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—I always do.—
Outside the airport, she pocketed her phone and popped more painkillers while waiting for Mark to hail a cab. The taxi ride passed like a blur. Unhindered by traffic, the cab sped west, passed through Canary Wharf, then approached Trafalgar Square, where it stopped amidst the bustle of tourists outside St. Martins-in-the-Fields Church. She followed Mark down a paved path to the café, which was hidden on a side street and burrowed under an old church crypt.
Toting their bags on his shoulder, Mark approached the entrance, wearing a crooked smile. “Next time you plan a techie meeting, please no creepy places filled with dead bodies. Shed your Goth darkness and come into the light. Reality is twisted enough.”
“In Declan’s defense, this is a café.” Concerned by Declan’s choice of the somber setting, she feared this crisis could throw him into a pit of anxiety so deep he’d never climb out. “At least you can’t say travel with me is boring.”
“Never.” Mark held the door open.
Across the empty crypt, Declan sat half-hidden under a brick arch far from the cashier’s station where a lone barista perched and texted on her phone. He raised an arm and pointed at the three coffee cups which stood in a neat line on the table.
Tess waved as she approached and eased herself into a chair across from Declan. Glimpsing an engraved inscription on the ground, she realized the entire floor beneath them consisted of rows of tombs and shivered. “How’re you holding up?”
Declan bent over the table and shook hands with Mark. “Dandy. This cock-up has left me like a barmy nutter rolling around in rubbish. I’m destined for the loony bin. You?”
“Splendid. Couldn’t be better.” She met him with an equal dose of sarcasm and noted his bloodshot eyes and pale cheeks. “So, why are we in a crypt?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself.” Mark shifted in his chair and scanned the room.
“I figure I’ll be dead soon enough, so I’m previewing real estate for the afterlife.” Declan rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Pick a coffee and let’s get on with it.”
Noting three empty sugar packs beside his mug, she peered into Declan’s cup. “Judging from your triple-shot macchiato, you’re gonna crash hard.”
“Nope, I’m wired.” Jaw clenched tight, he whipped out a silver flask from his coat pocket and dumped a liberal shot of Irish whiskey into his coffee.
Shocked to see him day drinking, she grabbed Declan’s wrist. “Since when did you start carrying a flask?” Recalling her recent infusion of vodka tonics on the plane, she silenced herself, deciding it best not to cast stones when living in a glass house.
“Since two o’clock this morning, when the guy holding David hostage rang me. Goes by the moniker The Hornet.” Declan held a sugar packet and propelled it across the table with a fingertip.
About to take a sip, Mark set his caffe latte down. “The what?”
“The Hornet. They want Rapadon, but the wankers can’t grok possessing the code itself won’t help. Weird. They need the encryption root key for specific banks to access them. I asked which bank they want. No answer. Either they’re trapping us, or the arseholes are woefully misinformed.” Declan propped an elbow on the table and leaned his chin in one hand.
She perceived something ominous lurking nearby, ready to surface. Growing apprehensive, she felt her pulse pounding in her forehead. “What else?”
Declan shook his head and covered his face with his hands.
Mark shot her a questioning glance.
“Tell me.” At close range, she detected prominent dark shadows buffering the puffy bags under Declan’s eyes when he lifted his head and twisted his mouth as if he tasted something foul. “What happened?”
“They’re torturing David. The police couldn’t trace the call, so they got jack all. No leads, and we only have until midnight.” Declan stared at the table and fingered his coffee cup.
“Goddamn monsters.” Tasting bile creeping up her throat, she resisted the nightmarish gore hijacking her imagination. Despite the cool stone walls lining the crypt’s interior, she unbuttoned her jacket and wiped away the sudden film of sweat from the back of her neck. Seeing the misery darkening Declan’s expression, she also feared the worst.
“He might not survive.” Declan slouched in his chair with his arms limp by his side. Tilting his head, he gazed at the crypt’s ceiling, then made the sign of the cross.
“I know.” She attempted to eradicate the gruesome images flashing in her mind and stay present. Lips shut in a tight line, she held herself together, barely.
“This is hard, you two, but don’t waste energy catastrophizing the worst possible scenario. We have time to save David.” Mark leaned forward and alternated his gaze between Declan and Tess.
Tess took a deep breath and focused her thoughts. “Declan, I need to swear you to secrecy about what I’m going to tell you.”
“You have my word.” Declan pressed a palm to his heart.
“I traveled to Scotland because Kyle needed me to go. Two days ago, I received a letter he wrote the week he died. I’m afraid I have brutal news.” She steeled herself before continuing. “A terror group named Crimson Hammer murdered Kyle. Inspector Willis and I figured out Kyle’s accident report was hacked at Met Police headquarters.” Holding her breath, she winced watching Declan’s expression waver between grief and fury. Like a watercolor painting that’d been ruined by rain, his face paled to a gritty white.
Declan gripped the side of the table to steady himself, then suddenly slammed a fist on the café table. “Christ. Goddamn bastards. To think some brute killed him on purpose. Fuck.”
