Barefoot by the Sea

What if someone with a keen eye spotted him, and remembered the press coverage of the young woman stabbed alongside her brother with the babies left in their cribs until their daddy came home? The story had been well covered by the press, and he’d been front-page news during the trial.

Then the threats got worse and the N1L gang members closed in on him, killers with no regard for their own lives or anyone else’s, not when they were hell-bent on vengeance. Ian Browning had to disappear, but not with his babies. They couldn’t be together while the gang was still on the streets. A man with twin babies was too easy to find, so the kids had gone to Canada and he’d gone—to hell.

If he ever wanted to see his children again, if there was any hope of a life even remotely resembling normal, Ian had to do a few very specific things: He had to lie and he had to hide and he had to wait for British law enforcement to do their job. But he also had to work.

A childhood in Surrey along with schooling at the Royal Guildford and Cambridge had prepared him to do little in the “real” world, but his first three years under government protection had landed him in and out of restaurants in Singapore. Mostly out, thanks to his refusal to play nice. But at least he’d learned to cook.

And what had he done now that he had the possibility of a decent job in a perfect off-the-beaten-path place? This time he hadn’t gotten into a drag-out with a douche bag. No, he got lost in a woman’s eyes and wanted to tell her the truth. What a fucking idiot he was.

She was only trying to find out if he was available.

Well, he wasn’t available. Not for her.

He’d work somewhere else, that’s all. The Protected Persons rules—even tighter now that he’d blown one identity in Singapore and had to be given a new one—said lie, hide, work, and stay the hell out of trouble. No fistfights, no bar brawls, no intimate conversations with pretty gardeners who wanted a normal life.

Henry Brooker’s job was to enforce those rules, and keep Ian posted on the progress toward shutting down the gang in London. Henry didn’t say he had to work in a high-end resort that needed his culinary skills. Hell, Ian could work at McDonald’s if he had to.

At the thought, he caught a glimpse of golden arches and took the next turn into the parking lot, pulling the bike over and shutting it down, but his body still vibrated. He still hummed and buzzed and—

No, that was his phone—the phone that only Henry could call, making Ian practically dive to answer. Maybe this time. Maybe this call. He tapped the screen and answered with his usual, “Yeah?” Sometimes he didn’t say anything; after all, they were the only two people who ever communicated on this line.

“You in Morocco, mate?” Henry Brooker’s thick Yorkshire accent always set Ian on edge and made him brace for the frustration of no news.

“Not even close,” Ian said. “Why?”

“Someone called the line we have set up for your messages. She said she was from Casablanca.”

“Different Casa Blanca, and I’m not going to work there.”

“So you have another job, then?”

“Not yet.” He eyed the line of cars moving slowly into the drive-through. “But I’m about to.” You want fries with that?

“She called all the references we arranged.”

After his rude exit, the fact that Tessa had gone ahead and called the professional liars who gave him glowing recommendations sent a thud of shame through him. “I’ll find something else,” he said. “That’s not the job for me.”

“Don’t be picky, mate. You’d better find a job, and bloody fast.” Something in Henry’s voice made Ian straighten up and take notice. Something he’d rarely heard from his liaison. Optimism.

“I’m working on it,” he said.

Henry cleared his throat. “Get a good job and, for fuck’s sake, don’t punch out a customer who doesn’t like your coconut balls.”

He looked skyward. “Crab balls, and he was a dickhead looking for trouble.”

“You attract dickheads like that and it isn’t the kind of track record government agencies like to see when they release children back into the care of an itinerant short-order cook.”

He eyed the golden arches again. “I’m not an itinerant short-order cook.” Yet.

“You have to have a solid job,” Henry said, the emphasis strong.

A slow cascade of something like adrenaline and terror and all kinds of possibilities rolled through Ian’s whole body, head to toe, leaving him so weak he actually closed his free hand over the rubberized handlebar of his bike for stability.

“Why?”

After a long beat, Henry said, “We’re getting close.”

Close. Frustration zinged him at the word. How close? Close to what? He bit back the fury, accepting that he had no control over the situation, no way to clear out the N1L gang members who wanted him dead, no way to live safely with his children. And no way to make those who did have the power move fast enough so some arbitrary, inane rule that said he couldn’t have the children back after they turned four closed in and ended all hope.

“Close to what?” he asked Henry as calmly as he could.

“Just…close.”

“Henry!”

“Listen, I know how you feel.”

“Like hell you do,” Ian growled. “I’d kill someone to get them back.”

“Well, don’t,” Henry deadpanned. “That’ll just make this more impossible. Just trust me—”

“I’m sick of trusting you!” He kicked a stone under his boot, hearing the dead silence on the other end. “Sorry, listen, I just…I hate not being able to do anything. Watching that calendar move closer and closer to the cutoff and waiting for you to call and say I’m free to get them is killing me. I am…completely powerless.”

“You’re not. You can do something so that when we get those guys—and we will, Ian—you are in a position to reclaim the children from their protective custody in Canada.”

“Anything,” he said honestly. “I’ll do anything.”

“Start with getting your shit together, mate. That means—”

“A job.” He’d dive into that McDonald’s in five minutes and have a job. “I can do that.”

“More than a job; you need stability.” Henry’s voice was rich with implication, but Ian would be damned if he understood.

“More stable than a job? What? Management?”

Henry snorted softly. “Sta-bil-i-ty,” he repeated, dragging the word out. “The kind that says your life is together. John Brown needs to be completely on track.”

“What exactly does that mean, Henry?”

Henry sighed, a sound that was out of character and not exactly promising.

“What?” Ian demanded. What did he have to do to get his kids?

“You have a little time,” Henry said vaguely. “Obviously, we can’t make any move on the Canadians for release until we’ve got every single member of N1L behind bars. So you actually have some time to do this.”

“To do what?” What was Henry getting at? Was he about to hand out yet another identity and new place to live? Fine, whatever. As long as Ian could live on the mere possibility of getting his children back.

“Look, I had a conversation with my counterpart in Canada yesterday to discuss how we get the wheels rolling should we clear out the streets of Brixton.”

They’d better clear, and the wheels better roll. The minute that gang was off the streets and it was safe, Ian wanted his kids back.

“The review board has had a change of personnel and they’re more strict than ever.”

What the fuck did that mean? More asinine rules about a man and his own offspring? He bit back his anger, as if that proved he was capable of control.

“The new board is insisting that you prove your life is together, professionally and personally, before they give you back the kids.”

How together could he be in these circumstances? “Henry, what the hell do I need to do?”

“Get married.”