East End (Hear No Evil Trilogy #1) - Nana Malone Page 0,2

them or not. I knew it wasn’t safe to stop and check my clothing. I might have been tagged with a listening device even as I ran.

The dark alleyway narrowed between the Marks and Sparks and the Cock and Crow pub, the late-night revelers and bustling traffic noise shielded by the buildings. Christ, I wanted to take a breather.

No! Don’t stop. Rest later.

This was my I-shat-the-bed egress route, and I needed to stick to the plan.

I ran and ignored the pounding of my heart, the screaming of my lungs, the weight in my legs. Ignore it, just run. Safety first. Worry later.

I raced to the end of the alley, not even looking around me to see what might be waiting for me. Everything posed potential danger. Getting my body safe was the first thing I needed to do. My kidney ached from where I’d taken the hit. My shoulder throbbed from where I’d fallen. But I’d catalog the injuries and worry about those consequences later.

My partner, Amelia Jansen, jerked her head up as I stumbled into the car. “Jesus fucking Christ, Nyla, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Drive,” I managed to grind out.

In a flash, the MINI Cooper’s tires spun, and then she shifted like a Formula One driver, swerving into traffic. Fighting the burn in my lungs and panting as I spoke, I gasped, “I think I was followed.”

Amelia’s eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”

I groaned. “Unfortunately.” Then I put my finger to my lips, indicating she should be quiet as I peeled off my jacket and then flung it out the window as we passed a bin.

My tank top went next as I tugged it over my head and pitched it, then I contorted and shimmied out of the black stretch bottoms I’d worn. Amelia rapidly blinked over at me, but she kept swerving like she was auditioning for The Italian Job.

I kept expecting to hear the shrill chirp of sirens, but there was nothing other than the bustle and honk of taxis, revelers and tourists.

Were we even being followed?

You can’t take that risk.

Amelia slowed as we approached an alley and in the dimness between two streetlamps, the rest of my clothes went out the window.

She lifted a brow and asked, ”Are you clear?”

I nodded. “I think so. Let me check the camera.”

Delicately, I ran my fingers over all the edges of the camera that I’d been using to take pictures. I looked for anything out of order, out of place. “I think we’re good. But let me just grab the SD card.”

She groaned. “Thank God that camera is intact. The requisition paperwork was going to be a nightmare.”

“I wish I could say of course it’s in one piece, but it was touchy for a minute there. Bastard almost smashed it.” After a careful search, I hadn’t found any listening devices. With a sigh of relief, I flipped open the SD card holder and muttered a curse under my breath.

“What’s wrong?” Amelia asked.

“Motherfucker.”

“What? Talk to me, Ny. What’s happened?”

“He took it.” I held up the camera and showed her the empty SD card slot.

She frowned. “Shit.”

Plowing my hands through my hair, I tried to fight off the impending panic.

If you panic, you are out of the game. Breathe.

I forced myself to drag in a long deep breath, hold it, and then release it slowly by counts. “I went into the restaurant as planned. While I was serving, I was in there twice before they even noticed anything. But this fucking camera, one of them saw it. And then he chased me. I ran. God, I didn’t think anyone would follow or that he’d be that fast, quite frankly.”

“You didn’t take evasive maneuvers?”

I choked out a laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me? I ran for my life. Yeah, I took evasive maneuvers. He was just faster than I expected.”

Amelia took up my hand. “Relax, take another deep breath.”

My brain offered up helpful images of me fighting that arsehole. He was supposed to be a lazy billionaire. But oh no. The twat had fight skills. Actual martial arts fight skills. He had fucking surprised me.

I had done my research on the London Lords, as they called themselves. I was looking for proof of their secret society. There had been whispers, rumors. Filthy rich men who were the real London power brokers, and I knew in my gut the London Lords were part of it.

I had studied their movements, where they went, who they talked to, who their friends were. I’d