by Jess Lourey
The sky beyond the high wall of windows was unbroken blue. They must be in a penthouse suite attached to the top of one of the bridge’s supports. Salem shifted her weight, causing Mercy to whimper and snuggle deeper. The shivering warmth of the frail child woke something deep in Salem, a primal maternal rage. She wanted to scream, fight, and tear at the men who had stolen the girl, yet her fury was tempered with a sharp terror that they might not make it. They were outnumbered, their adversaries too potent, too cunning.
No, she would not let the child die here. How could she offer her life to save Mercy’s?
Charlie spun and strode toward Salem, cutting off her train of thought. “I’ll take the rubbing from you, then, and you can explain exactly what it represents.”
If she did, he would kill her immediately. They might let Mercy live, or they might not. Her mind raced, searching for an out. The elevator was the only entrance she could see. No way to get that door open and safely closed without alerting the four men. She knew where Curson carried his gun; the outline of it was clear at his hip as he leaned near the elevator buttons. That’s also where Charlie carried his piece. Probably the Ed Harris lookalike, the one he called Clancy, carried a gun in the same spot. She would snatch one of their weapons, and she’d shoot all four men dead center in their foreheads. She’d have to. There was nothing to lose. It was now or never. She gave Mercy one last squeeze and tried to separate from her. The child clung to her like a baby monkey.
“She’s been through a time,” Clancy said.
Salem glared at him. Was he really trying to empathize with the child he’d helped kidnap?
Then her pocket buzzed, a loud but unmistakable hum against her flesh and Mercy’s. Salem held her breath, and for a moment, Mercy’s trembling stopped. It was almost as if time stood still, the spell broken as Clancy lunged toward her, moving startlingly fast.
“Jesus Christ, you didn’t search her?”
“I confiscated her phone,” Charlie said, his voice high and reedy.
Clancy wrenched Mercy out of Salem’s arms, the child clawing and screaming. Salem fought him like a wildcat, bereft without the weight of Mercy, but he was able to dip the phone out of her pocket and step away before she could get at his gun.
He clicked its power button, lighting up the screen and reading the information it revealed. “But you didn’t confiscate Stone’s phone.”
Charlie blanched.
Salem didn’t know why she’d snatched it from his pocket when he slumped, bleeding, in front of Parliament. She’d felt it under her hand, and she’d wondered about him, about who would survive him, who would tell his story. She’d slipped his phone into her pocket without thinking too hard about it.
The elevator light pinged.
Someone was riding it up.
56
Tower Bridge, London
Charlie, Clancy, and Curson were the only Order employees in the penthouse. Salem could tell by the startled glances they exchanged that they hadn’t expected anyone else. All three of them moved toward the door, their attention momentarily distracted from Salem and Mercy.
Salem backed up, shielding the child, a mix of hope and desperation buoying her. She still didn’t see another way out besides the elevator, but there had to be one. She gave Mercy what she prayed was a reassuring glance, holding her finger over her mouth as a signal to be silent. The dull look in Mercy’s eyes cut straight to Salem’s heart. The little girl had been terrorized, that much was clear.
Salem’s fury returned.
She would find a way out, even if it meant exiting through one of the windows. She studied all the panes of glass, moving her head as little as possible so as not to attract attention. Her hope surged when she realized the floor-to-ceiling window fifteen feet behind them was actually a sliding glass door leading to the smallest of balconies. Beyond the balcony’s railing was the blue roof of the pedestrian walkway twenty stories above the frigid waters of the Thames.
The elevator’s light changed, indicating it had reached their floor.
Clancy and Curson pulled their weapons. Charlie kept his holstered.
The door slid open.
Alafair stood inside, smiling broadly, confidently, every inch of her body declaring that she belonged here. She wore her standard gear: leather jacket, form-fitting jeans, zip-up boots. Her hands hung loosely at her sides.
Salem felt a sear of betrayal—it appeared that Alafair had been working with the Grimalkin all along, using Salem to solve the train—but she didn’t give it oxygen. It didn’t matter why Alafair was here as long as it was causing a distraction. She leaned over to Mercy, holding her pointy chin with her thumb and forefinger. “You need to get out of here, sweetheart, any way you can.”
Mercy clutched Salem’s hand, shaking her head violently. When they’d first met, Mercy had been resourceful. She’d survived on the road with her older brother for most of her life. But the Order had profoundly wounded her. Salem could see it in the tightness of the child’s eyes, the hollowness caving her cheeks.
“Honey, you have to get out of here.” She tried to peel Mercy’s sweaty, tiny hands off hers, biting back the tears. “Please. It’s the only way.”
Alafair’s voice poured like chocolate over Salem’s. She spoke directly to Charlie. “I have something to offer you.”
Salem looked over, she couldn’t help it. Alafair stepped into the room, her hands held in front of her, palms out. Salem knew how fast those same hands could produce a knife, but she also didn’t know whom to trust. Charlie seemed to be experiencing the same struggle.
“I don’t need you,” he said. He reached around for his weapon.
Something about his movement rocked Mercy, crashing through her trauma. “Noooooo!” she screamed. Her voice was dry and cracked but piercing. She jumped to her feet, dropping Salem’s hand. At first, it looked like she would run toward Alafair and the elevator, but instead, she charged toward the sliding glass door. She yanked it open. An unforgiving wind blustered into the room. Mercy didn’t hesitate, running to the edge of the balcony then hoisting herself over it.
Charlie raced toward Mercy.
They do need her; somehow, they know what she is the one-pad cipher for.
But those thoughts did not move as fast as her feet, which flew toward Mercy.
Charlie reached the balcony first, but Mercy was already over it, balanced on the roof of the tourist walkway that connected one bridge support to the other. A gust of wind momentarily lifted her off her feet.
Salem screamed.
The airstream disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, dropping the child. Mercy tumbled to her knees and grabbed for purchase. She clung to the narrow lip of the roof.
“Salem!” she cried, her voice reedy. “Help me!”
Charlie was crawling over the balcony’s railing. Salem grabbed at him, pulling him back, oblivious to the actions of the other three inside the penthouse. Charlie swung, his hand connecting with her cheek with a sharp crack.
She reeled back but not before she caught a glimpse of the Thames 200 feet below, a blue-silver thread that would pop her like a water balloon if she landed on it from this height. Every cell in her body snapped in terror, paralyzing her. She tasted the harsh metal tang of panic.
Charlie was nearly over the railing. Once his boots hit the roof, he’d only have to crawl five feet, and he’d have Mercy.
Fight for her! Bring her back inside!
It was Salem’s voice in her head, but it was her dad’s words, and Bel’s. They’d always believed in her, had been sure she could do anything she set her mind to. It was enough to pierce her paralysis.
Mouth dry, Salem forced her eyes straight ahead and stepped onto the balcony. The wind was powerful, an icy shoulder propelling her back. She leaned into it, dropping one leg over the railing followed by the other. Because her body was faci
ng the penthouse, she saw the knife fly from Alafair’s hands and into Curson’s throat. He dropped to the floor near the couch.
Clancy was drawing on her, lining up his sight, a clear twenty feet separating the two of them.
The elevator door had closed behind Alafair, so she had no shelter.
Salem wanted to help Alafair, but a cry from Mercy caused her to twist around. Charlie was nearly to her. Salem released one hand and whipped it around to grab the railing behind her, and then twisted so she was facing the roof. She wanted to close her eyes, but knew she’d give up and fall if she didn’t have a visual anchor. She toppled onto the roof of the walkway, its metal cold beneath her. “Hang on, Mercy! I’m coming!”
Charlie was reaching for the girl with his good hand and for his gun with his wounded one. “Come to me,” he commanded her, the wind whipping his voice toward Salem. “I won’t hurt you.”
“No!” Salem said. She launched herself forward. “Don’t do it!”
Charlie swiveled his gun, holding it inches from Salem’s head. “Looks like I get to see those beautiful brains up close.”
A shot rang out.
57
Tower Bridge, London
How about them goddamned apples, Clancy thought, a knife hilt-deep in his neck. It turns out you can make amends.
He’d started the ball rolling by killing the vice president rather than the president. Nobody’d miss the guy. Gina Hayes, though? That’d be a real gutshot to progress, and it turned out Clancy had developed some strong feelings about that—or at least a healthy dose of curiosity as to what a women-run world might look like. They couldn’t fuck it up any worse than the gents, and who knew? It might be an improvement.
He could have stopped there, but then he’d gone and shot the Grimalkin right through the eyes.
Bet that cat doesn’t land on his feet.
His wheezing laugh sprayed blood.
He wasn’t sure he’d have had the cojones to shoot the legendary assassin if that gypsy-looking woman’s knife hadn’t lodged itself clean against his carotid artery, its tip scratching his spine. The blade was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out. He wouldn’t last until the EMTs arrived.
As a dead man shooting, he’d chosen the Grimalkin over the gypsy, and he felt tickled goddamned pink about that decision.
Pow.
Pulling the trigger sapped the last of his energy. He fell backward, just missing the sofa. His field of vision was shrinking, like he was looking through a pair of binoculars. He reached toward the knife, planning to pull it out. No use in waiting.
That’s when the elevator dinged again. Who was riding it up this time? Captain America? The Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders? Now that was a final surprise he wouldn’t mind, but when the door opened with a whisk, he saw something even better.
His old partner, Agent Lucan Stone, his arm in a sling.
Was Stone about to learn that Clancy had done something right, here at the end? Well, I’ll be double-hot-damned. There really is justice in this world.
The knife came out with a squirt.
Clancy’s lifeblood flowed out of him, along with a final thought. Lutsenko and his cronies were going to lose this war. They may have the best men, but they did not have the best minds.
Hell, it turned out they didn’t even have the best warriors.
58
London Bridge, London
Jason was leaning against a London Bridge railing when the body plummeted off the Tower Bridge’s elevated walkway roof. Someone near him screamed, and then everyone began pointing upward or snapping photos, some of them managing both simultaneously.
The body could belong to Wiley or the kid or even a random jumper, but there was the slimmest chance it was the Grimalkin plummeting into the Thames.
Jason smiled.
This wasn’t a business for men who played games. Rules were necessary, but not the ones the Grimalkin demanded: Think of me only as Charlie Arthur Thackeray when I am with Salem, the Grimalkin when I am with you. Never look at me as if you recognize me. Never question my commands.
The woman standing next to Jason on the bridge, who had been turning to say something about the falling man, stopped when her gaze met Jason’s. Her face went soft, her mouth slack. She looked as if she’d entered the Rapture.
Jason felt as beautiful as he appeared.
The Grimalkin had attacked him at St. Brigid’s. He’d slid a knife into Jason’s neck. Blood had spurted. Jason had fallen to the ground.
And then a miraculous thing happened.
His neck skin closed over the wound.
He hadn’t known he’d possessed that power. He’d laid on the ground until the Grimalkin was gone, and then he’d stood, shoved his way through the gaping crowd, and made his way back to London with the realization that he’d been born again.
He’d known the finale would take place at the Order’s Tower Bridge penthouse and came by to watch as a tourist. He hadn’t dreamed it would go so … generously. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his angelic mien still in place.
The Order wasn’t going to like this. Not at all.
Jason walked away.
Monday
September 25
59
Stonehenge
The murmur of a breeze played across the red poppies, teasing them. The sun, the rarest of sights in England, shone fierce and proud overhead. Stonehenge proper had stayed open, with a perimeter around the Heel Stone roped off. The curious and those with good instincts lined up along the rope, snapping photos with their phones, speculating what the motley crew surrounding the fifteen-foot Heel Stone was up to.
It had always been an odd rock, separate from Stonehenge yet a part of it, its misshapen stone resembling for all the world an eel rising from the ground.
The crew inside the rope totaled ten: a woman in a wheelchair, a man wearing a sling over his muscled shoulder, an older woman wearing a scowl, a curly-haired woman who stood near the wheelchair, a dark-haired woman who carried herself like a dancer, a girl with a bandaged head, two professor types, and two workers setting up a portable scissor lift on each side of the eel-head-shaped stone.
The curly-haired woman appeared to be reluctantly in charge.
“Closer, please,” Salem told the worker moving the scissor lift near the stone. The wound on her leg burned as she stepped onto the lift, preparing to be hoisted toward the eye of the eel. According to the doctor, it could take months for her leg to feel like normal again.
“That’d make it the only part of my body that does,” she’d told the doctor.
Alafair had helped Salem and Mercy off the roof of the Tower Bridge walkway. The EMTs who rode the elevator up after Stone had cleared the room rode it right back down, rushing Mercy and Salem to the nearest hospital, where the child grew hysterical at any attempt to separate her from Salem. The doctors had settled on treating them side by side and then giving them the same hospital room.
Salem had slept for eighteen hours with Mercy curled up next to her. They might have had nightmares, but when they woke, Mercy flashed Salem the most beatific smile.
“You’re really here,” she’d said.
Salem pulled her tight. The little girl had taken the words out of her mouth.
Bel was right there. She said it had been all she could do to let them both sleep that long. She hugged them both tightly, Mercy’s complaint that they were smothering her drawing tremulous laughter. When Bel could finally bear to let them go, she called in a doctor, who declared that Mercy’s ear and Salem’s leg were healing, even though it was too late for stitches and they would each forever carry a deep purple scar.
Only when the doctor left did Bel lay into Salem.
“You didn’t return my calls or texts.”
“I—”
“I know,” Bel said, interrupting
her. The hollows under her eyes and in her cheeks mirrored Mercy’s, but she wore her signature smile despite the sleep she’d obviously lost to worry. “You thought I’d be mad at you for allowing Mercy to be captured on your watch. You internalized blame for every problem in your orbit and decided you were the only one who could fix them. Oh, and also that no one really loved you. Am I right?”
Salem grimaced, opening her mouth to confess that all that was true, but a sob slipped out instead of words. Bel pulled herself into bed next to Salem and held her while she wept. Mercy snuggled between them. When the tears subsided, Bel informed Salem that the bullet that had hit Agent Stone had gone clean through his shoulder, throwing him off his feet. He’d hit the back of his head when he’d landed, knocking him out.
A bystander called an ambulance before Assistant Director Bench—now in custody—could take charge of the scene. When he came to, Stone realized his phone was gone and put an immediate trace on it.
“That was smart, Salem.”
Salem wiped her eyes. “It didn’t feel smart. It felt like stealing.”
“Sometimes you can only judge whether something is right by the results,” Bel said. Her face mellowed. “Alafair followed you from Heathrow. Apparently, when you were passed out on her plane, she snuck a tracker into that bundle of herbs you got in Ireland.”
Salem craned her neck to see where Bel was pointing. Mrs. Molony’s sachet was resting on the bedside table next to a glass of water with a bendy straw poking out of it. Salem laughed. She couldn’t help it.
Look for the help that’s out there, and remember the water, the flowers, and the power of women.
“I’ll explain later,” Salem said in response to Bel’s quizzical expression.
Bel shrugged and continued. “Alafair witnessed you get off the Tube at Westminster, Stone get shot, you get herded into and then out of Parliament—the whole thing until you got into the cab. She relied on the tracker after that. It led her to Tower Bridge just in time to see you forced into an elevator. She watched it go all the way to the penthouse. Then she rode it herself, not knowing what it would bring her to.”
