London had erupted into chaos.
Every turn they took, the roads were blocked by swarms of fleeing pedestrians, or lines of honking cars, as people tried to evacuate the capital. They were fleeing for the bridges, trying to cross the river, blocking every route that Regina knew to get them closer to Belgravia.
“I hope this works,” said Donovan. “I can’t quite fathom why we’re heading away from the fight—where we’ve left Flora and Ginny, I might add—when the house we’re trying to reach is right there, near St. Paul’s.”
“They’re defending it,” said Regina. “There’re scores of them in the streets. But this is a back way in, one they won’t think we’ll try.”
Rutherford nodded. “It makes sense. If we can use their network against them, hopefully we can get close to the heart of the enemy operation. Take that out, and we may just be able to win the day.”
“Exactly,” said the Ghost.
Regina hit the brakes, stopping the van in the middle of the road, where a taxi had apparently been abandoned, its doors hanging open. “This is as close as we’re going to get. We’re going to have to make a run for it.”
They jumped down from the van and followed her as she ran through the streets, going against the tide of civilians.
“This is it,” said Rutherford, as they rounded a bend into a large square, where large, sweeping terraces surrounded a meticulous park. It was clearly an affluent area—the most pristine that the Ghost had seen since arriving in London—but now, it seemed disturbingly quiet, its people gone, fearful of being caught in the fallout of the Russian invasion.
Regina ran up the steps to the front door of one of the terraced houses and tried the handle. It was locked. She took a step back, raised her gun, and fired twice at the wood around the lock. Then, with a sharp kick, she opened the door with a splintering bang.
“Come on, it’s upstairs.” She led the way, up onto the landing, and then along to a small, rather nondescript door at the far end. “It’s still here,” she said, with some relief. She reached up and traced her fingertip around the edge of a barely perceptible mark in the paintwork. As she did, the symbol began to glow, fizzing with the same unnatural light as the Koscheis’ portals.
“How did you find out how to do this again?” said Rutherford. He sounded both impressed and a little wary.
“Desperation,” said Regina. “I copied one of them, after Hargreaves fell through the portal and it shut behind him. This one leads to a farmhouse…” She completed tracing the sigil, and opened the door, stepping through.
With a shrug, the Ghost followed. Sure enough, he found himself standing in a farmhouse kitchen, just as Regina had explained. Bemused, he crossed to the window, peering out at the grassy wilderness beyond.
“My God,” said Donovan. “It’s incredible.”
“It’s dangerous,” said Rutherford. “Come on, we can’t hang around. Stick to the plan.”
Regina crossed to another door, and repeated the action, hurrying them through. This time they emerged in the drawing room of an old country manor house. She led them on to the dining room. Here, there was evidence of a scuffle, and the remains of a dead Koschei, now moldering on the floor.
“I see you were busy last time you were here,” said Rutherford.
“Not through choice,” said Regina, her voice level.
More doors led them through a cobbled lane, an old church—where a scene of intense carnage had taken place—and finally onto a box room in another terraced house, this one also occupied by a body.
The young Koschei had had his head caved in, or something to that effect—the top half of his skull was entirely missing, and the flesh around the wound was blistered and black. “The former owner of the weapon I was carrying,” said Regina, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is the place. The house near St. Paul’s, with all the doors.”
The Ghost nodded. “Downstairs?”
“Yes. In the hallway. There’s about fifty of them.”
He crossed to the window, careful not to show himself as he peered out. Russian biplanes were still tearing through the sky, showering the streets with tracer fire, but now other fighters had engaged with them, too, ducking and weaving in a deadly, balletic dance. He could hear voices in the street below, too, and risked a quick glance, before stepping away from the window. “There’s at least ten of them in the street below.”
“That could mean there’s more in the house,” said Donovan.
Rutherford nodded. “Where do we go when we get down there?”
Regina shrugged. “I don’t know. Hargreaves and I got out of here the first chance we could. I don’t know where any of those portals lead.”
“Then we’ll just have to take our chances,” said Rutherford. “Come on.” He raised his pistol and walked to the other door, peering out onto the landing. He glanced back, indicating it was safe to proceed. They followed him out.
There were no voices down in the hallway. The Ghost took point, creeping down the steps one at a time, his flechette gun trained first at the bottom of the stairs, and then, as he made his way further down, into the hallway, sweeping his arm back and forth over the banister.
He could see immediately that Regina had been telling the truth—the view here was utterly disorientating, as if geometry itself had somehow broken down, allowing the walls to accommodate more doors than they should naturally be able to. Not only that, but there were rows of freestanding doors, too, just hovering in the air, supported by nothing. It hurt his eyes to look at them, causing him to feel dizzy and nauseous.
“What is this place?” Donovan whispered beneath his breath, as he came down the stairs behind the Ghost, trying to take it all in.
“A hub. A base. The place we have to find a way to destroy,” he said. He’d reached the bottom of the stairs.
“No,” said Rutherford. “A hub, certainly, but I’d wager one of these doors leads to the place we’re looking for. This isn’t where they do their planning.”
Someone coughed.
The Ghost spun, searching for the person responsible. There was no one there. The room was empty. He waved the others silent, walking slowly forward into the center of the hallway. Here, he could almost lose any sense of which way was left and which way was right. All he could see was the doors, swimming in the periphery of his vision.
Another cough, followed by a stream of words in Russian. He turned again, disoriented, thinking it had come from behind him. But again, there was no one there.
What was going on? Where had the voice originated?
He turned back, just in time to see two hooded figures emerge from one of the portals in the rear wall. They looked up, surprised, raising their hands defensively, just as two rounds snapped from the stairs, and both men dropped, blood spattering across the tiles behind them.
The Ghost looked over to see Regina and Donovan, weapons smoking with the recent discharge.
“We need to get out of here, now!” said Rutherford, hurrying down the stairs. “Those gunshots will bring them in from the street.”
“Which door?” said the Ghost.
“The one those men just stepped through seems as good as any,” said Rutherford.
They hurried to the portal. The symbol on the door was still glowing. “Well, here goes nothing,” said Rutherford, before stepping through.
With a quick glance at Donovan, the Ghost leapt through behind him.