Page 65 of Undercover Shadow
We moved in, using the gardens for cover, and the comms crackled again.
“We found Vanguard.” Archon’s voice was tight with urgency. “North wing, service corridor. He’s unconscious but breathing. Head wound. Getting him out now.”
“Wait. He’s trying to speak,” said Prima. “I think he’s saying ‘north tower.’”
North tower. The beacon signal confirmed it.
“All teams, check in.” Typhon’s voice.
One by one, they did as he commanded.
“Prima and I are extracting Vanguard,” Archon reported last. “Then we’ll join you.”
We moved through the gardens in formation, avoiding the terraces where gala guests still gathered—smoking, laughing, drinking, completely oblivious to the armed operatives passing twenty meters away. We slipped through a service entrance, into stone corridors lit by medieval torches and modern fixtures.
The four of us in front moved in synchronized silence, weapons ready, every sense alert. We’d done this a thousand times before—Syria, Prague, Beirut, a dozen other cities where violence waited in the dark.
We reached the base of the north tower and went inside. A stone staircase spiraled upward, narrow and steep. Perfectly defensible, terrible for assault. Medieval architects knew their business.
I looked at Con, Ash, and Gus. “We get her out,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”
Con’s eyes met mine. “Whatever it takes.”
Ash and Gus nodded, and we started up the stairs, counting steps. When we hit thirty, I could hear voices, muffled but distinct. Multiple people. Male. Scottish accents.
As we neared the top, we came to a heavy wooden door with light showing beneath. The voices coming from behind it were clearer now, though still indistinct.
I signaled—breach on three.
The team got in position, and my hand grasped the heavy metal latch as Typhon’s voice came through the comms, quiet and clear. “Obsidian has command. All teams: Nightfall. Execute.”
15
NIGHTINGALE
The champagne glass nearly slipped from my fingers. My grip tightened before the crystal could shatter against the marble, but my pulse hammered loud enough that I wondered if Dalgleish could hear it.
Mr. MacLeod stood under an archway that led to a room adjacent to the one we were in. Instead of the work clothes I’d seen him in at Dunravin, tonight he wore a perfectly tailored dinner jacket and had the bearing of someone who belonged with people who bought weapons disguised as art.
I forced myself to maintain a pleasant expression while my mind raced. MacLeod being here confirmed Dunravin was compromised. The tunnels we’d found, the warnings he’d given us—all of it took on new meaning.
After asking if I was all right, Dalgleish continued talking—something about a Flemish painting he’d recently acquired. I responded appropriately while tracking the estate manager’s movement through the crowd. He stopped to speak with Vadim Karpov, the Russian arms dealer whose specialty was former Soviet weapons. Their conversation was brief but familiar. MacLeod moved on to Hassan Al-Rashid, the Syrianbroker known for moving chemical weapons precursors through legitimate pharmaceutical companies. Chen Wei had drifted toward another group near the bar, and I caught sight of Ian MacKenzie near the terrace doors, watching everything with the alertness of someone expecting trouble.
MacLeod’s exchange with each man followed the same pattern—a handshake, a few words, a subtle nod. He was confirming something with each of them.
“The piece is from a private collection in Prague,” Dalgleish continued, oblivious to my divided attention. “The previous owner was quite reluctant to sell until I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“How persuasive of you,” I murmured, watching MacLeod signal to someone near the service corridor.
“Would you excuse us for a moment?” Vanguard’s voice was smooth as his hand settled on the small of my back. His fingers tapped twice, paused, then tapped three more times—our signal asking what was wrong.
“Please don’t let me keep you,” Dalgleish said, stepping away.
Vanguard leaned in close enough that his breath warmed my ear. “Problem?”
“The estate manager from Dunravin is here. One o’clock. Closely cropped gray beard.”
His eyes cut across the room, found the target, and returned to mine with the same question I was asking myself.
