by Jana Oliver
Keats turned toward the familiar voice. “Hello, my friend. How is life in the East End these days?”
“Quiet so far,” Alastair replied, shifting a barrel to examine it. “Fisher was given orders to pull the constables back and let Jacynda and her people handle the problem.”
“Who issued that order?” Keats asked, taken by surprise.
“Warren.”
Keats snorted. “I had hoped she’d be out of this.”
“You’re mad if you think that. According to Mr. Morrisey, you should find one of those coins in each of these barrels. He said you should remove it first thing. It’s how the detonations are triggered.”
“Of course,” Keats muttered under his breath.
Ramsey thumped down the row. “Doctor, we have need of you. One of the lads tangled with a hogshead and got his foot mashed.”
Alastair threw Keats a resigned look. “I’ll be happy to help.”
They’d taken only a few steps when there was a muted explosion. Shouts erupted outside.
“Where did that come from?” Keats called to a man near the door. “Was the blast on this side of the river?”
The man shook his head. “North, I think.”
The East End.
Keats waited for the watchman to return so they could lock up. Of all the warehouses, this was the least full, the easiest to check. They had to have missed something. He ducked inside for one last look.
He walked down the closest row again. This was futile. No wonder the newspaper accounts had reported no one knew exactly where the bombs had been placed.
As he returned to the double doors, he noted a piece of tarp in a corner. Had they looked under it? Keats knelt and flung the cover aside. He was rewarded with a barrel decorated with strange red writing on the side. A quick shift of the cask brought the dynamite into sight.
“How did we miss you?” he muttered. As his fingers deftly worked the rope holding the dynamite in place, a glancing blow struck him hard on the back of the head. He slumped against the barrel, struggling to remain conscious.
“Bloody rozzer!” A swift kick hit his thigh, then there was the sound of running footsteps.
Besides the pounding of his head, there was some sort of queer buzzing sound. A moment later, he was grabbed by the collar and hauled to his feet. “Too close,” a voice said. “We’re out of here.”
Then everything went frigid black.
Keats came to his senses, his head on fire, mind tumbling like an acrobat in a stage show. He wanted nothing better than to vomit.
“You okay?” a voice asked.
He made it to his knees, bending over in an effort to reduce the throbbing headache. Slowly lifting his head, he studied the man. Young. Worried, if the expression in his eyes counted for anything. Then he saw the pocket watch in the fellow’s hand.
“You’re one of them?” he managed to croak.
The man nodded. “I’m Hopkins. I work with Lassiter. I’m sorry I did that, but the bomb was due to go off right after I found you. I jumped us back a couple minutes to be safe, then disarmed it.”
“Thank you,” he said, still stunned. “You saved my life.”
“Part of the job. Lassiter would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
“I heard an explosion. Is Jacynda unharmed?”
“Last time I saw her.”
Keats rubbed the back of his neck. Blast, that hurts. “Did you see who hit me?”
“No, sorry.”
“Not surprising, really. Nobody likes a copper.”
The newcomer offered his hand, and Keats used it to rise.
“We’ll work as a team. There are six more. Either they’re already in place or will arrive shortly before they detonate,” he said. Hopkins tapped his interface. “I can find them for you,” he added, a smug grin on his face.
“Arrive from where?”
“Best you not know.”
“Do I have to go into that blackness again?” Keats asked. “I didn’t like that a bit.”
“No. That was so against the rules I don’t want to even think about it.”
Keats winced, his head spinning again. He tried to steady himself and nearly fell.
“Hold still.” Something cold pressed against Keats neck. He remembered that sensation. It’d been that night in the carriage, after Flaherty had struck him on the head. Jacynda had put something against his neck and he’d felt so much better. The same was happening now. His headache eased immediately and with it, the dizziness.
“What did you do to me?”
“I played doctor, but don’t tell anyone.” The man rolled his eyes. “Lassiter is so not a good influence.” He stuck something in his pocket, then held his pocket watch in front of him like a compass. Revived, Keats followed him, rolling his neck from side to side to diminish a slight cramp.
“You know about the coins?” Keats nodded. “Just keep them far away from anything flammable,” Hopkins explained. “And don’t put them in your pocket,” he said, gesturing toward one of his own. It sported a sizeable scorch mark.
As they walked the row of warehouses, Hopkins studied the watch dial and then smiled broadly. “It’s already in place. That’ll make it easier.”
“I don’t understand,” Keats replied.
“They changed the bomb delivery schedule in the East End. Made it lot harder. They didn’t over here. Probably figured we wouldn’t find them in time.” Hopkins gestured. “In this one,” he advised, “ground floor, near the north end.”
“How long do we have?” Keats asked.
“Five and a half minutes, as long as they don’t change the timing.”
Keats didn’t want to think about that.
“All right lads. It’s in here,” Keats called out. The dockworkers swept in, racing down the row of casks while calling out encouragement to each other, betting who would be able to find the bomb before the other.
Inspector Ramsey stomped over. “Any luck?”
“Found one in the first warehouse. It’s taken care of.” Keats did the introductions. “Hopkins works with Miss Lassiter.”
“Pinkerton’s?” Ramsey asked. The young man nodded. “Are there any of you left in America?”
“Probably not,” Hopkins replied, smiling.
A dockworker skittered out the door of the nearest building.
“Oy, rozzer. It’s here!” he shouted, jumping up and down like he’d found the Crown Jewels.
Keats took off at a run. The barrel was in an empty space near the back of the building, a knot of men ringed around it.
“The rest of you lads clear off. Go help the others, and I’ll work on this one.”
There was the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps.
Keats dropped to his knees and carefully removed the dynamite, setting it on the floor near him. Then he dug out the cork and went hunting inside for that strange coin. He couldn’t find it. Swearing under his breath, he kept digging. He found the paper liner that kept the gunpowder dry. Something cool brushed his fingers. He pulled out the coin and sighed with relief. He jammed the cork back into the cask and waved forward one of the constables who was nervously hovering nearby. “Roll this out of here,” he ordered.
He was surprised to find Ramsey standing just behind him. “What was the thing you took out of the barrel?”
Keats displayed it on his palm. “A very strange coin. According to Hopkins, it detonates the gunpowder.”
He watched as the color drained out of Ramsey’s face. “There’s more here than you’re telling me.”
“There’s more here than I know.”
The moment they cleared the door, two dockworkers sang out, beckoning them forward. Keats split off toward one warehouse and Ramsey toward another. In the distance they could see Hopkins and Alastair entering a third.
By God, we’re going to do it.
~••~••~••~
The question was always the same, but it didn’t really matter. He didn’t have the ans
wer. Theo spit a gob of blood from his mouth, narrowly missing Copeland’s boot. It earned him another backhand across the face. The pain was everywhere now, every nerve competing to shout its own private agony.
He’d been beaten by Copeland’s men, then taken to a huge building. When he’d first arrived, it had smelled of wool. Now he could only smell his own blood.
Copeland’s face came into view. “It’s an easy question—where’s Defoe?”
“Don’t know,” Theo said in the barest of whispers.
“Where’d you see him last?”
“Here, in London. He transferred, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Morrisey stared at him through swelling eyes. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Why did you go back home?”
“Looking for Defoe,” Theo lied.
“Not buying that. You could just send a message. What were you up to?”
When Theo didn’t reply, another fist landed in his stomach. As he fought not to vomit, Copeland started to circle him, like a lion.
There was a commotion. Through the painful haze, Morrisey tried to focus on what was happening. Voices. One was panicky. Copeland’s was harsh.
“What do you mean all the bombs didn’t go off?” his captor demanded.
“Only one, in the East End. They found the rest of them,” the man answered breathlessly.
“How in the hell did they do that?”
“I don’t know.”
There was a grunt of pain as someone paid the price for delivering the bad news, then the sound of a body being dragged away.
Somehow Jacynda had stopped them.
“Not going well?” Theo asked, wishing he had the strength to laugh in Copeland’s face. “She outwitted you, didn’t she?” he said.
Another tremendous blow—this one to the head. Theo’s ears rang like church bells on Easter morning.
Copeland stepped closer. “Seems all I got left is you, geek freak. Where’s Defoe?”
“I don’t—”
The chair went out from under him, and Theo landed hard on the wooden floor. A second later a boot catapulted into his ribs. Bones snapped. He tried to cry out, but he couldn’t get enough air.
“Give him another round, lads.”
Blows rained down on him from all sides, so many he could hardly feel them anymore.
Jacynda. It was her face that comforted him as he slipped into the darkness.
“Ah, Christ,” Copeland swore. He rubbed a hand across his chin, trying to figure out how to work this to his best advantage. The failure of the plot was going to cost him everything if he didn’t find Rover One.
“This one’s a waste of time. Load him up, drop him in the Thames,” he ordered the trio standing over the body. “If he’s still alive, cut his throat before you do. Cut anything you want.”
“What about his boots?” one of the toughs asked.
Copeland smirked. “Strip him bare, I don’t give a goddamn. Just get him out of my sight.” He tossed each of them a sovereign and then scooped up the prizes he’d taken from his victim.
One last chance. This time he had to come out on top.
Chapter 18
It was near dark when Cynda finally staggered back to the hotel room, drained. Despite Anderson’s assurance that the Ascendant would contact her, she’d spent the afternoon hunting for Theo, increasingly desperate as the hours passed. When there’d been no explosions or raging fires in Southwark, she knew they’d triumphed. Without Theo, it felt like a hollow victory.
She’d no sooner changed into a dress when Hopkins arrived at the door.
“We didn’t lose one warehouse,” he reported. “Keats is the hero of the hour.”
She smiled. “He deserves it. Morrisey’s still missing. Copeland has him. He’s trying to use him as leverage for us to turn over Defoe.”
Hopkins didn’t seem surprised. “That Future, Anderson, caught up with me in Rotherhithe after I’d found all the bombs. He told me what was up and then insisted I give him the interface. I’d hoped I could keep it until we could use our own.”
When she didn’t reply, Hopkins began to open and close his own pocket watch over and over in nervous agitation.
“I hope you don’t mind me taking over like this,” he said. “You’re the Senior Rover here and...”
“No, you’re best for this,” she told him, staring at nothing. “I’m too close to this.”
“Is there something between you and Morrisey?”
She looked over at him. “Not sure yet. We spent so much time together while I was healing that we’re like an old pair of shoes. Except he’d like to take that friendship a lot farther.”
“Well, from what I’ve seen he’s a little odd,” Hopkins replied, “but he seems like a good guy.”
She smiled. “I don’t date higher up the company food chain.”
“No one will raise an eyebrow about that.”
Cynda shrugged. There was more to it than just the boss issue. More than she wanted to confront right now.
“You could always quit TEM Enterprises,” Hopkins suggested.
“And go where?” Cynda asked. “Time In Motion won’t hire me. TPB will see to that, especially after my brain reboot.”
“You could work for Guv. You’re used to odd people, so Klein won’t bother you.”
“Maybe. I just don’t know right now.” Cynda looked over at him with curiosity. “What about you, Hopkins? You got a special someone?”
“Had one. She bailed after I was shot. Couldn’t handle it.”
Cynda nodded. “It takes a Rover to understand this crazy job.”
“Or Morrisey. He’s one of us now.”
Which is why we can’t lose him. “Here,” she said, offering Hopkins the pistol. “In case you run into Copeland. This time, you’ll have the upper hand.”
“Thanks.” He paused as he opened the door. “I’ll let you know when we find Morrisey. I’m sure he’ll be okay.”
Cynda threw him a thumbs-up. The moment he was gone, her control began to unravel. She teetered between tears and the urge to tear the room apart.
“You need to be out there,” Mr. Spider urged.
“I can’t walk all over the East End forever.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to.”
She eyed her delusion. He had an uncanny way of seeing the future.
“Okay, we go out again.”
Cynda had just reached the lobby when one of the hotel’s staff handed her a message. After mumbling a thanks and pressing a coin into his hand, she ripped open the envelope, praying it was good news.
The Ascendant summons you. Your carriage awaits.
“Trap?” Mr. Spider asked, peering down at the note.
“Sure. But if there’s any chance this guy knows where Theo is, it’s worth the risk.”
Sitting at the kerb was an unmarked carriage. It looked exactly like the one that had claimed her at Bedlam. Steeling herself, she climbed in, shoving the bustle behind her. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a silvery bloom of light directly across from her.
It might have been a mistake to give Hopkins the gun.
A figure slowly faded into view like the Cheshire cat, no weapon in sight. The face was familiar. Black hair, dark eyes. That arrogant smirk.
Too much macassar oil.
This was the real deal.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Twig.” He gave a sharp rap on the roof with his cane, and the carriage pulled away from the hotel.
“You’re Satyr, the Lead Assassin. You were at Effington’s party,” she recalled.
“Yes, you saved my life and you did it with such grace.”
Cynda snorted, knowing b.s. when she heard it. Memories flipped over like a row of dominos. She saw the silver tube, felt his hand placing it against the side of her head. “Why did you do this to me?” she said, tapping her temple.
His expression didn’t alter. “I
had my reasons. I admit it was cruel, but you are still alive, and clearly in possession of all your faculties. That, in itself, is quite remarkable.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the best you’re going to get at the moment,” he replied.
“Why do you keep trying to kill me?”
“We do have a history, don’t we, Twig? That evening I threw you under the beer wagon,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Oh, and at the docks. You survived the warehouse fire. Then this,” he said, tapping his own temple. “I’ve never met someone with such tenacity for life.”
He didn’t sound proud of his attempts to kill her, like Mimes had after he’d rammed the knife into her chest. If anything, she heard a hint of remorse. That was the difference between them. Satyr’s eyes always looked pensive as he tried to end her life. Mimes’ glowed with sexual ecstasy.
“Why does the Ascendant want to see me?”
“He said he wanted to meet the woman who had discomfited the angels.” Satyr leaned forward, causing her to tense once more. “You knew I was here before I went visible. How?”
“I’m just good.”
“It’s more than that. Come on, tell me.”
Why not? It would let him know she wasn’t completely unarmed.
“I see a fuzzy outline around someone if they’re en mirage. I never could until you blanked my brain,” she said.
Satyr chuckled. “An unintended consequence. I’m very fond of those.” He leaned even farther forward, a curious fire in his eyes. “How did you reclaim your mind?”
“I had a friend who wouldn’t give up on me.”
A knowing nod. “You were fortunate.” He relaxed against the seat, apparently satisfied.
Cynda ran a bluff. “You told me a lot of things that night you toasted my mind. I don’t remember all of them. Like where you got that device.”
“I never told you that.”
“Then what did you tell me?”
“That I was responsible for the deaths of Johnny Ahearn, Nicci Hallcox and that insufferable Effington.”
“Why frame Keats for Nicci’s murder?”
“Purely an accident,” Satyr replied. “I saw him enter her house and thought it would be fun to use his form. To be honest, there were others I would have rather let fall into the noose than the sergeant.”
