Chapter 20
Rhys
“Thank you for meeting us on such short notice,” Rhys said appreciatively, reaching out to shake Laila and Dex’s hands a few days after their Monopoly game.
Laila’s smile was almost blindingly white.
“It’s no trouble, honestly,” she answered, her American accent a stark contrast to theirs.
She pulled her waist-length brown hair over her shoulder as she reached across the table to shake Penny’s hand.
“Plus, we got some bonus sightseeing in. Big Ben is literally outside. The Big Ben. We’re booked on a sightseeing tour tomorrow to see it, and it ended up being right there.
The fact that all this was built in the Victorian Age is just wild to me, man. ”
Rhys encouraged Penny to take a seat in the booth first, preferring her to be safely nestled between him and the wall. Initially, he hadn’t expected Laila and Dex to want to meet in a café on the lowest level of Westminster tube station, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
The phone would send a signal out to Chomsky the moment it was turned on—unless that signal was blocked by four stories of clay.
Even so, he hated this. He hated Penny being in danger.
The last few days in Roman’s flat had been a glimmering oasis in the chaos that their lives had descended into.
They were, he had come to realise, what he wanted his life to look like.
He wanted a future with her. Watching television with her curled in his arms. Trying new recipes together.
Even something as simple as changing the bedsheets as a team.
Would she want that too? Or was this just a fling to her?
Either way, he should have insisted she stayed behind. How hard could Chomsky’s systems be to navigate? She could have written down the damn passwords.
“To be fair,” Rhys began, trying not to show his apprehension, “that’s quite recent for London. The building I live in was built during the Regency.”
Laila shook her head in disbelief. “Madness.”
“I forgot to ask, did you guys want some drinks?” Dex chucked his thumb in the direction of the counter. “I’m getting another.”
Penny answered first. “Just a water for me, please.”
Rhys would have liked something alcoholic, but seeing as this was a café and not a pub, he settled for good old-fashioned sugar. “I’d love a Coke.”
“So,” Laila’s tone drew a line beneath their idle chit-chat, transforming it into something business-like. “The phone. It’s a work phone, right?”
Given Penny’s clothes either didn’t have any pockets or had the flimsiest pockets imaginable, Rhys had opted to transport the phone and its cable. He unzipped the inside breast pocket of his jacket and placed the device on the table, pushing it over to Laila.
“Right,” Penny answered. “The important files are all password-protected, but I can unlock the majority of those for you.”
Laila immediately cracked open the phone’s back cover, inspecting the battery and SIM. “When did you last switch this on?”
Rhys stretched his arm across the back of the booth, thanking Dex as he returned with their drinks. “About 300 miles away.”
Laila nodded, resting it on the table as she pulled a laptop out of her bag.
She opened the screen with practiced ease.
A chaotic mish-mash of stickers covered the lid; some weathered, some shiny and new.
The newest ones related to London—a couple of red phone boxes.
The oldest, or at least the most battered, included several cartoon bats, the trans pride flag, and what looked like a cat plucked straight from a medieval painting.
“Once this is on,” Laila began, “Chomsky could be able to track our location.” She directed her gaze towards Penny.
“I’m going to need you to show me the files.
I’ll clone everything you have access to.
I’ll go as quickly as I can, but it’s still going to take time.
There’s a chance they get here before I finish. ”
Rhys found himself pulling Penny closer, his arm around her shoulders. Something brutish and protective swelled in his chest, and he fought the instinct to throw her over his shoulder and take her straight back to the safety of Roman’s flat.
Penny’s eyelids fluttered. Beneath the table, she took his other hand, holding tight as she looked between Dex and Laila. “How do you even know how to do this?”
“I used to work in cybersecurity before I got involved in freelance journalism.” Laila held up the phone like it was a live grenade. “Ready to begin?”
Beneath his arm, he could feel the rigid tension in Penny’s spine. “Ready,” she croaked.
Laila turned it on.
The moment she did, Rhys’s attention shifted to their surroundings.
The tiny café they’d taken up residence in was full of people—men and women with pushchairs, city workers in suits, tourists consulting tube maps, groups of overloud teenagers.
Dex and Laila had taken the booth at the back, meaning they had the comfort of solid walls to the side and behind.
The only approach was from the front, giving them a clear line of sight to the entrance.
Rhys kept his eyes on the entrance as Penny leant forward to show Laila how to find Chomsky’s files.
It wasn’t until he looked down that he realised he had a hand on the small of Penny’s back, constantly circling. Constantly worrying.
The minutes ticked by achingly slowly. The clock above the counter was surely broken. A steady stream of new customers entered the shop, and Rhys was suspicious of each and every one.
It took him a moment to realise that Dex had said something to him.
“Sorry?”
Dex’s expression was sympathetic. “Once Penny’s finished showing Laila where to look, I think it would be a good idea for you and Penny to wait elsewhere.”
Rhys wholeheartedly agreed.
It was another twenty minutes of agony before Laila uttered the words he’d been dying to hear.
“Okie dokie, I think I’ve got everything down.” Her chest expanded on a long inhale. She leant back, flicking her hair from her face. “This is going to take me a while. Do you want to check in with us in a couple of hour—?”
“Yep.” Rhys was halfway out of the booth seat before she finished her sentence. He pulled his little sitting duck to her feet, keeping an eye on the door. “Come on,” he rushed over his words.
“Thank you.” Penny just managed to say to Laila before Rhys escorted her out of the café in a few quick steps.
To Rhys’s relief, the café Laila and Dex had chosen was near the escalators that would take them to the surface.
He kept a firm arm over Penny’s shoulders as the escalator rose.
A sea of people filled the descending escalator opposite them.
Rhys blocked their view of Penny, just in case four stories of sediment hadn’t been enough to cut off the signal to Chomsky.
When they finally reached the surface, he carved through the crowd, heading towards the staircase that would spit them out on Westminster Bridge.
Penny glanced up at him as he began to lead her over the bridge. “I thought we were going to one of the other cafes.”
“Not bloody likely,” he muttered. He regretted ever having brought her here. Fuck his infusion, he should have loaded both of them onto the Stone Holdings’ private plane at the first sign of trouble and stayed with Roman and the rest of the family whilst this mess was sorted out.
They travelled in silence across the bridge, even as his heart thundered in his chest. The journey couldn’t have been longer than five minutes, but to Rhys it felt like forever.
When they finally reached the other side, he steered her into the first shop that caught his eye—an arcade opposite Big Ben, nestled amongst the stalls selling London-themed knick-knacks and souvenirs.
As much as Rhys wanted to protect her, he was one man.
One man couldn’t hold his own against an entire criminal organisation, no matter how much he wanted to.
“In here,” he told her, holding the arcade’s door open. A barrage of noise hit them; chimes and jingles and beeps, all underpinned by the constant hum of children’s laughter.
“We shouldn’t leave them, Rhys. What happens if Chomsk—?”
“Chomsky’s men aren’t looking for them; they’re looking for you. They won’t take half a glance at Dex and Laila. They’ll continue scouring the station for you.” He cradled her jaw with both hands. “Please, if you have any regard for my sanity, wait in here with me. We’re, what, five minutes away?”
Her gaze travelled past him, towards the row of claw machines. That mischievous little smile returned. “I will if you win me a prize.”
Rhys couldn’t help but let out a cocky grin. Claw machines might present a challenge for kids, but for a grown man? He snorted. “Just the one?”
Ninety minutes and three hundred quid later, Rhys breathed a sigh of relief as his prize finally clattered into the little collection chute.
“In my defence,” he began awkwardly, wincing as Penny stood after retrieving the smallest, most unimpressive prize in the entire arcade, “no one really wins at these things.”
Over Penny’s shoulder, a boy no older than ten let out a triumphant yell as the largest claw machine in the arcade dropped a labrador-sized polar bear plushie into its collection chute—a claw machine Rhys had sunk two hundred quid into before giving up.
Rhys had never hated anyone quite so much. It’s wrong to steal from children, he told himself, eyeing the plushie. Even if they’re a jammy little bastard.
Penny’s smile was bright as she examined her prize—a two-inch version of the same polar bear plushie on a tiny keyring. “Thank you!” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips. “I love it, it’s adorable.”
It should be adorable. It cost fifty quid. Rhys grinned, his arms around her waist. “He’ll feel right at home later with the aurora lights in our little love nest.”