“He created a false identity,” said Callen. “And he has motive.”
Rafe’s brow furrowed. “If he posed as staff, he had access to learn our systems from the inside. With his IT background, he could’ve done significant damage to our systems.”
“More importantly, Oliver and Ophelia are missing,” Callen finished.
“If James is behind the surveillance, he’s been watching, waiting, and now?—”
Rafe’s laptop chimed. He glanced at the screen, then his whole body went rigid. “Oliver and Ophelia just left the motel.”
I was at his shoulder in two strides, watching them climb into a cab.
“Track them,” I said.
Rafe jumped between CCTV feeds as the cab wound through South London. Gus had his own laptop open, mapping the route in real time.
“They’re heading north,” he said. “Toward the river.”
“No.”My blood ran cold as the pattern emerged. “They’re heading northeast. Toward Shoreditch.”
Rafe looked up. “What’s in Shoreditch?”
“The Crucible.” The words nauseated me. “That’s where Elise died. If they know what happened?—”
“They’re walking straight into a trap,” Callen finished.
“We have to get there.Now.”
Callen was already reaching for his mobile. “I can have the helicopter ready in fifteen minutes. We’ll be in London before twenty-one hundred.”
I grabbed my jacket. “Do it.”
The helicopter lifted off from Greymarch at nineteen hundred hours, banking south over the dark hills. Callen was at the controls, with Gus beside him. Rafe and I sat in the back, laptops balanced on our knees, headsets crackling with the roar of the rotors.
“Two hours if conditions hold,” Callen said through the comms. “Maybe a bit longer.”
According to our surveillance, Oliver and Ophelia had entered the Crucible ten minutes ago. Anything could happen in two hours.
I’d called both of them several times since I realized who’d sent the photos, and each one went straight to voicemail. “They’re not answering,” I muttered unnecessarily.
“They’re undercover at a kink club,” Rafe said through the headset. “Most places like that require phones checked at the door or stored in lockers. Privacy rules.”
I knew that. I’d helped write the Thistle’s policies myself. But knowing didn’t make the silence any easier to bear.
“What about Harris?” Gus asked. “He’s still in London.”
“On the wrong side of it.” I was already pulling up his number. “But it’s worth a try.”
Harris answered on the second ring. “Sir?”
“Oliver and Ophelia. They’re at a club called the Crucible in Shoreditch. 47 Grimsby Street. I need you there now.”
A pause. “I’m thirty minutes out, sir, maybe more. And I don’t have membership to?—”
“That’s ninety minutes sooner than we can get there. I don’t care about membership. Head there now and take whatever backup you can put together. Watch every way in or out. Do not let them leave without contacting me.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Call the club directly,” Callen suggested.
