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anymore. “I’ll need a moment to prepare for them before we set off…”

Chapter 7
    I still wasn’t used to riding on the wrong side of the car or the wrong side of the road. We were in a town called Hounslow, on a street of brick homes that were called townhomes in America, sharing common walls with the residences immediately next to each house. There were breaks in between every other dwelling that allowed for tight alleyways. The space next to the house we were going to—domicile of one Angus Waterman, whom I didn’t remember at all—had been planted with a bank of trees. They didn’t have much space to work with, but it was a nice break between houses.
    “You remember Angus?” Webster asked as we crossed the street. There were cars parked evenly down both sides, only a few scattered spaces available.
    “Not really,” I said. “I’m not that good with… uh… people,” I added, just being honest.
    Webster must have thought it amusing, because he let out a low chuckle. “Think he’ll remember you?”
    “Probably,” I said. “I do tend to make an impression.” I froze before the white door and noticed it was just a hint ajar, with a palm print pushed into the wood. I stared at it for only a second before I pulled my gun.
    “What the hell!” Webster started and took a step back. He looked murderously angry, and suddenly I was glad the pistol was in my hands, not his. “What is that?”
    “A Sig Sauer P227,” I said, keeping my weapon at low rest as I sidled up to the door.
    “You can’t have that here!” He muted his outrage to a respectable level in terms of loudness. The fury oozed with every word, though, unmistakable. “Handguns are illegal.”
    “Yeah, well, his door is open, and my mental alarm is going off because someone has clearly forced entry,” I nodded to the indentation in the door. “That’s something it would take meta-strength to do. Now, are you coming in, or am I entering on my own?”
    “You can’t go into someone’s house with a weapon drawn!” He was nearing apoplectic, but at least he was being quieter about it. “It’s burglary at least—”
    “Come in and catch me, then,” I said, and shouldered my way into the entry without looking back.
    “Dammit—” Webster said, but he was right behind me. And not preparing the handcuffs, thankfully.
    I slid into the entryway and found myself in a small room, only a few feet long. I could hear the scrape of shoes across the tile ahead and the faint hiss of water just done boiling. I doubted Webster heard any of it, and I was going to look like a real ass if it turned out that Angus had just left his door open and had made that palm print in wood himself.
    He hadn’t.
    I stared at the guy standing across the kitchen from me. He wore a black ski mask, in contrast to his neatly pinstriped suit and tie and the cup of tea he held oh-so-properly in his hand. Except for the mask, he might have been any distinguished British gentleman. A pair of older spectacles perched on his nose reminded me of Janus, but even through the mask, I could tell he was younger.
    “Hello, Sienna,” he said in a classic example of a sophisticated British accent. Every syllable was perfectly pronounced, none of the rough edges or balled-up phrases that fell out of Webster’s mouth. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here. Surprised and pleased.”
    “Can’t say the same,” I said, surveying the kitchen as I came in. My pistol was still at low rest, but I could snap off a shot at him in milliseconds if I had to. “You’re not Angus.”
    “Indeed I am not,” he said as I made room for Webster, who followed behind me wordlessly. He had a baton in his hand now, and it took me a second to register that that must be what they gave British cops instead of guns. I gently thumbed back the hammer on my pistol and felt a lot better about my chances to stop this guy than Webster’s.
    “Where’s Mr. Waterman?” Webster butted in. He still