The Regent Read online

  MacTavish lowered the dying man to the floor with a gentleness that belied his bulk. He looked straight into the hidden security camera in the corner, staring at Louis.

  “She’s…” MacTavish shrugged. “I wish I knew, sire. We’ve no heard a lot from anyone in the Council lately. It could be she’s with them…”

  “What the hell’s this, then?” demanded a new voice over the net. “She’s here?”

  “Did I hear that right?” a third, worried voice cut in.

  “Shut up, the lot of you!” MacTavish said. He stared at the camera. “Your Majesty, do you trust me?”

  Louis swallowed. Why were the men so scared? “Y-yes…I…”

  “You do or you don’t, it’s an easy enough question,” MacTavish snapped.

  Gunfire echoed from somewhere in the chateau and the muzzle flash of automatic weapons lit up the monitors in front of Louis. “They’re shooting!” he warned.

  “Aye, that’ll happen,” MacTavish said, not even flinching. “Listen carefully, Your Majesty. I was hoping this day would never come, but if things are to play out as I suspect, you need to trust that I would never do anything to harm you. Aye?”

  “I do,” Louis replied instantly.

  MacTavish warned the security team to stand down. He holstered his weapon and walked out of the kitchen as he talked, heading toward the central structure. Louis spotted new movement in the reception hall where MacTavish would end up if he kept to his path.

  What are you doing?

  He shifted his attention to that monitor. Someone all in black, like a shadow—most definitely a woman, though—strode purposefully through the carnage and stepped over the bodies of his security guards as one might avoid dog droppings. Louis’ eyes were transfixed on the sway of the leather-encased hips as she worked her way forward, a short black coat covering her upper torso, made of the same shiny, jet black material that hugged her legs and hips. She paused to look down at one body in particular and a tumble of bright blonde hair fell over one shoulder.

  On the opposite side of the hall, a picture, shot up and abused during the recent fighting, gave up its struggle with gravity and crashed to the floor. The heavy, gilded frame made a terrible racket, not unlike a gunshot. She spun, quick as lightning, a pistol materializing in each hand, aimed at the wreckage on the floor across the hall.

  Louis’ mouth had gone dry through a sick combination of fear and roiling hormones at the sight of such lethal beauty strolling the halls of his own house.

  My God, she’s…amazing.

  2

  A Cowboy in Edinburgh

  Danika Helström tightened the high collar around her neck as the helicopter rotors buffeted her from across the landing pad. The cold north Atlantic air sweeping down over Scotland had been in place over Edinburgh for several days now, providing a glimpse of an early winter to come. When the aircraft flared for landing, an icy blast hit her in the face, mixed with dust and tiny pebbles kicked up by the landing.

  She shielded her eyes with a hand and frowned at the display as the UH-Blackhawk lowered its nose and landed precisely in the middle of the large “X” that filled the landing pad. Someone’s showing off—there’s no need for theatrics like that here.

  She glanced around at the grim-faced men in black business suits who ringed the helipad, all with matching dark sunglasses and barely concealed compact sub-machine guns strapped to their sides. They’re certainly not very impressed.

  Danika had personally reviewed the files of all the U.N.-provided security detail, and to a man they were all ex-military, and several were former special forces from their respective countries. Frenchmen, Swedes, Germans, some Italians, and a few Russians sprinkled in for good measure. Her frown deepened. The absolute lack of anyone representing the United States spoke volumes over why this mission must succeed.

  To be honest, Danika couldn’t care less whether the mission blew up in the politicians’ faces—she was here for other reasons. To be sure, the junior senator from Idaho was a man on the right path—at least as far as she could tell—but he had no idea how dangerous the game had become. He was part of the new bloods in Congress, those elected in the past six months to replace people killed during the Korean Flu and subsequent invasion. Because he was new, he hadn’t been saddled with lobbyists and special interest baggage—yet—and because he was angry, he was as much a target as he was popular.

  Danika’s eyes focused beyond the slowing rotors as the pilot powered down the helicopter’s turbo-charged engines, taking in Edinburgh’s gothic skyline. It wasn’t the first time she’d been in Scotland’s capital, but it was the first time she’d visited while on a mission.

  Her eyes danced across the studded ramparts of Edinburgh Castle at the other end of the Royal Mile, lording over the sloping lands surrounding the castle’s plateau. With the surviving power brokers of the U.N. gathered here—even if it was impromptu and only known for a few days prior to actually happening—Edinburgh had a massive target on its back. The remnants of the Council would be stupid to pass up an opportunity to strike back at those that took them down just half a year before.

  The wind grabbed hold of the bottom edge of Danika’s coat and threatened to expose her bare legs to the cold even more. She slapped it down with growing irritation and willed the American to hurry the hell up and disembark. She could almost feel a sniper out there watching the helipad, waiting for a target of opportunity.

  There had been several attempted incidents in the past week as the international conclave assembled, all minor, and though the frequency was enough to raise the eyebrows of security experts like Danika and her foreign counterparts, the targets were so low on the proverbial totem pole as to be inconsequential: sub-level staffers, a few aides, and one extremely junior assistant.

  Still, the attempts—mostly cyber—were enough to keep people like Danika and the men surrounding the helipad on edge. Having a cold wind blow up her dress didn’t help her mood, either.

  At last, the sliding door on the side of the battleship gray Blackhawk opened and several men and women in business attire stepped down on shaky legs, blinking in the dim, blustery light. Despite the fact that it was nearly midnight, the sky was unnaturally bright. Danika thought nothing of it—she was used to the midnight sky being much brighter in her native, higher latitude Sweden.

  A shadow moved in the interior of the helicopter as the last passengers stepped down clutching briefcases, satchels, or purses. Two of the U.N. security detail hurried forward and escorted the passengers to the edge of the helipad and the exit door built into a shack-like structure jutting up from the edge of the rooftop.

  Danika’s frown increased. It was bad enough that the U.N. decided to hold their summit here—practically in Reginald’s backyard at just over 50 miles from Skye—but to force incoming participants and their staff to land at the Scottish National Parliament Building was inviting trouble. It was never a good idea to paint a target on the actual event grounds.

  She refused the urge to glance over her shoulder at the row-house rooftops across the Royal Mile, or at Holyrood Palace and the ruined Abbey just across the road to the east. She knew they were all crawling with security officers and that foot traffic had been severely curtailed to official U.N. business only, but still…

  Someone’s out there. One of Reginald’s men maybe…I can feel it….

  The last man not part of the aircrew hopped down from the flight deck with the easy practice of someone who’d done so many thousands of times. Danika took a good look at her new partner—she hadn’t seen him in six months—not since the night she’d ended Reginald’s life with a bullet to the forehead. Then, Cooper Braaten had been bleeding, wounded, and limping, but determined to fight Reginald. The man just couldn’t pull the trigger and end Reginald’s threat once and for all.

  Danika sighed as Cooper caught his duffel bag and waved to the aircrew. He was clearly ex-military; even a grocery store clerk could see that. The way he carried himself and
the easy smile he had for the flight crew—it all bespoke a long familiarity with the brotherhood of arms. Despite the fact that he wore civilian clothes, a nondescript suit, and loafers with a dull gray overcoat, his bearing, the set of his face, the way his eyes never stopped moving—it all screamed operator.

  She stepped forward, supposing it was good that Braaten seemed so at ease with the prospect of imminent violence, but that would also blow his cover, if he was really going to blend in and use the U.N. summit to their advantage. Because she sure as hell wasn’t here to babysit some senator, even if he did want to bring fire and brimstone down on North Korea for their botched invasion. Danika Helström had signed on to be the head of Senator Tecumseh’s security detail for the sole purpose of ferreting out Jayne Renolds and ending her life.

  She walked across the gravel and tarred rooftop helipad, her high heels sinking slightly into the semi-spongy material as she went, her head bowed slightly against the wind—blessedly less intense now that the Blackhawk’s rotors had finally stopped spinning. Braaten looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed despite his trans-Atlantic flight, so he likely spent the time sleeping as a veteran soldier would.

  “Ms. Baker,” he said, extending a hand.

  Danika smiled, not too pleasant or inviting, but not without real emotion either. After all, Braaten had saved her life when the Council assassin had tried to kill her, back when she’d first offered her services to the Americans. Less than a year ago it was, but she could still feel the assassin’s cold blade against her throat.

  Danika forced a smile as she took his strong, warm hand in hers and shook. I wouldn’t be here shaking hands if it weren’t for you.

  The look of rage on Braaten’s face as he’d barreled the would-be assassin in the corner and proceeded to kill the man by ripping off a chunk of his own leg brace and stabbing the Council’s pawn through the neck…it had been something she’d never forgotten. Though Braaten was smiling now, she noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was relaxed but wary, his eyes roving, checking out the men that flanked her, spotting the concealed weapons they carried, and sizing them up as possible threats.

  “Mr. Braaten,” she replied. “So good to see you. How was the flight?” she asked, turning and gesturing for him to follow her.

  He shifted his duffel to his right shoulder and grunted. “Ms. Baker. Don’t know, I slept the whole way—best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

  Danika smiled. I knew it. She waved off the security detail that stepped forward, ostensibly to search Braaten for weapons. He wasn’t on their official lists and she saw the others move forward as well. She stopped and held up a hand.

  “Relax, Franz, he’s with me. This is Cooper Braaten; he’s part of Senator Tecumseh’s security detail.”

  The big German turned his head, his dark sunglasses reflecting the lights behind her. “He’s not on my list.”

  She lost her smile. Franz was loyal to a fault, but he was too loyal to the fucking rule book, as far as she was concerned. “He’s with me,” she repeated, stepping forward. “Shall I wake the Senator and have him confirm it for you?”

  Visibly taken aback at the thought of having to explain to his supervisor why the American senator—the media darling and star of the show—had his beauty rest disturbed, Franz swallowed and backed up, motioning with a jerk of his head for the others to back off.

  “Next time, clear it with me, ja?”

  Danika flashed her most charming smile. “I will, thanks.”

  “Hey thanks, bub,” Braaten said as moved to follow her. When Franz did nothing but stare at the American, the ex-SEAL grinned. “We’re all on the same team, guys.” He turned in a circle as he walked, careful to make eye contact with the closest of the security team, careful to warn them with his eyes that despite his smile, he wouldn’t take any of their shit.

  Danika couldn’t help but grin at his bravado. Way to confirm their suspicions: you’re just another American cowboy.

  “Come on, let’s get inside—this wind sucks,” she muttered.

  “Your accent is flawless,” he replied just loud enough for her to hear.

  “Thanks,” she said, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. The U.N. guards by the helipad had no idea who she really was, no idea that she could likely kill them all with her bare hands and that the weather—no matter how cold or hot—had no effect.

  It was all a show, and one she grew increasingly tired of, frankly. She hoped Jayne—or someone who could lead her to Jayne—made a move soon. She itched for some trigger time. The cleansing burn she felt when she’d ended Reginald had made her hungry for more. She wanted to take down Jayne, the Council, the whole stinking cesspool of it all.

  A local aide held the door open for them as they approached the stair shack. “Welcome to Edinburgh, sir,” the man said with a soft Scottish burr. He pronounced it Edd’n-burrah.

  Danika smiled as she stepped out of the cold wind and held up her lanyard pass. “Thank you, Devon. This is my associate, Cooper Braaten. He’s from Senator Tecumseh’s security team. I’m sorry—I don’t have his credentials and passes on me, but I’ll make sure to get them as soon as we get him squared away.”

  “Sure thing,” he said, his cheeks ruddy, nodding at her laminated badge that proclaimed to everyone in the know that she was a top-tier security specialist working for the U.S. government.

  “No trouble at all. I’ll let the Chief know he’s arrived, then?”

  “Thank you,” she replied in all sincerity.

  “Appreciate it,” Braaten said with a nod and a smile.

  They walked the rest of the way through the Scottish Parliament building and out the front door in silence. She counted no less than ten guards—that she could see—inside the building along the path arriving visitors took from the helipad to the ground transport corral. Her personal car, driven by a local cop on hire to the U.N., sat waiting out front, engine on and heater running.

  “We’re back, Dougal,” she said as slipped into the passenger seat.

  “Ma’am,” he replied, his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror to assess his new passenger. “First time in the U.K., sir?” he asked, in that voice all cops use for questioning people up to no good.

  Braaten fumbled around in the backseat for a moment and shut the door, shoving his duffel bag into the vacant seat of the little sedan. “Yeah,” he lied.

  Danika remembered the look of hatred on his face as Braaten stood in the burning Great Hall of Castle Tillcott on Skye six months ago.

  “How’d you know?” Braaten asked innocently enough.

  The cop chuckled as he pulled them out of the barricaded corral and onto the Royal Mile itself. “You can always tell with a Yank—you looked surprised to see the wheel on my side.”

  Braaten grunted. “Yeah, it’s backward.”

  Dougal laughed. “Och, you lot are backward.” He glanced at Danika. “Back to the castle, is it?”

  “You better believe it, Dougal. Now that he’s here, I can finally get some sleep,” she said, keeping her eyes moving out of habit, searching every alley entrance for an ambush.

  “We’re staying in the castle?” asked Braaten from the backseat, leaning forward to get a better look up the hill at the medieval fortress that dominated the crag at the other end of the Royal Mile.

  “Not us. Only the tier-one participants and their senior staff are quartered in the castle,” Danika said, for the cop’s benefit. She’d prepared Braaten’s brief herself. He knew. “We get the servant’s quarters at a hotel they took over for the summit.”

  Braaten whistled. “Look at that thing…”

  The cop flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror and smiled. “Aye, it’s bonny, no? Never get tired of looking at it, and I work here.”

  “How old is it? Do you know?” Braaten asked, wide-eyed, from the backseat.

  Dougal couldn’t help himself and started a mini-lecture on the history of the castle and Edinburgh itself.

  Danik
a suppressed a frown. Don’t lay it on too thick, Braaten…

  3

  Jayne

  Louis fiddled with the controls in front of him to zoom in on the conversation taking place between MacTavish and the mystery woman. She had remained in the reception hall, casually admiring what artwork remained on the walls while MacTavish approached. When he opened the tall double doors at the far end of the room, she spun again with those twin pistols ready.

  He watched her lips move but couldn’t hear. Louis frantically spun dials and control knobs until he found the audio gain for that room and cranked it to maximum. Licking his lips, he looked back at the monitor and zoomed in a little further until the entire screen was filled with her exquisite body.

  “You okay?” MacTavish asked.

  Louis blinked. Wait, you know her?

  “Why, Roland dear, I’m touched at your concern,” the woman said, laying one delicate hand across her bosom, still ample despite being constrained by the glossy material of her outfit.

  MacTavish grunted, the sound echoing in Louis’ headset—he must be nearest the hidden microphones.

  “I hadn’t heard things had gone so poorly,” MacTavish said, glancing at the bodies of his men as if they were strangers.

  Louis frowned. What’s going on here?

  The woman pouted. “It couldn’t be helped. After Barron…well, I suppose things went south after…Reginald…”

  “Was it that bad?” MacTavish asked, his voice softer than Louis had ever heard before. The man seemed to genuinely care for their strange guest.

  “Oh, it was awful,” the woman said, her voice cracking. She flicked her hand away from one eye, as if wiping off a tear. “Look at what that bitch did to me,” she said, turning her head to the right, giving MacTavish a good look at her left cheek.

  His sudden intake of breath told Louis something was wrong with the woman’s face, but the camera couldn’t detect anything. Her pale white skin looked smooth as marble from his perspective.