What the hell had happened? Questions started to pound through his head like waves crashing on a rock.
His phone. It was lying on the floor. He picked it up. He needed Rory. Had they split up in search of a little tail? He wouldn’t put it past his brother. Rory was a wild one, and he could get into trouble faster than anyone Liam knew. He pressed the number one. It was fitting. His younger brother was number one in his life. Liam was the one who had talked Rory into following him into the Defence Forces. He’d thought the Army would do his younger brother a bit of good, and he’d been right. When G2 had come calling with a bit of undercover work, Rory had followed him again. Rory was damn good at this job. He was finally turning out to be a man Liam could be proud of.
The call went straight to voice mail. Fuck.
“Rory, I need you to call me. God, please wake up, brother. I’m in a mess. I don’t remember what happened but I woke up in bed…” What the hell was he doing? He knew bloody well better than to leave an incriminating message on his brother’s voice mail. He shook his head as he looked for his pants. “Just call me.”
He dressed as quickly as he could. Boxers, dark wash jeans, socks, boots. He found his shirt rolled up in the corner of the overly frilly dead girl’s room. How the hell old was this girl? It didn’t matter now because she wouldn’t age another second. She would be forever stuck in this pink and white room, a purple collar of damage around her throat.
His hands shook as he pulled the black T-shirt free. Why was it wet? Had he spilled beer all over it?
Why couldn’t he remember?
Blood. It stained his hands as he let the shirt drop. His shirt was soaked in blood.
He stared at it for a moment. Blood? There wasn’t a drop of blood on the girl.
He reached for his jacket, zipping it up. He found his bag lying on the dresser, open as though he’d just left it there for a moment. The only thing missing was his rope and a knife. His stomach churned in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol from the previous night. Where was that knife?
Who should he call? The police? G2? The Irish Intelligence Agency would love the fact that a soldier had gotten into this ball of shit. He wasn’t an intelligence agent. He was sort of a contractor. He’d been hoping he’d be asked to join up after this.
No one was going to want to hire him when he ended up in jail. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What had happened? Why couldn’t he remember?
He dialed Rory’s number again. Wake up, you bastard. I’m in trouble.
He clutched the phone to his ear, but a sound from another room called to him. Trilling. Familiar.
Rory’s phone was ringing. Inside the house. The next room. And he still wasn’t answering. Liam’s heart pounded as his mind sought all the reasons his brother wouldn’t answer. It was a bloody short list.
Liam stepped outside the dead girl’s room and found himself in hell.
Chapter One
London, England
Five years later
Liam watched the girl with the dark hair walk into the light. Girl? She was a woman in every sense of the word. Avery Charles was twenty-eight years old, but from what he’d pieced together she’d likely lived through enough crap for two lifetimes. So why did she still look so bloody innocent?
The woman in front of him wasn’t his type. Not even close. She was too soft, too curvy, too much. Too serious, quite frankly. He preferred young women who just wanted a good time. But something about her drew him in. Maybe it was her background or the way her skin practically glowed when she walked into the great rotunda of the British Museum. She did it enough. She was here almost every day, and he’d stalked her, watching her move from room to room, studying each exhibit before her lunch hour was up. She would glide from the dark corners of the museum into the brilliant light of the atrium to purchase a sandwich she would eat before heading back to the Tube and work again.
And every day she would stop when the light hit her face. She would move from the dark, hushed rooms of the exhibits into the stark brilliance of the white marbled center of the museum. She would tilt her chin up and bask in the light as though taking a moment to soak it in.
Liam never left the darkness.
“Is that the mark?” Ian Taggart asked, his voice low.
He didn’t need to be so silent. The museum hummed with activity, but his boss was a cautious man. Paranoid, but then when everyone really was out to get you, it wasn’t paranoia. It was smart.