The six men outside did a sweep of the faces closest at hand, then clambered into their vehicles. Moments later, the two sedans reversed rapidly, scattering everyone aside.
Sharyn had counted on this retreat. Whether fake cops—or a group on the take—they wouldn’t want to be caught by the arriving emergency forces.
Especially with people shot in the club’s hallway.
Guilt at those deaths warred with a rising fury—at herself, at the professor, at whoever hunted them. Once the sedans fled fully out of view, Sharyn waved to the others, her voice bitter but determined.
“Let’s go.”
She got everyone into the tidal mass of people fleeing the club. Still, she took additional precautions. Someone had clearly tapped or hacked into the city’s CCTV to track them to the club.
Still daubed in remnants of foam, she tugged the brim of her ball cap lower. She had Tag draw his pullover’s hood over his head. Naomi wrapped a scarf across her features. To further confound any spying eyes, their group kept to the remnants of the departing crowd as hundreds dispersed through the park.
As they headed across the green, keeping under trees, the changeable British weather proved fortuitous for once. The clouds burst and a heavy rain fell. Duncan paid a handsome sum to buy three umbrellas from a drunken bunch of revelers.
By the time their group exited the park, they were all huddled under the additional cover. Sharyn found herself sharing a refuge with Duncan. He hooked an arm around her waist and drew her farther under the umbrella’s bonnet.
As cold and wet as she was, she did not object.
He leaned his face closer, as if about to kiss her, but there was no amorous intent. Instead, he fixed her with a hard look, his voice equally flinty.
“When we get back to my flat, I need answers.”
She swallowed, nodded, and stared ahead.
So do we all.
12
2:55 a.m.
Inside Duncan and Archie’s apartment, Sharyn stood with her back to a glass dining table. The others remained seated there, studying the strange book. She could barely stomach looking at it, knowing how much blood had been spilled just to carry it across the city.
With her arms hugged around her, she stared out a set of panoramic windows. The view overlooked the storm-swept snake of the River Exe. Lightning chased across the bottom of the low, dark sky. Morning seemed an impossibility.
Duncan’s flat consumed a corner of the fourteenth floor of a new tower in St. Leonards, one of Exeter’s toniest neighborhoods. The room’s furnishings fit the polished building. Everything looked Scandinavian modern, with sleek lines, cool leathers, all softened with faux-fur throws. An electric fireplace glowed along one wall with a huge TV screen above it.
While tasteful, it was not her style.
Still, Sharyn appreciated the building’s other amenities, especially its security features. In the foyer below, a reception desk was manned 24/7. On Duncan’s phone, he had pulled up a feed from the lobby camera. Normally it allowed residents to approve any guests. Now he kept watch for anything suspicious.
Additionally, Sharyn had taken her own safeguards: memorizing the location and number of elevator bays, the routes to the north and south stairwells. Still, she felt exposed, waiting for the next damned shoe to drop.
She lifted a hand and rubbed the back of her neck. She had considered tossing the book down the building’s incinerator chute, to be done with this once and for all. Yet, she could not. It wasn’t out of respect for a rare text that was centuries old. Nor was it from any sense of duty or obligation. Instead, she knew the copper-bound book remained their group’s only leverage.
But how best to use it?
Before reaching his flat, Duncan asked her group to turn off their phones, even removing the SIM cards. His explanation spiked her fears:Maybe it wasn’t the CCTV cameras that led them to the Lemmy. Maybe they traced your cells.
Duncan kept his own phone powered for a couple of reasons. First, it was unlikely the enemy would connect her group to these two men. At least not quickly. So the risk was low. Sharyn also asked Duncan to dial that mysterious number on the business card, but still there was no answer—which meant only one thing.
We’re on our own.
Naomi spoke up behind her. “Come look at this!”
The shock in her voice drew Sharyn’s attention away from the windows. Suppressing a groan, she returned to the others. Earlier, she had explained to Duncan and Archie all that had transpired, starting with how she had come to be burdened by the book. Afterward, she had expected Duncan to toss her out. Instead, he had merely gone darkly quiet, clearly needing time to digest this all.
With book in hand, Naomi sat between Tag and Duncan. On the other side of the table, Archie slumped in his seat, his chin resting on his chest, half-asleep. Tag had treated his bullet graze. Apparently, Tag’s own health challenges had gifted him with some basic medical knowledge. The wound—mostly a bloody burn—had been pasted with an antibiotic salve and wrapped. A handful of ibuprofen helped dull the pain, but Archie assured them he had suffered far worse on the rugby pitch.
