I can trust you? Promise me I can trust you." Olivia searched this other woman's face.

Kaitlyn reached out and took her hand. Her green-eyed gaze was open and steady.

"Promise, cross my heart and hope to die." She leaned in and kissed her on the cheek just brushing her lips as she passed. "You're safe and respected, OK."

They took the elevator to a plush carpeted hallway with several heavy wood-paneled doors, each of which had a name. "Use the Tiara Suite, big-shot me gets the Crown," she said. "I'll call by in an hour."

The door closed behind her with a quality-laden click. The buttermilk carpet looked like some kind of fur. There was a sofa, giant TV, drinks cabinet, a mirrored ceiling, for Christ's sake. The bedroom had a huge fantastic bed, of course every black silk item monogrammed with the Sackman-Platinum vulture crest. Jeez, this had just better be on the level. One glance in the backlit full wall mirror of the wet room showed her she did need to fix her look. Her skin was light and always reddened in the wind. She luxuriated in the shower, treating her hair to the Acqua Di Parma products. Absolutely no expense was spared on the Platinum Demeter super yacht. In the dressing room she unwrapped a virgin Guerlain lipstick. Her mind wandered to the touch of Jackson's lips on hers. When Kaitlyn tapped the door and breezed in, she was as good as she could get herself in the circumstances.

"Champagne on the stern deck. You look edible by the way."

Olivia regarded her hostess, once again in the coal black real hair wig. She'd dressed in a red leather mini skirt, a low cut black short-sleeved top and a punk style chain necklace which looked like genuine gold. Her shoes were patent high-laced boots. Her bare legs were slim, honed, and tanned. Her makeup accentuated her cheekbones.

"Wow! You're stunning, really something."

Kaitlyn shrugged and led the way along a corridor that opened out into a glass dome on the back of the ship.

"The glass is polarized. We can see out, but to the world it's a mirror," she explained.

The floor was a black and white marble, black and white leather sofas were dotted around between tables laden with champagne in ice buckets and a buffet of simple stuff like caviar. "Take a seat and pour yourself some Moet et Chandon. There's no staff for the moment so we can talk."

Kaitlyn settled herself on a sofa facing her, her short skirt riding up her thigh to show a hint of her panties. She caught Olivia's eyes on her thigh, grinned knowingly and took a long pull of champagne. Abruptly she stood, looking over Olivia's head.

"Randolph, you bastard, if you even think of seducing this pure beautiful child, I will steal all your money and kill you."

She heard a voice behind her. It was refined but with an edge of the London street.

"If you steal all my money I'll die anyway. Don't get up, I was liking the view," he said.

"You're a geek. What's so good about Tower Bridge?"

"There's some hot exhibitionist girls like to pose by it. Sometimes you can get to see one."

"Yeah, that's a kind of compliment, but remember I'm insecure so try to come up with something uninhibited, witty, and passionate when you've had a drink."

Olivia stood and turned to see Randolph. Wow, not bad. His dark brown hair was fashionably over long in a Di Caprio way. He wore a discreetly striped navy blue posh-boy style blazer over a white tight T-shirt. His jeans looked expensive. His skin was tanned, his lips teasing with a smile, his eyes bright and alive with a quick intelligence. He was about the same age as Kaitlyn, and boy, these two were a match and a couple. This was chemistry. He stepped forward with a business style smile and handshake.

"I'm Randolph Quinn. I've heard a lot about you, Olivia."

Kaitlyn spoke up.

"I tell him about you for pillow talk. It's the one thing that gets him to bed. He's the world's richest man, but he doesn't hire anybody to share the load."

"You work for the bank?" Olivia stuttered.

"It's supposed to be that the bank works for me, but you can't get the staff. I've asked Kaitlyn, but she's a getaway driver for some outfit of thugs."

Olivia stayed silent, deliberately trying to look confused. Randolph looked up. Above them was the sound of helicopter blades. At the very rear of the vessel was a landing pad where a chopper in Sackman-Platinum livery was landing. Once the rotors were still, a figure got out, a woman, a beautiful mixed-race woman, Superintendent Shannon Aguerri. A few moments later she almost skipped into the room.

"Hey, you started without me. Doesn't rank count for anything anymore?" she said, collecting a drink.

"You're late. This boat runs on time," said Randolph performing a European two-cheek air kiss.

The same routine followed with Kaitlyn. Shannon Aguerri turned to Olivia.

"Never get involved with the fucking cops. The best ones have to think like criminals so they're always in the shit. There's still time to back out. No, forget I said that. It's too late. I've got a bloody horse needing a ride back home so let's sit down and do it."

Shannon took a place next to Randolph Quinn facing Olivia and Kaitlyn. She held out her hands palms down in a calming gesture and took a deep breath. "Olivia, you've done so bloody well. Agents have asked for your trust and you've stepped up. Everyone respects you and believe me respect in this game is total gold. You deserve another glass of champagne. We all deserve one. Listen up. Randolph here is at the top of Sackman-Platinum Bank. As an organization it stinks, it stinks so bad that maggots, worms, rats, and carrion-feeding low-life can't resist it. Every piece of dirt on the planet launders cash via Sackman's. Recently cute gangsters have started to switch to what are called cryptocurrencies. This is a form of money that can't be traced. Are you following me?"

"Yeah, Bitcoin and this dark web stuff known as Cashtag."

"And you've already suspected there's a link between Sackman and Cashtag?"

"Yeah, the German who tried to kill Jackson told a cop in Berlin that Sackman's offered a service swapping Cashtags for US dollars."

"Quite right. What a business man that Randolph Quinn is, eh? Never misses a trick to turn a dirty buck. What do you say for yourself, Randolph?"

"Sackman-Platinum are known as the biggest bunch of thieves and slime balls on the planet. It's just so great when a marketing strategy works out."

Olivia was absorbing the information. Was she completely surrounded by crooks, including a senior police officer? Why had this woman arrived in the bank's helicopter? She might as well ask an important question.

"These cryptocurrencies aren't supposed to be traceable. We traced the ransom money from that kidnap. Yesterday it looked to me as if Kaitlyn was tracing stuff. We even bought a gun and tracked the transaction using an algorithm held on some private server. I'm no expert but I've read up a bit online. Whoever invented that algorithm invented the currency itself. The codes are being intercepted in the machine that's doing the transfer, before it hits the network.... I don't know. I studied politics but it's some weird thing like that."

Randolph clapped his hands in applause.

"Olivia, you've got the job, particularly with that lovely Scottish sound. You're on the right track. A few years ago, I developed a laser system to accelerate the speed of financial deals on stocks, shares, and currencies. By applying this technology to Cashtag transactions we can see ahead of normal time and intercept the codes. We have infinite wealth and can scoop more and more with every passing second."

"But why? There's no profit in that. It just tells you who the crooks are and what they're up to," she countered.

"We've a bright kid here, Randolph. You'll have to watch her," said Shannon. "What Randolph hasn't told you is that Sackman Platinum is _not_ a genuine bank. It is the richest and the biggest, but it's a front for another organization. Sackman's have to stink, have to walk the walk, have actually really to be the most brash and the greediest motherfuckers alive."

Olivia took a deep breath.

"What? What organization? The CIA, MI5 or what?"

"The World Intelligence Forum. They operate with absolute presidential authority. Some sovereign governments are in on the deal, many are not. Using criminal money coming in from Sackman-Platinum, the W.I.F. funds a massive fight back against the evil that threatens to strangle the decent folk on this earth. After the financial crash ten years ago, governments all over the world cut back on law enforcement. Serious organized crime responded. They had so much cash from drugs, girls, internet scams, and weapons that they needed a cool bank to solve their financial problems. Sackman's rips them off giving them twenty cents on the dollar. Then they invest their spoils using Randolph's advanced laser share dealing to scoop the market. Money gets siphoned off to fund projects all over the world via charities and guys like the UN. Sackman-Platinum is like a giant rich oyster, filter-feeding from the sewage. Cooked oysters are great and safe—with a decent champagne. So, there you have it, honey."

Superintendent Shannon Aguerri sat back, sipping another champagne.

"You need an oyster with that. There's plenty for everyone," said Randolph. "Olivia, I hope you get the picture and I hope you want to stay with us."

"Do I have a choice?"

Kaitlyn answered.

"No, to be honest. You know too much. Maybe you ought to know that one very big project for all of us is Jackson T. Paine. People are sick and tired of the regular politics. It's all about lies and smears. There's plenty of politicos and judges sewn up by gangsters. Jackson's clean and independent like an Oklahoma farm boy, but he has no funding. Sackman's can help. Provided he can stay clean of scandal and dodge a few bullets, that man will be president."

She didn't want to reveal her feelings for that bloody man here and now in front of these people.

"So how will he explain his funding?"

"There's a network of foundations and private individuals who can front up the show using Sackman money. These guys are already active in small ways."

Shannon Aguerri stood up.

"I'm on the way home. Relax and get to know the team. You're young but you've got the balls and the brains. I hope you understand that this whole operation requires you to keep the secret. Lives depend on it so don't fuck with us or even think of betraying the deal because you've got some educated fantasy of political correctness. Live it, work it, and love it. There's no guilt in a desire for wealth and power and you have to walk the walk. I like you and trust you. Never forget that Bastian Wolf is out there. It doesn't happen too often but if there's a traitor, there's no escape."

Olivia swapped double cheek-to-cheek kisses with her and met her blue eyes. This was a street-hardened woman from birth she did _not_ want to cross. She went to the window to see her lift off in the chopper, turn and head south into a sky darkening with pink sunset. These guys loved Jackson. It shouldn't be too hard to fit in.
Chapter 14

She'd never eaten caviar. Her Scottish childhood had been frugal even though her grandfather was the Duke of Falkirk. She'd grown up on porridge oats where luxury was a sprinkle of salt, and a spoonful of sugar was the work of the devil. She'd collected shellfish to boil from the Firth of Forth, but the sight of raw oysters filled her with dread.

"It looks quite demanding to eat like billionaires," she said to Kaitlyn as she took the shell in her hand.

"Someone has to do it. The bank owns some place in Marennes, France, where they make them."

"My darling, they grow in nature in the wild beauty of the Atlantic waters. I only eat them for their aphrodisiac properties," Randolph commented.

"Me too, but I'm still not in the mood. I saw you looking at Shannon."

Olivia raised an eyebrow. It was evident that life on a billionaire's yacht could be feisty.

"Randolph, how does a bank actually operate?" she asked, figuring it might alter the tone.

"Honestly, I'd like to tell you it's all about do-or-die tycoons wheeling and dealing all day. Now here's the truth and I don't like it myself. Most share and currency deals are done by robots following mathematical processes called algorithms. If you've got the fastest machines and the cleverest algo, you're a billionaire. Once you're super rich you can buy that hardware and the best geeks to push the buttons."

"The rich get rich and the poor get poorer. Is that inevitable?"

"That's the economic certainty. Civilization came up with politics to put up some sort of fight."

"How's the fight going?"

"Bankers don't have to get elected. You work it out or maybe just look at societies around the world. In some ways the system creates crime as the only possible outlet for ambition."

Randolph was smiling but with an expression of wry acceptance. She'd studied politics in depth, but this man actually knew the game and had his hands on powerful levers. Could she raise the issue of Jackson? He'd seated himself next to Kaitlyn and was stroking her hand. He spoke with a calm certainty, leaning towards her.

"Olivia, I know that Jackson T. Paine is in your thoughts. Yes, a man like that can do something but power has a quieter voice than money. You drop a coin and it makes a noise, you can pick it up and start again. A leader, a president has no second chances. There's no one who can't be smeared, assassinated, or paralyzed by political process."

"So, what's the point?"

"Cos it's all we've got. Jackson is independent of all the old-style stuff. He's clever but he plays just dumb enough to make things seem simple or at least achievable. If a super clever guy wants to cross a busy street, he could conduct surveys of traffic density, check the average speed of the vehicles, work out probabilities, weigh up all the risks. This is paralyzed politics. Jackson just says, 'Yo—there's my gap.' That's what the regular Joe does. He just wants a leader that judges it right. Jackson T. Paine can be that man. I'll be honest—I love the guy."

"So why do people want to kill him?"

"Not all people, but organized criminals. Jackson's catchphrase is 'Kick 'n' Kiss.' He'll be toxic death to drug dealers, people traffickers, prostitution racketeers, crooked casino parasites, corporate thieves, and all the rest. Life is simple. If you want the space and the resources to be kind, you've got to kick the bad guys. And, the people will walk with him. He's got the style and the looks. Don't forget the sex appeal and the look."

She sighed. How could she have ended up with such a man? She would never be able to keep him. The deeper she got in, the more it would all hurt at the end. She pushed her personal thoughts away.

"Is he going to stay alive?"

"We hope so, but the boy won't take advice. The bad guys want to stop him before his ball really gets rolling. He's only thirty-four so he'll be forty in 2024 and that is when he's got his chance. Polls are beginning to rate him and he's slamming them all. They want him off the race card before the flag drops."

She must have let her feelings show, although she was fighting to appear neutral. She looked down and felt Kaitlyn sit beside her.

"We do know you have feelings for him. You can say so."

Her resistance broke in a storm of tears. Since she'd met that bloody man she'd been moved from her job and friends, been mired in extra-judicial killing, learned to use a machine gun in a rat-infested pit, had come just kissing a man, had lost control of her sexual restraint and had made love in a way that she would crave for the rest of her life. Now she was with the world's richest man and found that one of the pillars of western commerce was a front for these super cops.

She felt Kaitlyn's arm around her shoulder.

"Go and make me a billion, Randolph. We need some girl time."

"Sure. Will you take a check?"

"Rubies in a silk bag. Now go."

He stood and leaned over to kiss Kaitlyn's forehead, smiling down at Olivia.

"She loves me really. Don't rush, rubies take a bit of digging."

She took a deep breath, moving to look into the older woman's face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to make some fuss."

"It's good to be Agony Auntie. I'm going to put it on my CV. Now, you're going to tell me you can't possibly have feelings for a man you've only met a few times, right?"

"Right."

"Bullshit. That's when you do have the feelings, particularly in your belly."

"I know you know Anna La Salle. She ordered me not to see him. Does she know all about this Sackman-Platinum situation?"

"Sure, she knows. Anna's one of the real drivers behind the World Intelligence Forum. Some more traditional Europeans don't like the reach of presidential authority."

"So, I can't see him again anyway?"

"Anna's got her reasons and she didn't want the Metropolitan Police involved in this fake video smear. I mean, she is an assistant commissioner. She loves Jackson too by the way."

"Everyone loves him. Every bloody woman wants to pull off their panties and make babies with him, apparently."

"There's a few like that around the world's richest man believe me. I just treat him cold so he's mega-grateful when I heat up. Now, take that as true Agony Aunt distilled truth."

"But he can't see anything in me, not with a world to choose from."

"That's where you're wrong. He's got one central quality. He's truthful and he's loyal. Empty vessels make the most noise and he hears what you are inside. And he likes your hair and butt."

Olivia gasped.

"Did he tell you that?"

"Nah, he told Randolph."

"Any other insights?"

"You're young, you're virginal in many ways, you care, you're honest, and you know—you clicked. You can't explain things like that."

"So, I'm not a slut for having sex with him first time I had the chance?"

"Life's not a waiting room. If it's the right train get on it."

"Kaitlyn, I do have feelings for him, feelings so strong they ache. He's blasted me out of my old rocks of certainty. All the college stuff I did never warned me you could want a man so, so much. It's all sexist, patriarch, and fuck knows what else but I just could cry for wanting him."

"That's how it feels, honey."

"That's how what feels?"

"Love. Love like when you can't share something it might as well not exist. Love like his smile can make your belly tremble. Love like you feel kind of semi-cummy and you never want to stop that tension."

Kaitlyn's directness was just a little shocking, but hell, was it liberating.

"Yes, it feels like that, but desperate too. He's not British and how will I ever be able to see him?"

"There's problems, I won't deny that. Jackson's got a NATO meeting in London as you know. He's coming two days early to see the bank. This boat will be here, and Randolph is taking me to Paris for a few days shopping. No one will know."

"What about Anna La Salle's orders?"

"Well, you've kind of checked out of the regular cops. No one's going to rat on you anyway. Shannon can fix your transfer to W.I.F. as freelance agent, same as me. I can guarantee you'll love the pay check."

"What about my career?"

"Honey, fucking what? Life's a knotted rope not a ladder and it's there in front of you. Trust yourself and fucking well enjoy it."

Olivia nodded. She still felt out of her depth.

"I've only had two years of basic duty."

Kaitlyn sighed with a slight edge of impatience.

"If we had a world war tomorrow, they'd be drafting kids at eighteen. A lot of old guys you see walking their dogs or doddering around the supermarket went through that. Just freaking do it."

Olivia reached out to her, wanting to hug a human being.

"Thanks, thanks so much. When does Jackson get back?"

"It'll be eight days. Enough time to get yourself sorted out for contraception. Enough time to practice _not_ telling him the truth about the bank."
Chapter 15

The contraception was easy enough. Kaitlyn fixed an appointment with a private doctor in Harley Street the next day. Money made everything easy. Wealth, sex, and power could so easily seduce. God, she felt so sexy as she shopped in Oxford Street. When that bloody man came back, he'd never see her in stretch pants and trainers. She fixed her nails, her hair, and her wax. She sure did like the new pay scale. She felt good and looked good as she walked into the office. She'd almost forgotten where she'd left off. Kaitlyn was already at a terminal, looking a little pensive.

"What's up?"

"I got an early call. There's some Camorra Mafia not best pleased that they hired two hit men to waste Jackson and they've seen no return on investment. Looks like they're setting up round two. His House Defense Committee meeting in London is scheduled government business so he's a static target."

"They must hate him?"

"It's not personal. Organized crime power is all about reputation and respect. Some _Capo_ in Naples had been boasting for weeks he was going to waste Jackson. If he'd done it, he'd be walking tall. He'd be strutting, boasting to the Sicilians that he was _numero uno_. Then when he went to the USA and wanted some action there'd be respect. These men rise fast and high, but they don't die in bed unless it's a hooker who's tipped off some other clan."

"What's the plan this time?"

"Camorra are bombers. A week or so ago they bombed the _Sorbillo Pizzeria_ in Naples as a dry run. The patron hadn't paid his protection money, so they had to make a show to keep their web of fear over everyone. The plan is simple. They get a car, make a bomb, and get it close to the target. One of the Neapolitans arrived in London two days ago. He's teamed up with a Syrian terrorist I.E.D. maker and they've obtained some of the hardware left over from the Irish troubles."

"Where are they all now?"

"South London, somewhere. They've stolen a Ford Transit cargo van, put on false plates and just parked it in Leeson Road, Brixton. A thing that size is going to be a loud bang. Our little job is to put a tracker on it."

"How?"

"A girl drops her woolly hipster Beanie hat by the vehicle, picks it up and pops the magnet under the sill or wheel arch. Simple. You've got the greatest talent a cop can have—you don't look like one. Let's get mobile. As far as we know they haven't yet built the bomb. If they've not got a plastic explosive, they'll use a fertilizer bomb, what they call ANFO."

"ANFO?"

"Ammonium nitrate and fuel oil. The IRA hit Bishopsgate in London in 1993 with one. The Oklahoma City bomb in 1995 was a slightly more potent variant. You just use nitromethane instead of fuel oil. I was just in my teens then, but I remember the footage."

"Sweet Jesus, Kaitlyn, they'll get him one day, won't they?"

"Just shut up with that soft cry baby shit, OK. This is professional. The airplane only crashes if something goes wrong and the whole culture is _not_ to crash. We're pilots taking off on a blue-sky day and we're pros. We do our job, touch down and wish the folks a nice day, thanking them for choosing vigilante death squad airlines. Geddit?"

"Sorry, yes I get it."

"Let's get armed. You've trained on the Glock 26, so it's a start. Hey, I could use my new Beretta 92FS."

Olivia remembered Kaitlyn's online dark web impulse buy.

"Did you pick it up?"

"Yeah, it's a piece of crap. The cops got the seller in Birmingham. They're still checking the ballistics profile, but it's already sent at least one citizen to god or somewhere close by.

"You need to lose a weapon, so you sell it?"

"Why not? Eco recycle is a big social media virtue signal. No one can trace stuff on the dark web, can they? He thinks he left some DNA on it." Kaitlyn laughed as if there wasn't a care in the world. "We're going to have fun. On a mission, I'm like a little doggie going out for a walk."

"Was that a joke about vigilante death squad?"

"Let's see how the day shapes up. You never shoot to wound and if you have to shoot it's because you have to."

Olivia swallowed and set her face to neutral. Well, she'd accepted the job. They strolled to a Ford Ranger crew cab pickup parked in a side street. Kaitlyn headed south towards Brixton, explaining as she drove.

"There's a new loaded Glock under the seat inside the hat. We do a circuit to spot the target and I drop you a few streets away. You do a tour and I pick you up. Then we just stay in contact range and hope for some action."

Olivia was familiar with these South London streets. Brixton was getting gentrified by hipster city-types but still there were run down laundromats and squalid kebab takeaway stores among the organic vegan delicatessens and Fair-Trade coffee grinder cafés. They swung into a side street off Railton Road, once world famous for urban rioting. Kaitlyn was muttering.

"Where is the bloody thing then?"

"I didn't see a Ford Transit either."

"We can only do one circuit and move away. An informant gave us the tipoff, but it looks like we're too late."

"Or the informant was wrong or lying," Olivia thought aloud.

"Possible. We'll get Bastian to put the question to him again."

It wasn't difficult to imagine that interview.

"So, we've got a potential blockbuster bomb and a team of murderers loose somewhere in London."

"Cheer up, we've got a few days. This shit is normal. The registration plate is on all CCTV systems and we'll circulate it to all Metropolitan Police units. We'll pick them up unless...."

"What?"

"Unless they've already slipped out of town to the country. ANFO explosive is improvised from agricultural fertilizer. It's an old IRA method to build the bomb on the farm and roll it in for the strike at the last minute. To be frank that's what I would do and then deliver it in the back of a larger truck."

Olivia occupied herself with her own thoughts. Jackson would arrive in four days. The stupid man had set himself up as a lighthouse of shining hope for the powerless good folk who lived, loved, and worked hard for their kids and loved ones. The crooks saw such people as worthless other than as a market for their evil. Jackson T. Paine was their mortal foe. In speeches he named them. He denounced officials in the pockets of crooks. He despised the mean bitter spite of winners and losers in old-style party politics. He stood alone; a target pinned to his handsome head. It was only a matter of time until something got through. If they didn't kill him, they'd smear him with some fake ex-gay lover or his fake news video starring porn star Ginger Bush. Maybe they'd kill him and then smear his memory. If he could make it to the top, then just maybe there was a chance of some society worthy of decent honest people.

"What should I say to Jackson?" she asked.

"Nothing. Absolutely zilch. It's not that he can't handle it but there's a tribe of spin doctors and media all over him. Some are friends and some are foes, and some are neutral fleas waiting to jump on the winning dog in the fight. He can't trust anyone but if he changes his plans then someone will tip off the enemy. The bad guys are dirty. We're filthy."

It wasn't that she didn't understand, after all she had studied politics. Professional, that's what Kaitlyn had said. Get these bastards before they got Jackson. The rest of the day passed in the routine police grind of analyzing CCTV, circulating details, hoping, longing for a breakthrough. There was no news of Bastian or the informant. It was late when she finally trudged up the stairs to her apartment with no advance in the case. In her hand she held the contents of her mailbox, a credit card mailing shot and a handwritten envelope. She'd kissed it twice before she got to her door.

My Dear Olivia,

You dear sweet woman for writing back to me. I have been longing to reply but there's been no time. Finally, I get to put your name down on the page. I say your name over and over if I'm honest, as if to hold you, maybe possess you, but having that sound and those letters add up to you in a tiny way. I'd been so concerned that I'd gone too far and you would see me as a shallow opportunist. Even now if I could start over, I would have kissed the back of your hand and left my visiting card. Then you could have come for English tea and left your glove. The next day I would have called like a gentleman to return it. I guess you Brits know more of that etiquette than me. In a perfect world I would have wanted that for us. As it is you fill my heart as I sit here at my desk in DC knowing that in a few days I may be able to hold you again. I got a call from Randolph Quinn offering me the use of his boat while he's in Paris. Is it really, really possible that we could have that time together? I can hardly dream it to be honest.

The security team are here for me so it's back to work on the Hill. I dare not hope you will have time to reply.

Love, Jackson. xx

Oh my god. Why should she find herself in tears holding this page? Just some stupid handwriting. That damned man. Oh Jackson, yes, yes, we shall have that time. She was exhausted but she could write a few lines and deliver them to the embassy in the morning. If she were able to tell him the truth about the planned bomb attack, she would beg him not to come. Dear lord, he had to come for the NATO meeting and his appointment at the bank. She knew he would come anyway.

My Jackson,

I want you so much I ache. Please, please let's have this time together even if there can never be....

Dreaming on my lonely pillow of you, Cowboy....

Dear Jackson,

Writing your name brings you back to me. People speak of you as a great man and maybe a man to lead the free world one day. I can't believe I could ever be with you....

The screwed-up sheets now filled the bin. She needed a drink. It was wrong to drink alone but hey, a lot of great writers and thinkers were drunks. She poured a large beaker of Merlot red wine. She sat on her bed looking out at the great engine of city life. The cab driver, the tourist towing a suitcase, they all had names, lives, loves, secrets that she would never know. The only real truth she could offer anyone was from inside herself. She felt the hit of the wine and picked up her pen.

Jackson T. Paine, You, my stupid Cowboy, are getting involved with a red-haired bitch who carries a loaded legal firearm. If you make me believe you want me and let me down, I will shoot your fucking balls off. Know this before you ever come near me again. I want you as mine with all my heart and body. You have completely fucked up my life and I love you so much I can't cry the pain of it out of my soul. This is a dumb letter but it's me. It's lonely me on a bottle of rich red wine that's shit cos I can't share it with you. I'm in love and crazy love shit is OK in Scotland. Xxxxxxx

Even as she wrote his name on the envelope and sealed it down, she knew she'd probably never send it. You just couldn't splat thoughts and emotions down on a page like it was a modern art massacre of sense. But if he wanted her, if that could be true then he needed to know her. She could tear it up in the morning.

She delivered her envelope at the embassy reception desk. The beautiful exotic receptionist Ren Espina smiled in recognition.

"You've just caught the courier; he should have it by noon eastern time."

She'd done it now. What a thing a letter was and nothing like an e-mail, like a chance to think and express without interruption or flashing advertisements for new cars and window glazing deals.

At the office she got busy on the file Sparrow had given her. She'd started to compile names and form a flow chart of connections between them. She had never realized how much terrorism and organized crime were connected. She'd become fairly certain that whoever had given the information about the bomb was a regular low-level criminal car thief who doubled as an informer to a Metropolitan Police detective. It seemed as if the would-be assassins had spoken very openly about their plans. She wrote a big note in capitals. _Bomb plot. Possible Red Herring????_ Every hour she checked in vain for updates on the missing Ford Transit. It was pretty obvious that the team and vehicle had gone to ground. Could it be they just wanted police to focus on this one threat, while they were actually planning something else? Jackson would arrive tomorrow or the next day. His NATO meeting would be in Whitehall in three days' time. With luck they could share two nights and some part of a day. Her life had no shape or desire beyond then. There was no sign of Kaitlyn. There was no news of Bastian. She wondered if she sat quietly, she would hear something moving in the undergrowth of paperwork on her desk. Her official cell phone was ringing. She knew the accented male voice at once.

"Be outside Tate Gallery in twenty minutes. Make sure you're carrying and loaded. Don't forget some handcuffs."

"Yeah, got it."

She holstered the Glock 26 and pulled on her ski jacket. Bastian must have a lead. Whatever it was it was better than just sitting helpless and hoping in the office. The day was grey with a biting cold mistiness on the river as she crossed Vauxhall Bridge. Directly behind her the edifice of the secret intelligence service MI6 nerve center looked down on the traffic and tiny scurrying pedestrians. What did they know of this? Bastian was on foot. He wore a drab overcoat, collar turned up, a flat cap and dark rimmed spectacles.

"We've traced a suspect to an apartment in Dolphin Square. The place belongs to a guy who runs a refugee and migrant smuggling company out of Tripoli, Libya. He brought in our friend the bomb maker. We're running out of time so we're going to knock on the door."

She swallowed back her nerves. Fuck, her stomach was churning over. She knew the place as older but quite exclusive apartments overlooking the Thames.

"What are we going to do?"

"Just ask some discreet questions, but not at the flat. Comfort zones never help memory."

"OK, did you find that informant?"

"Enough to get a DNA trace. Died in a car fire on Millwall Park, Isle of Dogs. There's some sort of set-up but...."

"I was thinking the same."

"You should ask for a pay raise. The thinking is extra." His remark made her laugh or at least giggle with fear. He knew they were going into some open-ended violence, but he just accepted whatever lay ahead. "So, we take a stroll down to the block of apartments. You'll spot a Mercedes 430 station wagon in the parking bay outside. That's our wheels. You drive. It's the same as that big Merc you drove last time."

He handed her a key.

"Thanks, where's Kaitlyn?"

"Didn't she tell you, Paris?"

"Sure, but I didn't know she'd already gone."

"Things heated up I think."

"She was going shopping."

Bastian turned to her with a faint smile.

"I told you already, change your plans, change your look, if you say Monday go on Sunday, have short hair, have long hair, have spectacles, have a flat cap."

They arrived at the grand entrance to the block, famous for every species of scandal involving royals, entertainers, spies, and prime ministers. Bastian punched in a code on a key pad.

"How do you know the number?" she asked.

"Idiots let these flats on Air B&B. They give the codes to dozens of people every week."

They stepped inside. The building was dated, slightly art deco and certainly 1930s. There was a smell of old-fashioned lavender polish, mixed with bleach and cooking. There was a vague hum of music and television behind closed doors. The elevator was like a black and white movie with a latticed sliding entrance. Bastian hit the 4-button.

"Got cuffs, gun loaded?"

She nodded.

"This guy's not going to fall for lost pussycats. This one is total ruthless cold evil. If fifty poor losers die in a toy boat halfway across the Mediterranean Sea, he cuts off heads to get the boat back. Shoot if you have to but the idea is to capture him. The door should only be on a Yale lock. Stand clear, draw your weapon and follow me in. If I go down empty your clip into the bastard instead of sending flowers."

Adrenalin pumped into her blood. Every inch of her was tight and alert. They walked along a dimly lit corridor. Bastian drew his faithful Walther PPK, pointed to the door and got maximum distance. He nodded as she double-handed gripped the Glock 26. He unleashed his power like a lightning strike, kicking the lock face while still at sprinter speed. The door smashed to the side against the wall. The narrow hall was dark but ahead was a room in daylight looking out onto the gardens at the rear. There was the sound of a TV set. Two men were seated on a sofa watching what looked like male gay porn. One was dark, North African appearance. The other was heavily tattooed on arms and neck. Both men had exposed erect dicks.

"Hands out, away from body." ordered Bastian, his aim unwavering.

The darker man responded at once. She watched the other one reaching down to an open bag between his body and the arm of the sofa. It must have been an instant, but time seemed to stutter in frames like cinema. He was slowly bringing up a sawed-off shotgun. She saw the muzzle flash from her own weapon, felt the recoil, saw a spray of material from the sofa. Fuck. Missed. Saw a second flash from the Glock and a splash of blood erupt from his chest. His head jerked back, eyes lifeless, the sawed-off falling to the floor. Bastian gave her a sideways look.

"Took your time—but there's raw talent there."

She felt sick. She'd killed a man. She had to be professional. Bastian motioned for the dark man to lie face down, hands behind back. He reached out for her cuffs and snapped them on.

"I won't tighten up the ratchets if you behave. If you really cooperate, I'll forget your little play date with lover boy."

"What you want?"

"A little less conversation, a little more action baby."

Had he really said that? Had he used Elvis lyrics as some sort of humor? She couldn't go on but what could she do?

"Get his coat, slip it over his shoulders and let's go," Bastian ordered.

"What about....?"

"I'll call a number. Someone's got to fix that damage, ain't that so Oumar?"

They pulled the door closed and strolled out of the building to the Mercedes station wagon. The prisoner was quiet. She took the wheel while the two men sat behind. The man called Oumar spoke.

"I know who you are, Mr. Wolf."

"And I know who you are Mr. Al-Dabooshit. Now shut the fuck up and enjoy the ride. Chauffeur, I believe you know a little place out east where we went before. I've got a cute item to shield Oumar's eyes. Get your head down, or I'll blow it off."

Bastian pulled a thick dark elasticated hood from his pocket and forced it over the man's head. "Now keep it down."
Chapter 16

She drove calmly, at least she hoped she seemed calm. Bastian had blindfolded the prisoner. If he intended to kill him there'd be no point. The mid-afternoon traffic was flowing well as she headed for Tilbury Docks. Over and over she re-lived the moment she'd fired on the tattooed suspect. She guessed they were gay guys enjoying some mutual release. Dear lord, what a world this was. The day she'd walked into police training school at Hendon, North London, she'd known nothing of the world. What would happen to the body in that flat? Bastian was making a call on his cell phone.

"Yeah, fourth floor. Full clean. Sofa's looking a bit tired. Yah, call you later."

How could this be? People got wasted and some team cleaned up. What was Bastian? Was he some kind of civic-minded psychopath wiping out evil, or a freelance professional with a perfectionist personality? Over and over she saw that head flop back dead. He _had_ pulled a shotgun; it was self-defense. She was close to the industrial zone where she'd done her rudimentary firearms training. She was calm enough to retrace the route. As she pulled into the parking area the greasy mechanic waved her inside and operated a roller shutter behind them.

"Smooth drive, thanks," said Bastian. "You're done for the day. I'll catch up at the office."

Suddenly she realized she'd just driven the big powerful car without thinking. She'd opened fire without thinking. They'd abducted a free individual who was hooded and handcuffed in their control. The Metropolitan Police rule book didn't contain this chapter.

He led the hooded figure through to the back office. Now she was less and less optimistic for his future. He'd seen her and Bastian, also the killing of his companion. Give him his due, the North African wasn't begging or crying. He was pure stone-hearted predator. The mechanic joined them with a length of rope. He threw it up over a beam as Bastian pushed aside the filing cabinet and opened the trap. Then he pulled off the blindfold spandex. Idly he tied a noose and placed it over the head with a few words of advice.

"If you don't like heights don't look down."

The mechanic took her elbow and jerked his head at the door.

"Best not get too involved sometimes, just leave us the key for the cuffs," he said, offering her a cigarette. She waved it away, handing him the key.

"Is he going to kill him?"

"Nah, it's just about fear, enhanced interrogation. We need to find his friend the bomber. He brought him in, and he'll be in a safe house, what we hope will be an unsafe house."

Her mind flicked to Jackson. Did she care if these thugs met an ugly end if it kept him alive? She had to admit she didn't. The realization shocked her. How much she'd changed. When she saw him again would she come across as that same kid he'd met, that same brittle virgin? Now she was smeared in the mud and blood of deception and violence. Kaitlyn hinted she'd walked this same path. God what a power woman she was, a pure wielder of feminine sexuality even around another female, yet ruthless as any commando. A future president wouldn't be looking for a woman like that. Anyway, why the fuck had Kaitlyn disappeared off to Paris without saying anything? She needed to get home.

"Can I take that Mercedes?"

"There's a blue Porsche 718 Boxster cabriolet just outside, engine running. Enjoy the ride."

She took a deep breath. How the hell was she going to drive a sports car like that with no guidance?"

She wandered out the gate. It looked as if there was already a driver. WTF?

"Well, get in," said Kaitlyn, "I've got a dinner reservation tonight." Olivia clambered in and more or less lay on the floor in a racing style seat. The vehicle surged away. "I've booked us a table for eight thirty just as a treat."

"Who's us?"

"You and me. We're worth it."

"Where?"

" _La Galérie_ , Sloane Square, Chelsea."

"That's a famous Michelin star joint. It's the only place you can buy Veuve La Salle Champagne in the world. You have to book for years ahead."

"Not if you know the boss...."

"Like La Salle? Jeezus, like Anna La Salle?"

"Quite so my dear, like husband Freddie. I hear you stepped up today. Respect man."

Just who were these people? It was a circle of beauty, fame, luxury, power, wealth, sex, and death. How easy it was to lie back and be seduced.

"I stepped up and killed a man."

"A man with a lethal weapon."

"Do you know who he was?"

"He's just a trucker they call Back-up. He runs a couple of trailers a week from Paris into England, up to a hundred poor souls inside, each paying Oumar five thousand dollars a pop."

"I thought you were in Paris today?"

"Sure, I drove the truck behind Back-up, on the Channel ferry, off the ferry, all the way to a warehouse at Dartford where he dropped the load."

"Load?"

"Eighty-five illegals. That's four hundred and twenty-five thousand US dollars."

"And what does Back-up get?"

"Five thousand."

"It looked like Oumar jerks him off as a bonus. I'm supposing they're gay."

"Yeah sure, he keeps the stick shift in reverse. That's his trucking nickname."

"Jeez Kaitlyn, this is all so squalid, so vile, so sweaty, so deeply fucking bestial evil."

"That's why you need a shower, some nice perfume, some of those nice clothes you bought. You're beautiful, soldier. I'll be at yours at eight in a stretch. Hey, I got you a couple of prezzies. They're in the trunk so don't let me forget."

It felt so good to be with her, someone so sure in their own skin. A lot of her old friends had stayed on at university to study for master's degrees and then PhDs. Could she mull over some academic paper with them now? She was only twenty-four but once a train left the rails it was no longer a train.

"So, you went to Paris on a job?"

"Yeah. Bastian wanted to track that trafficker back there. Some butch trucker bitch is like invisible and I hauled in twenty tons of cheese to get a fix on poor deceased Back-up. He led us to Dolphin Square."

"You drive trucks with semi-trailers?"

"Just _lurrrv_ driving big stuff, sugar."

Kaitlyn pulled over in Cartwright Gardens. She popped the trunk. Olivia lifted out a large high-quality paper carrier. There was a smell of perfume.

"Watch out for the stretch. Eight or be too late."

She felt numb and excited all at once. It was six o'clock. She opened the bag, pulling out a fantastic long real-hair wig in a color labelled butter platinum. There was a smaller Annick Goutal bag containing a blue bottle of perfume named Tenue de Soirée. She rubbed on a small drop. It was so rich, so sexy, so boudoir. How could she deserve all this? All she'd done was kill one man and abduct another.

She was ready when a silver stretch pulled up. She'd chosen a red silk dress with a matching bolero jacket and heels. In the platinum wig she felt she was a different woman. Kaitlyn was so beautiful. She wore identical hair with a one-piece black shimmering jumpsuit **.** The in-car sound system was playing country music.

"Thought you'd like to get in the mood, you know, standing by your man, but I'm sure he won't mind if you lie down."

Olivia's thoughts focused on being with him again.

"There can't be any real future for us can there?"

"The future's a big space. All anyone has is the moment."

"I think you're saying you agree."

"I'm saying I'm not going to give you some vague soft cop-out or some cliché of love finding a way. Love never finds the way cos love is the beginning and end of the journey."

"So how do I play it?"

"For the moment, for the thrill, for the ride. Your future with Jackson isn't about you or about him. It's about ambition. It's about the desire for power and what you have to do to get it. A lot of people go under the bus in that sort of game. Play it for now. Play it for the memories. There's a poet said there's only one sure way to cure love for a man."

"And what's that?"

"Get to know him better."

Olivia laughed and looked at Kaitlyn. Her look was so far from her chopped hair, butch everyday office presentation. She wore large ruby earnings with matching pendant. There was also a deep red ruby ring on her finger.

"Your jewelry is so beautiful"

"Well, you were there when I told Randolph I wanted a silk bag full of rubies. He couldn't get the silk bag, so he wrapped them in Versace silk panties."

"I thought you were joking."

"Only joke with a man when you don't know what you want. There's just a chance he knows you better than you do yourself. Males are pretty binary so if you _do really_ want something don't hope for intelligent double-guessing."

"He loves you totally."

"That's my house rules. He's one hell of a man for a mutt—half hunk, half geek."

The driver pulled up in front of the restaurant. A smart but rugged male stepped out from inside to open the car door and usher them inside. He exchanged cheek kisses with Kaitlyn and shook Olivia's hand.

"It's my pleasure to welcome you, mesdames. Please follow me to your table."

His accent was a little French with a touch of USA. He had a tough look, not like any kind of waiter. There was a deep scar over one brow and his nose had just a little deflection. "I hope you will enjoy my little place."

Olivia watched him walk away, making a gesture to the maître d'.

"He's forty something but he's gorgeous. Obviously, you know him."

"That's Freddie La Salle, the owner. He just happens to be here tonight."

"Anna's husband?"

"Yeah. Vineyard patron and ex-world champ boxer."

"Sheesh! How did they hook up?"

"Well, she was a cop once like us. She was a bit of a girlie if you understand me. She's up the ladder now but believe me she's got some war stories."

Olivia surveyed the French menu. It wasn't cheap.

"God, if I'm paying forty pounds for a starter, I'd like to know what it is."

"Don't worry about the bill. Freddie's a good friend and a client of the bank. Randolph handles his investment portfolio personally. We eat here a lot."

This was a long way from a freezing stone Scottish castle. She looked around, spotting a cabinet minister and a TV presenter at separate tables. A premier league football manager was dining with a thuggish looking man with a brash gold earring and a gold and diamond watch the size of a hamburger.

"Don't get me wrong but these types, the wealth, it all seems, you know, murky."

"You mean, corrupt, decadent, exciting," Kaitlyn answered.

"I don't mean to criticize or be rude...."

"That's how it seems to me. Isn't it just fabulous? We swim in the same water, drink the same selfish goldfish piss. We know the inside stories, Olivia. The authorities, the police are hogtied. We do stuff when it needs to be done, OK. We do it to the people who deserve it. Finish. No office talk."

A waiter arrived with a bottle of Veuve La Salle champagne in a silver ice bucket. Kaitlyn ordered chicken breast with lobster and saffron sauce; Olivia went for the monkfish with chorizo. They started with a shared garlic crayfish platter. "Please just one question, not too detailed."

"Shoot," said Kaitlyn.

"Mr. Wolf. I'm guessing he's not a client here. What's he all about?"

"He's a loner, but he rates you. He says Scots are tough and see it through. They say he only ever had one friend. Some detective called Mel. He died during the religious troubles in France a while back."

"I was surprised he trusted me this afternoon. He didn't know if I'd get the job done."

"He knew. He likes you cos you listen and learn. Cocky tough guys think they already know best. He's showing you the way and the mental strength. As for where he eats all I know is he likes saveloy sausage and fries with salt and vinegar. Now, that's it. Eat."

The food was delicious, the champagne a fizzing riot of seduction. The glide back through the West End in the limo was a treat in itself. Crowds spilled out from famous theatre-land shows, buses and taxis danced a postcard folk dance of London while every cuisine and color of mankind painted itself on a canvas of hard stone and tarmac. This city had become her home, the framed hanging art in the gallery of her imagination. Kaitlyn warmly kissed her cheeks as she got out in Cartwright Gardens.

"Jackson's got a meeting at the bank around lunch time. After that Randolph and me are heading for Paris. Come up to the boat when you finish in the office. I've got an early little driving job, so I won't be in. _Ciao, Bella_."

Her dreams were a tangle of Jackson and the moment that gun recoiled in her hand with no chance of second thoughts. The dawn found her awake, knowing that the same threat of sudden death was out there, waiting to strike down the man she had fallen in love with. It was a relief to busy herself in the office, checking out the new intelligence in her ever-growing file. She assessed the latest item.

01:26 hrs. Police in Tottenham report gangland style stabbing of a man in street. Subject North African appearance, carrying false passport and a quantity of class A narcotics. Intelligence suggests dead man wandered into hostile gang area. Deceased identified as Al Ammu Oumar from Interpol watch list, suspected drug and people smuggler.

She let out a sigh. This was Bastian's handiwork; she was sure of that. She was also sure that police would have few resources to deploy on the case and no one would be yelling for justice. But where the hell was that Ford Transit van? Had Oumar led Bastian to the bomber? Was she really supposed not to warn Jackson? She could see it could be dangerous to warn him too soon, but if she was with him at the last minute, maybe then...?

Her cell phone rang. It had to be Bastian Wolf.

"Got your cuffs and key. Ravello Coffee, Dean Bradley Street, Westminster, thirty minutes."

"I know it. Double espresso, no sugar."

She holstered the Glock 26 and stepped out into a bright day. It was now early February and there was just a hint of spring in the quality of light. There'd been a shower leaving the roads wet and hissing with the wheels of the traffic and the dusty smell of urban rain. How alive and aware she felt. In just a few hours that bloody man would be with her, just a few hours. She took Lambeth Bridge, looking across to the Houses of Parliament, Lambeth Palace behind her. The history of these stones breathed out a poetry when you were in love.

Bastian wore a wide-brimmed brown felt hat, a tweed country gentleman's suit, half gold rim spectacles and a wax Barbour coat. Her coffee was set up on the table as she pulled up her seat.

"You did well," he said.

"I had no choice."

He looked around the cafe before speaking.

"You said yesterday you thought there was something wrong."

"Just some sort of red herring."

He laughed.

"You've been reading Agatha Christie who-dunnits. I'd worked out it was Captain Smythe in the potting shed. Go on, I'm listening."

"Maybe there's no bomb, maybe it's to take our eyes off the ball. If the guy who stole the Transit was just a low-level thief, why tell him all your plans unless you knew he was an informant and wanted him to float the story?"

"That's what Anna La Salle thinks. Our man took me to the house, but the bird had flown.

"That guy is dead."

"It's terrible news. I thanked him and let him go but it's a gang area you know. What happened?"

"Could be suicide by multiple stabbing then," she said.

"So sad."

"Just in case I need to know, what happened to that truck driver?"

"I've heard his truck is on a transport rest area on the A16 autoroute just south of Calais, France. He must have driven out early this morning. He's the sort of man who might feel a bit horny and approach the wrong type of person. There's semen all down his pants and he's toting a sawed-off. The French Gendarmes see that sort of shit all the time. It's a shrug, cigarette, and body bag to them."

She swallowed. She knew who would have driven that truck. These guys were so ruthless, so calm.

"You know I'm going to be at the Platinum Demeter Yacht with Jackson?"

"Yah, I know. I'll be keeping an eye on things—you know, from a distance. Always keep that cell phone charged and always answer."

They stepped outside. She couldn't believe she was standing chatting to a ruthless killer. Maybe he was having the same thoughts. There was something she needed to know.

"Bastian, the good guys out there, like the cops, like the French Gendarmes, what do they know about the World Intelligence Forum and our _freelance activities_?"

"On the ground no one knows. There's enough bosses in the loop and don't forget we have presidential authority agreed by the sovereign states where we operate. This is an interconnected globalized world. We've just got the same rules and resources as the crooks. What's not to like?"

She could think of many things not to like but there was no turning back. For now, she had to clear her mind of everything other than Jackson. She was a different woman now. She'd been a kid, getting some crush on an important attractive man. Now she had access to a super yacht and knew what it was to kill. The ultimate buzz of power. Would a man like Jackson even want her if he knew the truth? If she was going to talk on the pillow it wouldn't be about the truth.
Chapter 17

She finished up in the office. There was still no trace of the Ford Transit. Every regular cop sinew was stretched to breaking with the recent orgy of knife crime. How the hell were cops ever going to limit the availability of knives? Far simpler to limit the supply of big-time dealers that fueled these concrete jungle gang wars. Oumar's body in Tottenham was small news. There was no crying mother on TV or community leaders telling the world he was a saintly man who fed the birds in the park.

She took the tube home to Russell Square, packed a case and grabbed a black taxi to Butler's Wharf pier at Tower Bridge. A smart seaman in Sackman-Platinum livery saw her approaching the gangway and took her bag.

"Welcome aboard, ma'am. I'll show you to the Tiara Suite. Please ring for anything you need. We can serve dinner whenever you want."

She spotted a decanter filled with whisky and poured a good measure, adding a little ice. She took the crystal glass to the sliding windows opening out onto the balcony. Looking through Tower Bridge she could see the turrets of the Tower of London, where poor sad Queen Anne Boleyn had been executed. Her own life was no less brutal and bloody. She took another drink, willing herself to be carefree and innocent. She was beginning to like alcohol too much, its quick fix route to a better place. She'd get on top of it but maybe not tonight. She found her cell phone and streamed some Cole Swindell to the TV sound system. Tonight, the flavor of everything was Jackson T. Paine. She finished the whisky, stripped and showered saying that name over and over until it made no sense except, she had no other thoughts. She dressed in a cream studded leather short skirt, a tight low-cut T-shirt and a fringed waistcoat and cowboy boots. Tonight, she was going to be a honkytonk girl **.** She splashed on the gorgeous perfume Tenue de Soirée Kaitlyn had given her. It had grown dark and she had no idea where he was. If only she could just call him on her cell. She paced the room, poured another drink, hated herself, loved the hit more. Maybe he wasn't going to show? What was that vibration? The sound of chopper blades. She went to the balcony, the cold air slamming into her senses. The big platinum-colored bird was landing on the heli-pad, revolving lamps strobing out some important drama of money and total control. She saw him, gorgeous in a double-breasted pinstriped business suit that looked so British, so not cowboy. She called out, a little drunk, waving, not giving a shit.

"Over here, sir, hey Cowboy, you looking for some honkytonk company tonight?"

His face reflected the blue and red lights from the chopper, revealing his beaming smile. He looked so happy to see her. Thank god, she began to feel that excited flutter in her belly and that awareness of her sex. She'd been afraid she'd not be able to find that response again. She wanted to do something crazy like run out to him, cling around him. That whisky was hitting a good spot. She found the way, meeting him on the open deck. Her skirt rode up as she hugged his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing her panties against his firm body. Yes, he was hers and she liked that sexy feeling.

"Hey, what ever did I do to deserve this?" he asked, those kind loving eyes smiling into her.

"You didn't stand me up, so I didn't have to track you down and kill you."

"Stand you up? You're thinking of some other guy on your list, that wouldn't be me."

His reply was so gentle, so much like he didn't want to joke about letting her down. It was almost as if she'd hurt him just a little.

"Oh Jackson, it's British to be ironic, why be straight forward if you can hide your meaning in a dry joke."

"Can a foreigner take lessons in being British?"

"I only do Scottish."

"That you can, wee lassie. I only do Oklahoma."

He took her hand. Kaitlyn had said that the cure for love was to get to know him better. The more she knew him, the further she slipped down the slope.

She poured him a whisky; aware she would taste like a distillery. She watched him swallow, watched his hand on the glass, the flesh of his lips. Still they hadn't kissed. She enjoyed the hesitation, a honeymoon sense of innocence balancing on a cliff edge. Last time she'd lain back and lost herself in his touch, focused only on her own pleasure. She was a different woman now but still had so little experience. He sat down on the plush burgundy leather sofa and let his head fall back. She thought to sit beside him but went behind and pulled her hands back through his hair. He groaned and smiled up, she kissed his brow.

"Good day at the office, Master? The hog is roasting, I've groomed the palomino pony, and I've peeled the blueberries for your favorite pie."

He chuckled in a deep tone.

"You're crazy, what do you know about palominos?"

"Xena Warrior Princess rode one on TV when I was kid. She's my role model and I wanted one."

"As much as I want you?" He reached his arm back and pulled her over on top of him. God knows what was showing. Her head was on his lap looking up. "Since I can't kiss you from here, tell me how long it took you to peel those blueberries."

His hand lay warmly on her belly, now under her top, warm on her skin, now just under the waistband of her skirt. She angled herself up. _Touch me, touch me_. Still they hadn't kissed. How erotic was a kiss held back?

"Took me all day using my Xena Warrior sword, but I kept thinking of you, so I had to stop a lot."

"Your voice is so sexy."

She laid her hand on his and eased it lower inside her panties just to the top of her groove.

"This sexy?"

She could feel the rock-hard urgency of his erection against her cheek as she looked up into his face. She turned her face to nuzzle into his straining need. His eyes were closed in bliss. She felt bad and naughty. She was so hot and full and wet. This wasn't how she'd planned it ... oh god. She arched up into the tease of his touch. She needed release and then she could calm and start over all the boy and girl stuff.

"Do it to me."

She was just so brazen. He was making his soft honeybee hum of deep-voiced lust. His hand now in the heat of her groove, so tender, so aware of her spot. She looked up to see him watching her, surely enjoying her captivity, enjoying his control of her.

"You're so beautiful," he said, "more beautiful when you come. Do it for me. I love it so much."

A torrent broke. She jolted out uncontrolled sounds of her abandon to orgasm. God, he was bringing her off, just as an act of pure lust and release. She was biting her lip, so, so shameless in her need. She looked into his soft focused eyes looking down on her squirming flesh. She was jolting out the tremors of her release. She reached up to touch his cheek. His lips were moving. She closed her eyes in ecstasy, blending the sound of his voice with her shudders of oblivion.

"I love you. I love you."

She let her breathing subside, moving stuff around like a stagehand behind the closed curtains of her eyes. She didn't dare look up. Those stupid words had throbbed into her mind and now she could fly if she didn't open her eyes from the dream. A little of her tension had gone. God what did this man do to her? Sex was a power game. She had to take control of the dominating patriarch, just had to. Couldn't let him see her helpless need.

"Oh Jackson, I love you too."

He was stroking her hair, seemed so unconcerned by his own need, maybe had more control. For a split second she remembered her work, that bomb, those killers who could rob her of her man. Her man. It was hopeless. She was lost.

He stood and held out his hands to bring her up to face him.

"I don't know why but somehow I want to kiss you out there on the balcony. Like now we are us and this deal gets sealed in a place I'll always remember."

She understood. She'd said just what was in her stupid heart and even if the rest of her life was a lie, this moment was a truth. They stepped out and he took her in his arms. His kiss was soft but male, not erotic but deeper like a vibrating meeting of identities. The last deep pink of sunset was reflected in the clouds over Tower Bridge.

"Did you mean it?" she asked.

"Yeah, of course."

"Did you mean to say it?"

"Nope, but the greatest traitor to intent is the truth."

"You're wise enough to be president one day."

"And wise enough to ask you if you meant it. If you didn't, just let me dream."

"Oh, fuck you, Jackson ... yes, yes. Against all my better judgment, yes." Now she'd said it, now she'd surrendered. She needed to get her feet on the ground. "Come on inside, I want to see you out of that business suit. Where did you get it?"

"Your Savile Row, here in London. I had to wear the right costume for the right screenplay."

"Let's see if you're still cowboy underneath."

She led him through to the bathroom suite. The opulence brought a gasp from his lips.

"These guys are so brash. They tell me Randolph has infinite wealth. I'm a simple farm boy you know."

The room was sumptuous in a honey-gold marble with mirrored walls etched with the vulture and bankroll crest of the bank. The Cole Swindell was still playing on the sound system. The mood lighting was from inset lamps. She took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Dear lord the thrill of his hard, ridged belly, those farm boy shoulders and that strong neck, the bronzed muscle-flexing forearms. She was behind him, running her hands down his back and round to his waistband. She unclipped the belt and let her hand stray down onto the fabric over his cock. That first time in her apartment she'd been too shy to take any initiative. Now, she was pressing on his rigid shaft. He groaned with pleasure. Man, it was so, so good to tease. This was a taste of power she'd not imagined. She moved to face him, sitting on the edge of the marble-plinthed circular Jacuzzi bath, letting her skirt ride up to expose her panties.

"OK partner, strip."

She heard the thick deep lust in her own voice. She placed her hands on her knees, then drew them slowly up her thighs to brush over her sex. She saw his gaze, heard him swallow. He was smiling his misty look of desire, watching her hands. He kicked off his shoes, socks, and pants, and stood before her, only his white trunks teasing her gaze. She could see the outline of his upright cock. How much she wanted to look and touch, couldn't hold back. She motioned for him to come to her, pulling down his waistband. She reached out for the shaft, fascinated by its heat and rigid strength. She didn't know too much of male construction. She pulled down the silky flesh to reveal the tip, wet with clear fluid. She'd read that many males were circumcised. She remembered a phrase her friend Rena had used.

"Hey, you're in the hoodie mafia," she said, slowly masturbating the skin over the wet inner head."

He grunted out a response. "Didn't have no doctor when my ma pushed me out. My father never cut the tail off a hog or dog. Anyway, a farm boy needs to keep his head covered."

She swiveled and opened the tap to fill the tub.

"You're so sexy folksy, Cowboy. A few simple words are all you're going to need to lead the free world. Now I'm going to relax you before dinner. Just get in."

She found the ambience remote control and set it to _Rain Forest_ with sounds of falling rain and soft waves of green light like sun through swaying trees. "Now lean forward and I'll do your back."

She dribbled some exotic gel on his skin and closed her eyes. A thrill of lust and passion flowed through her. His body was so different from hers. There was a hardness of flesh, a coiled spring of power in his arms and shoulders. Just this touching, the sight of his hard cock, the groan and hum of his happiness was bursting and flowing in her sex. Oh, she was longing to come, longing more for him to come. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, reaching round to tease his cock. He grasped her arm, pulling her into a deep kiss of hot tongues. Some feral female inside her took over. She pulled off her clothes and stepped in. He seized her ass cheeks and pulled her sex to his lips, running his tongue through her heat to her hard, aching clit. He'd snatched the control that she'd wanted for herself but couldn't stop. His handsome face looked up, his soft kind eyes rejoicing in her pleasure. His power. His look set her free of restraint.

"You're making me ... cum, cum, cum, fucking do it to me...."

She held his head against the pulse and flood of her orgasm. How had she ever lived without this man? But yet as she still trembled in the aftershocks, she knew she'd lost control to him. Time to get a grip. She sat down, letting her head fall back. The tip of his cock was jutting up through the water, like a proud lighthouse.

She knew what she wanted to do. She smiled, jumped out and spread two of the heavy monogrammed towels on the heated floor.

"Come on, lie down," she said, wondering if she really knew what she was doing. She'd seen some cell phone porn and read some hot romance books. Hell, he was bound to know.

He lay down looking up at her. His cock was big and tirelessly hard, rooted in thick dark hair.

"Yours to command, ma'am," he said, quickly rolling a towel as a pillow for his head.

She straddled his chest and kissed his lips. The hair of his body thrilled the smooth flesh of her sex. She swiveled to face his cock, feeling his hands on her thighs easing her sex to his hot tongue and lips. A jolt of lust shot through her body as he found her spot. She licked the length of his shaft, slowly masturbating the skin with her hand. She wanted his hot cum inside her, but she also wanted this control, his helplessness under her will. She licked the clear juice oozing from the tip. This was new territory, tasting a male musk, some jungle flavor of nature. She took in the head, swirling her tongue around. She found the groove at the back and felt him convulse with a deep groan. She had command, except his tongue was at her entrance, sweeping back to her clitoris. Her climb had started, she would scream if he stopped. She reached for his sack, watching the tight balls pulled up hard. She trailed a finger along the gap behind his scrotum. Still she was climbing higher and higher. She wanted to come, couldn't hold back, wanted him to come. She drew him in to her mouth, masturbating his shaft harder as if she were bringing herself off. She felt him tighten, strain and grunt. She wanted to see, pulling away and stroking him up and down him as his cum jetted out onto her hands and breasts. The avalanche of her own release ripped a shriek of joy from her throat, watching his cum oozing onto his belly with spasms of bliss. Still she twitched and buzzed with pleasure as she struggled to re-find her sane mind. She swung her leg over him and lay face down on his body, his hot juice squeezed between them. There was a perfume of pure sex passion. There was an odor of male in his skin. She'd heard of pheromones but had thought it was trashy hype for magazines. Now she knew different. He pulled her up and kissed her lips, exchanging the juice of their kisses with animal abandon.

"You're a wonder," he said slowly, "you make everything so beautiful."

She couldn't find words. She'd completely taken her hands off the controls and was headed down the slope. This couldn't possibly end well.

"When they open that rodeo pen, just hold on to me, Cowboy, just hold on as long as you can."

"Until I break your will?"

"Just as long as you can. Come on, back in the tub. Then you need a steak."

She toweled him with all the _tendresse_ she could find in her soul. All her attitudes were lost for now. She knew that in a future time all her old fences would form a stockade behind which she would lick her wounds and hate him. For now, this was abandon and surrender and dear lord it was an irresistible honey pot of ecstasy. She did not fucking care. She lifted the intercom and spoke to the chef.

"It's late. I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting. Is there still some food?"

"Sure, ma'am. It's such a pleasure to serve Mr. Paine and yourself," replied an American voice.

She smiled inside at the warmth of the man's tone. People loved him, they really loved him. She just had to know more.

"I hope you're going to be voting for him."

"Sure thing."

"Sir, I can't see you and I don't know you, but can I ask you why?"

"Because he's on my side. He's not middle of the road, always covering both angles. He's saying what's obvious and what's right. All those others mash it all up and tell me I'm too dumb."

"Sir, that's the best political analysis I've ever heard."

"Thank you, ma'am. I've got some great Porterhouse steaks."

"It's a deal, one rare, one medium with fries, peas, and ketchup."

"And wine?"

"Do they do Oklahoma wine?"

"Sure, we've got a Nuyaka Creek Cabernet Sauvignon 2009."

"Perfect and thank you, sir."

She hung up the intercom finding him behind her, feeling the warmth of his breath on her hair.

"You've got the job," he said as he wrapped his strong arms around her.

"What job?"

"My everything job. Cheerleader, political advisor, clever clogs beautiful thingummy."

She turned to him, reaching up to push back his wet hair, stare into those kind eyes, imagining his brains spilled out by some assassin's bullet. She sighed, shaking her head, knowing she could never reveal to him the danger swirling beyond his imagination.

"Bodyguard, that's a sexy job title. I'm gonna guard your body as all mine."

"It's yours until you don't want it."

His way, his manner, his soul was so sure, so open, so honest. This is why a world was loving him, craving such a man. She could see it like the chef in the kitchen could see it.

"I came to you as more or less a virgin, Jackson. You don't know how many conflicts I'm fighting here. You make me weak; you make me strong. All I can be for you is me."

She found herself in tears, both in happiness and despair.

"The only time you lose the job is when you stop being you. Period."

"How can you hook me so carelessly with throwaway words? I hate myself so much because I want so much to believe you."

He pulled her firmly into his arms.

"All this is simpler than you think. That suit I wore was quality, you saw it, you accept it. I saw you, I know in my bones what you are. End of story, Olivia."

"So, what's the future?"

"The future's tough, like it was for those old Scottish miners who risked everything to make a life in the territories. They made it and that's the spirit I respect."

"That simple, huh?"

"Simpler than that. Those guys only had hope in their hearts. I've got hope and love."

She hugged herself into him. They had this night and the rest of life could wait. How easy her complicated life had been.
Chapter 18

She was actually hungry. A waiter brought their meal and set a small table. Jackson dressed in a tight white T-shirt and light blue jeans. His upper arms stretched the cotton fabric, his hard butt muscles flexed under the denim as he moved. It was enough just to watch him. She could almost forget who and what he was, a man tipped for president of the USA. She'd spent years at a top college studying the complexities of politics. This man mastered politics and leadership with no more than a grip of what was right. And that look, man you could _not_ overlook that look. He was tanned, rugged, but gentle. He was perfect. She watched him eat and savor the wine. She could never match him for beauty and she'd surrendered her body and soul to his touch. All she had was her muddled mind.

"Is it always easy to know what's right?" she asked.

"Nope, but you kind of know what's wrong for sure. Mainly you can feel what's right if you focus on your gut."

"Sometimes stuff is more complicated. Like might be right one day, might be wrong another."

"Sure, but we create a lot of that ourselves. Justice has to be at the time for instance. You can't judge your King Henry the Eighth today. Fix the leak at the time and move on. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Shit happens, so don't sit on the crapper once you've done. Tomorrow's a great and better chance so let's look forward. It's not quite the American dream but it avoids the over-civilized nightmare of always being too guilty about shit you can't change. All I do is tell people they're all good enough to look up and that's the only place I'm looking."

He spoke with such certainty. Her educated sophistication offered a navy fleet of torpedoes but why sink a ship that was floating? There was another side to his message.

"Crime and criminals, you've set yourself personally against big time crime. Is that a vote winner?"

"Honey, who cares about votes when there's kids on drugs and little business guys paying half their take to parasites? You know it's been ignored so long we've kind of built it in as reality, like it was gravity or the moon in the sky. It does _not_ have to be that way, that's all I'm saying. Hey, you should have been a reporter."

"I've got you on tape, Cowboy. I don't want to bang on, but that taxi attack was very serious, it shows the intent. Do you even know who did it?"

"Anna La Salle told me it was Camorra Mafia, some _capo_ from Naples."

"It was and there's a network of evil bastards out there, all nations, all colors, all religions, and none."

"That makes it easier. Most simple folks are good and they're against it. I'm just one of them. That means we've got a belief and a mission which already unites the world. I mean, that's the magic bullet, right?"

She reached across the table and took his hand. There was so much she'd like to share with him, so much she'd like to confess.

"You're a good man, Cowboy. I hope this world doesn't make you bad."

"Hey, there's a sad little girl in there somewhere. I can see it in your eyes. You know, you've grown up ten years since I first saw you?"

She had to deflect him. He had some way of just seeing in to her.

"In two weeks I'll be an old hag with whiskers at this rate."

"I said you'd grown up not grown older. I can't imagine your cop life, it must be hard to see the down side all the time."

She could feel the warmth of a tear on her cheek. If only she could tell him what she'd seen, what she'd done. Tell him also how she loved wealth, power, and the new knowledge of her capabilities. Tell him the taste of fear and the guilt of killing.

He'd come to her side, an arm around her.

"I was only trying to show you I care for your feelings. You don't have to hold back."

"Oh Jackson, all I want is that life you offer of looking forward, looking up, moving on, and getting the bad guys. I'm sorry, I'm not used to sympathy."

"If you were my kid, I'd have banned you from leaving home and coming to live alone in the city."

"In that case this kid would have run away."

"If you hadn't run away you wouldn't have been my kid."

"Did you run away from home?"

"Only to get a flame-grilled whopper at Burger King in Tulsa. Ma was a bit pure."

"You look good on whatever your diet is," she said, glad to find a bridge over a dark hole. "Let's have a last look at the view."

They stepped out onto the deck, looking back toward Tower Bridge. The sky was overcast creating the effect of an illuminated umbrella over the city. A large barge towed by a powerful tug headed downstream, to the open sea of the Thames Estuary. Small craft tossed and bucked through the turbulence.

"All this mass of life and action, Jackson—are any of us of any account?"

"Honey, a universe is inside an atom and vice versa. If you're inside another person and they're inside you, that makes an atom and a perfect universe. Love fills an infinity of good hearts. Hate fills one bad lonely one."

She looked at him and then past him into the darkness.

"I've lost it with you, Jackson. I never meant ever to fall for anyone, but I did."

"Don't blame yourself, I made you do it. I put a spell on that whisky I brought to your castle."

"Do you ever think of your ex?"

"Yeah, but only since I knew you. I thought we were OK, but I know different now."

"How so?"

"You know when you've got aircon in your car and you're cruising along in that melting asphalt sun. Then pow, you open the window and realize what's real. Like that."

She had to chuckle.

"They told me you could do the man-talk stuff. Am I asphalt or Chevrolet?"

"You're the drive-in Burger King Baby and a lot of those old Chevies didn't have aircon."

"I'd like to make a joke about needing a whopper right now, but it wouldn't be a joke. Come on in, kiss me."

He swept her into his arms. God it was good to feel the bull-like quality of his body and shoulders. She traced her hands down his hard, rounded biceps. He was just _swoonable_. She pushed her pelvis into him, feeling the need in his hard cock. All she cared about now was loving this man.

He was in bed, watching her come to him naked, no makeup, her hair set free. His skin was bronzed from sun and foreign against the cream of the silk sheets and pillows. She slipped in and reached down to find him hard.

"Just checking I can still do it for you, Cowboy."

He turned and propped himself on his elbow above her, teasing back strands of her hair, then stroking down the bridge of her nose to her lips. He brought his mouth to hers in a soft nuzzle more intimate than penetration. He ran his hand across her belly, circling lower, brushing the apex of her sex. His lips came to her nipple drawing her in, gently swirling his tongue around her jutting flesh. Each movement sent pings of pleasure and awareness down to her sex where his hand had found the summit of her hot groove, beginning to draw out that roar in the throat of her lust. She held back her climb, taking his head in her hands, groaning her heat with his wet tongue in a dance of abandon and madness. His other hand had gone to her other breast, pulling it into the other. He moved his lips back to her breast, yes, yes, holding on, oh god. His hand slowed but firmed its pressure in the hot well of her sex.

"Fuck... cum fuck oh...."

Her hand seized his cock, feeling the tip wet as he pulsed out the same rhythm of her orgasm into her gripping hand. Her mind shot to his jetting seed, that moment which had thrilled her sex to helpless spasms. His voice was deep in her ear and she shuddered out her release.

"Good girl, good girl, let go, let go for me, do it for me."

The shocks swept through her, feeling his love of her response throbbing in his longing cock. She wanted him inside but once again he was drawing out that elastic of her lust, circling her swollen clit, soaked with her juice, tightening his own cock in time with her climb, pinging her breast, finding the silky wet of her tongue in a unity of hot flesh, soaring up to the clouds until the torrent burst in waves and floods of uncontrollable ecstasy. An inner animal voice of truth burst from her.

"Make me cum, fuck yeah, do it in me now, fucking put that cock in my pussy."

She wriggled under him, gripping the thick hard length of his shaft. She felt the slight pop of his entry and waves of senseless delirium scream up through her belly. His girth held her open, stretched, and helpless. Her smooth flesh felt the contact of his pubic hair. She caught the long groan of his pleasure as he slid his length into her hot soaking belly. She sensed his hesitation.

"It's OK my man, I want your cum," she said in a thick erotic growl.

He held himself above her, his rock-hard heat holding her to his gaze. She was completely open to him, her clit firm against him. His eyes came to hers, searching for hers, for a unity. Slowly he moved, his lids now closed in the ecstasy of her sex around his cock. She watched that handsome face, his being now nowhere but in her, everything of him enslaved to her body. His movements built. She felt her own response but deeper, more jungle less dance, she wanted to come, wanted to come with him like the harmony of that universe inside the atom. His eyes were closed above her. She wanted that seed deep, deep in her belly.

"Come in me my lover, fuck yeah, do it in me...."

She blurted out the words as she felt his first tremors. Her hand came to her own soaking clit, stroking away those last restraints as he grunted out the pulses of his release into the heat of her sex. A crashing warm wave swept her away, clinging to him as he jetted his cum into her convulsing flesh. His voice released the deep musical chord of the paradise which only a woman can give her man.

"My lover, my sweet, sweet lover."

She rolled with him, keeping him inside, kissing his lips as he lay on his back beneath her. She wanted to seal that hot man-juice in her belly. _Her_ hot man-juice. Some savage bitch who'd never read a university book just fucking wanted him so much. She stroked back his hair even as shocks of pleasure jolted through her sex. Looking down on him, she felt not power, not lust, but love and sympathy for all that was flesh. How helpless every struggling creature was in the cycle of life. Inside her now was the seed of a man who, just maybe, could bring a new and better way to the world. If she could turn back time, that seed could have been his child and she would have had no regrets. She bent to kiss the lids of his closed eyes. Why did she find herself in tears?

"It's all so simple, Jackson. I love you."

For a while she slept the sleep of the just. She awoke to find Jackson warm and breathing quietly at her side. Now she knew this joy, how could she ever give it up? For the first time in her life the seed and fluid of a man was inside her. There was a difference in the way she felt, some chemical signal from the depths of evolution.

Her mind snapped back to the realities for both of them. Somewhere out there was a massive bomb and individuals with the determination to use it against him. Maybe today there'd be something at the office, some intelligence or merely a piece of luck.

Hopefully no enemy knew he was in London, but she couldn't be sure of that. When he awoke, he needed to spruce up and get going.

"I'll see you tonight," he said, kissing her lips.

"What's your schedule?"

"I'm seeing one of your officials from the ministry of trade. The president asked me to sound him out on a couple of things."

"The president isn't your party."

"Hell no, but everyone should respect the office of the president of the USA. I don't do games and I don't do difficult."

"You sure do break the mold of politics, Jackson."

" _Keep it strong and keep it kind_. Then I'm meeting a Hollywood guy at the Savoy Hotel in the Strand. He's got some sort of project, but god knows what."

"You'd be a hunk in all my movies. You have a nice day."

She followed him to the gangway, watching him walk away in his blue business suit to an official Cadillac. They still had this coming night. Beyond that she couldn't bear to imagine.
Chapter 19

She took the Thames Clipper river bus to Vauxhall, seated in the cold grey morning air of the outer deck. Her eyes scanned the Embankment roads and the bridges for white cargo vans. There were too many to count. Even if a camera picked up the license plate, police would have to be lucky to intercept it. She got to her desk and began to assess the latest reports. Nothing, nix... except.... She ran through a list of overnight vehicle thefts. Someone had stolen a big semi-trailer and tractor from the Park Royal industrial zone in West London. The trailer was an anonymous light curtain-sider and the tractor was an old smoker Mercedes used for yard shunting. It would be too polluting for use on London roads and the clean air zone cameras would pick it up for a penalty notice. Kaitlyn had said that terrorists sometimes put car bombs inside a clean-skin truck. It was a hunch and something to work on, but she had little detective experience. That's why they'd invented Google. At last she got through to the Transport for London Vehicle Emissions Enforcement Office. A guy took details of the truck and tapped some keys.

"Yeah, got spotted heading clockwise North Circular Road near Wembley."

"What time?"

"Thirty minutes ago."

She knew, she just knew. She carefully went through the routine circulation to all Met Police units and re-alerted all vehicle surveillance systems. If it was moving in London, there'd be a positive ping from something and soon. Twenty minutes later there was nothing. A big truck had gone to ground and there weren't too many places to hide one. To cops on the ground, it was a low priority stolen vehicle. It was a long shot, but she needed to phone a friend.

"What's up?" said Bastian Wolf.

"Got a stolen truck report and a sighting. Looks like it's gone to ground. I'm thinking it could be near where Oumar's body was found, like Tottenham. I know it's all coincidence...."

"You could be a detective. Get to the junction outside Lambeth Palace. See you in twenty minutes."

She'd look a fool if she was wrong. She knew that Bastian's prisoner had led him to Tottenham, apparently to locate the bomb maker he'd brought in from Libya. There had to be a link to that area and now they were looking for a definite clue and not one you could easily hide. She pulled on her coat and firearm. She loaded, cuffs, a pepper spray and an extendible baton. She handed her file to Sparrow and headed for the door. At least she was trying something. At least she would see him again tonight.

A pale blue Citroen Berlingo pulled up. She slipped into the passenger seat.

"This ain't exactly a James Bond vehicle," she said with a laugh.

Bastian was wearing blue working overalls and a woolly beanie hat.

"These are for clergymen and grannies, so I'm right in the target profile. I've got an eye-in-the-sky trying to give us a steer. Don't know why, but I'm feeling lucky."

"If we locate it, we can call in the local cops."

"Now, don't be a killjoy, Olivia."

They headed north, past Trafalgar Square and up the Tottenham Court Road. A light rain shower gave the city a clear varnished brilliance where the red of London buses seeped into the black tarmac of the streets. In half an hour they were running into the area of potential contact with the enemy.

"Got any instincts?" he asked.

"Like what?"

"Like that female stuff, like premonitions or intuitions."

"Yeah, head towards the North Circular Road. That's where it was last seen."

A cell phone was ringing in his overall pocket. He pulled it out and handed it to her. She put it on speaker. An American voice spoke with a calm sense of control.

"Your target is on a construction site. Looks like an old gas plant with a rail track running along the east side. There's a mess of construction vehicles and it's just sitting there. Looks pretty much deserted. Your GPS shows you half a mile south."

"Copy that. Owe you one." Bastian called out and turned to her with a grin. "It's so great to have a friend."

"Can you tell me who that was?"

"It's a guy who's got a billion-dollar satellite and a joy stick."

"Like CIA?"

"Yeah."

Ahead of them to the left was the arm of a construction crane jutting into the sky. They cruised by a wide, open space. She spotted the truck. Bastian drove on until he could U-turn and swing back into the parking lot of a supermarket opposite the site.

"This could be a long wait, Olivia. Did you have any plans?"

God, did she have any plans? Only maybe her last ever time with Jackson.

"We could call the cops. It's just a stolen truck."

"There might be a bomb already inside, but I doubt it."

"Fuck it, Bastian, I was supposed to see Jackson tonight."

"If a bomb gets through, you could be looking at his guts hanging off a street lamp. If we scoop just the truck, the killers will still be on the loose. My guess is the local cops won't have a spare unit to babysit here."

She knew he was right. There was no proof the truck was connected to a plan to assassinate an American politician. No local shift police inspector would care. If anyone was going to be sure of getting the job done, it was them.

"You're right, Bastian," she said plainly. "I'm with you."

After all, if she wanted him then this was her duty to him, even though he would never know how much she'd been longing for one more evening and night.

"I'll make sure he gets a message," said Bastian with almost a hint of warmth for a human situation. While they were waiting maybe she could learn what was behind those cold blue eyes.

"Is there anyone you need to tell?"

"No."

"No never ever?"

"No."

"I guess that's the limit of our personal connection?" she asked.

"No, let's decide who's going to go in that shop and get something to eat."

The afternoon wore on. There were a couple of workers on the construction site, taking no notice of the truck. In the deepening dusk they left in a small van. Bastian prepared to check things out. From their position she couldn't see the cab.

"If there's anyone there they could spot us in the mirrors, but we have to take that chance. You look under that trailer curtain and I'll check the tractor."

She nodded her understanding. He turned to her with an unwavering gaze.

"If there's anyone there don't wait to get shot. If there's a bomb inside it could be booby-trapped. I'm telling you that because that's what I would have done. We've got to hope they're not me. If we call in the troops, odds are we won't get the targets and that's what I want. Job done, finish. If you're not up for this go now."

"I'm cool," she answered with pounding heart.

"One more thing in case I don't get the chance. You're a top man."

"Thanks. Just in case I don't get the chance, your remark implies institutional sexism."

He tweaked an eyebrow and stepped out. She crossed the road at his side. The main gate was secured with a chain and padlock. A metal mesh security fence surrounded the site. Bastian walked to the furthest point and quickly ripped aside two sections, just far enough to gain entry. They stepped inside and made for the cover of some parked diggers. Now they could see the truck cab. The sky above was clear and a bitter frost was forming. He gave her a thumbs up, skirted to the side of the semi-trailer and ran across the space, keeping low. She did the same, hitting the floor and rolling under the side bars. She watched Bastian's feet heading forward and waited. The cab door opened. No sound. She rolled out into the open and undid one of the curtain straps, holding her breath and peered in. Empty. She edged along the side towards the open cab door. Bastian was seated at the wheel, scrolling through an unfamiliar cell phone. She walked to the other side and opened the door. A lifeless arm flopped out.

"Climb over, he's busy with Saint Peter."

"What?"

Bastian pointed to the bunk behind the seat. She recognized the curved magazine of an AK47 assault rifle. She felt numb but stepped up. There was a smell she already knew, the smell of warm fresh blood. Bastian's combat knife was on the seat. She put it on the dash.

"Asleep on sentry duty, that's a serious offence. It's always the same punishment," he said, carefully looking at the call register of the cell phone.

"Jesus...."

"Nothing in the back I guess?"

"Empty."

"OK, we get this guy out and we wait. There's been a call from the same number more or less every half hour, last one about ten minutes ago. Now we wait...."

She heard the sound of a vehicle and the rattle of a chain. Someone was unlocking the gate. Bastian jerked his thumb for her to jump down. He scrambled out behind her and pulled the body out of the floor well. It fell to the ground with the sound of heavy wet laundry. Quickly he jumped back up to collect the AK47 and his knife and closed the door. He jerked his thumb again for her to help drag the body under the trailer. He had the strength of a bull. The lights of a vehicle were coming near. She saw the knife and gun on the ground and scrambled out to recover them, diving to the floor and rolling under the side bars just as the vehicle stopped facing the truck cab. Doors opened, feet on the ground. She knew what they would do. She motioned for Bastian to give her the cell phone. Quickly she got the settings menu and selected silent. Bastian signed to her a double thumbs up. The truck doors opened. Indistinct voices. The cell phone lit up with an incoming call. An accented voice swore.

"Fuckin' idiot's gone over the shop for cigarettes I bet. Let's crack on. Get those curtains open."

She crawled forward to the rear axle of the trailer. Looking ahead she could see the other vehicle. White Ford Transit cargo van loaded to the limit of its springs. She heard an engine start, some sort of construction site machine. She watched as a heavy-duty fork lift pushed in under what she imagined was the bomb. It snatched the vehicle up and swung towards the trailer. In less than a minute she felt it thump down onto the floor above their heads. The machine retreated as two men closed the curtain, working on the fasteners from either end towards the middle. Bastian pointed at the central point where they would meet and drew his Walther PPK. He made a circular motion with his arm and mouthed the words.

"Take out the driver."

What was it Assistant Commissioner Anna La Salle had said? _Do exactly whatever Bastian tells you_. She wished she had it in writing. She nodded, rolled out and skirted low around the front of the truck cab. She could see the fork lift machine. She drew the Glock 26 as a big guy was stepping down. Behind her she heard the crude violent roar of the AK47 and the whining whistle of bullets.

"Freeze, you're under arrest..."

The suspect slid his hands behind him. She heard Bastian shout.

"Grenade."

She fired twice. She heard both rounds thump into his body. Bastian arrived at her side.

"I said take him out not take his name and address."

"How did you know about the grenade?"

"Seemed a logical assumption. I might be right."

"You bastard."

Bastian went to the corpse and turned it over with his foot. On the ground was a grenade, pin in place.

"Why else go with two hands?" he said, searching the pockets. He pulled out a snub-nose revolver. "Ruger LCR—nice weapon. Come on. Let's spin the others and get out of here. I'll call in the experts for the bomb."

They searched the other bodies, recovering wallets, passports, driving licenses, an assortment of firearms and four grenades. He wrote the apparent identities in a tear-out notebook and placed the sheet in a pocket.

"How the hell do crooks get grenades?" she asked.

"These are M-75s. They were made for the old Yugoslavian army and got looted during the Balkan wars. They're a must-have for the go-ahead mafioso. Let's get back to our car and wait for the army."

Bastian placed a call, laced with codewords and number sequences. Then they sorted the haul of paperwork.

"What we've got here is a neat little deal. Camorra Mafia set up and equip a couple of religious terrorists. The spiritual madmen get to claim public vengeance against the USA while the Mafiosi take the credit privately among their own kind. Either way your would-be president gets wasted before he can lead any kind of global fight against organized crime."

"University politics professors don't mention this stuff too much," she said with a dry laugh.

"Could be a future academic career for a bright woman. You did good out there."

"Bastian, we just keep killing people."

"We just keep being faster on the draw. These are not nice people. We've prevented a massive explosion in central London. I'm going to put you up for a bonus."

She shook her head in resignation. At least Jackson was safe, for now. She flicked through the wallets and ID material. Something troubled her.

"There were four suspects over there. Counting up the names here, there are five of them."

He re-checked the details.

"You're right but who knows. These types will use several names. If there's one on the loose he'll have to improvise something pronto. Just hang on here until I get back."

Two army trucks were pulling up. Bastian stepped out of the vehicle and went across to them. Time ticked by. Other cargo vans and cars came and went. It looked as if the corpses were being recovered. Maybe she wouldn't get back to see Jackson at all. Would he care? What future could they have in any case? Even if the whole alleged fake news video story blew over, how could he consort with a killer, albeit one with the authority of the law? It was close to midnight when Bastian returned.

"That took a while. I'll drive you straight back. Meet me in Anna La Salle's office at Scotland Yard at two p.m."

"Can you look after my firearm? I don't use it socially."

"Sure, put it over the back."

She stayed within her own thoughts as he drove her to the super-yacht at Tower Bridge. If only she could just have called him. Did opponents really have the power to monitor private calls, intercept emails and all the rest just to smear and destroy the other guy? Was politics a perversion of the law and its technologies, driven by greed for personal power? When she thought about it, she sighed. Yes, that's exactly how it was.

"Good job today. Sleep tight," said Bastian as he walked with her along the pier to the gangway.

"I hope you're going home to somewhere or someone yourself."

"Yeah, I can do that stuff too and make it look genuine."

"Are you actually made of flesh—don't think you have to show me any?"

"I know there's some flesh in there somewhere cos it's hungry. Good night."

He turned and walked away. It was ridiculous, but she felt something for him, not exactly friendship but the empty space of its absence which just for a moment, had held them both fixed in the same connection.

"Can you still get a saveloy sausage and fries this late?" she called out.

He slowed, waving a hand without pausing.

"You've been reading my file. See you later."
Chapter 20

She put a foot on the gangway. A voice called out.

"Olivia. Thank god. I didn't know what the hell to think." Ahead of her stood Jackson, still in his business suit. "I've been so worried. I've been imagining things. All sorts of things."

He held his arms open to her. In his face was an innocence that she herself would never feel again. She reached out to him, realized her hand was sticky with blood and pulled back. He picked up on the reflex.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I'm dirty from work. I need to clean up."

"Come to me first, nothing wrong with a decent bit of honest dirt."

His tone was so gentle, so little like anything from her own world. She had to brush him aside.

"No, please, I stink. Let me get past you, please."

She could see the confusion in his face. How could she possibly expect him to understand?

He stood aside and then followed her to the Tiara Suite. She didn't stop but went straight to the shower, stripping off her ski jacket and jeans, noting spots of blood on the blue denim. How the hell had she come to this? How the hell had she come to be working with a man like Bastian Wolf? How had she come to respect him and want his respect in return? How quickly humans could find someone else inside the wrapping of their civilized exterior. In a few days she'd come to understand so many apparent mysteries of history. Human behavior is relative to those around them. If murder is the fashion, many more people will follow it.

She watched the bloody water circle the outlet. She took a deep breath. She had to be strong and set aside what she'd seen and done. Soon she would have to talk to someone. Kaitlyn was not like a best friend, but she was the only one in the same context as herself. Jackson was the last person to whom she could open up. She was in love with a man, yet had to act it out as a role. She knew one thing at least. The blood washing from her body had been spilled to keep her man alive. Whatever happened if she held that thought, she could forgive herself enough to get through until the moment he flew home.

He was knocking at the door.

"Did you fall asleep in there?"

She smiled. His voice was deep and kind.

"Yeah, I slept so I could dream of you."

"You're wonderful, you know."

She focused her thoughts. How easily she'd pulled out that glib line. She wrapped herself in a luxurious monogrammed bathrobe and stepped out to find him with arms open. She softened into his embrace, raising her lips to meet his soft warm kiss. Yes. Yes, yes, there was that ping of arousal. Maybe she was a deceitful monster but at least there could still be pleasure.

"I got the guys to bring up a couple of ham salads and told them to turn in."

"That's just what I wanted. You're still in your city slicker suit, Cowboy."

"I didn't think to change. I was so worried. You're out there with thugs and god knows what."

"Those things are out there, but I'm not alone."

"Sure, who was that guy? Do I have a rival? He looks kind of tough."

"He's tough, but not a rival. He's an agent."

Jackson went to the fridge and pulled out the meals.

"Like a real secret agent? If you're hanging out with James Bond, I'm out of here. That guy's dangerous."

Olivia thought quickly since her answer would have to be less than truthful.

"He's a criminal intelligence agent. He just gave me a lift home."

"So, what kept you so late?"

"There's some crooks stealing trucks and we had to follow it up. Police work is like that. When you're president and the phone rings in the White House at three a.m. you'll have to stick with that problem until it's under control."

He brought the meals to the table and began to eat hungrily. She realized he'd not eaten or changed because he'd been alone and caring about her. Surely cops could only ever live sanely with another cop. She took a few bites, but had little appetite. She wanted to slam back some whisky, but simply couldn't keep going down that route.

"What's your timetable in the morning?" she asked.

"I've got a meeting with my guys over the river at the Thistle Tower Hotel at eight thirty. Then we've got an embassy car to your Ministry of Defence in Whitehall for a meeting at ten thirty."

And then of course he would be going. She loved watching his hands, the set of his jaw and those kind dark eyes. _And then he would be going_. How did people ever cope with lovers, children, parents going off to war? Her tears were soft but then overwhelmed her.

"Baby...."

"I'm sorry. I so wanted some perfect time together tonight. Jackson, I couldn't leave what I was doing, I'm so sorry."

"Honey, I understand. Sometimes Congress sits all night and you have to see it through."

She re-found her grip.

"If only our affair was normal. If I could simply pull out my cell and call you."

"We'll get there."

"That video has twenty-four million views and still viral. There's comments all the way under proclaiming you as everything from emperor to messiah. If they can trash it as a fake, you're cooked Jackson. That sleazebag who swears he knows me as porn star Ginger Bush was on a nationwide chat show again two days ago."

"It's what we call press freedom," he said with a sad shake of his head.

"Can't your guys just put a bullet in his fucking head?"

Her hot angry words had just jumped out of her. She could see the shock in his face as he replied.

"I'd love to do that myself and my opponents would love me to do it. Olivia, there's creatures out there who would kill him in order to make it look as if I'd done it."

"I do believe that. How can you or any of us live in this shit of fake news and real news about fake news and conspiracy theories about fake moonwalks and extra-terrestrials assassinated Kennedy and on and on and on? Is it worth it? If you get elected as president, there'll be some bunch of losers trying to get you arrested for dropping a wrapper on the sidewalk ten years ago."

He sighed and pushed his hand back through his hair.

"I know you're right and I have to balance all that shit against what an honest man might be able to achieve. If everyone in politics is smeared as a crook or accused of once having an affair or smoking a joint at college, the whole idea of leadership is dead. No one can ever escape or re-invent themselves or move on from anything. I'm looking at you now and wondering if it's worth it."

"I'm sorry, that's the last thing on my mind. If you ever gave up your ambition and beliefs for me, I would hate myself so let's drop it and go to bed."

He stood and pushed back her hair. He looked tired but at least for a few short hours she would hold him in an illusion of love. Once he said goodbye at dawn, she had to accept she could never know when or if she'd see him again.

It was 2 a.m. as he spooned into her back, his strong hand kneading the flesh of her shoulder and neck. The sensation blotted out all conscious thought. She pressed her sex into the bed, enjoying a lazy dreamy sense of non-urgent arousal, like a slight rustle of wind through warm-day trees. She moved her hand beneath her as he massaged the whole area of her back. He couldn't know her secret attention to her own pleasure. It had been a day of fear and violence from which she wanted escape. She wanted to stoke her own desire. His breath was on her neck as he ran his hand down the arm folded under her. She didn't stop. Her voice carried the honey flavor of sex.

"You're making me want to come, you bad man. You're making me so bad."

She could feel the pressure of his thick hot hard cock on her ass, could feel her own juice. His lips and tongue were wet and rhythmic on her neck and shoulder. He was lightly biting her shoulder. She liked the sensation of him behind her, out of sight but desiring her. Her hand was now shamelessly on her clit. She half turned to open her sex to his shaft.

"I want you inside," she rasped. By some magic instinct of nature, he found her entrance. "Fucking fuck me, do it hard." He slid to the roof of her hot soaking flesh, his strength tireless and opening her wide to his need to let go inside her. She was going to come. His cock brushed and brushed that spot inside her, teasing and teasing. She didn't care, she had to come. She moved her hand in the same rhythm as his thrusts as her orgasm burst out through her throat and in spasms of her thighs, belly, and breasts.

"I'm coming, oh fuck cum, cum, cum."

His voice was deep, whispered into the flesh of her neck and shoulder.

"Do it for me angel, let yourself go for me."

His shaft was still hard but now still as his big hand held her twitching belly firm against him. She shuddered. Feeling no more than a helpless rag doll, impaled in a blur of ecstasy. Her lust was still hot. She eased herself away swiveling to face him. She could see his handsome features in the half light. She kissed him, meeting the urgency of his hot wet tongue. Now she wanted to pleasure him and pushed him onto his back, pulling off the duvet to see his erect cock, tip exposed and longing, wet with his own pre cum juice and her sex. She straddled him, her groove hot and open on his hard belly muscles. It was a joy to rake her hands down through the dark hair of his chest. His hands were on her pelvis pulling her towards him. She watched his tongue, knowing he wanted to taste her. He was so unselfish, but his strength was wiping out all her resistance to his desire. His powerful hands held her ass as he drew her to his lips. His tongue ran the length of her groove making her offer him the spot of her need, holding, holding on the edge of abandon until she shuddered her joy down into the heat of his flesh.

"Let me love that sweet pussy," he groaned, holding her ass cheeks in her spasms of orgasm. She grunted out the helpless jungle beat of her release, wanting him in her, wanting his hot cum inside her. She slid down, easing the steel power of his cock into her. Still she was jolting with the aftershocks of her own explosion. She looked down on him, the power of his shoulders, his thick strong neck. Slowly she began to move, trying to concentrate on his need. His eyes were deep and loving, holding her gaze with a misty blissfulness as if he were hearing some beautiful music. He brought his hands to her nipples. A double ping of need shot down to her sex. He was humming now, that deep call of male lust for the female. Her sex was moving to the rhythm of his climb. She could sense his growing wave of primal sex power. When he reached his peak, she wanted him deep and deeper. She saw a shudder in his lips, almost an ugliness where the face lost soul. Instinct made her move faster, like it was to bring herself off, like she could touch herself and feel his sensation of release, like her sex was his cock, like he was her squeezing pussy and she was coming his cum. His head arched back as he let out a grunt of animal passion. He was coming, she was coming. She drove herself down, feeling the convulsions of her sex in time with the shooting pulse of his release.

"I'm doing it in you, oh god."

"Do it, do it."

She didn't want to open her eyes or to move. How would a woman ever live without this pleasure in her life once she knew it was possible? She'd not missed it before she'd known of it. What if she ever had another lover but couldn't re-find this heat or sense of wholeness she found with Jackson? He was still firm inside her. Still she tensed her sex around him to watch the pulses of his joy run across his face like cloud shadows on a sea of summer wheat. She could smell him, that release of strong muscled male slightly fused with sweat. She leaned in to kiss his throat and run her lips along his shoulder to breathe in the musk of his tanned skin.

"I want it all deep, deep," she whispered. His eyes opened, still unfocused in the absorption of his pleasure. "I'd like to bring you off over and over just with my pussy to watch you come and come and come under my power of command."

He smiled and shook his head.

"I wish you could see my view of you. Man, you are so beautiful, so sexy."

"What are we going to do, Jackson T. Paine?"

"We're going to find a way, that's what we're going to do Olivia Johnston-Denny."

Suddenly she felt the exhaustion of all that had happened. Fears and flashbacks started to flicker and pop in the front of her mind. She had to sleep.

It was 5:30 a.m. when she awoke. How could she perform the goodbye? Maybe just say, "Yo, catch you later," and fool herself it was no big deal? He would have to wake in two hours' time and leave at about eight o'clock. At least she knew there was no monster truck bomb to fear, at least not in London, not today. She didn't want to think of the violence she'd been through, the men she'd killed. One had had a shotgun, the other a grenade. Both would have had a mother, a father, blah, blah, blah. She realized she was torturing herself with sentimentality, like she felt she ought merely to punish herself, maybe find some fake tears. Somewhere behind her was a burning bridge. So, there were identities for five men, and she could only account for four. Somewhere out there could be a threat. Jackson would be travelling in an armored Cadillac, the best possible protection. What could possibly go wrong? She cuddled into him for these precious hours before the dawn.

He stirred. She wanted to talk about anything other than goodbye.

"Does NATO keep us safe from Russian bears?"

"It costs Uncle Sam a load of cash for a few old bears. It's a tough one. It's an echo of an old war, but it keeps the flag flying in a hostile world. Today's meeting is about the amount the Europeans pay in. It's a schoolyard problem. Scared kids resent the big kid who stands tall, but they still want to be in his gang."

"I can't believe I'm lying here with a man who has his hands on levers of power like this."

"Given a choice I'd drop the levers and keep my hands on you."

She didn't respond. His statement contained the whole issue.

"How are you getting to the Thistle Hotel?"

"Limo."

"Armored?"

"Yeah. Are you expecting an asteroid?"

"Cops always expect an asteroid or maybe a heavy caliber machine gun bolted into a taxi."

"I'll take the asteroid. The gun stuff is personal, the universe doesn't care."

"Who knows your movements today?"

"It's pretty much public. There's a press call after the meeting."

"They're all screened, and you've got guards?"

"The best. The embassy guys are SEALs. It's the same at your military ministry."

"I know ... just be careful."

He held her across his chest, stroking her hair. She could hear his heart. They didn't have long now. She distracted herself with abstract non-personal talk. She remembered something.

"Hey, how did your meeting go with the movie director?"

He let out a long sigh. She sensed his hesitation.

"You came back so late, but I did want to talk about that. He made me an offer."

"They want you as a low budget Spiderman because you've got your own cowboy rope?"

"You're crazy, but I love you."

"Well...?"

"He wants me to go to the Oscars."

"Yes...?"

"He wants me to go with an actress who's making a big movie all about being the wife of a president."

"What the fuck is this shit?" She sat up. Something inside her was telling her to calm down. She had no right to be angry or jealous. Obviously, it was a Hollywood stunt. "If only you knew what I've been through for you ... fuck you."

"Listen—it's about money...."

"Like what? She gets paid to fuck you? You both get paid to fuck on the red carpet for the paparazzi?"

"I get five million dollars for my campaign. I get massive free coverage. I mean massive. You couldn't buy it."

"So, who's the president's little wifey?"

"Melody Wallace...."

"Fuck, like the world's most beautiful woman. And all you've got to do is hold her hand and sip champagne together."

"I don't have details. I've not said yes."

"Or no by the sound of it?"

"Olivia, the problem's bigger than that. The whole scenario plays into a narrative my public relations team says I need."

"My public relations team thinks you were having sex with me and wishing I was Melody Wallace."

"If you knew her, you'd like her."

She wanted to break something. Shoot someone maybe.

"You've met her already?"

"Yeah, she was a bit of a local beauty queen in Oklahoma. I know her family."

"Jackson, cover your ears because I'm going to start fucking screaming. When the cops come, I'll tell them I'm Ginger Bush and you supply me with cocaine."

"Before you scream, hear me out. Politics is a dark art. You know that from your fabulous brain and education. I have to have an image and that is the straight-talking massively heterosexual country guy with a wife and...."

"Don't tell me, a fucking Scottish terrier rescue dog called Ollie."

"Hey, how did you guess?"

"Oh Jackson, god. Relax, I'm losing the will to scream."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Come to me please."

She took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. She'd always known it was beyond hopeless.

"Jackson, I'll always be your Scottish terrier if you wanted one. I was so, so in love with you.... Just don't kick the dog, OK."

He lay back on the bed, holding her to his chest. Her mind swirled with the killing and the fear. She'd told herself a love story with a happy ending. Stabs of anger and bitter jealousy still pierced through her. How many men would his Hollywood beauty kill for him? For a moment she calmed herself. He had no political party, he had no great family or dynasty wealth. It wasn't personal. It was just a desperate kick in the face and a black hole of loneliness. She would always hate him with the intensity of one who still loved.

"You've got to hit the trail, Cowboy."

"Not until I know things are fixed up between us."

"Jackson, listen to me. From the very first moment, this affair was over. If you can't see me as a rescue dog, see our time together as perhaps a butterfly, born too soon and blown away. We did fly, didn't we? Didn't we?"

"I'm still flying, Olivia. You don't need to see it this way."

"So, you want me as your secret lover while you pose for the world with the beautiful, petite Melody Wallace. Did you not think Melody Wallace might want a real super hunk who could be a real president? Now look at the time, you've got twenty minutes to be out of here."

He shook his head and sighed, getting up and heading for the bathroom. She turned her face into the pillow and cried out more than was inside herself. Cried for a world that would never change.

She felt him sit beside her on the bed, felt his hand trace down her back. She could smell his clean cologne, imagine his wet hair, his shaved skin. The total fucking beauty of the man. She had to break this, or it would break her.

"It wasn't meant to be. I can get through this if you don't mess me up with hope. Now go."

She didn't turn, felt the slow kiss of his lips on her back and the brush of his hand across her head.

"I'll write you. You don't have to answer," he said.

She heard the click of the door. Dear lord where should her thoughts be? She threw on the bathrobe, went to the outer balcony and looked up at Tower Bridge. She spotted the black Cadillac headed north. She waved a hand, just in case he was looking back.

"See you, Cowboy. I love you."
Chapter 21

Well, it was Jackson T. Paine who'd told her life was about the future, not sitting in the past. She had a meeting with Assistant Commissioner Anna La Salle and Bastian at 2 p.m. In the meantime, she had to get off the boat and return to normal life without marble, gold, and platinum everything. She picked up her clothes from the day before, spotting something white she didn't know. He'd left his tight white T- shirt. She pulled it to her face and drew in his essence. He was there, a tantalizing trace of him. How had he forgotten it since that wasn't what he'd been wearing? She breathed in the scent of him again. She remembered his letter where the girl leaves the glove so the boy can bring it back. He was a bastard. This shirt would have to go in the same trash as those letters. Soon, but not today. She was OK. She was busy, she would get to see Kaitlyn, tell her everything, ask her advice, get drunk. Definitely get drunk. She was OK. She had a career. Anna La Salle had promised she could return to routine duty some place. She'd done her best for him even if there was a missing man, woman, killer. For now, she could focus on that and it would fill the hours. Perhaps Bastian knew more by now. She called his number. Nothing. She couldn't blame him for sleeping in.

She packed her bag, couldn't find her blouse. She sat down on the sofa, a sad smile pushing through a tear. Would it carry enough of her to him? The bastard.

"It'll never fit you," she called out.

She stepped out onto the deck. The day was bright. She'd dressed in black ripped jeans, a hoodie, and trainers. She pulled her hair back in a simple pony tail and couldn't be bothered with makeup. It wasn't as if she was trying to impress like she was a movie star. She slapped down her bitterness. She called Bastian. Nothing. So, there was a missing enemy soldier out there. Jackson was safe with armored transport and bodyguards. Where would be a vulnerable point? She'd studied the French philosopher and writer Sartre, who'd had said that hell was other people. And he was right. Jackson was with a party of congressmen and possibly an ambassador with diplomats. She had no idea who was with his entourage. Someone around him could be a rival or in the pocket of some thug. This Camorra capo had staked his whole reputation on this mission. And if he lost his reputation, he was dead meat on some squalid street in Scampia, Naples. If he won, he'd strut tall in front of the Mafia of New York. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Some instinct had made her follow the trail of that stolen truck. The same instinct now was guiding her. She'd left her firearm with Bastian. Dear lord, more and more she leaned on these illusions of power; alcohol, and guns. She knew where Jackson would be for a meeting at ten thirty. The Ministry of Defence was a huge stone block on Whitehall, near to Downing Street and the Cenotaph for the dead warriors of Britain. All the world knew that he would be there, and you can only respond accurately to what you know. Cops had the added luxury of hunches. Hunches had come up with antibiotics and quantum physics. She felt lucky.

She took the river bus from Tower to Westminster Pier, pausing to look up at the Big Ben clock face. It was ten minutes past ten. She knew the Americans would be coming from the embassy at Battersea. They would drive through Parliament Square and for sure they would come up Whitehall and swing into the ministry yard. She knew also that often there was a Metropolitan Police motorcycle outrider who would turn across the traffic to let the armored Cadillacs pull up on the sidewalk. This was a pretty routine bunch of officials and it would save the vehicles getting caught up waiting for security access to the compound. She would be there when the convoy arrived. She laughed at herself. Nothing was going to happen. It was simply another story to get herself close to him one more time. She looked up towards Trafalgar Square, glanced across to Horse Guards Parade where the dragoon guards sat motionless on horseback, swords drawn. Tourists blended with office workers, mysterious chauffeured Rolls Royces swept by in the torrent of buses, builders' trucks, and cycle couriers. The normal oxygen in an artery of the city. She walked up to the Ministry of Defense. Suited men and women came and went with a sprinkling of uniformed military officers, like raisins tossed into a cake of beige stone. The building itself was set back, a large green lawn and wide sidewalk separating it from the thoroughfare of Whitehall. She loitered, apparently studying a couple of statues of old warriors. She saw the blue flashing lamps of approaching Met Police motorcycles. Yes, this was a diplomatic convoy. There were two armored Cadillacs, and two Chrysler Voyagers one ahead, one behind. She knew there'd be a dozen top pro guards even if the fifth man existed and if he showed up. She _should_ just walk on. She glanced at the gated vehicle entrance. A British government Jaguar and a military bus were waiting for access. For sure the Americans would pull up on the road and the party would walk across to the building.

She'd lost her professional focus. She could only think of him, longing only to see him, maybe call out goodbye. Something. That's all she wanted.

They were close now, the police outrider swinging in an arc to block the oncoming traffic. The lead black Voyager curved in at speed. A bunch of suited short-haired men in shades were out as it stopped. The two Cadillacs swept in and waited for the escort Chrysler to tuck in behind. Agents deployed at once. Cop instinct made Olivia scan the area. No threats. The car doors were opening, and the delegation of congressmen and women emerged onto the sidewalk. She was still by the statue of Viscount Montgomery, watching Jackson chatting to a smart-looking colleague. She'd decided to stay out of sight, the most she could achieve would be to embarrass him and for sure make a fool of herself. Jackson was carrying a hard briefcase, looking every inch the man of importance. She was sure to see him again on TV and certainly at the Oscar award show. This moment would be her last chance to be this close. She scanned the sidewalk, there was no action here, just a couple hand in hand, a business man type in an overcoat, another poor homeless guy shuffling by, almost barging into the group as they began to walk toward the building. Fuck! The homeless guy. She knew the face, the knife man she'd confronted.

She focused on him as she began to run, abandoning her bag. The group had moved on and the suspect had turned to follow them but keeping a distance. He had an object in his hand – not a knife. Not a gun. The bodyguards were in a circle around the party. She yelled at the top of her voice as he began to bring his hands together.

"Grenade!"

The words roared from her throat as she smashed into him. He fell, the grenade rolling free. She scrambled up as a smart black leather shoe kicked it away under one of the Cadillacs. She heard the crack of gunfire, saw a Walther PPK spit flame, the steel blue eyes of Bastian Wolf as the explosion lifted the armored limousine into the air. The blast had hit the high concrete curb and shrapnel had scattered out into the road on the other side of the vehicle. She quickly checked for anyone down, saw the neat entry wound in the forehead of the assassin. Bastian had re-holstered his weapon and buttoned his smart overcoat. Now, he was wearing a Heisenberg hat and mirrored sunglasses.

"Just mingle and collect your bag. Pull your hood up. It takes thirty seconds for the human mind to regroup. That's our time." he said calmly.

Agents were running everywhere, sirens were sounding. Two vehicles were on fire. Her heart was thumping, her mouth was dry. They walked to the base of the statue where she'd dropped her bag.

"Take my hand. We're strolling lovers on vacation. In ten seconds people will start remembering who, what, and where, and we'll just be passing tourists. The bodyguards are only interested in their people."

They simply strolled away, hand in hand. They crossed the road and ambled through Horse Guards Parade towards St James's Park. Behind them was a cacophony of sirens. A police chopper was hovering over Whitehall.

"Bastian, what the hell?"

"You took the words from my mouth."

"That homeless guy, he was the one with the knife near the embassy."

"Yeah, and he was there to stab Jackson T. Paine. You kind of messed up the whole deal that day."

"How do you know that?"

"I did some homework on the I.D.s we picked up and some ballistic checks on their weapons. Mr. Hobo is Csaba Matanic, a Serbian hit man. Our Camorra mafioso hired him. Two days ago your man escaped from the mental hospital. He'd played it cool and they put him in a low-risk unit. Interpol got his identity from the fingerprints you took. You've got a knife crime wave in London so a stabbing would have looked routine."

"Jeez Bastian, did you work all night?"

"I put in an hour."

"How the fuck did you end up here this morning?"

He glanced at her with a wry but cold smile.

"We found out yesterday they had M-75 grenades. He couldn't guarantee a clear shot and he had to take out the group in order to get away. Very probably no one would have realized some shuffling hobo had thrown a grenade. In his shoes that's where I would have attacked. More important why the hell were you there?"

"Just sightseeing."

"Yeah, that's sounds sensible...."

"Just a hunch there was a fifth man. I tried to call you."

"I know. I was focused."

They'd walked through to Pall Mall, looking along its length to Buckingham Palace. A black London cab pulled in ahead. Olivia watched idly since it was an odd place to drop off. Bastian opened the door as they were about to pass by. She followed him in. The driver was female with punk style chunky earrings and blue lipstick. What the hell was this?

"Kaitlyn, you went to Paris for Christ's sake."

"It was cool. Got back this morning."

"Taxi? You've got to help me here. _No Capisco_."

"Mr. Wolf told me he might need a ride. So, so cuddly sweet to see you two gunslingers holding hands."

"How did you get here?"

"Duh, tracking Bastian's cell of course. Hey, I could have picked up a bunch of fares if I didn't have to waste time with you."

"Just drop me at Victoria. I'll see you later with Anna. Good job, kid."

She gave him a weak smile. Dear lord when would this end? They cruised up past Buckingham Palace and along Buckingham Gate. Traffic was static since police would have locked down Central London. Bastian waved and was gone.

"Does anyone know anything about that man?" Olivia asked.

"Not as far as I know. They always say that no enemy that's ever seen him has ever lived to describe him."

"It has the ring of truth about it."

"You been busy?"

"Kaitlyn, I need to talk to someone."

"Sure. I'll come to yours tonight, about eight. Look, I know some of what you've been through. Anyone would need to talk. I'm going to chew up Shannon Aguerri when I see her. She's supposed to be right on your case."

"Where is she then?"

"Last I heard it was Dublin."

"Well, she's no fucking use to me in Ireland, is she?"

Her voice trailed off into sobs.

"We're running too many missions, honey. It was a stroke of luck to get you on board. Hold on until tonight, OK? You can talk to Anna La Salle. She's a bit up herself these days, but she only knows the rules because she's broken most of them. I'll run you back to Bloomsbury and I'll see you tonight. I'll bring a bottle."

"Thanks, Kaitlyn. I'll be OK. I've felt so isolated, so out of control."

"First time I fired in anger I was sick, and I didn't even see the body."

The remark distracted Olivia from her own story.

"How did that happen?"

"Opened up with a Glock 26 into a closed door."

"Where?"

"Backstreet cafe in Paris. I only do glamorous joints now."

She was laughing. Olivia actually found herself laughing. It would be a ray of sun to talk to someone like this. She relaxed back in the taxi as Kaitlyn cut every corner down Piccadilly, through the West End with its huge hoardings above the theatres proclaiming the famous shows. Maybe one day she'd take in a musical with a nice guy and it would feel like an exciting day. For now, it seemed no more than the litter of civilization, blowing along the gutter as a hyped-up soundtrack to empty fame.
Chapter 22

She put her bloody clothes to soak in salt water. She rescued his white T-shirt. She didn't want to wash it. She held it to her face, kissed it, found a zip-up plastic freezer bag from the drawer and sealed it in to keep that trace of him for a long as she could. On her table were his two letters. She picked up the one where he'd mentioned the glove trick.

Even now if I could start over, I would have kissed the back of your hand and left my visiting card. Then you could have come for English tea and left your glove. The next day I would have called like a gentleman to return it. I guess you Brits know more of that etiquette than me. In a perfect world I would have wanted that for us.

This fucking bastard thing called love robbed you of everything. More than violence, more than even the threat of death simply because you could face bad stuff down with pride. Love became a friend before it betrayed you and so it knew you without pride, because you had revealed your heart and let another person see your need and your tears. Love could come as a beggar and leave as a king. A queen could command love yet know only the bitter victory of power.

She chose her clothes for her meeting at Scotland Yard. Gun-toting killers on TV rarely looked frilly or wore perfume. A tailored mid-grey pant suit with a cream blouse. As a final touch she splashed on some Tenue de Soirée, at once regretting it. The perfume snapped her back to her time with Jackson. She had to front up and simply get on with her work. Once you had a plan, life was easy, and if she told herself often enough it would be true.

She waited in the reception area at Scotland Yard. Anna La Salle appeared out of the elevator in a beautiful cream-colored coat with fur collar. She opened her arms to Olivia and hugged her with what felt like a genuine warmth. She must have been in her early forties with rich long dark hair, ivory flawless skin and grey eyes. Olivia hesitated to speak, uncertain how to proceed with a woman so much older and so important in the world. The last time they'd met, Anna had ordered her not to see Jackson. A lot had happened since then.

"Ma'am, I'm not sure...."

"I'm sure of one thing. You helped save London from a huge terrorist bomb attack and then saved multiple lives in Whitehall this morning. I'm so proud of you. Now, we'll talk further, once we're out of here. Bastian Wolf doesn't like to show his face in official places. Let's step outside."

As they reached the bottom of the steps onto the sidewalk, Anna took her arm. "I love the river. Let's take a trip."

It was only a short walk to the Westminster pier. A black and white police patrol boat was waiting. Two uniformed officers saluted. They took a seat on the rear outer deck as the craft powered up and headed downstream. The day was still clear but beginning to darken into the winter dusk of a frosty February night. Anna shouted above the noise of the wind and the powerful engines.

"It's good to see this view. This is what it's all about Olivia, this beautiful city, all the people in their lives, all the history bonded into the stones and the river itself. This is what we fight to keep. The average guy must live without fear and believe that honest endeavor will reward him and give a fair chance to everyone."

"You sound like Jackson T. Paine," she replied.

"He's a very special man and he's got the style and looks."

Olivia looked into Anna's eyes, wondering what she knew. She was pretty sure she'd know everything. Maybe it would be better to take the initiative.

"I suppose you know I did see him?"

Anna reached out and took her hand.

"I knew you would. That's not true, I hoped you would, not out of police duty but out of respect for what's human and what matters in life."

"You ordered me not to."

"That's because diplomatically my job is to keep trouble to a minimum. That scumbag with his porn star rubbish didn't help. If I'd really wanted to stop that happening it wouldn't have happened."

Olivia sensed the steel in this powerful woman's mentality. She wouldn't want to cross her. She'd learned from Kaitlyn that Anna La Salle had had her own adventures. Maybe tonight she would learn more.

The police launch skimmed under Tower Bridge where the Platinum Demeter super yacht still proclaimed something like infinite wealth. Ahead were the great monoliths of corporate power at Canary Wharf. They followed the curve of the river around the Isle of Dogs and eased into an inner area of water known as Middle Dock. Above them rose the massive brash Sovereign Citadel, the headquarters of Sackman-Platinum Bank built in gold-colored rings to look like a stack of gold coins.

"Must be the trashiest monstrosity in the world," said Anna. "Don't you just love the stench of greed?"

Olivia wasn't sure how to reply so she kept quiet. Mainly she wondered why they were here. She knew the bank wasn't all it seemed and that it put in a shift for the good guys. So far, the nuts and bolts hadn't been explained. They stepped onto the pier where liveried assistants ushered them into the reception area. A fountain which looked to be made of platinum, spouted water maybe fifty feet into the air where it collected and overflowed onto the head of a platinum vulture grasping a bankroll—the corporate logo of the bank. Two beautifully made up oriental girls in platinum flowing robes and platinum blonde wigs indicated the way to the express elevators. One was labelled Infinity Penthouse only. A ramrod-stiff attendant snapped a salute and invited them to sit on deep blue buttoned velvet seats. Then he stepped out and left them alone. They flew effortlessly to floor 142 and slowly came to a halt. The doors opened into an environment of dreams. The carpet was profoundly deep and profoundly white. The lush sofas were white. Soft angelic music played. The walls were a 360-degree panorama taking in the whole of London and even beyond into the mists of the horizon. Olivia stood open mouthed.

"Randolph says this represents the purity of infinite wealth," said Anna with a grin. "I think it's ghastly. All the same, the bank's clients love it. Randolph tells these suckers that wealth is a religion and that they've climbed to paradise by virtue of their ruthless belief."

"That's Randolph with the super yacht, Kaitlyn's partner?"

"That's him."

"I feel like I should have brought a snake and an apple. How does anyone dare move in here?"

"You get used to it. Come and sit down. I'll fix some coffee."

"Ma'am, this bank...?"

"Just call me Anna, OK. I can guess your question. I asked Kaitlyn to give you a steer already."

"She did, but it's hard to take in. This greed and wealth seems genuine."

"It is genuine. It has to be. Fake shit wouldn't attract too many flies. This bank is a front for W.I.F. the World Intelligence Forum, I guess you know that."

"Sure."

"By laundering the evil money of the world, we know the networks, we know the names and where the bodies are buried. The head of the bank is one tough woman called Stella Bourselino. You'll meet her one day soon. Randolph Quinn is a genius computer guy but also a dedicated agent like you."

"Kaitlyn and Randolph sort of recruited me. I don't even know if I'm still a Met Police cop."

"You're on the books and that's useful if you need to act in that role. Now, tell me how you get on with Bastian Wolf."

Olivia let out a long breath.

"Anna, you told me to stick with him and do whatever. Whatever means killing people, torturing people, kidnapping people."

"What about saving lives? What about exterminating parasitic worms? The truth is, Olivia, the cops are in handcuffs with these types of criminal and terrorists. There is _not_ the budget to do it all by the book."

"So where is my legitimacy? Who gives me authority?"

"The buck stops with the president of the USA. Governments around the world accept and welcome the W.I.F. Honey, we wipe the ass of civilization, fold the lid down gently and flush. All those guys like the CIA and MI5 are household names these days. Tourists can damn near take a guided tour. For us that's great."

"So, what is Bastian?"

"He's a senior agent. He's a total fearless professional. First time I met him he was working for the Russians during the French religious terror troubles. We recruited him."

"I do like him, well, I'm glad he's there. I trust him, but I can't say I know him."

"That's the way he wants it."

"Where does he live? Does he have a family?"

Anna chuckled and opened her outstretched palms.

"Does he seem like a family guy?"

Olivia shook her head. A tone sounded as the elevator door opened. A stocky man in an Adidas track suit and baseball cap strolled in.

"This place is total bullshit," said Bastian Wolf with almost a smile.

Olivia wanted to stand, maybe even kiss his cheeks in the way these folks seemed to behave. There was something about him that stopped her. He didn't do personal.

Anna busied herself making coffee with some exotic machine.

"You did so well today," he said, sitting opposite to her.

"Thanks. You stepped up yourself."

"We were so lucky there was that Cadillac to take the blast. Those M-75s are filled with ball bearings, the high curb took the hit in our direction but there were some injuries on the other side. No one died and no one's going to be maimed. There could have been twenty dead there."

"You didn't need me."

"That's where you're wrong. That homeless man wasn't on my radar. If you hadn't yelled and gone for him neither of us would be alive."

It was a strange feeling being around Bastian. He seemed to normalize things that really should seem like a nightmare. Olivia wanted to ask a question but was far from certain if she'd get a meaningful answer. She sipped a wonderful strong espresso coffee. She might as well just come out with it.

"What is Jackson's relationship with this bank?"

She watched the others exchange glances and nod at each other. Anna sat down and spoke calmly.

"Did you ask him?"

"No."

"Did he say anything?"

"No."

This beautiful older woman's face burst into a wonderful warm smile.

"I guess you had other things to do. I thought he might have explained and he's not here, so I'll tell you. He is one of us."

Olivia was stunned.

"In what way? An agent, a killer?"

"No, he's our man, one of our political wing. If we can swing it, he'll be president. Sackman-Platinum sponsor a range of individuals and organizations. Everything is done through charities, foundations, and fronts of different kinds."

"Does he know about the violence?"

"He knows our philosophy is to undermine global organized crime. He knows sometimes you have to fight fire with fire. He doesn't know how we operate on a day to day basis. He has no idea you're an agent. I did _not_ want you close to him simply so he wouldn't know. He's a totally good man and until he's in the White House I'd far rather keep him innocent."

"And if he became president?"

"That's a different matter. Then he gets the codes to the nukes and he'll get some pretty hardcore briefings."

"Well, I've no plans to see him again. I do agree he's a good man. Beyond that, what's my future?"

"What do you want it to be?"

"I don't like killing."

Bastian stepped in.

"None of us do. If we liked it, we'd be psychopaths. How many deaths in a year from crystal meth?"

"Thousands."

"Exactly. Six thousand in the USA in 2015 and rising. Don't even try to count the folk with rotted teeth and ulcerated skin. Heroin kills even more. How many innocents killed in shit-hole wars fueled by stuff like that grenade? How many crooked arms dealers does society need? How many small businesses—restaurants, car washes, gas stations—pay extortionists—Mafia, Chinese Triads, Japanese Yakuza, Camorra, and on and on and on? Did anyone ever tell you the good guys are winning?"

"I know you're right," she answered.

"Sometimes we have to waste someone, it's true. If ever you enjoy it, it's time to go to the shrink. For now, just accept my thanks and respect for what you've done when you had to do it."

"Your future is with the W.I.F. if you want that. Please understand all the team rely on each other to keep the truth of things between us. Sure, get drunk, punch the wall, punch Bastian, but your life will be around the team. When you're on an assignment it's total loyalty even if you don't get on. In the Met Police we encourage the rookies to inform on the old guys if they slap some thug, you know that. I support that policy to the cameras because police work is in the public eye and everything is politically correct. Try that here and you're dead."

"And don't forget, Anna, we have a knife murder epidemic in London with politically correct police, too scared to search suspects for knives," Bastian added.

"I know, Bastian. I'd love to tell my political masters some fucking hard truths. I'd like to put a W.I.F. team out there to solve it."

"Just say the word, Anna. We all know that the gang culture feeds off wealth from cocaine. I've got a couple of names and addresses."

"Bastian, I do know your application to duty. I don't want community riots and looting. I'm just not in that street-battle mood."

Anna spoke with an air of weariness. Olivia could only imagine the pressure of her job. She also realized that she had trusted her enough to speak openly to her, a younger woman with far less experience who could sink her.

"I want to stay with the team. I understand the mission and the rules."

"That's all I wanted to hear. I brought you in because we needed a few more agents. I believed you had the balls and you've stepped up. Take a break for a few days or until you get a call. I've got a press conference at Scotland Yard about the Whitehall incident for the evening news shows. Let's go."

Olivia took a last look at the panoramic view over London. The night was deepening with all the thoroughfares of London visible, lying like discarded diamond and ruby necklaces of vehicle lamps in a black velvet box of shimmering jewels. They took the elevator back to the lobby. Assistant Commissioner Anna La Salle offered them both a lift on the police launch. Bastian walked away to god knows where. Olivia wanted her own company and to think alone. Just think of that bloody man.

"Thanks, I'll get the tube," she said.

Anna embraced her again.

"So proud of you. You've come through for yourself. You've come through for me. You've come through for the millions of people in this city. I won't ever forget that."

"Thanks."

"I did speak to Jackson just before we met today. In your shoes that Hollywood shit with Melody Wallace would have felt like a knife in my heart. Honey, he didn't know what you'd been through. He still doesn't know. He saw your actions today. He saw inside the cover of your book when you faced down that knife-man the day you met. A few years ago I was crazy for a man, but we split up. Another older woman told me that love was like the Eiffel Tower, you know, just because you're not in Paris, it doesn't mean it fell down. I've never ever forgotten that and nor should you."

"What happened with that man?"

"Mr. La Salle? Hey, we're doing OK."

Olivia hugged her back. This time with some real affection.

"Thank you, thank you."

"And one final thing and this is from me. A strong man is strong because he's a proper man. A strong woman is strong because she's a proper woman. We need _all_ the talents."

Olivia watched her step back onto the police patrol boat, swirl away in a bridal train of white water back to her official life of uniforms, public relations, and carefully chosen words for the media. That damned man was out there somewhere, certainly on a plane back to the USA. She felt so much better about herself, even though she knew she should be beating herself up with guilt. God it would be good to see Kaitlyn, get drunk, and let the world do its worst.

She braved the teeming crush of the Docklands railway to Bank and the stifling sweaty shuffle of the Northern line underground to King's Cross. The streets were cold and swarming with strangers as she walked to her apartment. Mechanically she checked her mailbox. She did a double take. The handwriting, that embassy envelope, that same wet pen once again had been in his hand as he had thought of her. What a thing was a letter. Dear lord, even this churned her gut. What would it say? Would it be the despair of the acceptance of goodbye or the awful self-deception of hope? She climbed the stairs, opened the door and laid the letter down on the table. That table where they'd spread out the hamburger feast that Cowboy had brought, before they'd made love and she'd known what it was to love a man. She opened a bottle of wine, poured a drink and sat down. She found a knife and slowly opened the envelope. Please, please....
Chapter 23

My Dear Lover, By the time you read this I'll be in the sky above the Atlantic Ocean flying away from you. No, no, this isn't the way I wanted to start. I wanted to say I love you and that's all I want to say. I have ten minutes and have to leave this note at the embassy.

OK. Start over. Olivia, this is a mess of a letter. I saw what you did and then you were gone. There was smoke and confusion and our security guys had enough problems without me running off to find you. I spoke to Anna La Salle. She gave me the inside track. The individual with the grenade was the same man with the knife near the embassy. That stunt with Melody Wallace is off the table, I was crazy even to consider it. I know the man who set up these attacks on me. Believe me, I will never rest until he is put before justice. It's time for me to step up and beat this low life crook man to man.

The guys are pacing up and down and I've got to go. Thinking of you all the way home. All my love. Jackson xxx

She set the sheet of paper aside. The handwriting was almost scribbled but somehow still his voice. She'd been hasty, angry, and emotional. How would he have taken it if she hadn't cared about him cavorting with some other girl? What the hell? What future could there be in any case? They were from different countries, sometimes didn't speak quite the same language. If there was one man like him in the world there would be others. God, she'd been a fool. She'd abandoned all her education and principles for some macho patriarchal alpha with binary sexist attitudes. She'd debased herself by longing for his touch, had given herself up to some call of nature. She could see it now. All that empty crap of his strength, his strong arms and hands around her, his kind eyes, his hard cock longing for the heat of her sex. How could she have fallen for this absurd trick of caveman masculinity? All she needed to do was to forget him. Even the way he smiled, stroked her skin, the way he'd made her feel beautiful and desired, the way his warm lips and tongue had driven her wild with bliss and need. The way he seemed to take so much happiness from her helpless pleasure. Every word of her education had warned her about this type of virile man, but no one had explained something even more dangerous—her own desire.

She read his words again. What the hell did he mean about beating this Camorra _Capo_ man to man? What did he mean by saying he loved her? What the hell was the use of love? There was nothing in love that wasn't in another glass of wine.

By the time Kaitlyn arrived with a bottle of vodka and a pack of coke, Jackson T. Paine was in the past. Gone. Erased.

"So, tell me," began her enigmatic friend, "what went down on a mission with Bastian?"

"Well, I shot a man who pointed a sawed-off shotgun at me."

"Good move. That's ten points."

"I shot a guy who had a hand grenade, dragged a dead body from a truck cab and got covered in blood."

"Fifteen points. Sounds like Bastian's giving you a sound education."

"You know, I felt so bad. I saw Anna La Salle this afternoon and she makes it all seem normal."

"It's never normal, but you can put it behind you. I used to be like you before I met Randolph. We got involved with a load of Albanian thugs in Milan. I had to shoot up a couple of men. We got away, but I couldn't stay with him. I was like so appalled—mainly appalled with myself."

"With yourself?"

"I was broken by the horror, you know blood, but I wasn't sad. These were killers and after an hour or so I knew that I had the balls to do something like that. I never wanted to be someone like that. I hadn't ever suspected there was a person like that inside me."

"But you got back together?"

"I was like you, in the dark about the bank and the W.I.F. Shannon Aguerri took me to New York and I got the full story."

Olivia poured them both more vodka. It was so good to be with someone like Kaitlyn who'd been on the same crazy ride. Someone unashamed, unafraid, uninhibited by the norms of society. Someone who could hear confession and shrug off all your guilt like it was a day in the office. Her friend had dressed to impress in a red leather mini skirt and black leather biker jacket with an array of metal studs. Her tight T-shirt read "YOU'VE BEEN WARNED." She watched her stand up from the table and flop down on the bed in a pose she'd seen before on the super yacht, almost brazenly exhibitionist, one leg raised, her elbow on the bed, propping her chin on her fist. Half the vodka was gone. Probably it wasn't deliberate, but she was showing her panties. There was hint of something very wild about Kaitlyn, some ambience around her that made Olivia feel that anything could happen. That she didn't have many rules.

"Randolph is an incredible man by the look of it," she said, trying not to notice the pose.

"Yeah, he's cool. I've got a gold pot for his ego and he leaves it there for me to polish while he goes out to throw spears at wild stuff."

"You love him."

"Yeah, you've put your finger right on it. Yeah, that explains the master slave stuff."

Olivia laughed. Could a woman talk so lightly about love?

"Love always seems like such a big deal, like the big fireworks to finish the party."

"Love, sex, and romance come all in one parcel but not necessarily joined up."

"He adores you."

"And I adore him, Olivia. Listen, I don't want to patronize but you're still young. Don't just fall over some big brick that's labelled _Lurrv_. Even bricks are made of something smaller. People are complex. _Lurrv_ get expressed as sex, but sex doesn't need to be _lurrv_. Hey, orgasm isn't always sexy, it's maybe you're tense or lonely or you just want a nice feeling. Strong emotion can blind you to poor sex. Kapow brain banging sex can make you trip over that love brick."

This other woman was so much more experienced. She was uncertain of how to speak to her and too drunk to work out anything clever.

"Jackson sort of surprised me. He walked in and I didn't know I had a door."

"Hey, that's serious. How did you get out to go shopping?"

"I think I stayed in locked up with certainties about men."

"You can be pretty certain about men. Unless they're drunk or drinkers, they don't do the mood swing too much. They'll trade a lot of whatever you need for sex or even better, the hope of sex."

"I was more thinking of the institutional abusive imbalance of power aspect."

"Yeah, I love that stuff, like making him pull my panties off with his teeth and then really give me some hot tongue."

Olivia stared at her. The vodka had nearly gone. They were both drunk, but Kaitlyn was drunk and outrageous. She was still in her same ambiguous pose.

"Come and relax, lie down and tell me all about Jackson. Tell me what you got up to."

She wanted to talk about him, say his name to someone, as if he was hers to discuss.

She needed to lie down and keep her eyes on something fixed. She'd had a glass of wine and a good part of the vodka. What the hell? She lay down.

"He was so lovely, gentle. I'd tried sex with a guy at college, but he wasn't so turned on, I guess. He was a friend, a nice person. I wasn't turned on either, it was just like we needed to jump that fence and agreed to help each other."

"Not exactly Wuthering Heights or Captain Corelli?"

"Then there was Jackson. I know it's dumb to think it was love."

"Did you come a lot?"

"Well...."

"So, you did. Was he really nice, like special warm kiss where it matters most level of nice?"

She felt embarrassed but also a small thrill to bring it to life in her mind.

"Yes."

"Simple. Since you've never had that stuff before you're going to think it's love until you get it out of your system cos you sure can't fix that angle yourself."

"So?"

"Get him to you, get to him and fuck your brains out. When things calm down, you'll see what that _lurrv_ brick is made of."

"Did you go through that scientific psychological exploration yourself?"

"You _do_ love long words, Olivia. Sure, and the brick is rock hard and thick."

"Thanks for the advice. I put in the long words to see how drunk I am."

"I've got to go boil a mammoth stew for my hunter gatherer when he comes in from the jungle."

Olivia had let her eyes close. She was wrecked. Kaitlyn moved, placed her hand lightly low on her belly and softly kissed her lips, not quite a full kiss but enough to jolt her. She was sure she hadn't liked it. It hadn't mattered beyond stirring a curiosity. Anyway, she was shuffling away, down the bed and away to the door.

"Bye, sweet dreams," she called out.

She got up unsteadily and looked down to the street below. A silver Bentley Mulsanne was waiting. A uniformed chauffeur stepped out and opened the rear door. Kaitlyn looked back up to the window and blew a kiss before the car slid away into the night. What the fuck had that been about? It was OK to kiss a woman; it hadn't really been a kiss. She remembered a kiss that had brushed her lips on the super yacht. Kaitlyn liked to tease, show her panties to Randolph. Maybe just show her panties to whomever, to exercise her unmistakable sexual dominance to either gender. She was no academic feminist but hit you with female power. Like the power of the tattooed goddess Ishtar on her arm. She was a seductive confident sexual being who knew your buttons and how to push. It didn't matter because it hadn't interested her. How could it have pinged her need? Except to know if Kaitlyn had wanted more, purely out of objective curiosity. With eyes closed soft lips are soft lips. God, she was so drunk but at least the walls had stopped spinning around. She needed to drink water, clean her teeth, have a bowl of porridge or simply do something boring and normal. She did _not_ need to think about anything she'd learned about herself, violence, or sex in the last week. And everyone had told her university was an education.

She dreamed of sex, the smell of a hot gun, the thump of a bullet in a torso, a hot tongue on her clit, a woman's lips on hers, a speeding car, a knife, a cock pulsing cum. Grenade! A ringing cell phone.
Chapter 24

A ringing cell phone... a ringing cell phone.

"Yeah, hello what?"

"Do you know any Italian?" asked Bastian.

"Uh... _pizza per favore_."

"That's fluent. You've passed the mission assessment. Your man Jackson is headed for Naples. He's like the Marshall of Dodge City. Some young Camorra _Capo_ sent hit-men to waste him. He's going to walk the dusty street and be faster on the draw."

"So, how's that going to happen?"

"Listen, these Mafia thugs rely on fear. If people fear you, every whore swears you've got a foot-long dick as thick as a tree. If people don't fear you, they cut your tiny dick off and send it home to mama."

"You're a poet, man."

"All Jackson has to do is stride along Main Street, walking tall, throwing sweets to kids, kissing a few babies, taking selfies at the _Sorbillo Pizzeria_ these parasites tried to destroy. He just has to show that _Capo Cutolo_ is a toothless piece of shit. Jackson doesn't have to fire a shot. All they have to do is waste him."

"Dear lord, how dangerous is that place?"

"Depends if you count the twelve-year old kid dealing cocaine and carrying a loaded nine-millimeter Beretta."

"Jeez, so where is he now?"

"He's on a plane on final approach into Napoli International Airport."

"I thought he was going home to the USA?"

"That was the plan. He got to the airport and changed his mind. He's been told he's on his own."

"He's got no security at all?"

"Yeah, it's no sort of official business so he doesn't get cover. I'll give you the full story on the way to the plane. See you in forty-five minutes, don't forget your passport."

This was not what she wanted. She was hungover and drained. What do you take to wear in Naples in February? She pulled out a dark navy woolen dress and found some thick tights and low-heeled boots **.** It was nine thirty. What the hell did he hope to achieve other than some squalid death in the gutter? Oh, Jackson....

She was outside the door on the sidewalk when Bastian showed up in a blue VW Beetle. She'd feasted on black coffee and Nurofen. The motion of the car made her queasy. Bastian wore a tailored black blazer and salmon pink corduroy slacks and looked in total control of his health. He set out the problem.

"So, Jackson didn't feel lucky enough to have survived a knife, a machine gun, and a grenade. Normally it's three strikes and you're out. He told his colleagues that he wasn't ever going to hide or run. He was due out on an American military flight from Northolt. He checked in to the airport Hilton and boarded a British Airways flight 2606 from London Gatwick to Naples this morning, at six twenty."

"That's impressively precise Bastian, how do you know all that?"

"I was in the area. The bank has a lot invested in that asset."

"But when he lands, he's on his own?"

"Nothing too official but I've sent Gregorio Mendelio to meet him. He's a pro bodyguard, ex _Gruppo di Intervento Speciale_. He's got a couple of good men."

"What the hell is Jackson going to do when he gets off the plane? Is he going to get a Burger King Whopper and wait for the bad guys to show up?"

"Far, far better than that. He's going to go to the University Federico the Second to help give a press conference about bugs."

Olivia was wondering if she'd slipped into a parallel universe. Her head had stopped thumping and merely ached.

"Bugs? Like listening devices?"

"No, bugs like bugs that eat wheat. Don't forget the guy's a farm boy."

"What does he know about these bugs?"

"He knows they can be grown to make protein for food. There's a scientist from the Uni who came to Oklahoma and worked on the family farm collecting bugs from the wheat. She contacted him to let him know progress and by chance she's got a press conference today about some new bug mince they've made that can feed the world. He called her and asked if he could be there. Sure, who wouldn't say yes? He'll bring the press of the world."

"Bug mince, huh? Like _Bughetti_ Bolognese or something?"

"You should go into marketing."

"And when our local Camorra Mafia welcoming committee sees the evening news, they're going to get excited. How is Jackson planning to face them down? He doesn't even carry a gun."

"I think he's acting with his heart. I'm hoping that we're going to be there to put something sensible in his head before the high noon showdown. Your Glock is in the trunk along with some other stuff."

"We're flying right?" she asked wondering how they were going to get firearms through security.

"We're flying the Sackman-Platinum vulture. She's on the tarmac at City Airport, engines running."

They drove direct to the aircraft steps. The Boeing 747-8 was of course in platinum livery. Bastian recovered two holdall bags from the trunk and handed the car keys to a Sackman assistant. A minute later they were strapped in to wide leather seats as the plane lifted off into the London sky and swung south toward Italy. She drank water and black coffee as she slowly recovered from her vodka session with Kaitlyn.

"Does he know we're coming?"

"Not yet. I believe Anna La Salle has called to say help will come," Bastian said, watching Paris slipping away under the wing.

"But he doesn't know who?"

"No. I didn't want to give him any ideas about rescuing maidens from dragons."

"And the plan is?"

"The plan is to scoop him up and get him out alive. This plane will be held ready for immediate takeoff. We start by being at that press conference at the university. He'll be OK with Gregorio Mendelio just so long as he does what he's told."

The plane touched down. A black Jeep Cherokee with dark windows was waiting at the foot of the steps. They climbed in to find a chauffeur in the bank livery and the sound system pumping out Neapolitan music. The driver added his own fine tenor voice to Luciano Pavarotti singing _Torna a Surriento._ Being a Neapolitan isn't to live, it is to perform a life.

Olivia was content to keep herself composed and watchful. The traffic was extraordinary with swerving motorcycles and blaring horns. Everything was clamor, noise, blue smoke, and passion. The local time was 2 p.m. as they hit the A56 Autostrada to the small outlying town where the university had its agricultural research department. To the left she could see the magnificent dark threat of the volcano Vesuvius, while to the right lay the great wild metropolis of Naples. The Jeep swept into the inner courtyard of the _Palazzo Reale di Portici_. Bastian was organizing hardware from his bag.

"Here's your press pass. Since you're wearing a dress you can strap on a concealed-carry thigh holster with a Baby Glock Gen 5. Take this SIG Sauer P226 just in case. We can't blend with the crowd in body armor so let's hope."

She stored the larger pistol in her shoulder bag with two spare clips.

"Hope for what?"

"Luck."

As they left the vehicle the view ahead of them was the Bay of Naples, calm and deep blue under a flawless blue sky. The building behind them was an old Royal Palace painted in a deep cream color reflecting the winter sun. They entered through a side door and were ushered by officials up a wide staircase where the walls displayed magnificent classical mural paintings. They entered an assembly room and took seats among a throng of journalists, many of whom spoke in English. Olivia caught a muddle of talk about Jackson.

" _Will he make president? He's cool but he needs the wife and family stuff. Why's he showing up here? Did you hear that Hollywood story?"_

At least she knew why he was here; the rest was beyond her grasp. How was she going to feel when she saw him again? At the last minute she recognized the back of his head seated in the front row.

A distinguished bearded _professore_ came on to a raised platform. He spoke in a beautiful musical English.

"Dear ladies and gentlemen, I am Professore Alessandro Sangiovanni, a humble marine ecologist and head of the faculty. May I introduce the star of our environmental research team, _Dottoressa_ Ilaria Delelio."

A beautiful short-haired Italian woman of about thirty walked onto the stage. Although she wore a white lab coat, she moved with the studied grace of a dancer, her face alert and seductive. Her eyes held every individual in the room in an orgy of flirtation. Even before she spoke everyone was following every unfolding gesture of her hands and the pout of her lips. No man could resist such poise and charm. If this woman was also the key to feeding the world, they were all in the presence of greatness."

" _Amici del mondo, bienvenuto_ , welcome _, bienvenue, willkommen, bienvenido_. I am sorry I can't do more." She performed a mesmerizing trace of a heart shape with her outspread arms and flashed her eyes. "OK, the job is to feed the world, so let's do business."

Her manner changed to one of serious science and accuracy as she talked of her project making high-protein low-fat mince from bugs. Olivia scanned the room for threats. Everyone seemed serious accredited journalists. She could only see the back of Jackson's head seated next to the _professore_. The scientific statement was coming to a close. Ilaria Delelio took serious technical questions from the press. In a different context, Olivia herself would have found the subject fascinating. Alessandro Sangiovanni _, the professore,_ had re-taken center stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as you know some of the wheat used to grow the bugs was from the family farm of Congressman Jackson T. Paine. It is a great honor to have him here today to give his support to the project. Please welcome the man we all hope will one day be the president of the United States of America."

There was a general cheer and some applause. Jackson stood and surveyed the room as he went to the platform. His eyes swept across Olivia's face, stopped and then snapped back in a double take. Her heart pounded at the sight of his warm smile. Quickly he re-focused and addressed the journalists.

"My friends, I only want to say what a privilege it was to work with the team while they were at the University of Oklahoma. I'm a simple farm boy who found himself in politics and we've all got to look up to these men and women who work with such expertise. They share their knowledge to help dumb guys like me in Washington organize the power of human intelligence into a better world for everyone. It's no good just saying pretty words if you've got a world where often crime is the only way out of hunger. Thank you for giving me a moment to speak and thanks again to all those quiet clever people who beaver away in laboratories day after day to unlock the secrets of nature."

He was about to walk off when a journalist called out.

"Hey, Jackson – are you dating Melody Wallace?"

"Fella, I'm here to talk about bugs and now you're bugging me with some show-biz story."

A female called out.

"Just a denial Jacko, c'mon."

Olivia could almost hear his thoughts as he paused. She knew him well enough to know he was angry. He was too much of a politico to make enemies in the press corps. He looked up with a broad smile worthy of Hollywood.

"OK, this isn't my party, so this is the last thing I'll say. I'm dating a beautiful woman and she's right here, come on, step up, Olivia."

She watched him gesturing her to stand and come to join him. She glanced at Bastian who had his head in his hands. Every eye in the place was on her as she stood. What the hell else could she do? She couldn't just leave him standing there and shuffle away. Cameras clicked. Questions were shouted.

"How old are you honey? Is that your own hair color? Are you an actress?"

Jackson had come down from the platform and threw his arm around her shoulder. "Guys, that's it, OK. No, I'm not dating Melody Wallace."

The female scientist took Jackson's elbow.

"Let's go see the laboratory. Bye everyone _. Grazie mille a tutti._ "

They scuttled to a side door and entered the calm of a large room set out with benches and scientific equipment. Olivia let out a long breath.

"Jackson, what the—?"

"I know, I just kind of shot from the hip. I'm sorry. Look, hell no, I'm not sorry. I'm through with hiding from anyone or anything. Ilaria, please forgive me bringing all that stuff down on you."

The woman tossed back her head in a laugh as she gave unfurling flourishes with her hands like opening petals.

"It is love. Everything is love. You give love, you get love. If you love your bugs they grow. You pour your love on the roots of love and the shoots rise up to the warmth of more love. Science is a gift of love to the world because it flows freely from the truth of nature. To love a man or a woman is to expose the truth of you and the risk of being wrong. A scientific idea exposes the truth of itself and invites destruction by experiment. This life—it is the art of making love in the bed of science."

Olivia watched the scientist's eyes widening, sparkling and teasing. No female would have a chance against a woman like this.

"Your project could have a big impact," she said, feeling she ought to show maturity and composure.

" _Si_ , it is so, so good Jackson comes, even though he only wants me to make Big Whopper Buggers for him."

"They'd be a hit," said Jackson.

"Now, I have to feed my bugs, so I take you onto the roof and leave you. I don't know the story but you two need to talk, I think. It's the best view in the world of the bay and the volcano. You take your time." They followed her onto the flat roof. "That way is the town of _Ercolano_ , under _Vesuvio_ , the rest is _Napoli_ and the bay down to Sorrento. The clouds look stormy so don't get wet. _Ciao_."

"I'll catch you later before I go."

Ilaria gave him a double-cheeked kiss.

"I'll be gone. I do my burlesque dance class tonight."

She watched Jackson's eyes on this beautiful and fascinating woman. There was kindness there but no flirtation. He turned back to her as a melting love transformed his gaze. The scene was indeed perfect. The great threat of the volcano towered above them, but her mind was on more immediate dangers.

"Jackson, I don't know where to start with you."

"Try here," he said, pulling her into his arms. His lips seemed a perfect fit as she relaxed into the strength of his body.

"Why the hell are you here, Cowboy?"

"Ilaria was having a press conference."

"Yeah, in Naples so you can taunt these Camorra guys. You don't fuck with these people, you know that."

"I know it."

"So how were you planning to fight them?"

"I don't have to. Once the others realize he's failed they'll have no fear, and waste him."

"And then decide they'll take you out themselves."

"Olivia, these are just kids these days. All the old capos are in jail. The man who wants me dead is twenty-one and he's already a pensioner on borrowed time."

"You can't beat them; they regenerate like the tails of lizards."

"So, we just run and back down until the end of history?"

"Maybe not that long. Maybe society will change?"

"It won't change if we don't make it change."

"They flew me out with Bastian to get you home alive. There's plenty of battles to fight in the USA."

"I've shown my face in this man's backyard. That's what I wanted to do. I'm not going into any gunfights."

"I _do_ understand what you wanted to achieve. I'm just happy you're alive."

"And we haven't even begun to talk about the big problem, the you and me problem."

"You sure pulled some stunt down there. Now what? How long before the news-hounds come up with the Ginger Bush porn star angle?"

"Let them do it. I'm through with all this fear and smear politics. Power is only worth having if you can do something with it. If our leaders are running away all the time what is the _regular Joe_ supposed to do. If someone asks me about you, I'll tell them the truth. If people ever elect me to the White House, I'm walking in that door as me. Not some fake image of me. Me."

"Bloody hell, Cowboy. I'm going to live the rest of my life as the stupid selfish woman that destroyed your career."

"Or the woman who made me take a stand on the values that made the USA. We've got to re-group around what's common sense right and what's wrong."

"For now, let's just get out of here."

"I'll come quietly, officer, if you kiss me one more time."

She reached out for his head pulling his lips to hers. She pressed her groin into him, lifting one leg to press her sex onto his warm muscular thigh. She felt him tense and pull back. Fuck! In her passion she'd forgotten the thigh holster and gun.

"Hey, it's just some office equipment."

"British cops don't carry guns and for sure not under their dress."

"This is a special assignment, Jackson. You know what went down with that grenade in Whitehall. I'm just an apprentice, there's a senior agent with me."

He sighed and let his shoulders sag.

"I've put folks in danger, haven't I? That Secret Service guy risked his life to save me in London during that machine gun attack."

"Essentially everyone's with you, Jackson. The Sicilian Mafia assassinated a judge they didn't like, the Camorra clans in Naples slay each other as a matter of course. We have to respond, but choose our battles. Let's just get out of here. There's a 747 Jumbo at the airport and a car with a driver outside. We're forty minutes away from the rest of our lives."

"OK, on one condition."

"Fuck conditions, let's move."

He pulled her shoulders to him and kissed her lips.

"On condition that you love me like I love you."

She hugged his waist.

"You're an easy guy to please. It's a deal."
Chapter 25

They found their way back to the magnificent staircase. From outside came the muffled sound of gunfire. University workers and students were milling around in the ground floor lobby.

"I'm guessing the _bambinis_ showed up and there's a gun battle out there. Grab this."

She handed him the Sig 9mm. "You know how to use?"

"If this weapon's good enough for SEALs it's good enough for me."

She watched him check the clip. He knew what he was handling. There was no sign of Bastian. There was a smell of oily smoke as they pushed their way through to the door. She looked down to where they'd left the Jeep to see it in flames. Officers of the _Caribinieri_ in beautiful uniforms were exchanging fire from behind the opened doors of armored Alfa Romeo patrol cruisers. A hand tapped on her shoulder. She swung round to see the piercing blue eyes of Bastian Wolf, his faithful Walther PPK in hand and smoking hot.

"We've reduced the odds, but we've got no wheels. _Capo Cutolo_ has put a price on his head. It's a Ferrari and fifty kilos of pure cocaine. A geeky press guy in a clan called in the brothers to scoop the jackpot before anyone else could take a shot."

"Can we get to the plane?

"No, it's taken off and agents on the inside are telling the Camorra that Jackson went with it. That'll take the heat off."

"And it looks to the world like I've run away," said Jackson.

"It looks like you're still alive with your balls still attached, you fucking idiot," Bastian retorted. "My job is to keep you that way."

Olivia caught the tension. These were two alphas not backing down. Sometimes you have to take sides. Bastian was right, but her man, _her man,_ had a vision of a future without fear. She was so much the junior in this situation.

"If they think he's gone we can just stroll away,"

"Until someone spots us."

"Will the plane come back?" she asked.

"For sure but you have to remember that so many people here are connected to clan families. Believe me it won't be long until someone tells someone Jackson T. Paine is here." The gunfire outside had ceased. The still of the evening air was shredded by emergency sirens. Bastian was thinking. "There's one place we can be safe if we can get there. A good friend has a villa at the other end of town in Via Alessandro Manzini."

"What sort of friend wants to risk this kind of shit in their home?" asked Jackson.

"Someone pretty special. Helen Marx was a London cop but she's away at present. I know a man with the keys."

"Could we stop at that _Sorbillo_ joint for a pizza?"

"Jackson, that's the place the Camorra bombed already. They don't want more trouble," she said.

"Honey, I was just trying out my new British sarcastic humor. If we're sticking together, I need to get up to speed."

Bastian was shaking his head, but allowed himself a roll of the eyes. He pulled out his cell phone and spoke in rapid Italian and clicked off.

"The Sackman-Platinum bodyguard Gregorio lives in Portici. He's got the keys to the house in _Chiaia-Mergellina_. He's on the way in some regular vehicle. We walk out and just disappear into the night. Tomorrow we fix things up properly. The longer we stay on the street the more danger we're in."

A few minutes later they wandered through the chatting stragglers still in the lobby. It seemed like Neapolitans shrugged off a Camorra gun battle with cops as pretty much routine. The bodyguard had pulled up in the cobbled courtyard in an impossibly battered Fiat Punto. Every fender and door was wrecked. The evening was darkening as they swerved and almost battered their way along through the streets. They took a busy urban road that hugged the coast. To the left was the sea, alive with the lamps of shipping swarming in and out of the port of Naples. A mess of run-down container yards blended into streets of untidy cafés and pizza parlors oozing mellow light onto patchy cobbled streets. Ahead was the center of Naples, pink, beige and pastel green buildings rising on hills above the bay into a shimmering haphazard architecture of accidental perfection. Stabs of light pinged out from scattered windows into a squally rain that had just started to blow in off the sea. Jackson took her hand as they sat in the back seat of the car. In her other hand she held her Glock pistol. Some kind of automatic assault rifle lay under their feet. Everything seemed calm. They were approaching the main sea front with a stone castle to her left. Miles out in the bay, silhouetted against the last rays of the sunset was the dark outline of a giant aircraft carrier, planes with folded wings lined along the deck.

"What's that warship?" she asked.

The driver answered.

"Americano. It's the USS Harry S. Truman."

"If all else fails we'll call up an airstrike," added Jackson. "She's with the Sixth Fleet carrier strike group. Before you ask, the airstrike was a joke. We _cannot_ involve US military in some civil issue in Europe."

"Too bad," added Bastian.

"We got trouble all the same," said the driver. "There's a mob of kids on motorcycles and a black Mercedes G55 on our tail."

For a while they'd lost sight of the sea and were approaching a busy road junction surrounded by tall buildings. The traffic lights were at red with maybe ten cars already stationary. Immediately in front of them was an orange-colored public bus. They did not need to stop here!

"This ain't the place," said Bastian cocking his weapon. "Any shooting here will waste a lot of innocents."

"I'm on it," said the driver.

The Fiat slowed as if to stop gently. Suddenly he swung out of line and floored the throttle, swerving between the oncoming traffic. Several motor scooters followed but the Mercedes held back. A shower of glass exploded into the car as they clipped a small three-wheel truck and rolled it over. Boxes of fish and ice scattered across the road. Olivia glanced behind to see a motorcyclist cannon into the air as he piled in to the wreck. They had cleared the junction, but the hood was wrecked, and they'd lost a front fender. The motor was screeching and pouring smoke. The sea was once again to their left and the road had begun to rise. The Fiat was slowing and slowing. There were buildings to left and right. Behind half a dozen motorcycles held back. The black Mercedes G55 Jeep had caught up. Bastian spoke calmly.

"As soon as we stop, we're out. Return fire but don't shoot at the kids on bikes. Get cover behind the parked vehicles. We'll kick in the door of any premises and hole up."

Olivia stashed the Glock pistol and picked up the machine gun from the floor.

"Anything I should know on this?"

"Spectre M4—just grab it," answered the driver Gregorio.

The Fiat appeared to seize and stop dead. They all exited at once. Olivia found herself in the road with Bastian. There was a flash of automatic gunfire and a whine of bullets from the Mercedes. Bastian carefully fired two rounds, taking out the windshield. She tossed the assault rifle to Gregorio and scurried for cover between two parked cars. Behind them was a line of buildings and small shops and what looked like a small passage between two buildings. There was another burst of gunfire as several men scrambled from the Mercedes. The driver opened up with the Spectre M4. Two men went down. Bastian targeted a young guy running towards them, revolver in hand. A splatter and spill of life.

Mama.

Birthdays.

Kisses.

School reports.

Photographs.

Dead.

A kid.

Survive. Think later.

"We can defend that entrance," she called out to the others.

"Go for it," Bastian called back.

A bullet whined into a parked motor scooter at her side. It burst into flames. She felt the searing heat on her leg. She scrambled to the entrance on all fours. There was a metal grilled gate folded back. The passage led to a steep stone stairway going down. For the moment she was protected. There was a burst of automatic gunfire. The crude raw sound reminded her of an AK47. She peered out to see Jackson pop up and squeeze off two rounds with the SIG Sauer towards the muzzle flash. There was a yell and silence. He made his way along the wall to join her.

"Fire at head height to cover us if you have to," shouted Bastian, now lying face down on the road. He rolled between the parked cars as the driver stood and emptied the clip into the Mercedes. Within seconds all of them regrouped inside the doorway.

"You guys are hot," said Bastian with the broadest smile she'd ever seen on his face. "Nice shooting, Cowboy."

She watched his professional eyes assess the situation.

"Jackson, follow those steps down and see what's there. Get back and report. Go. We can defend this doorway for as long as we have ammo. If the bastards have grenades, we've got an issue, but they can't throw from this angle."

Jackson took the steps at a run and was gone. The driver was checking out the gate.

"If we have to retreat there's a chain. We can close the gate and wipe out an army while they try to get in."

Quite close outside she heard the click of a magazine into a weapon, the scene eerily lit by the flames of the burning scooter. She realized she was completely calm. Other than orgasm with Jackson, it was the most shocking realization of her life. How could she find herself thinking such a thing even possibly seconds from violent death?

Jackson came back, breathless.

"Down the steps there's a tunnel under the road which opens out onto a sandy beach. There's no one in sight and just a pile of paddles and kayaks for hire. It's some resort club called _Bagno di Sirene_."

In the distance was the unmistakable sound of sirens from emergency response vehicles. Olivia figured if the bad guys were going to attack it would have to be soon or they'd end up fighting on several fronts. If she knew that, they would know that. How fast you learn in combat. A Ferrari and fifty kilos of pure cocaine was the bounty. One life-chance for these guys and this was it. She'd been so much the junior apprentice in all that had happened. If she had a life-defining moment it was now.

"I can paddle a kayak in a gale no bullshit. I was born onto the North Sea coast of Scotland."

"I'm a commando," said Bastian, plugging a new clip into his Walther PPK."

"You guys—Jackson, Gregorio—you stick with us. We close that gate and retreat to the beach. We launch those kayaks and melt away."

"Any better ideas?" said Bastian.

"Follow the lady," said Jackson.

She went to the entrance and covered any attack from the left. Bastian covered to the right. Jackson pulled the squeaking metal gate closed as Gregorio tied the chain tight. A burst of fire from the AK47 ricocheted off the metal grill and splashed into Bastian's lower leg. There was a spray of blood.

"I'm cool. Leave me if you have to. Get these guys home, Olivia."

"Fuck off, Bastian. Do I look like a snowflake? Jackson. Put him on your shoulder and tell him to shut the fuck up. Gregorio, cover our backs."

She emptied a clip to left and right, reloaded and took to the stairs. They ran through the tunnel and out onto the beach. The pile of kayaks was ahead. Many of them doubles. Bastian leaned against them as the others launched two boats.

"How much blood are you losing?" asked Jackson.

"It won't show in the ocean. Let's go."

Two double-style kayaks were afloat. Jackson hauled Bastian through the water and flopped him in to the rear seat. Behind them they heard the sound of voices and running feet. Silently they paddled out, tucking in behind a small reef of rocks and a wooden pier. Gunmen charged up and down the sand, firing into the pile of kayaks and splintering a stack of plastic sun loungers. It looked as if Bastian was still strong enough to paddle in an experienced style. The sea was quite heavy with white spray whipping off the top of waves. Olivia had taken the rear seat. Her crew mate was valiant, strong, but hopeless with steering. They were about five hundred yards off shore when they stopped to regroup. They were all cold and soaked with sea water. Bastian tore off the leg of his pants and tied a tight ligature around his wound.

"Bone's intact," he called out.

"We need to get to land but where is safe?" she asked.

"Almost nowhere. There's a hunting pack of hunting packs on the loose."

"Let's head for the carrier out there," said Jackson.

"It's miles away,"

"There'll be a wide exclusion zone with patrol craft, radar and anti-submarine detection. If we can make it half way, we can surrender to the US Navy."

Bastian struck out with his paddle.

"He's right. It's our best hope. These Camorra types have big boats too so be prepared. Hold fire until target identified."

The kayaks rose and plunged into the waves. Jackson was strong in the other boat but there was no doubt that Bastian was weakening. The blood loss and the cold would soon be his end. She watched him begin to falter with his paddle. It was all down to Jackson now.

"Dig in Cowboy, fucking give it everything you've got," she called out, realizing that he was probably unaware of the desperate situation behind him. The carrier and an escort destroyer now looked a lot bigger as they bucked through the waves. She heard the sound of motor boats, at least two big marine diesels and the higher pitch of an outboard. She glanced back to see a private white-hulled ski leisure boat closing at high speed. They just had to be the bad guys. Ahead was a searchlight on a fast patrol craft, scanning the midnight-blue water ahead of it. Jackson's broad shoulders and his strength powered his kayak on towards the safety of the carrier. If he delayed, Bastian would die. She would have to turn to face the ski boat which was now only a hundred yards behind. Her only weapon was the baby Glock in her thigh holster, but she was sure she'd re-loaded. The bodyguard felt her dig in the paddle to make the turn. Just maybe he still had the Spectre M4 assault rifle. She heard the whine of a bullet and saw the muzzle flash on the boat. In an instant her companion opened fire. The ski boat swerved away. She took aim at the housing of the outboard motor. One, two, three... the engine cut. She spun the kayak back to follow the other boat which was now far ahead. She heard the percussion of a chopper as two large semi-inflatables homed in on Jackson and Bastian. She closed the distance as a search lamp picked them out. A frogman SEAL was in the water alongside Bastian who was horizontal, white and unconscious as waves and spray swept across him. Now the chopper was flattening the sea and lowering a marine with a stretcher. In just a few seconds they were lifting him away and heading back to the great dark shape of the warship. One of the boats came alongside, a crewman calling for them to clamber in. She rolled from the kayak onto the floor of the craft as it turned to pick up Jackson. He scrambled across the gap, almost too drained to move. He smiled and gave a thumbs up sign. A crewman helped them to wrap in foil blankets as they bounced and flew across the waves towards the warships, the stars and stripes flag flying rigid in the wind.
Chapter 26

She looked up across the hospital bed at Jackson seated opposite. Hanging bags of blood and hydration saline fed into Bastian's arms. He was propped up, dozy but conscious. Maybe now he was helpless and unable to escape, someone would learn something about him.

"Good to see you," he said.

"Good to see you, man. I thought you were gone in that kayak," she said.

"I remember the sand, flopping in a boat and the cold salt water. I remember thinking that the carrier was our best hope."

"You'd lost forty percent of your blood and your core temperature was critical," added Jackson.

"It's good to check out your limits. You must have saved me out there."

"The medics on the USS Harry S. Truman saved you. It was all my fault for going to Naples in the first place."

"That's true," said Olivia.

Bastian closed his eyes. It had been three days since they were pulled out of the Mediterranean Sea by the US Navy. Once he'd been stabilized the marines had choppered him to the airport from where an RAF medical transport plane had brought him back to Northolt, UK. A few hours ago, he'd undergone surgery on his calf to remake his arteries at a top London hospital.

"Did you keep hold of my old Walther PPK? I know it's quirky, but it was a gift from my father."

"Christ, Bastian was that a nugget of personal information?" she asked.

"Well, what else can you give an ugly kid for his first Christmas?"

"Relax, we recovered it and Jackson has cleaned and oiled it. I guess guns wouldn't like too much salt."

He smiled and closed his eyes. He was happy now.

She stepped outside into the corridor of the University College Hospital. How wonderful it felt to be home in the teeming Fitzrovia district, in the shadow of the iconic B.T. Tower. Jackson joined her and took her hand.

"Who will look after him when he gets out?" he asked.

"If ever he couldn't look after himself, he would die. I don't know if he has family or even a home. No one seems to know."

She shook off a cloud of sadness. If Bastian was private, then that was the way it was. A handsome irresistible cowboy was pulling her into his arms.

"We've not really had time to talk since the roof of the university in Naples."

"Jackson, I know _I_ said things, _you_ said things, but could it ever really be?"

"Not everything can be and who knows the end of any story? I've learned a lot in the past few days."

"Like what?"

"Like a man can only point the way and lead by example. He can't simply make things happen according to his own will or vanity. Even being a dictator calls for compulsory teamwork. Several people died back there, and Bastian's shot up. I provoked a situation and we're no nearer to fixing the problem. Other kids will be jumping in to fill those dead men's shoes. If you cut off the arms of an enemy, he can never offer you a hand to shake."

"Politics _is_ the art of the possible, or that's what Otto Von Bismarck said. You analyze properly, you assess alternatives but, in the end, you choose and you act. Someone else once said a man who fully understands what he wants to do will be too late doing it."

"Who was that?"

"A female Scottish political thinker who wants to stop thinking and make love to you."

"You're something special," he replied. "You can name your salary when I'm president."

They strolled in the very early spring sun to her apartment in Bloomsbury. She stripped off his clothes and then hers and for a while just lay with him naked, wordless, and aware of the human body, its precious quality of life, its ability to give love and succor to another. Then they were kissing, feeling the wet tease of tongues, his soothing hand bringing her to the point where she craved the fullness of him. They shared that passion of the opposite, the force of magnetic poles, the hunger of the vacuum, the advancing tide on the shore. These things unwrapped themselves in her mind as the hard male of him filled her, held her fixed and open in a pose of mental and physical abandon to some deep god of nature. She looked up to his closed eyes and strong muscular shoulders. His rigidity, her soft wetness, were hand in hand, reaching for the same holds on the same climb. She could see the physical bliss in his face, hear that soft hum of his deep joy as his first tremor teased and as her own belly tensed ready to jack-knife in sexual pleasure, that expression of the spiritual soul in physical sensation. He groaned as he released his seed into her convulsing flesh. Her mind flashed to her image of his pumping juice. Her teeth found the warm iron muscle of his shoulder and bit into him joyfully with selfish, selfish lust for his body as she let go the shriek and shudder of her orgasm. She stuttered out her ecstasy onto his lips, wanting to hold again his flesh in her teeth as she came in waves of unfolding personal insight. Dear lord, what was she reading in the book of herself? She saw the imprint of her teeth, felt a savage joy at having marked him as her own. He had moved to her side and pulled her in an embrace across his chest.

"I love you," he said in his deep slow voice.

"Even though I'm a savage?"

"Because you're a savage wee Highland lassie."

"In that case I love you too."

Jackson let go of all self and melted into sleep. She watched him, tracing her hand along his hairline and the lids of his eyes. He had the unteachable talent of certainty. She had only the educated certainty of doubt. If his love was false, she would rather die because love would not exist. It was mid-afternoon before they were fit for anything.

"I'm sorry, Olivia. I'm behind with a lot of business. I've got to get over to Chancery Lane to see a guy. Tonight, I let myself get booked up at some posh restaurant with some people. You know me, I'd rather get a Whopper burger and stay in with you."

She couldn't hide her disappointment. Whatever happened, she wouldn't have him for long before he would have to fly back to the USA.

"I understand," she said simply.

"It's not too far to walk but we could get a tube from Russell Square."

"I'll walk with you if you promise me this dinner tonight does _not_ involve Melody Wallace or any other actress."

"Look, I nailed all that. These folks are involved with international law and dull stuff."

They set out with the sun low behind the buildings, skirting Brunswick Square Gardens with its bare winter trees. He hadn't said where he was going but Chancery Lane was all about legal stuff and dusty offices full of lawyers. She didn't want to make it seem he had to declare every meeting and conference he attended. He was a big wheel with NATO, so talking to folks in London was just a day in the office. She could wander through Hatton Garden and look at stuff in shop windows she couldn't afford. She cursed that she would be alone tonight. He was following his cell phone instructions and turned off into a semi street market area called Leather Lane.

"You sure this is right for Chancery Lane?"

"Yeah, not far from here."

He strode on and swung a right into Hatton Garden. Now she knew his GPS was wrong.

"Look I know where Chancery is...."

"Nope, this is the place. This is where Randolph said."

"Randolph Quinn?"

"The very man. This guy I want to see is his close friend and some of your colleagues did him a massive favor a while ago."

They'd stopped at a small but exclusive jewelers' shop. There was a dark-haired teenage girl organizing the window. Olivia did a double take. She knew her. She was the kidnapped daughter of the diamond dealer they'd rescued from the Albanian thugs. Of course, the father was a client of Sackman-Platinum Bank. It was a Saturday and the girl was working in the shop.

"Now some great thinker once said that a man who fully understood what he wanted to do would be too late doing it?"

"She was a very great woman."

"Well, I'm going to marry her."

"No, you're not, you can't...."

His arms were open. There was nothing but love for her in his kind eyes. She was never ever going to marry anyone. Anyone else!

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

"Now let the world say it was all set up. We've got dinner tonight at Freddie La Salle's restaurant with your team and I've invited your mum and dad. We fly to Oklahoma City tomorrow. Let's get that diamond on your finger."

FIN
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Combat

A Mafia plot, an undercover cop and a gorgeous world champion boxer.

Interpol cop, Anna Leyton, spirals down into a hopeless vortex of sexual and emotional passion as she fights to keep her professional cool. Who is deceiving whom in this fast-moving ride across continents? What motivates her art-loving prize bull of a lover, Freddie La Salle? The power of love and trust stands against greed and crime as conflicting forces grapple for that knockout punch.

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(Previously published as _Knockout and Seduction of Combat)_
Dynasty

A sexy aristocrat. A wild-child inner city cop. A crime wave of passion.

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A steamy romance novel introducing a sassy female police officer who locks up criminals and always gets her man.

Moved out from the city after one-too-many maverick missions, Shannon Aguerri discovers there's more going on in the sleepy country village than meets the eye. The son of a local aristocrat arouses suspicion of drug crime activity ... but his widower father arouses more animal instincts!

Could she really mix with the British Royal Family? Can she risk her heart and career on yet another high-risk unauthorized investigation? Can she get justice for an innocent boy? Dare a kid from the gutter dream of being a countess?

Wild child inner city cop Shannon Aguerri walks a dangerous line between her methods and justice. When the bosses lose their nerve, she is transferred to green pastures to play out the role of a routine village cop. In Fleetworth-Green she encounters signs of people and drug trafficking and homes in on serious millionaire criminals. As a loner she has attracted men, but nothing has stuck. When she meets Spencer, the hunky and widowed Earl of Bloxington, there is an immediate rapport between them. Their social differences mean nothing to their passion and need. Already in the mix is an upper-class female rival who has long plotted her way into the earl's bed. The jealousy is an evil shade of green and the anger is a violent scarlet.

Often inhibited by a sense of duty and honor, Spencer is slow to reveal his feelings. When Shannon confronts him with the need to choose between her word and that of her rival, he does not immediately support her. All the same, when they are forced together to carry out a desperate rescue mission, their love is stronger than everything ranged against them.

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(Previously published as _Shannon's Law, Seduction of Dynasty_ )

Santa

A street-hardened cop, a lonely woman. Dare she unwrap the Christmas gift of love from a dangerous Santa?

For Paula Middleton, the season of love is not just Christmas. As a cop on the hard streets of south London she knows the value of mercy. As a woman alone, she fills her life with love for others in her community. When her kindness conflicts with the ruthlessness of the law, the heartless system of police discipline moves against her. Max Muswell has a reputation as a hard man, a local boy made good.

Never overstepping the mark, always bending the rules, he's charming but ruthless. Crossing swords with this tough and dominating man could be the end of her career or the chance of mind-blowing passion to last a lifetime.

Can love for all men also become the love of one man for one woman? Can the sparkle of snow find an echo in the sparkle of a diamond to last for every season?

I wonder what this naughty Santa has in his sack for our intrepid cop?

Available in e-book and print formats.

<http://www.smarturl.it/websanta>

Crowns

A London girl cop. A political crisis in Paris. A spark to fire the passion of love. One moment of courage to catch the destiny of history.

When single mother Sergeant Sophia Castellana stumbles into a terrorist shooting, things are not as they seem. Charles Gonin the boyband star she rescues wants her as his bodyguard ... and more! Power and celebrity beckon, betrayal and violence threaten every move as events unfold in the city of Paris. Global forces beyond her grasp sweep her up into an audacious scheme to re-unite a world in chaos. The love of this far younger man and the infatuation of a charismatic French woman seduce her into a blur of inappropriate love and infinite danger. Her brute courage and loving woman's heart confront ruthless enemies who offer no second chances. She knows the streets, she knows her power as a lover. Can she, dare she seize the prizes before her? Will a world offer her the choice?

_Crowns_ , another stand-alone story in the _Passion Patrol Series_ of suspense romance novels. Steamy Emma Calin holds nothing back to bring you her juicy mix of cops, crime, and passion with a large side order of French satire sauce.

Available in e-book and print formats:

<http://www.smarturl.it/webcrowns>

(Previously published as Love Bleeds Blue, Seduction of Crowns)

Wealth

**What would you do if your bosses told you to break the law? How far would you go before you questioned them? What if you're a cop and your bosses are the law?**

City cop Kaitlyn Thorn must keep enigmatic banker Randolph Quinn alive at all costs. Betrayed and on the run from her team she must gamble on nothing but her own instincts. Can she trust their love and save them both from destruction?

Another stand-alone steamy romance from Emma Calin. A juicy mix of cops, crime, and passion and an HEA ending.

Available in e-book and print formats:

<http://www.smarturl.it/webwealth>
Power

** **

The title you've just read...

A thug pulls a knife on a mean London street. Police constable Olivia Johnston-Denny faces him down. A regular day.

When irresistible American congressman Jackson T. Paine intervenes, her life is changed forever. A spark of attraction starts an inferno of erotic heat.

In a world of bitter political division and deceit, this one man offers straightforward country-style honesty. Tipped as a future president, ruthless opponents plot his downfall, by smear or by death. Olivia and Jackson cannot risk involvement but forces of emotion and passion run out of control.

A merciless kidnap and gangster-style international bankers fill Olivia's working days. Only in the shadows can she express her love for Jackson.

When her professional investigations lead to her lover's door she stands at a dark abyss.

Is he everything he seems?

She has to know the truth as a cop and as a woman in love.

<http://www.smarturl.it/webpower>

_...and in Autumn 2019_

<http://www.smarturl.it/webdesire>
Seduction of Taste

**Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance..... Hot Food? A companion cookbook to** _'Dynasty'_ **.**

<http://smarturl.it/webtaste>

_Seduction of Taste_ is the companion cookbook to the hot romance novel, _Dynasty_ _from the Passion Patrol Series_.

A total of thirty-one recipes from appetizers and main courses to suggestions for sandwich fillings at a traditional afternoon tea. Late night suppers and romantic meals for two.

Food is the music of love. It sets the tone and the pace. It provides those moments when tastes and textures shared at the table form a metaphor for the physical appetites of love and lust.

As tough girl cop Shannon Aguerri abandons herself to love with a sexy aristocrat, many meals are shared. From the finest cuisine fit for royals, to the big power passion patrol fuel served in police canteens, _Seduction of Taste_ gives you the recipes. You won't want to put the novel down. With the cookbook you can tickle your taste buds as Emma Calin's full-on total romance tickles your mind. If it touches the lovers' lips in the story, you can experience that moment with a meal cooked for your own special lover, be they a cool cucumber or a passionate pepper.

Read the romance, feel the passion, taste the love!

Download the cookbook, e-book only:

<http://www.smarturl.it/webtaste>
The Emma Calin Official Series Reading Order and Checklist

Emma Calin's official guide and reading list for her series, novels and short stories. Including the Passion Patrol Series and The Love in a Hopeless Place Collection.

Includes book extracts, exclusive author's notes and background information about each story.

There is also a useful list of ISBNs and ASINs, publication dates and a handy guide to any previous titles and book covers from before the series was rebranded.

<http://www.smarturl.it/webroc>
Sub-Prime (#1 The Love in a Hopeless Place Collection)

Two powerless beings are swept together in a transient struggle for survival. Could the human spirit transcend the brutality and indifference of their brief experience before they are once again swept helplessly apart? Far more than a love story—this is a story about love.

Sub-Prime: a short story of our times.

Available as an e-book and audiobook.

The Chosen (#2 The Love in a Hopeless Place Collection)

A woman, a man, a van, and a plan. When the luck runs out; the lucky walk away. A short story set in the extremis of everyday. Available as an e-book and audiobook.

Escape to Love (#3 The Love in a Hopeless Place Collection)

Even in the barren wasteland of urban decay, new green life is possible. In nature and in love, that which can be, somehow finds a crack, a corner, or ledge, and grasps its chance of life.

A woman on the run from domestic violence with no one but her vulnerable autistic teenage child as a companion lives in isolation and fear. While her hand-to-mouth scenarios are played out in the shadow of a threatening suspense, a story of crime and love unfolds around her. Available in e-book and audiobook formats.
Angela (#4 The Love in a Hopeless Place Collection)

A mystery tale of a late-night taxi ride where the final passenger may not be all that she seems.

Love in a Hopeless Place (#5 The Love in a Hopeless Place Collection)

A mature woman finds the truth of herself. She cannot go back even though physical and emotional violence erupt around her.

Dare she give in to love?

Will sexual passion and fear overwhelm her stable life?

Whom can she trust to love her for herself?

The Love in a Hopeless Place Collection

Emma Calin's complete set of short stories and novelettes, available in one bargain "boxed set." This edition includes _Sub-Prim_ e, _The Chosen, Escape To Love, Love In A Hopeless Place_ and short story: _Angela_. It is available as a paperback and e-book.

Children's Books by Emma Calin

The "Once Upon a NOW!" Series

The **"** _Once Upon a NOW!"_ books form a series of illustrated, interactive children's stories, in the true fairy tale tradition with modern-day settings. Each is available in paperback, e-book, and audio book formats. Digital versions come with clickable links to bonus video clips, photos, and drawings to color. The paperback has QR codes to scan and take you to the same bonus material to enrich the stories.

Alf The Workshop Dog

How could a scruffy dog in a bus depot, and the call of crows link back to another world of power and love?

The ancient Kingdom of Zanubia and a stray dog looking for scraps in an inner-city repair garage, hold the secret. A wicked king, a beautiful girl, a young prince and the struggle between right and wrong maintain the fable tradition.

Isabella's Pink Bicycle

There's something strange in the woodshed....

A poor little girl in a faraway land dreams of riding a pink bicycle. When she meets a strange animal, her dreams come true. Her happiness turns to sadness when a tragedy occurs in the town and her father doesn't come home.

Maybe her new magic friend can find him?

Kool Kid Kruncha and the High Trapeze

Charlie finds it tough when his parents divorce, but Auntie Kate helps him overcome his greatest fear.

When Charlie has to move from the country into the city, he leaves behind his home, his mates, and his beloved football team. He will need to make new friends. With his small size and red hair, some people aren't kind to him. He wonders if he can face another day at school.

A trip to the circus gives him the strength to see himself and others in a new way.

About Emma Calin

Novelist, philosopher, blogger, poet, would-be master chef. A woman pedaling between Peckham & Pigalle, in search of passion and enduring romance.

Emma Calin writes romance novels, gritty short stories, and children's fiction about love and survival in the 21st century. She has published a number of digital, paperback, and audio books which are available from her website and other good bookstores worldwide.

Emma blogs about her dual life in St-Savinien sur Charente in southwest France and Romsey, a market town in southern England. She feels extremely lucky to be able to experience the world and life through these two very different lenses. She spends any time she can, when not writing, on her tandem exploring the countryside or paddling her kayak on the River Charente.

Emma also records and produces audio books and plays the trombone (although not at the same time).

Find Emma Calin on the Internet

Website: http://www.emmacalin.com

Blog: <http://emmacalinblog.com/>

Twitter: <http://twitter.com/EmmaCalin>

Facebook: <http://www.facebook.com/emma.calin>

Facebook Fan Page: <https://www.facebook.com/EmmaCalinAuthor/>

Goodreads: <http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4915751.Emma_Calin>

Pinterest: <https://www.pinterest.com/emmacalin/>

Instagram: <https://www.instagram.com/virtualbookcafe/>

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/emma-calin

Publisher

This book was published by Gallo-Romano Media. For details of other books and authors or if you would like to submit your book for publishing:

Email: contact@gallo-romano.co.uk

Web: http://www.gallo-romano.co.uk

