Shattering glass.
Crunch of metal.
A spatter of gunfire.
By then, Duncan and the others had cleared the tunnel and dashed to the left, to the bridge’s railing that overlooked the dry moat. Without pausing, Duncan hurried their group over the side. It was a drop of less than ten feet, which was lessened and cushioned by a mound of dirt and raked debris.
Duncan followed last, praying that Moira was okay. She swore she could handle this task, telling him she had watched plenty ofTop Gear. She had also wanted to rouse the Tower in a spectacular fashion, to stir everyone to get to her father as soon as possible. Her wounded state should further facilitate a prompt response.
In the meantime, using the distraction, the fog, and the darkness, Duncan dropped and slid into the moat. The others were already moving, following a path picked out from their spy post. They kept the mounded piles and landscaping equipment between them and those up top.
As they fled, Archie helped Tag, all but carrying him.
Sharyn and Naomi raced in tandem.
Duncan followed last, gripping his pistol, ready to use it if needed to help the others escape. But it proved unnecessary. They made it around the corner of the Tower’s wall and fled to the north, toward the rear of the massive edifice.
Once far enough away, they finally slowed, too exhausted and adrenaline-worn to keep up the pace.
“We need a way out of this bloody ditch,” Archie panted.
Duncan searched around. To his right, a tall brick bulwark led up to the elevated A100 that crossed the Tower Bridge. Up ahead, one last piece of the Superbloom exhibit remained, likely left to aid workers into and out of the moat. A constructed set of steps led to the top of the brick dike that enclosed the moat.
Duncan pointed. “Over there.”
Scraped, bruised, and half-beaten, they rushed the last of the distance and climbed the steps. A barricade up top closed off access to the sidewalk, but after escaping the Tower of London, this was no obstacle. Duncan helped them scale the fence and drop on the far side.
A few passersby gave them looks that ranged from amused to disgusted. Still, no one made any fuss.
This was London.
“What now?” Sharyn asked as they gathered under a row of trees at the edge of a small park.
“Pizza and pints,” Archie offered.
Duncan had no argument against this plan. But before he could agree wholeheartedly, the pocket of his jacket shivered.
With a grimace, he pulled out his burner phone.
He checked the number and lifted the cell. “We may have to hold off on that.”
Fourth
25
November 2, 12:18 a.m. GMT
English Channel
Sharyn stood alone on the open stern deck of the forty-foot fishing trawler, wondering for the hundredth time how she ended up here. A brightVof churned wake spread out behind the boat as it cleaved through the nighttime waters of the English Channel. Stars shone overhead, which made her feel smaller and more lost.
After escaping the Tower of London, the mysterious Laurent had phoned them. The Frenchman had been about to board a Eurostar train for London when word had reached him of a police force closing around the castle fortress. Fearing the worst, he had called to check on their status.
Upon learning of the ambush—and after much cursing—he had expedited a plan to smuggle them into France. Sharyn’s group had boarded yet another train, paying cash at the Waterloo station, which lay only a short distance from the Tower. Laurent had directed them to travel to Portsmouth, a city at the edge of the Channel, where he arranged for a boat to ferry them across to France, to the town of Le Havre at the mouth of the Seine.
She checked her wristwatch.
They had boarded the boat three hours ago and still had another four to go. Traveling by Eurostar through the Channel Tunnel would’ve been far faster, but that would have also meant going through passport control, which they dared not do. They could not risk their names pinging on some authority’s database.
