9:40 p.m.

The Present

London, United Kingdom

 

 

When Calla Cress stepped off the train at St. Pancras International she glanced over her shoulder.

He was following her.

She increased her pace and hurried through immigration. Calla’s flight took her through the station’s main concourse as she searched for the nearest exit. Within seconds she found the bustling arrival lounge, congested with tired night travelers.

She scurried onto the busy boulevard and glanced back. St. Pancras, labeled the “cathedral of railways”, and one of the most eminent Victorian structures in Britain, towered above her with its wrought-iron framework and arched glass covering evoking a feeling of paranoia. She pressed on with labored breaths and her muscles tensed, as she shook off the numbness in her hands and the tingling in her feet. Calla felt like an animal in chase, only she was the target.

Her legs weakened and she proceeded with resolved steps, crossing Euston Road toward Camden Town Hall, which stood adjacent to a barely visible underground parking. Tightness formed in her abdomen, shooting discomfort through her fatigued body, reducing her concentration. She shook her head to snap free of the trance and dragged her heavy feet across the floor. Her tongue tasted the vinegary sting of blood on her bottom lip.

You’ve got to move!

Calla found her Maserati on the lower-third, parking level, undisturbed where she’d left it that morning. She slotted the key in the keyhole, sank into the leather seat and wove the car out into the dark street. Aware of her fervent pursuant, she stopped at a red light, her moist palms drumming on the sticky leather of the steering wheel. Every so often, she peered into her rearview mirror. Then her eyes caught his blinding headlights.

Brute!

Her foot hit the accelerator.

The chasing Range Rover hastened toward the rear bumper of her vehicle. Oh no you don’t!

She swerved round a white Toyota and her gray Maserati picked up speed, starting a sixty mile-per-hour chase through London’s tight streets. Calla maneuvered from lane to lane nearly ramming a Hyundai as her pursuant nosed their vehicle toward her tailpipe. She switched to fifth gear and curved the sports car through medieval streets in the eastern part of the city and past several fragments of the defensive, third-century Roman City Wall. She pressed down the accelerator. Her tires smoked and she fed more gas to the engine and peeled off into a quiet one-way street.

Calla checked her rearview mirror again and entered Bishopsgate’s banking district, toward Monument. The Range Rover clung to her tail and with eyes firmly ahead, she caught sight of London Bridge, the flyover that spanned the River Thames.

What does he want? Calla raced across the box girder structure, high above the river, reflecting the city lights below. She twisted the wheel, roared on to South Bank and turned into a deserted street behind a line of dated warehouses along the Thames. Calla winced certain she’d broken the speed limit and half a dozen traffic laws. She wouldn’t think about that now as the Range Rover surged toward her Maserati and cornered her further into a one-way street, lined with empty office buildings.

She locked eyes with a startled young family stepping out of a parked Vauxhall station wagon meters in front of her vehicle. Calla’s car zipped forward, still at focused rapidity and she slammed a fist on the horn.

Wide-eyed, the family stood motionless as Calla hit the brakes. The abrupt decision sent her car spinning several times. The stench of burning rubber stole past her nostrils as her tires squealed a shrill of terror until the car came to a prompt halt in front of the towering Shard skyscraper.

She lifted her head and turned off her engine as the stunned family scurried toward London Bridge Station. Behind her the Shard stood above the streets of London, like an ominous, glowing glass pyramid whose peak disappeared into the thick London fog. With little movement about, she waited. Where are you?

The drone of a hungry vehicle caught her ears as the Range Rover revved its engine. Then the headlights of the steel beast dimmed.

Calla frowned. Hmm…are you waiting for me?

She jumped out of the car as a firm confidence sent her marching in the direction of the waiting Rover. Get off my tail!

A figure in dark military attire sprang out of the Rover and onto the dimly lit street. She watched closely. His build was hefty and his face was concealed behind what looked like a visor ski mask. She wiped beads of sweat from her brow as he advanced and lunged swinging a punch in a wide arc. Calla sidestepped the blow as it zipped past her nose.

He struck again. She couldn’t move fast enough and the brusque strike slammed into her shoulder making her lose her balance and she fell backward. Massaging the knockback, she sprang to her feet and tore at him with an uppercut punch. Her fist caught him in the jaw and he landed on the rough gravel, opening a one-centimeter gash.

She watched him quiver for several seconds before jumping to his feet. Calla stepped back and forced down a sick feeling. Her shoulder continued to burn from his blow, a strike that had produced an acidic taste in her mouth. She wiped trickling blood off her jawline. Though the wound stung like fire she eyed him without blinking. “What the heck do you want?”

Silence.

“I don’t have it!” she said.

No response.

She reached for the side of his neck. He caught her hands mid-air and gripped them in a lock as his other hand stretched round for the bag she’d strapped around her waist before leaving Paris. Her eyes followed his extended hand. So, that’s it!

The Deveron Manuscript was secured within and she read his intent.

Too late.

“Give that back!”

He bolted toward the Shard’s entrance, and scuttled inside Europe’s tallest building. Calla chased after him. She had no choice. She wanted it back.