“I have Sammy. I believe Anders Gilmont is on my tail . . .” Her words were succinct as she relayed details of her intended plan.

Harry broke out in a cold sweat. Anders Gilmont was after Elise and Sammy? The former Oxford don’s escape last year from HM Brixton Prison had made national news. Though a manhunt had ensued, Gilmont had disappeared without a trace. Wanted on several continents for his crimes, the man had obtained elite status on Interpol’s most-wanted list.

Harry gunned the engine, pulling into traffic directly in front of a lorry. The truck blared its horn, but Harry didn’t give it so much as a backward glance. Accelerating, he whipped through a roundabout, breaking the road speed limit, and started back to base for supplies.

He punched Nigel’s number on speed dial.

“Agent Benson,” Nigel answered. “I was just about to call.”

“Gilmont is after my son and Agent Taylor. Request permission to borrow a few items from Glenkinnon’s armory.”

Nigel didn’t answer.

“Nigel?” Harry growled.

“I’ll call in a favor.”

“Thank you,” Harry muttered. “Are there any reinforcements you can send my way?”

“I’ve recalled Sharidon. He arrives tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Was Nigel smoking something? This was Anders Gilmont, one of Interpol’s most wanted.

“Sharidon’s flying in from St. Petersburg. He’ll reach you by dawn if you haven’t neutralized the situation by then. I’m monitoring a few other conditions at present.”

“Roger that.” Harry’s grip tightened on the wheel. In other words, Elise and Sammy were on their own until morning.

Gilmont lifted his field glasses, a smile curving his lips. Agent Taylor might have defeated his drone, but his binoculars, with their twelve-mile range, zeroed in on the battered 4x4 and tracked its progress over the moors. It turned off the narrow dirt lane and headed north on the A7.

He laughed as he climbed back inside Mohammad’s blue Corsa and resumed pursuit of his quarry. Agent Taylor had no idea he was behind her. Nor would she get away from him so easily, not with a bevy of strategically placed former students at his disposal.

Spotting a layby, he pulled in and let the car tick over while he scrounged through the supplies Mohammad had left him. He located the printout and entered the mobile number into his burner phone. An inconvenient setup but an effective one if he didn’t want to be traced.

He pressed the green icon.

“Hello?” A sweet, sing-songy female answered.

“Hello, Lauren. I need you to tap into CCTV relay stations along the A7 and follow the progress of a seen-better-days white 4x4. Agent Taylor just entered the carriageway shy of Buckholm and is headed north toward Edinburgh.”

“Hiya, Professor. Do you have the plate number?”

“I only have a partial; the rest was obscured by mud. The first four numbers are SY56.”