Page 29 of Run

Once they’d checked in, there was nothing for Elle to do but monitor the screens. If things went south, she’d pull the teams out. If things got really bad, she’d call in every enforcement agency in London for help and hope it didn’t backfire on them later.

“Rach, get back here. I need another set of eyes.” On the screens displaying the footage from the street cameras she’d hacked into, the three teams were making their way toward their targets.

Rachel climbed into the back. “I really hope no one tries to steal the tires while we’re parked here. That wouldnotmake me happy.” And she was usually so chipper.

“Watch the four screens on the left,” Elle told her. “I’ll watch the rest. Do you know what you’re looking for?”

“Bad guys doing bad things.”

“Then we’re as ready as we can be. You know, if I was here with Megan instead of you, we’d take this opportunity to decide which of the guys has the best backside.”

“Yet you wonder why I would rather not have female friends.” Rachel stared at the screens in front of her. “Of course, the answer is Harvard,” she said at last. “Nobody has a better backside than him.”

Elle was grinning as Callum and Ryan strode onto the top left-hand screen, showing a dilapidated park.

It had begun.

11

ALPHA TEAM

TARGET: Teen drug dealers working for the Albanians

Mason Park

North London

They’d worn suits in an attempt to make the baby drug dealers think they were part of the James Syndicate. Ryan kinda liked his suit. It fit like a glove and was a deep blue that brought out his eyes. Megan had told him so. With a matching shirt and polished shoes, Ryan was pretty sure he couldGQwith the best of them.

“You know what to do,” Callum muttered as they strode toward the teen thugs who worked the territory for the Albanians. Callum’s suit was gray and nowhere near as nice as Ryan’s.

“I’ve got this.” Ryan wasn’t being cocky, just honest.

They’d decided that Callum’s Scottish accent was too distinctive for him to take point. The teens would remember it, and then there would be questions about who in the James Family was from north of the border. Ryan, on the other hand, was born and bred in London, which meant his accent was perfect.

“Bloody hell,” Callum muttered, “that kid can’t be more than twelve years old.”

Ryan heard it in his voice, the same distaste for confronting the kids that he felt. They’d both joined the military to protect and serve their country, not to take on lanky tweens making shitty decisions when they were barely out of nappies.

Sometimes, life really sucked.

As they neared the group, the boys huddled closer. Their chatter ceased as wary eyes, betraying suspicion beyond their years, focused on the two strange men approaching them in the dark. The fact that none of them ran meant they’d already figured out that Callum and Ryan weren’t cops. From their expressions, they assumed they were being approached by the James Syndicate, and they were wary. So much so that one of the kids pulled a knife.

Barely in his teens and already carrying.

It made Ryan sick, but it didn’t surprise him. Very little did anymore.

“Boys,” Ryan called out to them. “We’re closing you down. Put everything on the bench behind you and clear out. You can tell your handler this park is now James’ territory.”

The biggest kid stepped forward, pulling his own knife from the pocket of his hoodie. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Did I stutter?” Ryan swept back his jacket to reveal his gun. “James Family Syndicate. Now piss off out of here.”

“You won’t shoot a kid,” a boy at the back of the group called out, obviously feeling brave because his mates stood between him and Ryan. “You don’t want the cops after you any more than we do.”

Callum casually drew his pistol and shot the bench. The sound reverberated around the silent park.

“We own the cops,” Ryan said evenly.