Flirting with Danger (7 page)

Chapter Four

Skye’s thighs still hummed from the vibration of the big machine even after she’d climbed off. She removed her helmet and handed it to Jack. He locked both helmets in a small carry box on the back of the bike.

Tank’s pub looked like a classic all-male domain. The area was slightly seedy but safe enough if your clothing and stance didn’t scream ‘rich tourist, mug me please!’ The awnings could do with a bit of a clean, and no upper class snob would have dared glance inside the door.

Skye decided it was one of the last bastions of manly refuge for the working class male who wanted a quiet pint, a few games of darts and decent food before heading home to the missus and kids. She liked it.

Side by side next to Jack, when she had taken in the measure of the atmosphere she fell a half step behind him, letting him silently take the lead. They made a beeline for the bar, winding their way around the scattered tables. Many of the men who were nursing pints glanced up.

Skye could feel their eyes linger on her for a moment. Then she would see them shift their gazes to Jack, take in his measure and look away. A part of her wanted to smile, though she kept the urge under control. As they moved through the dim room, she noticed they were drawing close to the bench.

Two rotund men in their mid-thirties worked behind the large wooden table. Dressed in white shirts and black vests, they carried a competent air as they pulled pints into glasses, each time cutting off the head of foam just before the ale overflowed. Further behind these men a tall, solidly built man stood. He watched over the entire room from a vantage point in the background, but was still in the open enough to make his presence felt.

Skye knew intuitively that this was the fabled Tank. At close to six-foot-five with bulky muscles barely concealed by a black T-shirt, the man exuded restrained menace. She decided only someone with a death wish would start a brawl while the owner was in the house. Tank’s head was completely bald. She could tell he had evidently been trained in combat from his completely self-assured stance and the power he exuded. Skye struggled to not feel intimidated.

Tank’s gaze tracked them as Jack led her to the bar. When he smiled at them, Tank’s teeth glowed white against the darkness of his skin.

“Looks like you’ve finally found someone worth spending your time on, Berwick,” the large man commented, amused.

Jack flashed an equally cheerful grin back at Tank. Skye could feel satisfaction radiating from her lover.

“Tank, I’d like you to meet Skye Adams,” he introduced with relish. Tank’s eyebrows rose and he did a double take. Slowly, he nodded as his eyes seemed to catalogue her every feature.

“Well, I’ll be damned, you’re Victor’s daughter. Shit. No wonder he never showed me any happy snaps of the two of you. Any man with taste would be hauling you over his shoulder and carting you away. I’m Tank.” The man leaned over the bar and held out his hand.

Equal parts amused and touched, Skye shook the proffered hand.

“I don’t know, I’m not so easy to steal,” she laughed.

“Victor spoke of you often, with evident pride. Jack here is a brave man to take him on. What can I get you both? First round is on the house.”

“Actually this isn’t a social call,” Jack interjected apologetically. Leaning an arm on the counter, he moved closer and spoke in a lower tone.

To the unknowing eye his posture appeared casual. Skye could see in the tense set of his muscles around his jaw that Jack took this very seriously.

“We’re here for Victor’s box.”

The two bartenders moved further away to give them privacy without a word or gesture from either Tank or Jack. Skye figured this sort of request was not an uncommon occurrence. Tank remained motionless for a moment. Skye got the impression he was waiting for something. Panic fluttered in her chest.

Of course it couldn’t be this simple. Her father was a meticulous planner, always with two or three—or even more—contingency plans. He always remained a few steps ahead of everyone.

Was there a password they needed to give? A code phrase? Knowing her dad, Skye didn’t think a single word would suffice. Possibly they’d need to recite a stanza from one of his favourite poems or a key phrase or pun he enjoyed. The possibilities were endless.

Skye sighed and decided maybe she’d take Tank up on that offer of a drink. This could take a while. When the silence stretched on between them, Tank appeared to think a moment, and then his mouth twisted down.

“You got the key?” he asked simply. Skye saw Jack blink, but otherwise nothing altered in his expression.

“Can you give me a hint?” she asked as she stepped forward and leaned on the bar so she, too, could murmur and not be overheard.

“Is it only a few words or a whole bunch of sentences? Or is it a series of numbers? My father can be complicated, not to mention downright paranoid. I need just a little context, but I should be able to work it out.”

Skye turned to glance at Jack. She could feel his gaze weighing heavily on her. He had the tiniest smile twitching the corner of his mouth. She wondered what he was thinking. Her attention was drawn back to Tank as he cleared his throat.

“No, Skye. I mean a key. Literally. Let me show you.”

Tank lifted a side panel in the bar and let them come around the back. He lowered it after Jack, led them into a small office, then further into what looked like a supply room.

“No one around these parts is stupid enough to try anything here. Most people don’t even know I offer to rent space in these lockers. Sure as hell ain’t no one dense enough to try and rob me. Here, this one is Victor’s.”

Tank stopped beside a small row of box-sized lockers. There were approximately two dozen in all, with various forms of padlock on them, evidently placed there by their owners. Second from the top, looking identical to the others around it, Tank indicated her father’s locker. A shiny, brand new looking metal lock latched the door tightly closed.

“I guess I can’t request bolt cutters?” Jack commented wryly. Tank chuckled but shook his head firmly.

“Bloody hell, no, would ruin my reputation. Even though Skye here is his daughter, the rules are simple but non-negotiable. You pay your rent, you can keep whatever the hell you want in there and nobody without a key can get in. Easy.”

Skye frowned and stared at the locker. Whatever her father had put in there for safekeeping couldn’t be much bigger than one of those old style portable TVs. Weapons of mass destruction, large cases of ammunition or enormous semi-automatic machine guns simply would not fit in the small locker.

Of course, that left all manner of things that it could be. Papers, reports, documents of any description, books, a small hand-held device to control a larger weapon. Almost anything.

“Thank you, Tank. Hopefully we’ll be back soon with a key,” Jack said as the silence again stretched out between them all.

Skye threw a smile to the large man and nodded.

“Any time,” he replied casually. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

They returned to the main bar area and went to the front door in silence. A large group of men dressed in construction overalls filed rambunctiously into the pub. Many of them were loudly discussing what an arsehole their site instructor was and how the union was going to make him pay. Upon seeing Skye, they paused and shuffled aside, one gent doffing his cap to her and holding the door for her to leave.

Standing to the side to let the rest of the men slowly filter in for their drink, Skye dug around in her purse for her phone and pulled it out to check if she had any messages.

Jack moved his way through the crowd to stand next to her.

Her attention on her mobile, Skye still felt Jack freeze. Looking up, she followed his gaze to where they had parked the bike. Two men in black were walking down the street, steadily closing the distance to the large machine. A third one lagged a few paces behind, a small electronic device held in both his hands, which he studied intently.

He called something out to the other two, his head jerking upward. It took him a second to hone in on her, but he shouted again and pointed at her when their gazes locked. One of the other men pointed to Jack’s bike and everything became clear.

The electronic box must be some sort of tracking GPS thing. Damn. My mobile.

Jack, a half second ahead of her, ripped the phone out of her hand and threw it against the brick wall of the pub, smashing it into pieces. About to do something similar, Skye took a second to stomp hard on the broken pieces of the phone as Jack caught her hand in his.

“We’re still closer to the bike than they are. Run, Skye, we need to get out of here, now.”

As he shouted the command at her, Skye saw Jack turn inside and wave at Tank, giving him some hand signal she couldn’t read. Curious more than scared, she peered around the new influx of people and saw Tank react immediately to Jack’s gesture. The large man ducked beneath the bar and returned an instant later with an enormous shotgun.

Skye could tell from the casual ease with which he held the weapon that it was one he was familiar with. Rummaging in her bag again, she tried to feel the grip of her own gun. She’d completely forgotten she was carrying it. Jack, she noticed out of the corner of her eye, already had his in hand, levelled steadily at the men who had broken into a run down the street towards them.

“Everybody down!” Tank boomed from inside the pub as he vaulted over the bar and ran towards the door. He carried the shotgun as if it were light as a feather.

Patrons who weren’t fast enough to duck out of his way were barrelled over and flattened in his wake. Proving their sharp reflexes, many of the construction crew poured out of the door. Their haste was not solely to get out of Tank’s way—from their excited chatter it seemed they were all incredibly interested in the action that was unfolding.

“The bike. Now, Skye!” Jack shouted. Not waiting for her to merely follow his command, Jack grabbed her arm high up near her shoulder and hauled her in the direction of the bike. Skye ducked instinctively as an ear-splitting boom sounded.

She turned even as she continued to run and tried to look behind them.

Tank.

And his shotgun.

Jack managed to get a few shots fired off, his arm outstretched and remarkably steady for a man on the run. Skye clung to her handbag and swore she’d find her weapon the moment they reached the bike and she could catch her breath. The shotgun boomed again from behind them, laying down covering fire.

The street, she noticed, had become a war zone. The three men crouched behind various forms of cover and were shooting in return. Tank stood tall in the middle of the footpath outside his pub as the exits flooded with the evacuating patrons. The construction workers huddled in a tight knot, smoking and jeering a running commentary at everyone else as they ran for cover. When Tank managed to down one of their attackers, shooting his kneecap out, an almighty roar cheered through the crew and they acted as if their footy team had just scored the winning goal in the dying minutes of the second half.

Jack lifted her up on to the back of the bike and hurled himself in front of her, twisting the key in the ignition as he simultaneously fired the last few shots from his clip. The engine growled to life and Skye wrapped her arms tightly around his chest, clinging on with all her might.

A tall, shadowy figure caught her attention in the alley to the right. From the corner of her eye, in her peripheral vision, she saw a glimpse of midnight-black hair and a neatly clipped black beard.

Garth?

As soon as the thought entered her head, she dismissed it. The man couldn’t possibly be Garth. He would be at the Agency still, answering questions and filling out the usual mountain of paperwork.

And yet…

Jack kicked the stand away from the bike and revved the engine. Skye saw a long, slender cylinder pointing out from where the black-haired man had stood a second ago. The smell of gas filled the air. She heard a click as something ignited.

Her hands convulsively tightened around Jack, warning him instantly.

“Jack! No! Over there!” Skye shouted and pointed to where a staggering burst of flame blasted out of the small alley a dozen metres to their right. A long whoosh of fire leapt out and engulfed everything in its path.

“Tank!”

The warning was too little too late. For a moment, dead silence rang out across the street, then a deafening cheer rose as the construction crew gloried in the burning, crackling blaze. Tank fell back, not quite a retreat, but certainly a self-protecting move to the safety of the doorway of his pub.

The men scattered a good distance away, preferring to watch the flames lick upwards and grow as they consumed cars, trees and the timber walls of a nearby baby shop. Another click and the flamethrower once again expelled a hefty dose of fire, frying everything in its path.

Shrill sirens rang out all around them. Smoke began to waft across the footpath and on to the road. Windows burst as flames engulfed the cars parked on the side of the street. Tank slammed the door of the deserted pub closed. The onlookers dispersed to a safe distance.

“Hold on, Skye!” Jack shouted above the general roar of noise. The motorcycle engine revved once again and they squealed in a tight U-turn and left the scene in a big rush. Skye had to cling to her lover to keep herself from being thrown from the bike. Cold air rushed past them and anything she might have tried to say would only have got lost as they gathered speed and escaped yet another catastrophe.

Heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears, Skye could only blink away the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. Every time she thought she’d got a handle on the crazy reality her life appeared to currently be, something completely freakish occurred.

A flamethrower?

On the streets of London?

What the hell?

Jack drove like a man being chased by demons. Right now, that suited her mood perfectly.

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