Even with London saturated in CCTV, they still had no luck tracking down Murphy and his crew. All levels of the government had been made aware of the threat the Reborn IRA represented, but Ascot was still going forward. Oliver was of the opinion they should’ve ignored tradition and delayed the event, but he knew that would never have happened.
Tradition, unfortunately, was difficult to kill off.
Everyone knew Ascot was a tempting target, and the amount of security on the premises would turn it into prison. Granted, a very posh prison, but still, coming and going anywhere but designated areas would be next to impossible. Oliver knew the restrictions would not go over well with the wealthy, and there were drawbacks to that plan as well.
But Ascot was one of the grander parties on the calendar, and even the threat of an attack wasn’t enough to keep people at home. Objectively, Oliver understood that people wanted to go about their daily lives and not worry about the what-ifs that might come at them. Oliver knew from over a decade of working with MI6 that the what-ifs were sometimes inevitable.
“Do you have any news?” Liam asked.
“If I did, your chief would’ve received it from mine.”
Liam looked frustrated, and Oliver didn’t blame him. They were all frustrated. But it wasn’t his job to soothe Liam, so he didn’t. Oliver had no desire to initiate small talk with Liam, and luckily, he didn’t have to, though he did nearly spill his tea on the other man when Abigail blurred into existence right in front of them.
The push of wind from her arrival would’ve lifted Oliver’s tie if it hadn’t been clipped to his shirt. As it was, it felt like being slapped in the face with a strong breeze.
“I thought you went downstairs to the cafeteria for breakfast?” Abigail demanded.
“I got interrupted,” Liam replied. “What’s going on?”
Abigail snagged Liam’s arm in a way that spoke of years of familiarity from working together. “Your break is over. The computers got a hit.”
“Bloody hell. Why didn’t you ring me on comms?” Liam said, picking up the pace.
“I’m faster. Besides, Samaira is still reviewing the intel that just came in and Chapman is on his way in still. ETA five minutes.”
Oliver lengthened his stride, refusing to be left behind. The three of them practically ran toward the heart of the command level that overlooked the war room they just passed through. The hub in question was linked by the AI to all the terminals out in the war room. The brass held court in the hub they stepped into, the air thick with layers of holoscreens detailing information. Oliver walked through one showcasing a map of London, the area narrowed down over a familiar swath of blue amidst a tangle of roads with the underlying lighting that showcased the Underground routes.
On a different holoscreen was a slew of CCTV images pulled from security streams. Highlighted on the images of commuter crowds was the bare face of Tegan Murphy looking right at several of the security cameras as he passed through the station.
“When was this taken?” Liam demanded.
“A few minutes ago,” Samaira replied, moving reports around. She tossed a holoscreen their way, and Liam accessed it the second the projected data expanded in front of him.
“This arsehole has been able to stay off-grid for weeks. If he’s showing his face right now, then he wants to be seen.”
“Yes, but why? What’s his target?”
“Something none of us are going to like once we figure it out,” Abigail said.
“What station did he get on at?” Oliver asked.
Samaira flicked her fingers at a point in the air, the invisible command highlighting the Whitechapel Station on the District Line on every map around them. “He’s on the train already.”
Liam clenched his hand into a fist, a faint crackle of electricity sparking along his knuckles. The show of power had Oliver’s gaze lingering on the other man for a few seconds. Liam was glaring at the holoscreens surrounding them with a hard look in his eyes.
“Murphy wouldn’t risk carrying a Splice bomb with him. He’s not the sort of man who would want to die a martyr,” Liam said.
Oliver refocused his attention on the maps, dredging up from memory what he knew of the Reborn IRA’s history and the hatred that sustained it. “He might not have one, but there’s no telling if anyone else who works for him does. Have we IDed his compatriots yet?”
“We know he’s not working alone. The AI is scanning for facial recognition of known Reborn IRA members.” Samaira glanced at him. “I’ve been reliably informed MI6 is running a scan as well. We should have something shortly if our luck holds.”
Abigail crossed her arms over her chest. “If Murphy and his people detonate a Splice bomb on the Underground, that’s going to be a massive loss of life.”
“They won’t detonate it if he’s on the train,” Liam said. “We need to get into the field.”
“Deploying you without a location to send you to is a waste of resources,” Chapman said as he entered the room, sounding a bit out of breath from his rushed arrival.
Liam turned to face his commanding officer, the frustration on his face and in his voice evident to everyone in the room. “We can’t just sit here—”
