Free Counterfeit Conspiracies by Ritter Ames

offered the best cover nearby, but I ran hunched over to minimize the risk of Hawkes spotting my maneuver.
    The cabbie's directions were spot on. I turned the corner and struck off at strong pace toward the Tube stop, my bag heavy on my shoulder. The professional in me reminded that I needed to consider ditching the bag before the rendezvous at the docks at night. Better maneuverability could never be discounted. Female superiority, however, overrode all conflicting data, reminding me the Prada wasn't just my emergency touchstone but my bottomless bag of gizmos and gadgets. In the end, picks and perks won every time.
    Now that the bug was truly off Hawkes's person, I had no intel. But with buildings and the bottleneck of London traffic shielding me from his reconnaissance, I had a much clearer and, hopefully, safer path ahead. Within minutes, my Oyster pass in hand, I was through the turnstiles and heading for the crowded platform. The train was right on time.
    I joined the masses joggling in the busy train car at the tail end of rush hour in the London Underground. The next crush would come as the dinner and theatre crowd made their way toward an evening's entertainment. I planned to use both times to my advantage.
    Everyone carried a daypack or backpack that weighed their shoulders down like mine. Signs everywhere told riders to report any unattended bags. I clamped a tighter hold on my precious designer carryall.
    I felt my heart jump before even realizing I had noticed the men. A short guy with long hair and a taller man in a brown coat. It was pure instinct. I hadn't heard anything. All in an instant, I realized they were there because of me. I couldn't be sure who they were working for, but I was positive the pair watched me in that sideways "not looking" way.
    It took total control to not show in any way I'd spotted them. Instinct told me—the internal radar we all employed to warn when someone expressed more interest in us than we wished. Even two men trying hard not to show they were watching me. I didn't even consider calling authorities, they would just deny it, and I couldn't point to anything overt they'd done to prove bad intentions. I only knew I was right to feel menaced. No doubts.
    I also knew when I got off the subway they would be inches behind me. Maybe even in step beside me.
    The hairy one in the ugly plaid jacket had a bulge in his pocket. Back home in the States, I would have immediately thought 'gun'. Here in the U.K., I more readily expected something heavy to knock me unconscious, or worse, with one blow. The weasely one beside him in the brown duffle coat undoubtedly was the knife guy. He had that look about the eyes, a kind of wariness saying all bets went to him in a fight. He wouldn't play fair by any means but would be the one who walked away in one piece.
    And I was trapped in a sealed subway car with them.

 
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CHAPTER SEVEN
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    The subway car sped through the tunnel, and I reviewed every available option. Nothing. Nada. Zip. My only chance lay in trying to extemporize an escape at the station. This Jubilee Line ended at the London Docklands, the now pseudo-official term for the area in the southeastern part of the city, transformed from what was once the world's largest port to redevelopment comprised chiefly of condos and commercial real estate. My original plan, such as it was while concocted on the fly, meant jumping off right before the targeted stop and finding a place to lie low until I could keep the evening appointment. I hoped to finally locate Simon, too, or at least the Welshman who was mentioned in our phone call. If I couldn't find the person I truly wanted, talking to the last person I assumed met with him at least seemed a positive direction to pursue. Regardless, I had more than a few questions for either man.
    Unfortunately, I now had these other two thugs in tow. They needed to either lose interest in me or get sidetracked so I could get away. I