“Help them.”
He chuckled. “What if they don’t need your help?”
“All of your problems are in there, right? Nice and neat. Tucked away.”
“Good planning and preparation made that result possible.”
But how could Mathews know that all of his problems would be solved? So she asked, “What makes this a sure thing?”
“Ordinarily, I would not answer that. But I’m hoping this will be a learning experience for you. Your Blake Antrim brought percussion explosives with him. The same type used in St. George’s Chapel.”
The dots connected. “Which you want him to detonate.”
He shrugged. “It matters not how it ends. Intentional. Accidental. So long as it ends.”
“And if Antrim makes it out, after blowing everyone else up?”
“He will be killed.”
Now she realized Mathews was stalling, allowing whatever was happening behind the locked door to play out.
That meant time was short.
And those two kids were in there.
“Give me the key.”
He displayed it in his right hand, the one that held the radio.
Then he thrust his arm over the side of the bridge.
“Don’t do it,” she said.
He dropped the key.
Which disappeared into the torrent.
“We do what we have to do,” he said to her, his face as animated as a death mask. “My country comes first, as I suspect it does with you.”
“Country first means killing children?”
“In this case it does.”
She hated herself for not stopping Ian and Gary sooner. It was her fault they were now behind that locked door. “You’re no different from Antrim.”
“Oh, but I am. Quite different, in fact. I am no traitor.”
“I will shoot you.”
He smiled. “I think not. It’s over, Miss Richards. Let it be.”
She saw his fingers flick a switch on the radio. Surely there were more men nearby, which meant that shortly they would not be alone. She’d heard about moments when a person’s entire existence flashed before them. Those instances when life-changing decisions were either made or avoided. Turning points, some called them. She’d come close several times to such an instant, when her life had been on the line.
But never anything like this.
Sir Thomas Mathews was, in essence, saying that she was too weak to do anything.
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.