The Ambitious Orphan (7 page)

Keeping the knife
in her left pocket and clutched in her hand, Amelia had little
option but to continue on home. Within minutes she could see her
house up ahead, and it only took her a couple of seconds to realise
the light was on in her living room despite the attempt to cover it
with the curtains. As she got closer she also noticed the post that
should have been gathered on the floor the other side of the
privacy glass was too neat, as if someone had put it back from the
inside.

She slowed and
looked behind her to spot the agent Myron had instructed to follow
her. It didn't take long to catch his eye. As soon as she had his
attention she looked pointedly at the house, hoping he'd spot what
had concerned her.

While he sped up
to join her, she took a few cautious steps forward, listening for
anything out of the ordinary. As she moved she took the second
knife out of the holder underneath the edge of her corset and
gripped both the way Tom had shown her.

“Wait,” her
accompanying shadow said as he joined her, a small messaging device
in his hands.

“Back-up?” she
asked and was pleased to see him giving her a curt nod. Giving her
no more attention, he concentrated on her house, looking and
listening for movement as she had.

Every few seconds
he eased forward, being careful where his shadow was cast by the
street lights and making no noise. Silently, she copied his
movements. Whatever was about to happen she already knew she was
safer with this guy than without.

A few minutes
later another man came the other way down the street, gave them
both a quick nod and snuck up close. He obviously knew exactly what
was going on, because he stood the other side of Amelia and focused
on the front door as well.

Not long after
that, she watched her back gate open. Tom slunk through the gap,
keeping low. He winked at her, mouthed all clear and hunkered down
to watch the back exit from her house. It was then she noticed the
gun in his hands.

Both of the agents
beside her then pulled guns and took the last few steps towards her
front door.

“Keys?” the
nearest agent asked. She nodded and pulled the set out of her bag
as quietly as she could. After a few seconds of fumbling to find
the one that would unlock the front door she handed it over.

“Stay here,” the
first one whispered close to her ear. She shook her head.

“If they know
you're watching me they might be luring you inside thinking you'll
leave me out here,” she said back, even quieter. His eyes went
wider as he processed what she was saying before he nodded. It
seemed she'd thought of something he hadn't.

Feeling a little
apprehensive about having only knives in what everyone else was
treating as a gun fight, Amelia followed the two men to the
door.

After a couple of
seconds, one signalled to the other to head in and pulled the door
open for him. Amelia hung back and kept half her focus behind them,
but Tom soon anticipated this weakness and crept back to cover the
group from behind.

Before she could
follow the two agents into her house, she heard the sound of
silencer-repressed gunfire from her hallway. A few seconds later
there was the sound of something smacking into wood and china
breaking.

Amelia took a deep
breath and went into the house. Her eyes honed in on the source of
smacking sounds and grunts. Immediately, she saw the agents
fighting with a Russian she recognised.

Her breath caught
in her throat as Nesterov glanced her way, before images of the
cell he'd kept her in flashed across her mind. She gasped as one of
the agents flung the Russian over the coffee table, smashing the
already partly broken vase even more.

For what felt like
an eternity she could only stare at the carnage that had once been
her living area. The sofa cushions spewed stuffing where bullets
had torn them up and the glass door on her display case was
shattered.

Moving away from
the fighting, she noticed the items on her kitchen counters had
fared little better. Tea cups were smashed and a gun lay on the
floor. She went over to it, but before she could pick the weapon up
the fight ended with a very well-aimed punch to Nesterov's jaw. He
flew back, smacking his head on the edge of her book shelves with
an almighty crack. Books tumbled down, fluttering their pages
before thudding into the Russian and the carpet around him.

One agent rushed
over to check the man's pulse while the other stood and aimed his
gun at the slumped form.

“He's alive.”

“Good. Sweep the
house. I'll watch him.”

While they watched
Nesterov and Amelia stood, her body unwilling to move, behind her
kitchen island, the first agent made his way down her hallway to
the rest of her rooms. With his gun outstretched, he opened every
door and swept the area inside.

Less than a minute
later he came back, looking relaxed. The gun was still in one hand,
but he pointed it down and went back over to Nesterov. Still,
Amelia couldn't move. All the memories of being held in the Russian
compound were making her shiver, and she realised she wasn't as
recovered from the ordeal as she'd hoped.

They restrained
the still unconscious Russian, ignoring her now that she was
safe.

“I'll go get the
car,” one said and hurried out the door. A few seconds later Tom
came in, his gun hidden again. He took one look at Amelia and
walked over to her kitchen side to grab the kettle.

“Tea?” he asked
her. A smile spread on her face, breaking her from her frozen
state. Over the next few minutes she busied herself getting out
unbroken cups, saucers and making tea for all three agents. She
didn't ask if they wanted it and none of them complained when she
handed them a cup.

“Take him. I'll
stay here for a bit,” Tom said when all three had downed their
drinks, despite the heat of them, and had turned their attention
back to their captive.

They nodded their
goodbyes and picked Nesterov up, one carrying his feet and another
his shoulders. Tom held open the doors for them, and then shut the
front door firmly.

“Your locks should
be all right. Looks like he picked them.”

“Will there be any
more?” she asked, knowing not a single part of her felt safe. Her
teacher shook his head.

“No, there was
only him. You'll be perfectly safe now, even if you don't feel
it.”

She nodded,
understanding Tom's reference to her physical state. With the
shivers she still emitted and how light-headed she felt, she knew
she must look terrible. A few seconds later a small device on Tom's
belt that looked a bit like a pager buzzed. He looked at it and
then put it back.

“I can't stay but
you're safe now. If you're worried about anything, contact
him.”

She nodded,
knowing she'd already planned to message Myron. Given the last few
minutes of her life, she knew there was no way she felt safe in her
home anymore. Even if she could sleep, she would need new
furniture, and as she took in more of the damage she noticed
several stray bullets were embedded in the walls. It would take
weeks to make everything look normal again. No part of her doubted
that she'd return to London the following day.

Sipping a cup of
tea, Mycroft studied Nesterov. The Russian was sprawled out on the
concrete floor, exhausted and grimacing in pain.

His agents had
brought the man to a small military outpost just outside London not
long after they'd captured him, and Mycroft had been there since
the early hours of the morning. Now he was taking his time, letting
Nesterov know exactly what he thought of the treatment they'd given
Amelia.

In the few hours
since Mycroft had entered the small room Nesterov was being held
in, the Russian had gained a split lip, an assortment of fractured
and broken bones and several other lacerations on the arms and
legs. In addition, he'd lost three teeth and a couple of finger
nails.

Now that he felt
calmer and had allowed his temper to be expressed in a satisfying
way, Mycroft was planning to get down to the actual interrogation.
It would take some time to break a man like Nesterov, and even if
he did talk under duress, it was unlikely to be the truth for
several days.

Normally, this
sort of thing made Mycroft feel a little uncomfortable, but every
time he looked at the Russian all he could think of was the many
hours he sat and listened while Amelia was waterboarded and beaten.
It left little room for compassion.

“We both know how
this works so I won't waste breath. I understand that you have been
taking orders for your recent actions. I want to know who gave
them.”

“I assume we both
know I won't give you that information willingly,” Nesterov
replied, spitting out bloody saliva when he was done.

“And we both know
you will eventually. You can only last so long before you'll do
anything to end the pain. Everyone breaks.”

Nesterov didn't
answer this statement. There was no point lying about it. Every
person who had ever practised torturing another for any length of
time knew they wouldn't hold up under the entire set of torture
methods known to man. If nothing else, man was an expert at
inflicting pain upon others.

Mycroft picked up
a small knife and a thick flannel-like cloth and sat down on a
stool, near enough to Nesterov that he could take one of his hands
and pin it in place on a small wooden block.

Ignoring the cries
and grunts of pain, Mycroft peeled back the skin on his smallest
finger, working slowly but expertly to remove just the right amount
at a time. This wasn't a method of torture he'd used before, but he
knew it needed to be effective, and he could think of little more
direct.

By the time an
hour had passed Nesterov was no longer conscious and one set of his
fingers was almost entirely devoid of skin.

“Get him awake
again,” Mycroft said as one of the agents who'd brought Nesterov in
came into the room.

“Yes, sir. There's
a car for you, sir. From management.”

Mycroft blinked
his shock and recovered before the agent could even notice anything
out of the ordinary.

“Good. I was
thinking of taking a break. Make sure he doesn't get any sleep
while I'm gone. No food, and only the necessary water.”

“Yes, sir. I'll
see to it personally.”

Mycroft didn't
look back but put the knife and cloth somewhere they'd be cleaned
while he was gone and left the room. Outside was a small sink, and
he took his time washing his hands, getting every last little fleck
of blood off before he left the building.

A familiar car sat
alongside his usual one, the driver talking to Daniels. When his
own chauffeur glanced his way the man turned and nodded at
Mycroft.

“Good morning, Mr
Holmes. Would you please come with me? You're wanted at the palace,
sir.”

“Of course, Mr
Newton. As always, I am at her majesty's command.” Mycroft added a
fake smile to his words and the driver opened the door for him.

Before he even sat
down, he took in the unexpected presence of Amelia sitting on the
other side of the car. She gave him a brief smile.

“I've been
summoned as well, for some reason,” she said, the apology evident
in her voice. It was obvious why, but he wasn't about to tell
her.

They had realised
she hadn't yet become an agent, and neither he nor his brother had
declared themselves engaged. If there were any other reasons than
this, they would be secondary.

For a few seconds,
he considered telling Amelia that she should turn down the offer to
become an agent, but the driver never gave them the privacy, and
even if he had, Mycroft felt confident that she'd know it wasn't
something he wanted.

As soon as it was
mentioned to her she should realise Mycroft had deliberately kept
the offer from her. It wasn't something he approved of.

“Where are we?”
she asked as the car pulled up to the security hut at the barriers
on and off the military site.

“A small military
facility west of London. You'll forget you were here,” Mycroft
replied.

“As you wish, but
is this where you brought Nesterov after last night?”

He nodded,
ignoring the break in her voice as she said the Russian's name.

“I never got a
chance to thank the agents who provided their assistance last
night. Could you thank them for me?” she said a few seconds later.
As he glanced at her he saw the immense gratitude in her eyes. He
nodded.

Both the agents
who'd arrived with Nesterov had been debriefed, so he was fully
aware of what had happened the night before. The bravery she'd
displayed and forethought to follow the men into the house in case
other Russians lingered outside had pleased him.

“Did you sleep
well?” he asked, deciding to reward her act of courage by showing
at least a small amount of concern.

“Not really. Once
Tom left, I tried, but I woke every hour or so.” As she said this
Mycroft studied her face. In the low-light of the car interior the
tell-tale signs of tiredness were mostly masked, but on close
examination he could still see a little darkness under her eyes and
a slowness to her movements. She was exhausted.

“You don't have to
stay there again if you don't wish. At least, not yet, but it
wouldn't be wise to leave it too long before you try again.”

“I know. I was
planning on trying again in another week. Once some of the mess has
been cleared up and some furniture has been replaced.”

He nodded, pleased
she'd thought over some kind of recovery plan. Fear was always
worse the longer it was left, if it got the better of you once. You
had to keep tackling it until it was gone or you were resilient
enough to its effects that it didn't matter anymore.