Page 45 of Undercover Infidel
My secure mobile buzzed with a message from one of my London operatives.
Unusual activity at Canary Wharf location. Equipment arriving via Thames shipping route. Being staged for immediate outbound shipment. Destination unknown.
I forwarded the message to Gus, then pulled up recent overhead footage of the Aberdeenshire estate. What I saw confirmed my growing unease—the site was bustling with unusual activity, vehicle convoys leaving the compound, and external power boosters being disassembled. The compound was clearly being abandoned.
“Bloody hell,” I spat, typing commands to pull up the transportation records for the surrounding area.
The data told a story. Multiple freight vehicles had departed the Aberdeenshire location over the past twelve hours, their routes diverging. While some headed south, toward London, others pointed north on the A96. Cross-referencing it with the London reports suggested a complex operation—equipment being rerouted through multiple channels to mask the ultimate destination.
The timing was too perfect. Our observation had somehow compromised the site, forcing the consortium to relocate. Unless they were deliberately creating confusion, splitting shipments between multiple locations to obscure their true center of operations, the diverging transportation routes suggested a more sophisticated plan than a simple consolidation.
I raked my fingers through my hair, keenly aware of the empty chair beside me, where Lex should have been. We would have bounced theories off each other, her analytical mind complementing my instincts in a way I’d never experienced with anyone else.
My private channel pinged—Kestrel requesting connection. I encrypted the line and accepted.
“Your visit stirred the hornets’ nest,” Kestrel stated.
“They’re relocating equipment from Aberdeenshire while also staging through London,” I replied, skipping the pleasantries. “Any word on the final destination?”
“That’s not my primary concern at the moment.” The voice modulator couldn’t mask the tension. “My sources are suggesting Russian handlers are putting extraordinary pressure on Orlov to accelerate testing.”
My fingers stilled on the keyboard. “Why now?”
“A key component is failing—something in the neural interface. Unable to get anything more specific, but Orlov is pushing back, claiming he needs more time.”
“And they’re refusing to give it to him,” I concluded. “Hence the rushed relocation.”
“Yes, but there’s more.” Kestrel paused. “I’ve picked up chatter about a high-ranking AI-weapons specialist working with SIS being targeted.”
Ice flooded my veins. “Targeted how?”
“Unclear. Could be for elimination or acquisition. The terminology was ambiguous.”
But there was nothing ambiguous about who they meant. Lex was one of only three AI-weapons specialists at her level in SIS, and the only one actively investigating Labyrinth.
“Time frame?” I asked, already calculating how quickly I could reach London.
“Imminent. Within twenty-four hours.”
After ending the call, I tried phoning Lex, but when it went to voicemail, I sent a text warning her of an urgent threat and to contact me immediately.
I slammed my fist against the desk. My priority should have been protecting her, not driving her away with my stubbornness. Now, she was in London, vulnerable and unaware she was being targeted.
“Bastion,” I called, hitting the intercom. “Prepare the helicopter. I’m flying toLondon within the hour.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I contact Mr. MacTaggert and Mr. Drummond as well?”
“Negative.”
While gathering my essentials, my mind raced through the scenarios, none of them comforting. If the consortium believed Lex possessed information that could derail their plans, they wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate her. If they valued her expertise and thought she could identify the reason for the interface failing, abduction was equally plausible.
Either way, I needed to reach her before they did.
On the way to my helicopter, I kept trying her mobile, each unanswered call increasing my anxiety.
At the airfield,I transferred directly to my waiting jet, barely acknowledging the ground crew. Aboard, I paced the cabin like a caged animal. Mrs. Thorne had packed a small bag for me, including a garment bag with formal wear I hadn’t requested. The attached note simply read: “For when you apologize properly.”
The woman knew me too well.
