Page 12 of Consume Me

When we reached Surrey, I expected to find myself at a quaint old estate. Instead, Smith turned down a long drive. The tree-lined path was broken only by a small guard station. There was no house in sight.

Smith stopped the car and rolled down the window. “Smith Price.”

“Is he expecting you?” The guard asked.

“I believe I’m on the list,” Smith said dryly.

A moment later, we were on our way. The trees grew denser for a moment, shielding the home that lay beyond and when we finally passed them, I found myself staring at a home that rivaled the grandeur of most crown estates. Unlike my family’s holdings, this was clearly a newly built residence. The circular drive was paved with smooth stone and a fountain gurgled in its centre. The villa beyond belonged in Italy not outside London with its terra-cotta shingled roof and sprawling mass.

I didn’t have to ask him where we were. I’d seen this house before in briefings with MI-5. It was burned into my brain.

“So this is hell.” I said absently.

“Were you expecting more flames?” Smith asked. He pulled to the entrance and parked the Bugatti with a familiarity.

He’d been here before. Of course, he had. He’d worked for Hammond and a number of other unsavoury London businessmen.

“Strangely, no.” If there was a hell on earth—or, at least, England—it was the DeAngelo family estate.

The DeAngelos were one of London’s primary crime syndicates. I’d been briefed on their activities on a number of occasions. They murdered, plotted, laundered money—and I’d just driven into the belly of the beast.

Two massive wooden doors loomed ahead. Once I walked through them, there would be no turning back.

“Do we knock?” I asked Smith as we reached the doors.

As in answer, one creaked open and a security guard motioned us inside. He was dressed in a black suit that did nothing to hide his paunch or the gun holstered under his left arm.

“Please.” He motioned for me to spread my arms and legs.

My eyebrows shot up. I couldn’t remember the last time I was frisked. In fact, I might never have been frisked. “I don’t carry a weapon.”

That fact didn’t matter to him. If he knew who he was, and the chances were minuscule that he didn’t, he acted oblivious as he swept his hands under my arms and up my legs.

When he turned to my companion, Smith handed the man a small pistol. “Here.”

This must have engendered trust because Smith escaped the pat-down. It didn’t surprise me that he carried a gun.

“This way.” The guard tipped his head and we followed through a marble lined corridor.

“You should carry a weapon,” Smith advised.

“I left the guns in Afghanistan,” I muttered. The thought had occurred to me, too, but I’d clung to the idea that something in my life could be normal. I couldn’t have been more wrong and my blind arrogance had cost me.

“Whatever this game is,” Smith continued in a low voice, aware that the guard was probably listening to every word we said, “the stakes have gone up. You should be prepared, especially now that…”

He didn’t finish the statement, but I knew what he was driving at. With Norris missing, I was vulnerable in a way I’d never been before. He’d carried a gun. Everyone on my team did.

I’d pretended for a long time that my place in the grand scheme was different. I was a father, a husband, a king. I’d let myself hover in the shadows on the board while I moved the other players, gambling their lives in exchange for my protection.

For the Queen’s protection.

And someone had outplayed me.

They might again. I couldn’t be caught unprepared next time. “I’ll have Brex get one.”

“That would be wise.”

The man showed us into a large sitting room where two men in suits occupied seats parallel to one another. Outside the picture windows, a rolling green lawn stretched to the edge of a forest. It was the picture of civility—and it was a lie. Nothing about the DeAngelo family or their associates was civil.