The King's Deception

Three steps and they reached the open rear door of a dark-colored Bentley. He was shoved inside and Frizzy climbed in, sitting across from him in a facing rear seat.

The door shut and the car wheeled from the curb.

Ian kept his hands inside his jacket pockets and sat rigid.

His attention focused on the other man sitting beside Frizzy. Older, wearing a charcoal-gray suit with a waistcoat. He sat straight and stared at Ian through a pair of green eyes flecked with specks of brown that seemed to say that he was not somebody accustomed to disagreement. A thick fleece of white hair covered his head and spilled down onto a creased brow.

“You have something I want,” the older man said in a low, throaty voice, the words perfectly formed.

“I don’t do business with people I don’t know.”

The aloof stare of an aristocrat dissolved into a mirthful grin. “I don’t do business with street urchins. Give me the drive.”

“What’s so important about it?”

“I don’t explain myself, either.”

A cold bead of sweat slid down his back. Something about the two men who faced him signaled desperation.

And that he didn’t like.

So he lied. “I threw it away.”

“Petty thieves, like you, throw nothing away.”

“I don’t keep junk.”

“Kill him,” the older man said.

Frizzy lunged forward, the knife drawn back, ready to thrust.

“Okay. Okay,” Ian said. “I have it.”

The older man’s right hand halted Frizzy’s attack.

The Bentley started to brake in traffic.

Other vehicles could be seen outside the moisture-laden windows slowing for a road signal apparently ahead. Rush hour in London, and nobody moved fast. He quickly reviewed his options and determined they were limited. Frizzy still held the knife and kept a close watch. The other man was equally attentive, and the confines of the car did not allow much room to maneuver.

He withdrew his left hand and displayed the drive. “This what you want?”

“There’s a good boy,” the older man said.

Then Ian’s right hand telegraphed the next move, and he almost smiled.

His fingers curled around the pepper spray. He’d thought it useless. Now it was priceless.

The older man reached for the drive.

Ian whipped out his right hand and sprayed.

Both men howled, pawing their eyes in a vain attempt to relieve the pain.

“Kill him, now,” the older man ordered.

Frizzy, eyes closed, dropped the knife and reached beneath his coat.

A gun came into view.

Ian sprayed again.

Frizzy yelled.