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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.
No time existed for her to consider the implications of what she’d done. Instead, she rushed toward the door and studied the lock. Brass. New. The door itself all metal.
She kicked it a few times.
Solid and opening toward her, which meant a metal jam was providing extra strength.
Only one way.
She stepped back, aimed the gun, and emptied the magazine into the lock.
GARY NEVER ALLOWED HIS GAZE TO BREAK.
Everything happened so fast he doubted Antrim realized that the backpack was gone. His attention had been on Ian and the gun. Antrim continued to back into the darkness of the other room, the gun still aimed their way. He was no longer visible but, thanks to the lights, they remained in full view to him.
His dad was watching, too.
“Let him go,” Gary said, his lips barely moving.
MALONE HEARD GARY’S WORDS.
“What’s he got?” he quietly asked, keeping his eyes on the dark doorway across the room.
“Bad explosives,” Gary mumbled. “Superhot. They burn people. He brought them in the backpack.”
What had Mathews told him at Hampton Court? About Antrim and Henry VIII’s grave? He used percussion explosives to crack away the marble slab above the remains. He knew their capabilities. And limitations.
His eyes raked the room, confirming what he’d seen a few moments ago.
The backpack was gone.
“Let him go,” Gary breathed again.
ANTRIM GRIPPED THE DETONATOR IN HIS RIGHT HAND. HE was safe within the second room, Malone and the two boys visible through the doorway in the next chamber. Plenty of protection stood between him and the PEs. He kept his gun aimed, which Malone seemed to respect, as none of the three had moved. A quick glance back and he saw the blackened outline of the other exit only a few feet away. He had no idea where it led, but obviously it was a way out, and far preferable to heading in the direction of Thomas Mathews. His eyes were still accustomed to the lights and he allowed his pupils a moment to dilate, preparing himself for darkness. He carried no flashlight, but neither had Malone, which meant that the way out was easy to follow. He’d just have to keep his eyes shielded during the explosion.
Thomas Mathews wanted him to kill Malone. The boys? Collateral damage. Two fewer witnesses to all that had transpired.
Gary?
It didn’t matter.
He was no father.
The past twenty-four hours had proven that.
He was better off alone.
And alone he would be.
He dropped to the floor and prepared to hunker down close.
He aimed the detonator.
And pushed the button.
A flash sparked ten feet away.
Here.
In this room.
The darkness was dissolved by orange, then yellow, and finally blue light.
He screamed.
MALONE SAW A FLASH, HEARD A TERRIFIED WHIMPER, AND imagined Antrim’s face, a study in horror as he realized what was coming. He dove left and swept Gary and Ian down with him. Together they hit the floor and he shielded both boys from the concussion that poured from the other chamber, intense heat and light surging upward and engulfing the ceiling. The sarcophagus stood between them and the other exit, which blocked much of its effect. Thank goodness those were PEs and not conventional explosives, as the pressure wave would have annihilated both chambers.
But the heat wreaked havoc.
Electrical conduits severed and the lightbulbs burst with a blast of blue sparks. The PEs exhausted themselves in a mere few seconds, like magician’s flash paper, the room plunged into total darkness. He glanced up and caught the bitter waft of spent carbon, the once cool air now midday-warm.
“You okay?” he asked the boys.
Both said they were.
They’d all heard the scream.
“You did what you had to,” he said to Gary.
“He would have killed us,” Ian added.
But Gary remained silent.
A crack broke the silence. Like wood splintering, only louder, more pronounced. Then another. Followed by more. He tensed as a gnawing anticipation grew within him. He knew what was happening. The centuries-old bricks that made up the walls and ceiling of the adjacent chamber had just been subjected to heat intense enough to crack their surface. Couple that with the pressures of holding back tons of earth and it would not take much for all of it to give way.
Something crashed in the other room.
Hard and heavy.
Followed by another thud powerful enough to shake the floor.
Ceiling stone was raining down. Their chamber was okay, for the moment. But they needed to leave.
One problem.
Total darkness surrounded them.
He could not even see his hand in front of his eyes.
No way to know which way to go.
And little time to find out.
KATHLEEN TOSSED THE GUN ONTO THE BRIDGE AND LUNGED for the metal door. She’d planted four rounds into the lock, obliterating it. Risky, considering the ricochets off the metal, but she’d had no choice. The door was equipped with no knob or handle, only the lock that kept it shut, an inserted key the way to ease it open once the tumblers were released.
But she had no key.
Another kick and the panel jarred loose enough from its jamb for her to curl her fingers inside and yank it outward. Two solid tugs and the mutilated lock gave way, the door bursting open.
She immediately noticed the odor. Carbon. Burnt. Just like from Henry VIII’s grave at Windsor. Spent percussion explosives.
Something had happened.
A passage stretched before her, everything in solid darkness. The only light was what leaked in from the river tunnel, which was barely illuminated by
overhead grates.
She heard a crash.
A heavy mass slamming downward.
No choice on what to do.
“Ian? Gary? Malone?”
MALONE HEARD KATHLEEN RICHARDS.
She’d made it to them.
Elation and panic mingled within him.
More stone cascading downward drowned out Richards’ pleas. Then something smashed to pieces only a few feet away. The carnage was spreading and a toxic cloud of dust was enveloping them.
Breathing was difficult.
They had to go.
“We’re in here,” he called out. “Keep talking.”
IAN HEARD RICHARDS, TOO, HER VOICE FAR OFF, PROBABLY IN the tunnel that led from the bridge.
“She’s back from where we came,” he said to Malone through the blackness.
More stone cracked to rubble only a few feet away.
“Everyone up,” Malone said. “Hold hands.”
He felt Gary’s grip in his.
“We’re in a chamber,” Malone called out. “Beyond the tunnel where you are.”
“I’ll count out,” Richards said. “Follow the voice.”
GARY HELD HIS FATHER’S AND IAN’S HANDS.
The chamber was collapsing, and the one in which Antrim had died was probably already gone. The air was stifling and all three of them struggled against fits of coughing, but it was next to impossible not to inhale dust.
His dad led the way and they found the steps.
Stone pounded the floor nearby and his father yanked him up the risers. He held on tight and guided Ian up with him.
He could hear a woman counting from a hundred.
Backward.
MALONE FOCUSED ON RICHARDS’ VOICE, CLIMBING THE STEPS. His right hand groped the air ahead, looking for the doorway he recalled seeing, listening to the numbers.
“87. 86. 85.”
He moved right.
The voice grew fainter.
Back to the left. More rock crumbled to dust behind them as centuries-old engineering succumbed to gravity.
“83. 82. 81. 80.”
His hand found the doorway and he led them out.
The air was better here, breathing easier.
