The Chequers Inn sat at the edge of a village so tiny, it was really little more than a crossroads.
The inn had to be very old, Allie thought, as she waited in the back seat of the SUV parked a short distance down the road. Its stone walls were pitted and worn with age. Its windows were tiny, as windows all used to be in the days before glass became plentiful and cheap. A flowering vine grew up one wall and over the top of the roof.
Aside from the inn and a village green surrounded by a low, stone wall, there were only a few thatch-roofed houses, so picturesque and charming they might have been made of gingerbread.
From there, the land sprawled out into farms, hedgerows and rolling hills.
It was quiet. They’d been out here ten minutes, parked in the shade of an oak tree at the edge of the green, and not a single car had driven by since they arrived.
In the front seat, Zelazny talked into his mobile phone. The driver sat next to him, eyes on his watch.
They’d planned as much as they could. Now they had to wait.
Raj was at St John’s Fields, waiting for Nine to leave. If he’d stuck to the same schedule as yesterday, he’d be here by now. But he hadn’t kept to that schedule, and now everyone was trying to decide what to do.
Come on, Nine, Allie thought. Just show up.
She bit nervously on the edge of her increasingly ragged thumbnail. If he didn’t come tonight, the whole plan was thrown into disarray. They had eight hours left on Nathaniel’s clock. Eight.
At one in the morning, it would all be over.
Nine had to show.
Two escort vehicles were nearby – one a short distance behind them. Another some way ahead.
They must have gone over the plan a hundred times throughout the day. Up to, and including, role-playing, with Dom playing Owen Moran, sitting at a table telling Allie to go to hell.
Her opening lines, her polished answers to his inevitable questions, were drilled into her memory. They hadn’t left the school until Isabelle decided she was ready. The answers they’d worked on rolled off her tongue more easily than her own thoughts.
Now she just needed someone to say them to.
She glanced at her watch – it was twenty minutes to six. Maybe he wasn’t going to show at all.
The driver glanced at Zelazny. ‘I’m stepping outside to keep watch. Just in case.’
The history teacher gave a sharp nod. ‘Understood.’
The driver stepped out, shutting the door behind him gently, as if he didn’t want to disturb the stillness. Allie stared through the car window at the picture-perfect village around them. It was so green and tiny. So tranquil. It didn’t seem possible such a place could exist.
She could understand why a war veteran might come here every day to sit by himself and observe such peace.
‘Are you ready?’ Zelazny’s voice broke the silence as he turned in his seat to face her.
‘I hope so,’ she said.
‘You are,’ he assured her. ‘You keep a cool head when things get dangerous – that’ll see you through this.’
Allie studied the back of his head curiously. There’d been a time when she loathed Zelazny. For a while, she’d even suspected he was Nathaniel’s spy.
But things had changed. He’d fought relentlessly for her and Lucinda. He hated Nathaniel and everything he stood for. And he loved Cimmeria Academy the way some men love their country – with a kind of religious fervour.
She didn’t doubt for a minute she could trust him completely. It meant a lot that he had faith in her.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Time ticked by.
It was so quiet that when Zelazny’s phone buzzed, they both jumped. Muttering to himself, he pushed the answer button.
‘Zelazny,’ he barked.
He listened for a minute as the caller spoke. Allie held her breath; her heart thudded so loudly in her ears she was sure he’d hear it in the front seat.
‘Copy that.’ Shoving the phone back in his pocket, he turned to look at her.
‘Get ready. He’s on his way.’
Allie’s hand shook as she pushed open the heavy wood door of the Chequers. She tried to keep her expression serenely disinterested. As if she came here every day at precisely this time.
But her knees felt unsteady as she stepped inside.
A wave of warmth and scent hit her – frying meat, spices. A rumble of conversation filled the air.
It was just after six o’clock, and the dining room was half full.
Normally she’d have noticed what a lovely old place it was – thick columns and a low, beamed ceiling, a gigantic fireplace on one wall, with iron cooking pots hung around it for decoration.
But she was focused on a man sitting near the window, his light brown hair short and neat, just as it had been the other night.
Nine was here. And he hadn’t seen her yet.
A huge man in an apron bustled by carrying two plates.
‘Sit anywhere you like, luv,’ he said in a thick Hampshire accent. ‘I’ll be with you in a thrice.’