This plan is daft.
Duncan waited with the others inside the Cradle Tower. The square fortification dated to the fourteenth century. It had been built by King Edward III along the outer curtain wall, to serve as his private water gate into the castle, back when the Thames once brushed against these walls—and later, when the moat took its place.
Duncan stood with Sharyn before the black iron portcullis that overlooked the dry moat and, beyond it, the north bank of the Thames. The welded gate was barely wide enough for the two to stand shoulder to shoulder.
Sharyn leaned closer to the gate, studying the challenge ahead. The Cradle Tower rose to the right of the exit they hoped to use, so it offered the perfect vantage to spy upon the police force gathered at the foot of the Eastern Drawbridge. Moira had directed them to shelter inside the tower, while she and Archie left to ready matters, taking one of the pistols with them. To enter the tower, it had required slipping a few steps down the street that ran between the castle’s two walls.
Luckily, the heavy fog aided them, keeping them out of sight.
Sharyn raised another bit of fortune. “Thank god, all the Tower’s exits aren’t already locked up.”
“Don’t thankgod,” Duncan corrected. “Thanktradition. The place isn’t officially shuttered until 9:52 p.m. during the Ceremony of the Keys. Which happens every night like clockwork. The ritual has gone uninterrupted for seven hundred years.”
“Then we have some time to spare,” Sharyn noted. “But I don’t think the police blockade will be coming down before then.”
Duncan stared out at the two bulky cars with flashing lights. They were stationed at the foot of the drawbridge. Both were ARVs—Armed Response Vehicles. The pair looked official, as did the armored riot van parked behind them. No doubt the enemy had manipulated this force to aid them in trapping Duncan’s group.
Tag spoke behind him. “I wouldn’t mind some rope right about now. Certainly helped these chaps.”
Duncan turned to where Tag and Naomi had been studying a tourist placard. It told the story of a famous escape from the Tower of London in 1597. Two men—a Jesuit priest named John Gerard and fellow prisoner John Arden—broke a lock to the Tower roof and slid down a rope to a waiting boat, then fled under the cover of night.
“We’re missing a boat, too,” Duncan reminded Tag and returned his attention to the drawbridge.
And water, for that matter.
He stared across the stretch of foggy moat, which had been drained long ago. Over the centuries, the green space had been used to grow vegetables and graze livestock. Soldiers had also camped there many times. Then for several summers, including this past one, the moat had been transformed into a flowering paradise, with twenty million seeds planted. It drew thousands every year, to wander its fragrant paths.
Such wasn’t the case now.
The Superbloom—as the exhibit was called—ended a month ago. Since then, gardeners and landscapers had set about cleaning, digging, trenching, and raking. It now looked like a minefield of mounds, dotted with wheelbarrows, tractors, and other bits of equipment. Presently, a thick fog spilled off the Thames and filled the moat, as if Mother Nature were trying to hide the desecration of Her wonderland.
The rapid slap of shoe leather on cobbles drew Duncan’s attention around. Archie burst into the doorway and stopped. “Get crackin’! Moira’s coming in hot!”
Finally . . .
Duncan herded his group to the exit. “Let’s move.”
They all fled outside and flattened against the stones between the tower door and the archway that led to the drawbridge.
With his back to the rocks, Duncan stared across the street to the tunnel that pierced the inner wall. The Tower’s main courtyard lay on the far side. As he waited, he strained for any sign of Moira. He searched for her lights, but the fog blanketed everything.
Then he heard the rumble of an engine. It ratcheted louder with his every strained breath. A glow grew in the fog, then separated into two lights.
A van swept into the tunnel, shedding some of the fog. It was the service vehicle he had spotted earlier, the one offloading supplies into a café.
Only, Duncan knew its driver had been swapped out, likely at gunpoint.
The large white truck burst out of the tunnel, sped across the narrow street, and drove headlong into the archway leading to the Eastern Drawbridge.
Moira did not slow for them.
Once the vehicle flew past, Duncan and the others chased after it, sprinting into the tunnel. Ahead, the van sped out onto the wooden drawbridge. As it barreled into the fog, its brake lights flared an angry crimson. The truck fishtailed hard. Its front end struck a sentry booth to the left of the bridge, then spun sideways and slammed broadside into the police vehicles.
The two ARVs were knocked backward into the riot van.
Chaos ensued, lost in the mists, heard more than seen.
Shouts and screams.
