Prologue
A month ago
Three of them in the room and Delaney wondered who would be the first to break the silence. Probably not his boss Henry, a grey-haired man in his late fifties. More likely the cocky arsehole in Armani sitting next to him. Anthony Barker was an arrogant prick who Delaney had clashed with before. Often. Barker had just outlined what this job would entail and hadn’t tried to hide that Delaney had not been the first choice. Delaney didn’t see why he shouldn’t have been, not that he wanted to do it, though that wouldn’t be something he’d admit.
“Well?” Barker drawled. “Do you think you can do it?”
Delaney wouldn’t be here if he couldn’t. They knew that, and he knew that. Though he had expected to have a longer break before he’d been given another assignment. A year spent largely undercover had taken its toll.
“Of course he can do it.” Henry stared straight at him, a half-smile on his face.
“You were selected because of your ability with languages,” Barker said. “But really—”
“For my good looks?”
Barker glared. Henry laughed.
“Norbury’s superstitious,” Henry said. “That might come in handy.”
Delaney nodded.
“Are you in?” Henry asked.
He could have said no. Delaney wasn’t sure how much longer he wanted to carry on with this anyway, but he’d never been good at resisting the chance to piss off Barker. Plus, parts of this job were potentially dangerous and Delaney was addicted to the adrenaline rush. Barker not wanting him on the job made the decision easier than it should have been.
“Yes. I’m in.”
1
Tag carefully carried the plate of food over to the customer at the corner table. This well-dressed, well-spoken, well-built man in his forties looked as though he might be a big tipper. Then again, looking as if someone should tip a lot meant nothing. Sometimes the least likely looking person, who’d picked the cheapest item on the menu, tipped more generously than someone who chose steak and the most expensive wine.
“Here we go,” Tag said in hisI’m a cheerful waitervoice. “Beer-battered fish, double cooked chips, petit pois and homemade tartare sauce.”
“Is it homemade?”
That’s what it said on the menu but Tag had seen the catering container in the kitchen.‘No,’ he mouthed and said, “Absolutely. Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?”
Sirwasn’t a word that fell easily from his lips, and in a pub like this, the sort of thing Tag might have got teased about, but this customer looked like he’d appreciate being calledsir.
“Such as?” He raised one eyebrow.
“Vinegar, ketchup, another drink, more tartare sauce?” Tag smiled. “Maybe some bread and butter?”
“There is one thing.”
Tag waited.
The guy looked up at him. “Do you have a big cock?”
For a moment, Tag convinced himself he must have misheard. He took a moment to think what the man might have actually asked. Something about a rock? A sock? In stock? But when the guy glanced at Tag’s crotch, then looked up at Tag’s face, Tag decided his ears hadn’t been deceiving him. He’d never been asked that question before.
“I usually expect a bit more foreplay conversation-wise.”
Tag hoped for a laugh but didn’t get one.
“Do you?”
“Well, yes. Like—you have a lovely arse or are you doing anything later because I have something in mind or look how happy all of me is to see you.”
