Page 43 of Ford
Wake up, girl, and come to your senses.They were meeting Roy, Ford’s contact, in less than an hour. And Hamilton Jones, the operator whom Ford had hired to help them secret his sister out of Russia, was due shortly after that. He’d emailed that his flight was delayed.
Which meant that they were on their own for this super-secret-007 meeting.
Cool.
A knock came at the door of her room. “Red?”
The historic room hosted a tiny double bed, a bathroom as big as a closet, and a wooden floor that had to be centuries old, given the moans and creaks it uttered as she walked across it.
She opened the door.
Ford had donned a jean jacket for their clandestine meet and greet. And he hadn’t shaved, his face deliciously rustic. “You ready?”
She wore a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, her running shoes. “Yep. How far is it?”
“A café a few blocks away. I figure we’ll get there early, get the lay of the place, figure out exits…” He lifted a shoulder. “I hate not having a weapon.”
She closed the door behind her as she left the room. “You think this guy will know where RJ is?”
He’d filled her in on the story he’d gotten from Senator White, as well as pieced together information from his brief Skype meeting with RJ a couple weeks ago. His sister had called him to relay information about a suspect Tate was trying to track down, someone wanted in connection to a bombing that had nearly killed Tate’s girlfriend. A bombing Scarlett had helped thwart. During the call, Ford had noticed the café, which he now pinpointed as European.
“I hope so,” Ford said as they left the hotel.
A linden tree had dropped tiny white flowers on the cobblestones, and a slight breeze reaped the scent from a bush of wild roses.
No romance.
It was hard not to imagine herself hand in hand with Ford as they strolled through the narrow streets past souvenir vendors, mulled-wine stands, and the occasional pastry shop. They meandered the winding streets of Old Town, following a hand-sketched map Ford had procured from the hotel manager, finally turning down a narrow street with an old-world-style hanging sign over the door of a café.The Hog’s Head.The scent of roasted pork seasoned the air as they drew closer.
Scarlett followed Ford inside, through the time warp to a century earlier, where ancient tables hosted intricately carved chairs. A candled chandelier hung from an arched plastered ceiling, and at a long polished bar, a man was filling up steins from a tap.
The café wasn’t heavily populated this time of day—early afternoon. A middle-aged man read a newspaper at a far table. Another man sat with his back to the door—clearly not their target—and a couple huddled over what looked like a— “Is that a hoof?”
“Pig’s foot. It’s a specialty here in Prague.”
“Maybe I’ll just get a coffee.”
Ford glanced at her, smiled, so much warmth in his eyes that for a second, yes, it felt like a date.
Not. A. Date. Sheesh, why did her brain always track that direction?
“I’ll sit at the bar,” she said, but he took her hand and brought her through the place to a back table. “Here. You can see the whole place, and you’re right by the exit if something should go south.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Bluetooth earpiece, so small as to be hidden in her ear. Then he retrieved one for himself. “Call me. Just sit on the phone quietly so you can hear everything. And if I say I’d prefer a burger, that’s your cue to leave.”
“You’d prefer a burger?”
He shrugged.
“Okay, James.”
“Just…sit down. And listen.”
She rolled her eyes, but sat down at the table, her back to the wall. Ford walked up to the bar and ordered something—a couple of beers by the movements of the bartender. She would have preferred coffee, but she could pretend.
He brought the beer over to her. “I’m going up to the front.”
“I’m dialing right now.”
By the time he sat down, they’d connected, and he slipped his phone into his pocket.