“I don’t understand,” Keats replied.
“They changed the bomb delivery schedule in the East End. Made it lot harder. They didn’t over here. Probably figured we wouldn’t find them in time.” Hopkins gestured. “In this one,” he advised, “ground floor, near the north end.”
“How long do we have?” Keats asked.
“Five and a half minutes, as long as they don’t change the timing.”
Keats didn’t want to think about that.
“All right lads. It’s in here,” Keats called out. The dockworkers swept in, racing down the row of casks while calling out encouragement to each other, betting who would be able to find the bomb before the other.
Inspector Ramsey stomped over. “Any luck?”
“Found one in the first warehouse. It’s taken care of.” Keats did the introductions. “Hopkins works with Miss Lassiter.”
“Pinkerton’s?” Ramsey asked. The young man nodded. “Are there any of you left in America?”
“Probably not,” Hopkins replied, smiling.
A dockworker skittered out the door of the nearest building.
“Oy, rozzer. It’s here!” he shouted, jumping up and down like he’d found the Crown Jewels.
Keats took off at a run. The barrel was in an empty space near the back of the building, a knot of men ringed around it.
“The rest of you lads clear off. Go help the others, and I’ll work on this one.”
There was the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps.
Keats dropped to his knees and carefully removed the dynamite, setting it on the floor near him. Then he dug out the cork and went hunting inside for that strange coin. He couldn’t find it. Swearing under his breath, he kept digging. He found the paper liner that kept the gunpowder dry. Something cool brushed his fingers. He pulled out the coin and sighed with relief. He jammed the cork back into the cask and waved forward one of the constables who was nervously hovering nearby. “Roll this out of here,” he ordered.
He was surprised to find Ramsey standing just behind him. “What was the thing you took out of the barrel?”
Keats displayed it on his palm. “A very strange coin. According to Hopkins, it detonates the gunpowder.”
He watched as the color drained out of Ramsey’s face. “There’s more here than you’re telling me.”
“There’s more here than I know.”
The moment they cleared the door, two dockworkers sang out, beckoning them forward. Keats split off toward one warehouse and Ramsey toward another. In the distance they could see Hopkins and Alastair entering a third.
By God, we’re going to do it.
~??~??~??~
The question was always the same, but it didn’t really matter. He didn’t have the answer. Theo spit a gob of blood from his mouth, narrowly missing Copeland’s boot. It earned him another backhand across the face. The pain was everywhere now, every nerve competing to shout its own private agony.
He’d been beaten by Copeland’s men, then taken to a huge building. When he’d first arrived, it had smelled of wool. Now he could only smell his own blood.
Copeland’s face came into view. “It’s an easy question—where’s Defoe?”
“Don’t know,” Theo said in the barest of whispers.
“Where’d you see him last?”
“Here, in London. He transferred, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Morrisey stared at him through swelling eyes. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Why did you go back home?”
“Looking for Defoe,” Theo lied.
“Not buying that. You could just send a message. What were you up to?”
When Theo didn’t reply, another fist landed in his stomach. As he fought not to vomit, Copeland started to circle him, like a lion.
There was a commotion. Through the painful haze, Morrisey tried to focus on what was happening. Voices. One was panicky. Copeland’s was harsh.
“What do you mean all the bombs didn’t go off?” his captor demanded.
“Only one, in the East End. They found the rest of them,” the man answered breathlessly.
“How in the hell did they do that?”
“I don’t know.”
There was a grunt of pain as someone paid the price for delivering the bad news, then the sound of a body being dragged away.
Somehow Jacynda had stopped them.
“Not going well?” Theo asked, wishing he had the strength to laugh in Copeland’s face. “She outwitted you, didn’t she?” he said.
Another tremendous blow—this one to the head. Theo’s ears rang like church bells on Easter morning.
Copeland stepped closer. “Seems all I got left is you, geek freak. Where’s Defoe?”
“I don’t—”
The chair went out from under him, and Theo landed hard on the wooden floor. A second later a boot catapulted into his ribs. Bones snapped. He tried to cry out, but he couldn’t get enough air.
“Give him another round, lads.”
Blows rained down on him from all sides, so many he could hardly feel them anymore.
Jacynda. It was her face that comforted him as he slipped into the darkness.
“Ah, Christ,” Copeland swore. He rubbed a hand across his chin, trying to figure out how to work this to his best advantage. The failure of the plot was going to cost him everything if he didn’t find Rover One.
“This one’s a waste of time. Load him up, drop him in the Thames,” he ordered the trio standing over the body. “If he’s still alive, cut his throat before you do. Cut anything you want.”
“What about his boots?” one of the toughs asked.
Copeland smirked. “Strip him bare, I don’t give a goddamn. Just get him out of my sight.” He tossed each of them a sovereign and then scooped up the prizes he’d taken from his victim.
One last chance. This time he had to come out on top.