Chapter Three
You’re sure?
Sure as I can be without dragging him there myself. Which I might.
Good. Deliver the package.
Tonight? In public?
Are you afraid?
No.
Then do it.
What does it mean?
That’s above your pay grade.
—Text message exchange between two prepaid mobile numbers, 3:03 p.m., 31 January 2024
I spend the rest of the day locked in our bedroom, while Kit spends it with Singh’s team, no doubt going over their plans for keeping him alive tonight.
At seven-thirty, just before Kit is due to head out, he knocks softly on the door.
I’m curled up in our bed with a book in my lap, staring at the same page—the same paragraph—I have been for ages, and for a wild moment, I consider pretending to be asleep.
I tell myself that I don’t want to say anything that might distract him from his mission, but the cowardly truth is I’m not sure I can face him, either.
Not when there’s a real risk I might never see him again.
The seconds tick by in silence, and when I hear the floorboards creak, as if he’s taken a single step away from the door, another wave of panic floods me like a dam has broken, and suddenly I can’t breathe at the thought of not getting to hug him one last time.
Flinging the book off my lap, I scramble to my feet and launch myself at the door, only to nearly hit myself in the face as I yank it open and—
There he is, standing a few steps away now, his dark eyes guarded and vulnerable. And I can’t move another inch.
“I…” He clears his throat. “I’m about to head out. I just wanted to…to say goodbye.”
I can feel the impact of the word between us, and something in my chest twists painfully, as if the bullet is still lodged inside and has decided to bury itself in my heart instead.
“It’s a good plan, right?” I say, the words cracking. “Singh and MI5—they’ve got your back?”
“They’ve got my back,” he confirms. “I wouldn’t go if they didn’t, Ev. I promise.”
I don’t want him to go at all, and I curse the version of me that ever thought this was a good idea—that Kit and I could ever bring down a terrorist organization, even with the entirety of MI5 behind us. “Please don’t die,” I manage, nearly choking on the words.
His arms are around me in an instant, and he buries his nose in my hair, even as I press my leaking eyes into his shoulder. He’s wearing a black button-down and gray trousers, and idly I wonder if he’ll change before he leaves, or if he’ll carry my tears and snot with him to this meeting.
“Singh said you could watch the live feeds with him, if you want,” he whispers, stroking my hair. “And there will be agents everywhere. If anything goes wrong, they’ll be no more than fifteen seconds away at any given time, all right? They’ll get me out of there.”
I count to fifteen in my head. It might as well be infinity. “You don’t have—a Kevlar vest on,” I say, with a hiccup in between, and I run my fingers over his shirt. His chest is beneath, with nothing protecting him from a bullet.
“Singh thinks they’ll search me, and a vest would give it away,” he says quietly. “And I agree. Guns are illegal in the UK, and I doubt Dylan will be carrying around a hunting rifle.”
Even though he’s right, I can’t help the extra layer of anxiety that wraps around me like insulation, muffling any sense. “How long?”
“A few hours, maybe,” he says. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
A few hours. I have no idea what I’ll do with myself, but I nod anyway and peer up at him. “I love you,” I say, and it comes out as more of an accusation than a declaration. “Don’t you dare die.”
Kit smiles down at me, but I can see the sheen in his eyes, too. “I’ll do my very best,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
I walk him to the apartment door and watch him stride to the lift, accompanied by four guards in full-body armor.
He glances over his shoulder and lifts his hand in a wave, and I hold mine up in return, my vision blurring as the doors open and he steps inside.
My last glimpse of him is of the back of his dark, wavy hair, and as the lift shuts behind him, I fill my lungs with air like I’m steeling myself against a storm, and I head toward Singh’s makeshift command center at the end of the hallway.
I don’t bother knocking. Singh barely glances up from the wall of monitors he and his tech geniuses have set up, and instantly I pick out the camera that they’ve managed to attach to Kit through what I quickly realize is a button on his shirt. Apparently he won’t be changing after all.
That feed doesn’t show him—it only shows the lift doors opening, revealing the lobby of our building, and I can see each step he takes.
But there are other cameras on the guards that surround him, and with my eyes glued on the expression of neutrality Kit wears, masking his own fear, I settle into the seat Singh gestures for me to take. The one beside his.
“If you kill him,” I say quietly, “I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.”
“Noted,” says Singh. And together we settle back to watch the single most terrifying night of my life.
—
Three hours. That’s how long a glossy, charming, posh version of Kit I’ve never seen before is stuck holding court for dozens of preening sycophants who spend all night vying for his attention.
Given his closeness to the crown, I half expect him to be shunned at this party full of antimonarchists, but instead he’s center stage, by far the most interesting thing at an event supposedly dedicated to honoring the real Guy Fawkes’s brutal death.
A startling number of partygoers greet him like an old friend, and beside me, Singh scribbles names and descriptions as they come, noting who shows genuine concern for Kit’s well-being and who praises him for his supposed role in the Modern Music Museum bombing.
Kit’s reluctant to talk about it, but eventually the crowd convinces him to recount his own death-defying perspective of the terrorist attack—with made-up details, as far as I can tell, since I’m pretty sure there was no grand piano in the foyer that was crushed when the ceiling caved in on top of us—and the members of Fox Rex clap and cheer and gasp with delight.
“How is His Majesty doing, anyway?” says a smirking boy named Wesley. I want to reach through the screen and throttle him.
“I don’t know,” says Kit, and there’s a strain in his voice that doesn’t sound like he’s pretending. “I wish I had better news for you, but…”
Someone giggles, and I’m immediately reminded of the fact that in this crowd, better news doesn’t exactly equal the King of England’s good health.
At long last, Dylan appears in Kit’s feed. The crowd parts for him, revealing his dark outfit and stoic expression, and I immediately spot the odd bulge at his hip. “Singh…”
“I see it,” he says, and he immediately presses a button and speaks into a mic he hasn’t touched so far. “Alpha team, the suspect is in range with a potential firearm. Over.”
There’s a flurry of activity from half a dozen feeds that have shown nothing but darkness or dim lights so far, but I can’t pull my eyes away from Kit’s monitor. Dylan steps closer, and Kit rises to greet him.
“Dylan,” he says. “It’s about time.”
“Lord Clarence,” says Dylan in a tone that makes it clear he knows how much Kit hates his title. “I thought I’d give you the chance to speak with your fans before I cut in.”
“And what a lovely conversation we’ve all had,” says Kit, and I can hear his warm, insincere smile. A few people nearby giggle, and my nails dig so deeply into my palms that my skin throbs.
“Get out of there,” I whisper. “Run.”
“Guy sends his apologies,” says Dylan. “He was hoping to be here, but I’m afraid something came up.”
Singh snorts. “Of course it did. Best to send in the sacrificial lambs first to make sure no one gets arrested.”
I ignore him. “Does Kit have an earpiece in? Can someone warn him about the gun?”
“We don’t know it’s a gun,” Singh points out. “Take a deep breath, Evangeline. Alpha team is on it.”
“You’re really going to tell me to relax right now when I can see the cords in your neck?” I counter. Singh swallows, and the tension in his shoulders lessens only slightly. But at least he doesn’t try to tell me to calm down again.
We’ve missed something, and now Kit is following Dylan away from the main party, his overcoat draped over his arm. My heart thuds against my ribs. “Where are they going?”
Singh presses the mic button again. “Suspect is on the move with asset. Alpha team, stay close. Beta team, get in position. No deadly force without my say.”
“Yes, deadly force,” I protest. “Dylan has a gun—”
“Evan,” says Singh sharply, his stare fixed on the monitors. “If you can’t handle this, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I want to claw his eyes out. I want to reach across the space between us and do as much damage as I can to Singh’s face with my bare hands, but instead I clamp my mouth shut and rise to my feet, as if that will help Kit somehow. But I don’t move from my spot.
They end up in an empty room that looks like it might’ve been an old-fashioned parlor at one point, with mauve wallpaper and large dark spots on the sun-bleached floor where furniture must have once stood.
Dylan leans against the wall, fully at ease, while Kit remains several feet away, his back to the door.
“Why am I here?” says Kit, and Dylan shrugs.
“Guy thinks you’re useful to the club, and it’s my neck on the line if I lose you. Besides, you’re my mate, Kitters. And I’d hate for a misunderstanding to get in the way of years’ worth of friendship.”
A misunderstanding. He’s calling the bombing and the deaths of eight people a misunderstanding. “That’s it?” says Kit. “This was a test to see if I’d come?”
“It’s an apology.” Dylan reaches for the bulge on his hip, and I grip the back of my chair as Singh presses the mic button again.
“Hold—hold until I say so,” he says with a note of anger in his voice, and I notice a high-powered rifle on a monitor in the corner, pointed through a window and aimed directly at Dylan.
“For you,” says Dylan as he pulls something from its holster at his side.
A strange buzzing fills my ears, and my brain goes wild trying to fill in the blank the camera hasn’t caught yet.
But when we finally get a good shot of the old-fashioned pistol in Dylan’s hand, the first thing I notice is that it has a ribbon wrapped around the barrel. Which is pointed at the floor.
The gun is a gift.
“What the hell?” mutters Singh, and he presses the mic again. “Stay at the ready, but do not engage.”
Kit reaches for it, his hands shaking slightly. “An antique,” he says, the words strained. “How thoughtful.”
“From Guy himself,” says Dylan, relinquishing the weapon. I almost melt with relief. “Your father collects them, doesn’t he?”
“He used to,” says Kit shortly. “Please thank Guy for me. I look forward to meeting him.”
“Soon, I’m sure,” says Dylan, and he offers him a terse nod. “Go back to your fan club, Kitters. I’ll text you when Guy’s ready to arrange a meeting.”
Kit makes a vague sound and steps out of the room, turning his back to Dylan. Rather than returning to the relative safety of the party, like I expect, Kit pulls on his overcoat and heads straight for the side door, stepping out into the cold January night.
“That’s enough,” he says quietly. At first I don’t understand, but when Singh exhales a sigh and presses the mic button, I realize Kit is finally, finally leaving the party.
“Alpha team, shadow the asset until he rendezvous with transportation,” says Singh. “Beta team, keep an eye on the suspect until he’s out of sight. Mind the exits until the asset is collected.”
While he speaks, Kit takes off down the dark street at a hurried pace. As he buttons his coat, the camera catches sight of his hands, and my heart wrenches with dread.
There’s nothing subtle about the way they tremble now.