“They found us,” the witness gasped, stumbling between us.
“Shut up and run,” Cal snapped.
We hit the junction where the tunnel branched. Cal went left without hesitation—he'd mapped this, knew which way led to exits that weren't currently exploding. The witness wheezed between us, out of shape, terrified, slowing us down but we couldn't leave him.
Another explosion. Behind us this time. The shockwave hit like a fist, throwing us forward. I caught myself against the wall, kept the witness upright, kept moving.
“How far?” I shouted over the ringing in my ears.
“Hundred metres!” Cal's voice came back. “Service ladder! Leads to Holborn!”
Smoke was filling the tunnel now, thick and acrid. The witness was coughing, struggling to breathe and run simultaneously. I got my arm around him, took more of his weight.
“Don't stop,” I said. “Don't fucking stop.”
Cal reached the ladder first, yanked the access cover open. Weak light from street level filtered down. “Up! Now!”
The witness went first, climbing with desperate speed born of pure terror. Cal followed, moving fast despite his ribs. I brought up the rear, glancing back to see smoke rolling toward us like a living thing.
We emerged into a narrow alley behind a restaurant, all of us coughing, covered in dust and soot. The witness collapsed against the wall, wheezing, clutching his chest.
Cal was already moving, scanning the alley, checking sight lines. “We need to go. They'll be watching the exits.”
“Give him a second,” I said. “He can barely breathe.”
“We don't have a second. Those explosions were timed. Professional. Which means they knew where we were and when.” Cal pulled the witness upright. “Can you walk?”
“I—yes—I think?—”
“Good. Because we're leaving. Right now.” Cal started toward the alley entrance, the witness stumbling between us again.
We emerged onto Holborn, blending into evening foot traffic. Just three men in dirty clothes, looking like they'd had a rough day at work. Nothing to draw attention. Nothing to make people look twice.
Cal's hand stayed on the witness's arm, grip firm. “Where can we take you? Somewhere safe. Somewhere Harrow won't look.”
“I don't—there's nowhere—” The man was shaking worse now, reality setting in. “They tried to kill us. They tried to bury us alive.”
“Yeah, they did. And they failed.” Cal's voice went harder. “Which means you need to disappear. Properly. We can help with that. But you need to trust us.”
The witness looked between us. “Why would you help me?”
“Because you helped us. Because you told the truth when you didn't have to.” Cal's expression softened fractionally. “And because Harrow's people just tried to kill all of us. Enemy of my enemy and all that.”
“I have—there's a sister. In Manchester. Maybe?—”
“Good. We'll get you on a train tonight. Cash only. No electronic trail.” Cal was already pulling out his phone, texting someone. “You'll need to stay gone for a while. Few weeks at least. Until we can use what you told us to take Harrow down.”
“You really think you can?”
“Yeah. We really think we can.” Cal met my eyes over the witness's head. Something passed between us—acknowledgment of what we'd just learned, what it meant, how it changed everything.
Lily hadn't been alone. Someone had killed her. And Harrow had covered it up.
Which meant this went deeper than we'd thought. Higher than we'd planned for.
But we had a thread now. Dr. Quinn's original notes. The inconsistencies she'd flagged. Proof that the official story was bullshit.
We just had to stay alive long enough to use it.
