The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) by Gregg Loomis Read Free Book Online Page A

contrasted with what most of the guests were wearing. Plus, all three had only an appetizer, attesting to the fact that they were not as well-heeled as the other diners.
                  They were dividing up their bill as Lang and Gurt headed for the door.
                  Outside, there was a faint odor, perhaps imagined, Lang attributed to the Victorian Smithfield Market, the last wholesale meat market in Central London. Or perhaps memory of the site’s unhappy Medieval past as a place of public executions of enemies of the Crown such as Scottish nobleman William Wallace as well as heretics and religious dissidents.
                  His arm linked through Gurt’s, Lang referred to the local Tube stations, “Five minute walk to Barbican, Farrington and St. Paul’s.”
                  “You choose.”
                  They had taken only a few steps when Lang noted a car at the curb ahead, one of the number that seemed to magically appear the instant of the week day, 6:30 expiration of the city’s no parking and “pay and display” ordinances. The only thing remarkable about it was the two men lounging against it.
                  Experience, a sixth sense, something not quite definable made Lang tense. He was aware Gurt felt the same. He dropped his arm from hers.
                  The two strangers pushed off from the auto, blocking the sidewalk. The parked vehicle and a building made going around them impossible.
                  The two couples stood silently facing each other. The man to Lang’s right had a shaved scalp that looked as though it might have been polished.  He was large, over two hundred pounds and six feet tall. His nose had been broken and poorly set. He could have been a former participant in a combat sport such as boxing or wrestling. His companion was neither smaller nor prettier. Lang thought he glimpsed a reflection between his lips, perhaps a steel tooth as had been common in Soviet-era dentistry. An angry pink scar, poorly stitched, split his left eyebrow. Lang speculated that under the tight, long-sleeved shirt each wore was the physique of a body builder.              
                  The one with the shiny scalp held out a hand that easily could have palmed a basketball. “Give it to us, Mr. Reilly, no one gets hurt.”
                  Slavic accent?
                  “ And what might that be?” Lang asked.
                  He knew and knew they knew he knew. Old agency training: when faced with danger either strike first or stall your opponent. He wasn’t sure which would be the case. But it did distract from Gurt who was edging toward the building on their left.
                  “And tell the woman to stay where she is,” the Scar demanded.
                  OK, strike first is the only option left.
                  “Everybody stay where you are!” A woman’s voice. “Police!”
                  Lang turned his head just enough to recognize the trio from Club Gascon.
                  The woman was holding up a shiny object, a badge.
                  Steel tooth moved almost faster than the eye could follow. In a step, he had one arm across Gurt’s chest. The other hand held a knife to her throat. Whoever or whatever he was, he was no ordinary street punk.
                  He and his cohort were moving slowly backward, Gurt being dragged along.
                  “Stop right where you are!”
                  Except for Northern Ireland, only about seven percent of British law enforcement officers carry firearms, a choice made by both public and police, Lang thought. Swell. Three Metropolitan Police officers, no doubt armed only with PAVA spray or, perhaps, a Taser, are going be exactly zero help.

10.
    Office of Naval