Something cold and hard pressed against Sam’s nape.
“Don’t move,” said a deep male voice.
Sam swore under his breath. Stupid. He should have suspected something. It had been too easy, even for him.
“Get him into the car,” the same voice said. Two burly men grabbed Sam’s arms and dragged him toward the black van parked around the corner.
Sam didn’t resist, his mind racing. Who would want to set him up and why? He was nobody. Well, not nobody, but he was a small fish in a very big pond. Why him?
The men shoved him inside but didn’t get in with him. Sam heard one of them get into the driver’s seat and the other take the passenger’s seat.
When Sam started wondering if he should try to dash out of the car, another man got into the back of the van and sat opposite him.
Sam eyed him warily. He didn’t recognize the man. He had dark brown hair and dark eyes, and his skin was tanned or naturally bronzed—Sam couldn’t tell which. The man was dressed in black trousers and a simple black turtleneck that did nothing to hide his tall, muscular body.
“Hello, Sam,” the man said as the car started moving.
Sam blinked. “Creepy.”
Something that could have been amusement flickered in the man’s eyes. “I could make it creepier.” His voice was incredibly deep and rich, the kind of voice that held people’s attention. “You’re Sam Landon, you’re eighteen, and you’re a member of Ed Tucker’s little gang of pickpockets.”
Sam’s skin crawled. No one knew his last name. Not even Tucker.
“What do you want from me?” he said.
The man just looked at him for a long moment.
He was very attractive, Sam realized with discomfort and annoyance.
It wasn’t as though he had a problem with handsome men; it was just… he didn’t like the effect they had on him. Sam tended to blush, stammer, and do stupid things around handsome blokes (who were always either straight or uninterested in him, which made the whole thing even more mortifying). Hormones were awful and being eighteen sucked.
“Here’s the thing,” the man said. “You’re in trouble. You stole twenty thousand pounds and a diamond bracelet from a prominent citizen—”
“You set me up,” Sam bit out. “I never get caught!”
The man blinked slowly, his lips twitching. “That’s irrelevant. The important thing is, you were caught stealing a substantial sum of money and a priceless heirloom. Normally, that would mean jail.”
Sam pursed his lips. “What do you want?”
“We want you to work for us,” the man said.
Sam couldn’t really say he was surprised. He suspected as much. He knew he had made something of a name for himself in certain circles. “Who do you work for? Big Johnson? Xavier?”
The man laughed, the sound hoarse and deep.
Sam felt his stomach flutter and cursed his stupid hormones once again.
“No one that exciting, I’m afraid,” the man said. “I work for SIS.”
“SIS,” Sam repeated dumbly.
“Secret Intelligence Service,” the man clarified, as if Sam didn’t know what it was. “Or MI6, if you prefer.”
Sam eyed him for a moment before saying, “Prove it.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “You do realize that being a Secret Intelligence Agent isn’t something one advertises, right?”
“Bullshit,” Sam said. “If you really are an MI6 agent, you’ll need some kind of ID to prove to the police that your actions are sanctioned by the government. It’s terribly impractical to have your superiors get you out of trouble every time.”
For the first time, Sam saw something like approval in those dark eyes and he had to fight the blush threatening to color his cheeks. Ugh. Hormones.
“I like you, Red,” the man said (which really wasn’t helping the blushing situation). “And normally, you would be right. But strictly speaking, MI6 agents aren’t allowed to carry out operations on home soil, so having a real ID wouldn’t help. Most of our field agents carry fake IDs issued by MI5.”
“But not you?”
The man shook his head. “I belong to a special division that doesn’t have IDs. I’m known as Agent 11, or A-Eleven.”
Sam chuckled. “Agent 11? Seriously? Are you going to tell me there’s Agent 007 too?”
The look Agent 11 gave him was definitely long-suffering. “No, James Bond and Double-ohs aren’t real. But MI6 is. And some of us do have codenames.”
“So what’s your name, then? I feel silly calling you Agent 11 in my head.”
“Classified.”
Sam grinned. “Your name is Classified? Very unusual.”
“Cheeky little thing,” Agent 11 murmured. “I can’t tell you my name. Don’t take it personally. Only two people at MI6 know my real name.”
Sam leaned back in his seat and put his legs on the opposite seat, next to the agent. “So if I agree to work for MI6, I’ll get a codename too? Can I pick the number?
Agent 11 glanced down at his legs, looking entirely unimpressed. “If you’re recruited, you’ll be a trainee for a while. If you participate in missions while you’re a trainee, you’ll have a random codename. Even if you successfully complete the training program, you’ll likely be just Agent Landon. Sorry to disappoint, but most MI6 agents don’t have permanent codenames.”