“Saint,” I say, moving.
He lifts that arm and I see his hand shake.
“Broken,” he says coolly, like he’s discussing the weather. “Non-dominant hand. Inconvenient, but I’ll survive. Get moving. We’re leaving now.”
Ash snaps in my ear, and I can hear keys hitting keyboard fast. “You’ve got eyes,” he warns. “Traffic cam at the end of the lane just turned. Syndicate’s calling in cousins. Fire brigade is thirty seconds out, with Met probably two behind them. You linger, you get witnesses. Move.”
“Go,” I snarl.
Saint slides into the driver’s seat one-handed, face tight but steady. Vale blinks once hard like he’s forcing his vision to clear, then shoves Damien’s head down and climbs in after him, planting a knee in Damien’s back and yanking his arms behind him with vicious precision.
Damien hisses in pain. “This is—”
Vale leans down and murmurs something in his ear I can’t hear. Whatever it is, Damien goes very, very still.
I get in back and slam the door.
Saint resituates and then guns it.
The tires squeal against wet stone, and we shoot out of the alley just as the first curl of actual visible smoke licks around the corner and a fire engine siren starts wailing three streets over.
Ash in my ear: “Left. Now. Don’t take Shoreditch High Street. They’ve already got eyes there. Go east, cut through the estate, and I’ll blind the council cams on the inner road for the next three minutes.”
“Copy,” Saint says through clenched teeth.
He jerks the wheel one-handed. The car fishtails for a second on slick asphalt, then grabs. We shoot down a narrow side street lined in bins, delivery lorries, and a fox that darts in front of us and vanishes under a fence.
I turn in my seat and look at Vale.
He’s breathing hard through his nose. There’s already a purpling knot blooming high on the left side of his head, just at the temple, under the dark sweep of his hair. His pupils aren’t blown — good — but they’re not even either. Not good.
“How many fingers?” I ask, holding three up.
“Fuck you,” he says clearly.
Good enough for now.
“Stay awake,” I tell them, looking from Saint to Vale. “If you pass out on me, I’m leaving you both on the side of the A13.”
“Mmm,” he purrs, dazed but defiant. “Romance.”
Saint huffs in annoyance. Damien makes a muffled noise under him, face mashed into the seat.
I grab a fistful of Damien’s hair and force his head up. He hisses, tries to twist, finds he can’t.
He’s breathing hard. Sweat at his hairline. Fury in his eyes. Fear under it.
Good.
“Hi,” I say pleasantly. “Welcome to your new schedule.”
He bares his teeth. “You’ve just torched any deal you had left in this city, Voss. You think Syndicate is going to let you walk after this? You thinkanyonein Whitehall is going to cover you when they see—”
I drive my knuckles into his kidney. Soft. Controlled. Hard enough to cut him off.
He chokes.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I murmur, leaning close enough that my breath hits his ear. “You are going to answer questions. You are going to do it clearly. You are going to do it without lying. And you are going to do it quietly. If you do not? I will hand you to Mateo and let him play. If you try to posture? I will hand you to Nikolai and let him preach. If you try to make yourself useful? I might keep you alive long enough to make you useful. Do you understand me?”
