Free Counterfeit Conspiracies by Ritter Ames Page A

couldn't let them get wind of my plan, or lack of one, and they weren't my preferred escorts either. Equally worrisome was the thought they might enlist the help of cohorts along the way. I passed the Bermodsey stop, itching to jump off, so I was in the Docklands area, but not near enough to tip off my potential abductors. Since I had time to spare, my plan was to go to Canary Wharf, where the crowds there offered more protection. We approached Canada Water, the stop prior to my goal. Time to make a decision. If I jumped off here, the larger street crowd might allow better cover and then—
    The mechanical voice came on. "Welcome to the Jubilee Line. Canary Wharf stop is currently closed for repairs. For our travelers wanting to depart, please chose the Canada Water stop, or stay on to the North Greenwich and connect with the DLR to loop back. We apologize for any inconvenience."
    Damn! Close downs and diversions. Why here? Why now? This common occurrence was the only thing I didn't appreciate about the London subway system. The Tube not only laid claim to being the historic first of its kind, but many of the same tracks and stops from a hundred years ago still moved the masses today. Which meant stoppages and premature disembarking whenever and wherever a line was being upgraded to try to meet twenty-first century requirements. I had no desire to change lines at North Greenwich. The above ground options offered many more opportunities to dodge my shadows.
    Leaving me no option other than to jump at Canada Water and run.
    The crowd surged, readying itself to depart the car. I felt more than saw the two men separate and get on either side of me. I could smell them. Or possibly it was my own fear I detected. Adrenalin surged through my system, and my nerves quivered in anticipation.
    The first move came right as the train ground to a halt. That moment when it feels like the car holds its breath before the doors open. In my peripheral vision, I saw a plaid arm come up, the respective hand holding a chloroform soaked pad.
    I pretended to trip, fell against the innocent business suit standing a bit in front of me, and ground my heel into his black wing-tipped instep.
    "Oh, I am so sorry." Everyone separated a little to give the poor man room to do an irritated hop-limp and glare at me.
    "What the bloody—"
    "I truly am sorry." The doors whooshed open, and I grabbed an arm of my dark-haired victim and took his briefcase, as another man, who appeared to be his bookend in a Savile Row suit, braced him on the other side and said, "Here, mate, let's get you moving a bit."
    Weasel and Werewolf remained visible in my peripheral vision, and I caught an alarmed look pass between the pair. My instincts had saved me again. But my victim-cum-salvation suddenly turned uncooperative.
    "I'm fine. Just give me my briefcase and I—"
    "Please, let me pay for a cab. You can't walk the rest of the way." I wanted to panic. This guy was my safety net. Once I lost him, the dastardly duo had a clear shot at me.
    "No bother, I just have to—"
    "I'm getting a cab anyway. I can drop you."
    "I'm fine."
    As I wound up to try a new line of attack, his buddy said, "Got it. Ta," and punched a button on his Bluetooth. I realized he had been talking on the phone, not to us, so it surprised me when he turned his brown eyes my way and backed me on my crippled-acquaintance issue. "Ah, Jeremy, don't make her feel even guiltier. Let her take you home. You still have ten blocks."
    "Oh, I can't let you walk ten long blocks. And look how gray the sky is. It could start raining on you partway." My peripheral vision caught a glimpse of my two shadows in a huddle, obviously formulating their next plan of attack. The Docklands weren't as wild and woolly as the area's history implied. Over the past couple of decades, developers called in markers to get public transport extended, and changed the footprint of the place to include Canary Wharf, a battalion of