“Then shouldn’t we go to the police?” Tag asked. “Tell them what you told us.”
She remained silent, unsure. Wright’s last warning blazed in her mind’s eye:Trust no one.Instead, she reached into a pocket and removed the business card given to her by the professor. She had already studied it earlier. It was blank, except for a single phone number engraved on it.
“The professor told me to call this number if there was any trouble.” She fished out her cell phone. “Let’s try this first.”
Naomi and Tag shifted closer.
Sharyn dialed the number, noting the international code for France. As the connection was made, the phone rang and rang.
“Anything?” Naomi pressed.
“No one’s answering. It’s not even going to voicemail.”
“It is almost midnight,” Tag noted. “Maybe no one’s there at this hour.”
Sharyn waited another half-minute, then hung up.
“What do we do?” Naomi asked.
She stared at the other two. “For now, let’s get moving. Retreat somewhere and lay low.”
After growing up in a volatile household, she had learned to live by this credo. Her father had reinforced it during her training:When there’s danger, keep your head down. Heroes only get themselves killed.While it wasn’t the most noble of sentiments, it was a practical one.
Sharyn stood. “After we’re clear of here, we can reach out to the police.”
“Sounds good,” Tag said.
The three separated and quickly shed their costumes and climbed into streetwear. Sharyn pulled on jeans, a warm turtleneck, and thick-treaded boots. She packed the strange tome into a crossbody bag and slung it over her shoulder. She then draped an oversize Army jacket over everything and tugged on a ball cap.
“I’m ready!” Naomi called from her room.
“I need another minute,” Tag answered.
Sharyn used the time to cross to her nightstand. She collected a few extra precautions. She snapped a small Kevlar sheath to the strap of her crossbody bag. It held a combat knife—a folded stainless-steel karambit. Her father had drilled her on the weapon’s use, assuring her in tight situations that it would serve her better than a gun. Not that she could have attained the latter in the United Kingdom. Even the knife only had a three-inch curved blade, the maximum allowable here.
She also grabbed a flat leather pouch from the drawer—another gift from her father—and shoved it into her jacket pocket. She flashed to standing before her father with her wrists bound in plastic zip-ties in front of her. He had her bite the loose end of the binding and tighten it until the ties dug into her skin. He then instructed her:Raise your arms above your head, elbows wide, then thrust your arms down as hard as you can. As she did, the tie miraculously broke, snapping apart at the lock, and fell away. She stared down in amazement.
Nothing can trap you if you keep your head, her father had warned her.
She prayed that still held true.
She joined the others in the small common room with its tiny kitchen. Tag had donned a fashionable ankle-length duster over a black hoodie. Naomi wore her denim jacket with the Welsh symbol embroidered on it, pulling it over a puffy pink vest. She had also changed into jeans and a scuffed pair of Doc Martens.
“All set?” Sharyn asked.
Tag frowned and stared past Sharyn’s shoulder. “Looks like we may be talking to the police sooner than we expected.”
She turned. The window behind her flashed with a strobe of blue lights, rising from the street below. But she had heard no siren—which only set her heart to pounding harder.
“Move quietly,” she warned and headed to the door.
One after the other, they crept out onto the third-floor landing. Sharyn held them back, then crossed and peeked down the center of the stairwell. Harsh voices echoed from below. She heard her own name.
Then Mrs. Kenworthy blustered angrily. “At this bloody hour? I don’t see why you must—”
A pair of sharp pops cut her off.
Sharyn covered her mouth. From her time spent at the gun range, she recognized the muffled spats of a silencer
