I lick the blood from my lip, wishing I could spit it in his face. But even though there’s a snarling animal inside me desperate to fight back, what few survival instincts I still have kick in, and I keep quiet for the rest of the ride, my mouth throbbing and my heart racing.
It isn’t long before the van slows to a stop and the driver cuts the engine. The door opens, letting in the cold night air once more, and Dylan takes me by the elbow and roughly guides me down a stone path. I can see light through the bag, but only the vaguest of impressions as he tells me to climb a few steps, and we enter a building with a creaky hardwood floor. The smell ofItalian food hits me, and it feels almost homey as Dylan leads me through the depths of the building—house?—until we finally step inside a muffled room. The floor is carpeted, and it smells distinctly like—
Books.
Without warning, Dylan cuts through the zip tie on my wrists and yanks the bag off my head. He’s not wearing his mask anymore, and he doesn’t seem ruffled by the fact that I know exactly who he is, even though we’ve only met once. He does one more pat-down before finally stepping back toward the door, never turning away from me.
“None of this is personal,” he says, and it sounds more like a threat than anything else he’s said to me tonight. “Wait here.”
And then he’s gone, with the heavy door locked firmly behind him. My eyes slowly adjust to the warm yellow light as I touch my split lip gingerly, dabbing away what’s left of the blood.
I’m in an old-fashioned study, with dark wood furniture and bronze fastenings, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering three of the four walls that overflow with books, papers, and dust. In the center of the room is a massive desk with lion head drawer pulls and a leather chair that’s seen better days, and to my bewilderment, a state-of-the-art laptop stands open, the screen unlocked and open to its desktop.
What the hell is going on?
I stand frozen for what has to be a full minute, waiting for something to happen, but nothing does. There’s no clock in the room ticking away, letting me know how much time has passed since I stepped into that van with Dylan, and no one comes through the door again, either to greet me or otherwise. Anotherminute passes as I count the seconds in my head, and I exhale, glancing around again.
This is a trap. It has to be. Or if not a trap, then what? A test?
As soon as the thought occurs to me, my skin erupts into goose bumps beneath the soft knit of Kit’s cardigan, and I know I’m right. That’s exactly what this is—a test to see…what? What I’ll do when I’m left alone with a strange computer? A computer that’s likely connected to Fox Rex and possibly even the ABR?
I don’t look for the cameras that must be hidden around the room. Instead, I turn toward the bookshelves and scan the spines, some of which look like they haven’t been handled in years. On the first wall, hundreds of spy novels are neatly arranged by author, and all have a thin layer of dust on their jackets. Nonfiction and textbooks take up the entire second wall, and they span decades. But while the variety of subjects on these shelves are fascinating, the third bookcase behind the desk is the real prize.
The lowest shelf boasts nothing but composition books—dozens of them, all crammed together so tightly that trying to remove one would undoubtedly result in an explosion of paper and dust. I leave those alone and move upward toward the collection of military history books, all about upheaval and revolutions throughout the western world. The English civil war in the sixteen hundreds, the Glorious Revolution that put Mary II and William III on the throne, the American and French Revolutions, the Scottish wars of independence and later Jacobite risings, the Cornish and Irish rebellions and Welsh revolt—
This isn’t idle interest. This is a study. This is a master class on how to win a revolution against an enemy that seems unbeatable.
My mouth goes dry, and I brush my fingertips against their spines, like I’m reading the titles with breathless interest. In reality, however, I scan the shelf above, which is lined with more of the same. But crammed into the very end of the bookcase, almost indistinguishable from the texts of blood-soaked history, is a single leather-bound book. Unlike most of the others, it doesn’t have a speck of dust on it, and there’s no lettering on the spine. I shouldn’t peek, not when I’m being watched, but—
“Ice?”
Cursing, I whirl around and face the man standing in the open doorway. He can’t be older than twenty-five, with a face so painfully ordinary that I could have passed him on the street a million times and never thought twice about it. It’s the kind of face that’s invisible. Anonymous. The perfect mask for someone who wants to disappear into a crowd.
But his eyes are dark and rimmed with gold as they focus on me, piercing and unwavering, and I know exactly who he is.
The man who calls himself Guy Fawkes.
Chapter Seven
We’re live.
I’ll get the popcorn.
—Text message exchange between two prepaid mobiles, 1 February 2024, 5:53p.m.
Guy Fawkes, the supposed leaderof Fox Rex and the Army of the British Republic, stands ten feet in front of me, holding a pack of frozen peas in one hand and a mug in the other.
The door closes behind him, and he steps toward me, his smile easy and unnerving in its almost-friendliness. “I’m sorry about that,” he says, gesturing to my face. “Dylan was under strict orders not to harm you, but he’s always been a bit of a wildcard.”
He holds out the frozen peas, and I hesitate. But only for a moment. “Lucky me,” I mutter, taking them and pressing the cold bag to my jaw. It feels good against what must be some significant swelling, and I touch the corner to my split lip. “Where’s Kit? Is he safe?”
“Perfectly,” he assures me, producing a damp paper towelseemingly out of nowhere. “He left the Flea and Hound of his own accord fifteen minutes ago, alive and well.”
“Prove it.”
“And how do you expect me to do that?” Guy steps closer to me now, so close I can smell his soap, and holds the paper towel near my lip. “Allow me.”
This is such a wild about-face from the figure who’s been stalking me since Christmas that I briefly consider the possibility that he’s an identical twin. But no—this is all to make me putty in his hands. Good terrorist, bad terrorist, and he’s cast himself as the golden boy.
