The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

“Your mother called. The news of the refinery explosion already made it to England. I told her I believed you were at Lincoln Center, watching a play.”

“That was well done of you, Nigel, thank you.”

“I don’t think she believed me for an instant, but bless her, she didn’t push it. You can expect a call from your father and grandfather tomorrow. Early.”

“Everything is all right back home?”

“Yes, everything is fine.” Nigel studied Nicholas’s face for a moment longer, then said, “You should soak up the Talisker before you go to bed. There’s cold chicken and orzo in the Sub-Zero.”

“No, I think I’d like to keep the bad away a while longer,” Nicholas said, and he nodded at the bottle of Talisker. “This will do nicely.”

Nigel didn’t move.

“What is it, Nigel? Is there really something going on at home I should know about? And you’re protecting me like you tried to protect my mother?”

“I’ve known you all our lives, Nicholas. I’ve seen you angry and frustrated, but not as much as you are now. I’ve seen you even dirtier than you are now, more banged up, seen you inches away from losing that infamous Drummond temper. But you want to know something?”

Nicholas’s eyebrow shot up. “Yes?”

“You’re enjoying yourself.”

The Talisker spurted out of Nicholas’s mouth.

“No, no, Nigel, you’re wrong. All the bonkers crap that’s going on? No, no, I am not enjoying myself.”

Nigel merely shook his head. “I’d say you’re downright giddy. I was worried about all the change, but I’m glad to say the move to New York suits you very well. Your grandfather will be pleased to hear it.”

“You’re dead wrong about the giddy part—well, I hope you are—and you’re quite right: New York and the FBI suit me very well. It’s only a pity they don’t give agents clothing allowances. And stop talking to my grandfather behind my back.”

Nigel grinned. “I haven’t spoken to the baron. I’ve only spoken with my father. Oh, yes, he sends his very best. He said the family misses you and wonders when you might be

home for a visit.”

Horne, Nigel’s father, was the Drummond family’s butler at their home in Farrow-on-Grey, and had been a part of Nicholas’s entire life just as Nigel had. A wave of homesickness hit him, or maybe it was the Talisker. He realized he missed the weekly breakfasts with his family. He missed the lime trees bordering the long drive, and the labyrinth gardens. He even missed Cook Crumbe’s awful porridge.

Nigel said as he came back from the kitchen, “I’m very sorry about the tragedy tonight. But now it’s time for you to get some sleep, Nicholas. Even for you, it’s occasionally necessary. Good night,” and Nicholas heard Nigel humming as he walked away.

Was Nigel right? Was he giddy? No, not that word, it was more that he knew he was completely and utterly involved, every single fiber in his body was sharply alive, turned on high. He’d accepted long ago that he was a predator, remembered his mother had told him he had the push-it-to-the-edge danger gene, and surely that was a good thing for the FBI. And this ridiculous COE group was still running free. But not for long. No, not for long.

And he had Michaela, and wasn’t that a bit of miraculous luck? He couldn’t imagine his life here without her. Like him, she was fairly bursting with life, ready to tackle anything, always straight ahead, that was Michaela. Did she have the danger gene, too? Yes, very probably.

As he washed out his glass, he admitted to himself that he was indeed doing well here in New York. And, evidently, Barneys was doing well, too.

He took a hot shower, pulled out his first-aid kit and smeared some burn cream on his palms, then climbed into bed, his mobile next to his head.

But he couldn’t sleep, too many unknown faces tracking through his mind, too many codes he had yet to untangle.

• • •

Mike was in her ancient bathrobe, eating a cold slice of pepperoni pizza, when her cell rang. She was tempted not to answer it, but of course that wasn’t an option.

Nicholas. No surprise he was still working. She wished she could give him all the freedom he wanted and fewer rules, but alas, she wouldn’t be that high on the FBI food chain for many years to come. And how high would Nicholas be by the time they hit forty?

Mike sat down at her small work desk, stared at the mess of papers—bills, mostly. Maybe she should dust. Or not. She swung her feet up onto the cluttered surface, put the phone on speaker. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Why aren’t you?”

She laughed. “I’m eating. Cold pizza.”