A cab dropped Sir James Walter off at Heathrow’s charter terminal. A private jet waited for him on the tarmac, ready to fly him to Tenerife.
His brisk walk to the plane was interrupted by the sound of someone shouting.
“Sir James!” Moran sprinted through the terminal doors to where Walter stood on the tarmac. “They’re here,” he said, between gasping breaths; he barely stopped to catch Walter by the arm, hustling him toward the plane. “You need to go. Now.”
Walter’s heart pounded in his ears; his legs buckled under him, until it seemed like Moran was the only thing holding him up. “No, no—how did they—?”
A gunshot ripped through the air, loud and close. Moran crumpled to the ground.
Walter stumbled and fell to his knees over Moran, who lay on the tarmac with a hand clutched to his chest. Blood leaked through his fingers, staining his shirt.
“James.” Moran coughed; more blood spattered from his mouth. He put his other hand on Walter, over his breast pocket, and shoved. “Run.”
A cacophony of gunshots clattered around them. Walter scrambled away, staying low, and bolted for the plane.
No sooner had he ascended the air-stairs and entered the cabin than he heard the roar of car engines, and the screech of brakes. Walter made a grab for the nearest flight attendant. “We need to take off! Now!”
Before she could answer, a shout came from outside, amplified by megaphone: “Sir James Walter! This is the police! Exit the vehicle now!”
Confusion and relief warred as Walter leaned back out the hatch. The plane was surrounded by police cars, and more were arriving every second.
“Thank god you’re here.” Walter stumbled from the plane. “I’m in danger, you need to—”
One of the officers roughly seized Walter and shoved his arms behind his back.
“What are you doing?” Walter barked, twisting angrily in the officer’s grip.
Another policeman—a detective, by the look of him—approached. “We were told, Sir James, that you were attempting to flee the country.”
“Of course I am,” Walter snapped. “Someone’s trying to kill me! They already—”
He trailed off as he looked to the spot on the tarmac where Moran had collapsed.
Moran was gone.
The officer holding Walter cuffed his hands behind his back, then began to pat him down. He paused at Walter’s breast pocket; reaching inside, he withdrew a flash drive.
The detective eyed it with avid interest. “What’s this, Sir James?”
Walter stared at the drive. He was sure he hadn’t had that on him a moment ago. “I … have no idea where that came from.”
“I’m sure.” The detective sneered. “Sir James Walter, you’re under arrest on suspicion of espionage.”
From across the tarmac, Jay watched as Walter was dragged from the plane.
Moran spat a mouthful of crimson into a tissue and began to wipe up the mess around his mouth. “But why does it taste like mint?”
“No idea,” Jay said. “That timer trick of yours worked better than I thought it would.”
“Never used it for gunshots before.” Now finished with his mouth, Moran began to clean his hand, where he’d crushed the second blood capsule in his palm.
A police officer shoved Walter, still sputtering protests, into the back of a car.
“Got any plans this evening?” Moran asked.
“Not really,” Jay replied, unthinking. He didn’t usually have plans, ever.
“Good.” Moran chucked the tissue away. “I figure I owe you a drink.”
The police escorted Walter to a very small room with no windows.
“Sir James,” said the interrogator, “let me be clear. You attempted to leave the country while carrying confidential military data.”
Walter scoffed and shook his head. “I did no such thing.”
The interrogator held up the flash drive. “This was loaded with schematics for BPA’s surveillance drones. The drones you were contracted to manufacture for the military. We checked the records—these files were all downloaded from your assistant’s workstation. Did you really think that was enough to cover your tracks?”
“This is ridiculous!” Walter slammed a hand on the table. “Those files belong to my company, and the plane never even took off! I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“You don’t need to have successfully committed espionage to be guilty of espionage,” the interrogator said, with rapidly diminishing patience. “Now, who were you meeting in Tenerife? Was it a buyer?”
“I wasn’t meeting anyone!”
The investigator braced both hands on the table and leaned forward with a menacing glare. “We’ve got officers searching BPA’s offices as we speak, Sir James. We’re going through all your files. Whatever it is you’re hiding, we’re going to find it.”
“I’m not hiding anything!” Walter insisted.
It took him a second to realise what a lie that was.
“‘Authorities have arrested Sir James Walter,’” Jay read from his phone, “‘CEO of Bruce-Partington Aerospace, on suspicion of espionage as he attempted to board a private flight to the Canary Islands this morning.’”
The pub was a small, intimate, old-fashioned establishment down a side alley near Jay’s flat; it smelled faintly of stale beer, but the atmosphere was quiet enough to carry on a conversation without shouting. Jay sat at a corner table, Moran across from him, as he scrolled through the news.
“‘The Metropolitan Police’s Counter-Terrorism Command was able to intercept Walter at Heathrow Airport after receiving a tip that Walter would be attempting to leave the country while in possession of confidential military data.’”
Moran smirked into his pint. “How did that go?”
“They certainly didn’t need much encouraging.” Jay batted his eyelashes and pitched his voice into a falsetto: “‘Oh, sirs, I’m so worried about my boss. I think he might be up to something illegal.’” He snorted and kept scrolling. “Here we are. ‘When approached for comment, BPA responded that Walter has been removed as CEO by the company’s board. They have pledged to fully cooperate with the investigation.’”
“I hear the Met are turning BPA’s offices upside down.” Moran leaned across the table and gave Jay a knowing look. “In all the chaos, it seems someone leaked certain details about the 221 Nova onto the internet.”
Jay shrugged. “I didn’t trust the authorities to do anything interesting with them.”
Moran sobered a little. “BPA will settle out of court, if they even get charged at all. They’ll pay their fine and that will be the end of it.”
“But the plane’s grounded,” Jay pointed out. “No more crashes. And BPA will lose billions. If we’re lucky, they’ll file for bankruptcy—I doubt the government will be in a mood to help, considering their former CEO is being charged with espionage.”
“There is that.” Moran gestured toward Jay’s empty glass. “Another?”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “You got the last round. Doesn’t that mean I’m supposed to get the next one?”
“You got me paid,” Moran replied. “A lot. I think we’re square.” He slid out of his seat and stood. “Where should I send your cut, by the way?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Moran laughed and headed for the bar. “Of course you will.”
It was quite late by the time Sebastian and Jay left the pub. Sebastian took a few long steps down the alley, Jay following close behind in companionable silence.
“So,” Sebastian said. “What now?”
“You’re all clear. BPA has other things to worry about, now.” Jay’s face was carefully blank, but there was something complicated simmering beneath the surface. “You can walk away.”
“I can.” Sebastian turned and stepped in close. “Is that what you want?”
Jay’s breath quickened, but not with fear. “No.”
Sebastian leaned forward, until there were scant inches between them. He traced the fingers of one hand gently down the line of Jay’s jaw, his thumb coming to rest against his lip. “What do you want?”
Jay’s lip trembled against Sebastian’s skin—and then expression hardened into a glare. “If you don’t kiss me, Moran, I’m going to crack your head open on this wall.”
Sebastian chuckled and fitted his lips against Jay’s.
The kiss was slow, indulgent; Sebastian took the time to savour it, even as Jay made wordless pleading noises and tried to drag him closer. He reached up toward Sebastian’s shoulders, but broke away with a sharp hiss as his injured ribs made themselves known once again.
Sebastian wrapped both hands around Jay’s upper arms and pinned them gently to his sides. “Keep your arms down,” he said, laughing, and kissed him again.
Jay groaned, frustrated, and hooked his fingers into the waistband of Sebastian’s jeans. With clear reluctance, he tore his mouth away from Sebastian’s and said, “My place.” He tugged firmly on Sebastian’s belt. “Now.”
With an insolent grin, Sebastian replied, “Yes, sir.”
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