But more important, I had proof that Meridian was doing exactly what I'd suspected for months. The same pattern I'd seen in a dozen other cases. The same pattern that always led back to the same man.
Harrow didn't get his hands dirty. He built machines that did the work for him. And Meridian was one of those machines.
I pocketed the recorder and moved back toward the stairwell. The motion sensors followed me like searchlights, clicking off behind me as I passed.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard the door above me crash open.
“He's on the stairs!”
I didn't look back. I took the steps three at a time, one hand on the railing, the other reaching for the knife I kept strapped to my ankle. Six floors between me and the exit. Not enough distance.
I hit the third-floor landing and the door ahead of me slammed open. A man stepped through, blocking the stairs.
I didn't give him time to close the distance. I surged forward, low and fast, driving my shoulder into his midsection before he could set his stance. The impact drove us both into the wall, plaster cracking under the force. He grunted, tried to grab me, but I was already moving, elbow snapping up into his jaw.
His head rocked back. I followed with a palm strike to his throat, not hard enough to crush his windpipe but enough to make breathing difficult. He staggered, choking, and I swept his legs, dropped him hard onto the concrete landing.
The footsteps from above were closer now. Multiple sets. I didn't have time for clean.
I vaulted over the downed man and kept running, lungs burning, legs pumping. Second floor. First floor. The ground-level door ahead, grey metal with a push bar that looked solid enough to stop a car.
I hit it at full speed. The bar depressed, the door flew open, and I was out in the rain and the night and the beautiful chaos of London streets where witnesses and cameras meant these bastards couldn't just shoot me in the back.
I ran three blocks before I slowed, ducking into an alley between a closed pharmacy and a betting shop. My chest heaved, adrenaline singing through my veins. I pressed against the brick wall, listening for pursuit.
Nothing. Just rain and distant traffic and my own breathing slowly returning to normal.
I checked my pockets. Phone intact. Recorder intact. No blood, no injuries beyond a bruise forming on my shoulder where I'd hit the wall.
My hand brushed paper in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out, unfolded it carefully.
An invitation. Heavy card stock, embossed lettering, gold foil accents that caught the streetlight. I must have grabbed it when I'd searched Jason’s coat while he was distracted at the bar. A reflex, taking anything that looked important.
You are cordially invited to celebrate the union of Crown Prince Sebastian and Viktor Volkov. Laurentian Palace.
I stared at the invitation, my mind shifting through implications like cards in a deck. Viktor Volkov and Prince Sebastian’s wedding. The wedding everyone in certain circles had been talking about for weeks.
This is the kind of event Harrow would attend. Or at least, the kind of event where his associates would gather, where hisnetwork would be visible, where someone patient and observant might see connections that stayed hidden in daylight.
I'd been trying to get close to Harrow for years. Years of dead ends and sealed files and witnesses who disappeared before they could testify. Three years of watching him operate through proxies and shell companies and legal manoeuvres that turned evidence into smoke.
This invitation was a door.
I folded it carefully, tucked it back into my pocket, and stepped out of the alley into the rain.
Mrs. Tremaine lived in Kensington,in one of those white-fronted townhouses that looked like something from a period drama.
I rang the bell at 11:23 a.m. the next morning. She answered on the second ring, dressed in a cream jumper and dark trousers, her hair pulled back in a style that looked effortless but probably took twenty minutes to perfect.
“Mr. Mercer.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed her. She knew. On some level, she'd always known.
“Mrs. Tremaine. May I come in?”
She stepped aside, and I entered a foyer that smelled like lilies and furniture polish. The house was exactly what I'd expected: tasteful, expensive, empty in the way houses got when the people inside them stopped talking.
She led me to a sitting room with high ceilings and windows overlooking a private garden. We sat in chairs that probably cost more than my flat's monthly rent, separated by a glass coffee table that held a single orchid in a ceramic pot.
“You have something for me.” Not a question.
