The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

Not a chance, Nicholas thought, and went to see his boss, Hamish Penderley, detective chief superintendent of the Metropolitan Police’s Operational Command Unit, a stiff-necked old buzzard in his early sixties who’d played by the same set of rules for forty years, and would take those same rules to the grave with him. Penderley was self-made, public-school-educated, the third son of a barkeep in Coventry, and proud of it.

Nicholas came from wealth and an old name, and that rankled and galled some people he worked with. Thankfully, Penderley wasn’t one of them. His issue was Nicholas’s dual citizenship; he’d been born in the United States, making him less of a Brit in Penderley’s eyes.

Nicholas wound his way through the obstacle course to Penderley’s position on the grandstand, thinking about the newly instituted mandatory training exercises. Everyone was on edge. Actionable terrorist threats had been made against London—again—and the Metropolitan Police felt it necessary to refresh the training all their officers received. Nicholas and his team had been to Hendon for surprise tactical weapons drills four times in the last six months. Requalifying with weapons, being dragged out of bed for real response exercises, like this dawn’s kidnap-and-hostage scenario, anything and everything; it didn’t matter, Penderley threw all of it at them.

Nicholas had argued, as he always did, that his homicide team knew their stuff cold, would be better utilized brushing up their profiling skills and forensic accounting, but might equaled right in Penderley’s world. Penderley’s old world.

Disapproval clung to the man like a second skin. He was tall and skinny as a pole, standing on a dais with his hands on his hips, legs spread in a triangle, binoculars around his neck, a great view of the action. All he needed were jackboots. Safari leader or ranking copper? Close call. Nicholas kept his mouth shut. He knew he could push only so far before Penderley blew, and by the look on his face, Nicholas could tell the man was hovering at the edge.

“Sir.” Nicholas stood at attention in front of his boss, who, no dummy, had angled himself so the rising sun poured over his shoulder right into Nicholas’s eyes.

“Drummond.” His name came out in an exasperated warning, the tone he so often used when addressing Nicholas. “You were not authorized to shoot Inspector Esposito.”

“No, sir.” He avoided continuing his statement. If a “But sir” came out of his mouth, it would only send Penderley into hyperspace.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

No, there’s a whole lot I have to say, but I didn’t wake up stupid this morning; I took this training exercise seriously, and I didn’t want to see the hostage dead, so I found the answer and brought down the nutter.

Penderley wanted him to protest, Nicholas saw it in his eyes, and he was tempted to say something to make the old bugger huff and puff, but he didn’t.

“Yes, sir.”

Penderley drew himself up straighter, if that were possible, and pronounced from on high, “Then you are disqualified.”

“But sir—”

Well, he’d done it now. The blow was coming.

Penderley’s body shifted, blocking the sun from Nicholas’s eyes. He blinked the older man into focus.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Drummond. There are rules in this world. And when I delineate rules of engagement, you are expected to follow them. You will return to Hendon tomorrow morning, with your team, and try it again. And this time, you will do it my way. Do you understand?”

Back and forth. Every day it was the same with them, back and forth, Penderley pushing, Nicholas pulling, never seeing eye to eye unless the threat was real and Nicholas was needed to break the rules.

“I believe the object of the exercise was to neutralize the threat.”

He heard a hiss behind him and turned to see Esposito glaring at him, leaning against the edge of the dais, still rubbing his sore foot.

Nicholas ignored Esposito and returned his eyes to his boss. “I neutralized the threat, and the hostage is safe. This is the outcome we all wanted.”

Penderley’s face turned red. Nicholas braced himself for the hammer, but it didn’t fall. Instead Penderley sighed, shook his head. “You try my patience, lad. Tomorrow morning. Five o’clock sharp.” He smiled, a wolf with lots of sharp teeth, and added, his voice very precise, “Don’t be late or you’ll do it again the next day.” Penderley’s phone rang. “You’re excused.”

Nicholas stalked off, frustrated, wanting to kick something, but he headed straight for his car. One sore foot—surely that didn’t qualify as a bad outcome. What was the point of an exercise that didn’t accomplish the goal? In a real situation, his actions would get him more than a pat on the back.

Up at four o’clock tomorrow morning again. Thank you, sir.

He’d just put his hand on the gearshift when Penderley came rushing toward the car, waving his hands wildly to get Nicholas’s attention.

Nicholas stepped out of the BMW. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Penderley was out of breath, or choked up, Nicholas couldn’t be certain which. He soon realized it was both.

“Nicholas,” Penderley said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Terrible news. It’s Inspector Elaine York. She’s been murdered.”

3

New York, New York