The King's Deception

Ian rushed into the room, leaping down the stone stairs, heading straight for the gun.

Then Gary appeared.

What the hell?

Their appearance momentarily stunned him.

Ian reached for the gun, but Antrim was on him, yanking the weapon free, backhanding the boy across the face.

Gary grabbed the backpack from the floor and tossed it into the darkness of the other room.

* * *

Antrim’s finger found the trigger and he aimed the weapon. “Enough.”

Malone seemed woozy, the boys staring at him.

Ian rubbed his face from the blow.

Fear surged through him. His sweat cast a sweet, musky scent.

One thought filled his brain.

Leave. Now.

“All of you, over there, by the stairs.”

His left eye was swollen from Malone’s fist, his chin, temple, and brow aching. He retreated toward the second doorway, his pounding heart rising against his ribs.

Malone moved slow so he aimed the gun straight at Gary and yelled, “Would you rather I shoot him? Get over there.”

Malone straightened up and stepped back, Ian and Gary joining him.

“You okay?” Malone asked Ian.

“I’ll be fine.”

Gary stepped forward. “Would you shoot me? Your own son?”

No time for sentiment. “Look, we haven’t known each other in fifteen years. No need to start now. So, yes, I would. Now shut the hell up.”

“So this was all about hurting my mom?”

“You were listening outside? Good. So I don’t have to repeat myself.”

Malone laid his hand on Gary’s shoulder and drew him back close, but the boy’s gaze never left Antrim.

Antrim found the exit, a quick glance confirming that the chamber beyond was safe. The darkness was thick, but enough light spilled in for him to see the outline of another exit thirty feet away.

He reached into his pocket and found the detonator.

“Stay right there,” he told Malone.

He backed from the room, keeping the gun trained.

Sixty-two

Kathleen aimed the gun straight at Thomas Mathews. Never had she imagined that she would be in a face-off with Britain’s chief spy. But that’s exactly what the past two days had been.

“Give me the key to the door,” she said again.

“And what will you do?”

“Help them.”

He chuckled. “What if they don’t need your help?”

“All of your problems are in there, right? Nice and neat. Tucked away.”

“Good planning and preparation made that result possible.”

But how could Mathews know that all of his problems would be solved? So she asked, “What makes this a sure thing?”

“Ordinarily, I would not answer that. But I’m hoping this will be a learning experience for you. Your Blake Antrim brought percussion explosives with him. The same type used in St. George’s Chapel.”

The dots connected. “Which you want him to detonate.”

He shrugged. “It matters not how it ends. Intentional. Accidental. So long as it ends.”

“And if Antrim makes it out, after blowing everyone else up?”

“He will be killed.”

Now she realized Mathews was stalling, allowing whatever was happening behind the locked door to play out.

That meant time was short.

And those two kids were in there.

“Give me the key.”

He displayed it in his right hand, the one that held the radio.

Then he thrust his arm over the side of the bridge.

“Don’t do it,” she said.

He dropped the key.

Which disappeared into the torrent.

“We do what we have to do,” he said to her, his face as animated as a death mask. “My country comes first, as I suspect it does with you.”

“Country first means killing children?”

“In this case it does.”

She hated herself for not stopping Ian and Gary sooner. It was her fault they were now behind that locked door. “You’re no different from Antrim.”

“Oh, but I am. Quite different, in fact. I am no traitor.”

“I will shoot you.”

He smiled. “I think not. It’s over, Miss Richards. Let it be.”

She saw his fingers flick a switch on the radio. Surely there were more men nearby, which meant that shortly they would not be alone. She’d heard about moments when a person’s entire existence flashed before them. Those instances when life-changing decisions were either made or avoided. Turning points, some called them. She’d come close several times to such an instant, when her life had been on the line.

But never anything like this.

Sir Thomas Mathews was, in essence, saying that she was too weak to do anything.

He’d dropped the key and dared her.

Her professional life was over.

She’d failed.

But that didn’t mean that she should fail as a person.

Malone and two kids were in trouble.

And one old man stood in her way.

He brought the radio toward his mouth. “They have to die, Miss Richards. It is the only way for this to end.”

No, it wasn’t.

May God forgive her.

She shot him in the chest.

He staggered toward the low rail.

The journal dropped to his feet.

A look of shock filled his face.

She stepped close. “You’re not always right.”

And she shoved him over the side.

He hit the water, surfaced, and gasped for air, arms flailing. Then his strength oozed away and he sank, the current sweeping the corpse into the darkness toward the Thames.