A loud whoosh echoed through the courtyard as flames bloomed from a window on the second floor. One of the rooms up there was burning, the fire quickly spreading to either side; embers from the explosion landed and caught elsewhere, and soon the gardens were smouldering while smoke poured off the building’s roof.
All semblance of order vanished in a matter of seconds. The hostages stampeded from the great hall, Paul’s crew helpless to stop them—not that they were paying much attention, caught up as they were in their own panic.
Jay just stood, staring up at the burning room. If Sebastian had been in there—if Jay had sent him to his death—
A stray thought screamed for attention: Cabot wasn’t here. He couldn’t be.
Clearly he’d been the one to cut the pulley rope for the portcullis, but doing so would’ve trapped him inside Medway Castle with his own firebomb. He wouldn’t have set it off if he were still in the building.
Which meant there was some other way out.
Sebastian had said Medway Castle was once a staging post on a smuggling route. Large shipments passing through the front gate of what was supposed to be a derelict estate would’ve raised suspicion—unless there was a second, clandestine entrance.
And the building’s underground tunnels were far older than the rest of the servants’ corridors.
The lounge was, for now, a safe distance from the parts of the hotel that were on fire—and it had an entrance to the servants’ passages. Jay shouldered his way through the door into white plaster passageways, hurrying down the first staircase he found until he reached the maze of tunnels beneath the building. Somewhere under the north wing, he picked up that damp smell again.
Medway Castle lay just south of the river. And smugglers transported quite a few of their goods by boat.
Jay followed the scent of water down to what was once a cellar, but had since fallen into disuse; at the back of the room a pile of mouldering crates had been pushed aside to reveal a door. He tugged it open to find a long, dark tunnel on the other side; a faint, humid breeze wafted through the air.
Retracing his steps, Jay returned to the courtyard and elbowed his way through the panicking crowd until he spotted Paul. “There’s another way out,” he gasped, grabbing the man by the elbow. “You need to get the hostages down into the tunnels.”
Paul stared at him, his eyes already starting to water from the smoke. “You can’t be serious.”
“You can have a few dozen bodies with your names on them, or you can have all these people testifying you saved their lives,” Jay snapped. “Your choice.”
Paul wavered, casting wildly about the chaos in the courtyard. “They won’t trust us.”
Jay had to concede that point, but a flash of pink in the crowd offered a solution. Jay shoved his way toward it, dragging Paul with him. “Bernie!”
Bernadette Hurst stumbled to a halt. “Jay!” She hurried to meet him, sparing only a glance at Paul. “Oh my god. Where’s Sebby? Is he—?”
“I’ll find him,” Jay promised, and tugged Paul forward. “There’s an exit in the old cellar,” he rattled off quickly. “Through the lounge, into the servants’ corridors, down the stairs into the old tunnels. You two are going to get everyone out.”
Hurst didn’t seem entirely onboard with this plan; Paul, to his credit, gave her an apologetic shrug.
That was apparently enough; with a firm nod, Hurst turned and took a deep breath. Bellowed orders echoed through the burning courtyard, bullying the panicked crowd into submission.
Jay didn’t have time to sit and observe the results. He needed to get back inside.
As he stepped back, Paul’s hand clamped around his arm. “Where are you going?”
Jay wrenched his arm from Paul’s grip. “My partner’s still in there.”
“And the whole wing is on fire,” Paul shot back. “You can’t go back in—that’s insane.”
“I’m not leaving him,” Jay said, unwavering.
Paul’s face was still obscured by his mask, but in what little of his expression Jay could see was a kind of understanding. “Right, then,” he said. “Good luck.”
It was, among other things, a firm goodbye.
The fire was spreading too quickly to drop down to a crawl; Sebastian needed to stay on his feet, but did his best to keep low, out of the smoke. The ceiling was burning, the heat of it hammering down on him from above as he staggered through Medway Castle’s halls. His head swam, and he was panting hard—struggling to draw enough air into his lungs. Hard to tell at this point whether the smoke inhalation or blood loss was to blame.
There was a staircase ahead; he leaned against against the banister to steady himself on his way down, but his foot came down on the edge of a step instead of the centre and slipped out from under him. He fell, tumbling for a good three meters before he managed to stop himself.
The temptation arose to just lie there and rest, but instead he gripped the banister and tried to haul himself upright. His knees wobbled under him, then crumpled.
Sweat trickled down Sebastian’s temples. The fire was closing in, searing heat licking at the back of his neck.
So this was how it would happen. He wished he knew whether Jay got out.
As if in response to the unspoken question, a voice called out: “Sebastian!”
And there was Jay at the foot of the stairs, taking them two at a time; one arm was raised to shield his face from the heat and smoke while he reached for Sebastian with the other. He grabbed Sebastian’s wrist, stepping back to try and pull him to his feet, but Sebastian’s legs wouldn’t cooperate and he was too heavy for someone Jay’s size to budge by force.
Jay’s frantic worry hardened into a firm glare. “I can’t carry you, Moran, so you need to move.”
Well. That was him told.
With a low groan, Sebastian braced himself against the banister and pushed as Jay pulled; his whole body protested the effort, but he managed to lever himself to a wobbly standing position. Jay slung Sebastian’s arm around his shoulders and Sebastian leaned heavily against him as, together, they stumbled the rest of the way down the stairs.
A door to the servants’ corridors hung open nearby, Jay steered them toward it.
“This isn’t the exit,” Sebastian remarked muzzily as they passed into the cramped passageway.
“Front door’s blocked,” Jay replied sharply. Then he was navigating them carefully down another set of stairs into the underground tunnels. Sebastian couldn’t quite follow the twists and turns in his current state, but soon they were passing through an old cellar into a long, damp tunnel. Sebastian smelled fresh air; Jay had found another way out.
“You remembered.” Sebastian allowed himself a weary, soppy grin. “About the smugglers.”
“Of course,” Jay replied irritably.
The thin layer of mud covering the floor of the tunnel was disturbed; someone had come down this way ahead of them. A lot of someones. “Who else got out?”
“I had Bernie evacuate all the hostages,” Jay replied. “The other crew went with them. Someone’s bound to have called 999—should be an ambulance waiting when we get outside.”
“What about Cabot?”
Jay shrugged, jostling Sebastian in the process. “By now? He’ll be in the wind.”
Ahead of them a tall, bulky body separated from the shadows of the tunnel and blocked their path. Henry Jacob Cabot was weary, bedraggled, and a bit muddy—and he still had his gun.
Sebastian blinked at him. “You’re sure about that, are you?”
“On second thought,” Jay said, “he might’ve been lurking about to make sure everything went to plan.”
Sebastian nodded. “D’you suppose he panicked when he saw all those people coming out of the escape tunnel?”
“I’d say yes.”
“Shut up,” Cabot snarled, glaring at Sebastian as he raised the gun. “It was you, wasn’t it? You knew about the smugglers. You’re the reason it all fell apart.”
“Cabot, you silly bitch,” Jay snapped. “How does shooting us fix anything? Everyone’s escaped already—the crew you hired, the hostages—”
“The hostages don’t know anything,” Cabot interrupted, gruff and dismissive. “And the others are criminals—nobody will care what they have to say. But you—” the gun twitched toward Sebastian. “You’re a loose end. You know more than you should.”
He’d barely even looked at Jay—couldn’t consider the possibility he was relevant.
Sebastian turned his head just enough to catch Jay’s eye. Jay’s chin dipped in a short, subtle nod.
Cabot was smart, and methodical. He’d seized the opportunity presented by the drive, carefully calculated every step of his plan, and been careful to obscure his involvement. But he was no soldier.
And when it came to guns, amateurs always made the same mistake: they got too close.
Sebastian shoved Jay aside, safely out of the way, and lunged for Cabot. In his current state Sebastian’s only viable tactic was to drive them both to the floor; something fell from Cabot’s pocket as they went down, skittering away across the tunnel. Sebastian’s good hand clamped around Cabot’s wrist, forcing the muzzle of the gun toward the wall.
Cabot’s lips pulled away from his teeth, face flushing with effort as he heaved under Sebastian and struggled to wrench his gun hand free. Sebastian tipped all his weight forward onto Cabot’s barrel chest, pinning him at his centre of gravity, every muscle in his good arm trembling with the effort necessary to keep the gun under control.
And then Cabot’s other hand clamped down over Sebastian’s injured arm. His thumb found the bullet wound, and there was a triumphant flash in Cabot’s eyes as he dug in, twisting viciously. Pain arced hot and sharp up the length of Sebastian’s arm, and all Sebastian’s breath left his lungs in a gasping grunt; his grip on Cabot’s wrist faltered, and then he was tumbling, shoved back onto the floor as Cabot tore himself free.
A moment later Cabot was on his feet, the muzzle of his gun pointed squarely at Sebastian, finger closing around the trigger.
Jay’s voice cut through the tunnel vision of the fight: “Wait!”
He stood a few paces away with the drive in his hand, holding it up for Cabot to see. “Don’t hurt him.” It was a breathless, terrified plea. “You can have this back, just—just don’t hurt him. Please.”
Cabot’s gaze fixed on the drive, even as he kept the gun pointed at Sebastian. He backed up a few more steps, angling toward Jay, reaching—
Jay dodged out of range. “Put the gun down, first.”
With a snort of contempt, Cabot tossed the gun aside; it hit the floor with a clatter as he snatched the drive from Jay’s hand. Then he was gone, darting up the tunnel toward the surface.
Sebastian groaned, using his good arm to push himself to his knees. Jay collapsed next to him, bracing Sebastian’s body with his own; he was warm, and leaning against him felt nice, and everything after that got a bit blurry.
“Captain Moran?” said a crisp voice, prodding Sebastian awake as he dozed in his hospital bed.
He groaned. The major advantage of being in hospital, as far as Sebastian was concerned, was the certainty that nothing needed one’s immediate attention while one was there. Any true emergency was, by the nature of the place, somebody else’s job.
Sebastian had spent the day or so after the gala in various states of sedation and half-awareness. He’d undergone surgery to remove the bullet in his arm and patch up the damage; there had likely been a blood transfusion or two involved as well, but he wasn’t exactly paying attention.
Provided he didn’t mysteriously die in the night, he expected he’d be discharged in the morning. The nurses came by every few hours to make sure he was still breathing, but otherwise he’d been left in peace.
Until now.
Sebastian pried his eyes open. The man standing at the foot of his bed was of average height, with a receding hairline and wearing an off-the-rack suit. Everything about him screamed “spook.” Behind him, tucked away in the corner of the room, was another man: taller, much heavier, with hawklike features and long-fingered hands he kept folded neatly in front of him.
“I was wondering why they put me in a private room.” Sebastian rubbed his eyes and sighed. “What do you want?”
“My name is Adam Ward,” said the man in the cheap suit. “I work for His Majesty’s Government. I’d like to talk about what happened at Medway Castle last night.”
Sebastian had picked up bits and pieces from the nurses and doctors throughout the day; Medway Castle burned rather spectacularly, although the stone and brick that made up most of its construction meant the place was left more or less standing. All the hostages had made it out alive—although Cabot was noted as missing—and the other crew was already long gone by the time Jay dragged Sebastian from the tunnel and out onto the riverbank.
“Already gave a statement,” he grumbled.
“Your statement to the police was lacking a few details,” Ward said, which was a very polite way of declaring it utterly incoherent. “It would be a great help if you could go through it all again, with us.”
Without knowing what the other guests were saying, Sebastian found it best to stick with the broad strokes of the truth. “I was at the gala with my boyfriend,” he said, putting a bit of emphasis on the word “boyfriend”; he liked the way it made Ward tense slightly around the eyes. “We were, ah … busy in one of the meeting rooms when we heard gunshots and saw everyone get rounded up into the courtyard. Managed to keep our heads down and hide in the servants’ corridors.”
Ward nodded; he wasn’t taking any notes. Neither was his mysterious superior in the corner.
“We tried calling 999,” Sebastian went on, “but we couldn’t get any signal. So we started looking for another way to get a message out. Then someone took a shot at me. I was losing a lot of blood, so Jay—”
“The boyfriend?” Ward asked.
“Yeah,” Sebastian confirmed. “He went to confront the people holding the place hostage—tried to convince them to let us out.”
The man in the corner finally stirred. “Brave of him,” he remarked.
A besotted smile crept across Sebastian’s face. “Yeah.”
“And the fire?” Ward prompted, hurrying him along.
“Some kind of incendiary device, I think,” Sebastian said. “Everyone agreed to clear out at that point; they used some old smuggling tunnel under the hotel. Jay came back to get me out. Can’t remember much after that, I’m afraid.” He shrugged. “Not sure how any of this is something your lot would care about.”
Ward glanced over his shoulder. The man in the corner nodded.
“While your security clearance was revoked after your discharge from the military,” Ward said, turning back to Sebastian, “there is certain information I’ve been authorised to share with you. There will be legal consequences if you disclose anything we’re about to discuss. Do you understand?”
Sebastian nodded.
“Are you acquainted with Lord Henry Cabot?” Ward asked.
That was concerning. “I met him at the gala,” Sebastian replied. “Don’t really know him well, so if you’ve got any personal questions, I suggest you ask him.”
“Lord Cabot is dead,” Ward replied, matter-of-factly. “His body was found in the aftermath of what appears to be a clandestine meeting. An external hard drive was recovered at the scene, but it was damaged.”
It wasn’t hard to figure out what happened: Cabot had met with his fence for the drive, and they’d killed him. But they’d left the drive behind—why? Because it wasn’t what was promised? Maybe the contents were missing—
—or corrupted.
Jay had held that drive in his bare hands. Did it have his fingerprints on it? He’d had Sebastian’s blood on him, and that could leave a DNA trace. But the buyers would’ve handled the drive, too—was that why it was damaged? Had they sanitised it to destroy any evidence?
If Sebastian’s train of thought showed on his face, Ward didn’t appear to notice. “We have reason to believe Lord Cabot acquired a leaked government asset at the gala last night,” he explained. “Did you happen to see him meeting with anyone in particular?”
He could feed them Thomas Stoddard; the man probably deserved it. But if the government laid hands on Stoddard, then sooner or later they’d find out what was on the drive—and there was no telling where that information might lead them.
But once again, he had some version of the truth to fall back on. “He was speaking with Freddie Clarke for a bit,” Sebastian said. “Bernie—Bernadette Hurst—mentioned him. Can’t recall anyone else.”
The man in the corner piped up again: “Your file takes care to mention your exceptional observation skills, Captain Moran.”
“It also says ‘discharged,’” Sebastian shot back. “I’m not a soldier anymore.”
The man in the corner didn’t respond, but his eyes remained fixed on Sebastian.
Sebastian turned back to Ward. “I wish I could help,” he said. “Maybe somebody else saw something.”
Ward didn’t share his feigned optimism. “Thank you for your time, Captain.” He strode from the room; after another long stare, the man in the corner followed him out.
Even in the dead of night, hospitals were noisy places. Sebastian dozed, but couldn’t quite manage to sleep; every time he started to drift off there was some announcement or conversation outside the door, or rush of footsteps down the hall, that startled him back to consciousness.
He was therefore awake when, sometime around midnight, the door to his room opened and someone slipped inside.
Jay’s silhouette, the sound of his breathing, were unmistakable even in the dark. He closed the door gently behind him, unaware Sebastian wasn’t asleep and thus careful not to disturb him.
“It’s well past visiting hours,” Sebastian said, just loud enough for Jay to hear across the room.
There was a pause. Then Jay said, “Did you know you can just buy nursing scrubs?”
Sebastian huffed a laugh as Jay moved to the bed and perched on the edge of the mattress. He reached out to touch Sebastian’s arm, fingertips worrying the edge of the dressing wrapped around it. They hadn’t seen each other since Sebastian’s arrival at the hospital last night; Jay wasn’t allowed past the waiting room.
“I’m all right,” Sebastian reassured him. “No permanent damage.”
Jay breathed a soft noise of relief; then he was moving over Sebastian, bending to kiss him. He missed his target in the dark, brushing his lips blindly against Sebastian’s nose and cheek before finally making contact with his mouth. Sebastian slung his good arm around Jay’s waist and pulled him in close; as they parted for air, he nuzzled in close to Jay’s ear.
Keeping his voice low, just in case the room was bugged, he said, “You switched the drives.”
With their chests pressed together, Sebastian felt it when Jay’s breath hitched a little. A moment later he nodded, his temple bumping against Sebastian’s.
“MI-5 was here,” Sebastian went on. “Cabot’s dead.”
Jay didn’t react; if he was surprised, he didn’t show it. When he’d switched the real drive for the decoy, had he guessed Cabot would be killed for trying to sell it? Did he care?
“They recovered the decoy.” Sebastian’s arm tightened around Jay’s waist. “Tell me there’s nothing on there that could lead back to you.”
“Absolutely nothing.” Jay’s fingers brushed Sebastian’s forehead, thumb trailing down to rest between his eyebrows. “We’re safe. I’m safe.”
Sebastian finally let himself breathe, leaning into the touch. “Was it worth it?”
Jay was quiet for a moment—organising his thoughts. “You know the Snoopers’ Charter?”
Sebastian nodded. The Investigative Powers Act had been passed a few years ago; Britain’s intelligence agencies could, under the act, approach any tech company with a presence in the country and demand they alter their software or hardware to facilitate government surveillance.
“Different Computing got a visit from MI-5,” Jay continued. “Every Different phone backs up to the company’s cloud servers. That data is encrypted, so only the owner of the phone can ever use it—but the government wanted access, too. So they ordered Different to build a back door.”
“That’s what’s on the drive,” Sebastian realised. “The keys to that back door.” Different’s phones accounted for a huge percentage of the mobile phone market, which meant … “Do you have access to most everyone’s phone in the whole country?”
“Not … exactly.” There was an odd tension in Jay’s voice. “Every exploit is a total exploit. Different had to keep the back door secret, or else anyone could use it. And if they had one version of their backup utility for the UK and another version for everywhere else, it’d be easy to guess why—so they had to put the back door into every phone backup everywhere.” Jay’s body trembled against Sebastian’s, shaking with excitement—or fear. “Sebastian … I have access to every Different phone in the world.”
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