Page 12 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

A fine, misty drizzle drifted through the air, clinging to coats and lashes, blurring the edges of torchlight. The street beyond was muted, the distant hum of London’s war-worn heartbeat muffled by the blackout. But here, in this forgotten stretch of brick and shadow, silence reigned.

Ellie stepped carefully over the slick cobblestones, her boots skidding slightly on a particularly slippery patch. A uniformed constable shifted uneasily beside her, the beam of his torch flickering over the victim who lay slumped against the brick wall.

She should be used to this by now. But her mind kept drifting back to the folder in her father’s study. The radar schematic. The list of names. His name. He had secrets. Dangerous ones. And now there was another body. It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

Inspector Calloway stood a few paces away, his collar turned up, rain gathering in the creases of his coat. ‘Single shot,’ he said in a monotone. ‘No sign of a struggle.’

The coppery tang of blood rose in gentle waves as the wind blew.

Ellie crouched, the rain soaking through her long skirt, chilled against her skin.

Her fingers hovered over the edge of the man’s coat.

Blood had bloomed through the fabric like an ink stain spreading across a page.

The bullet wound, clean, precise, stared back.

‘Who is he?’ she asked.

The constable checked his notebook. ‘Robert Lambert.’

The name hit her like a blow – a sharp, cold jolt straight to her stomach.

Jack. The tearoom. A jittery man in a threadbare coat hunched over his tea, his fingers tapping restlessly against the cup, terror flashing in his eyes.

His voice. I shouldn’t even be here. Ellie inhaled sharply, pulling back to stare at the dead man’s face. It was him. Lambert.

Her breath came a little too fast, a thin coil of ice unfurling in her chest. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Jack had met with this man – and now, here he was, sprawled in an alley, one neat bullet to the chest.

Her mind had already started pulling at threads.

Lambert had been afraid. She remembered how he’d scanned the tearoom as if he was prey and the hunter was closing in.

Gritting her teeth, she realised this was no mugging, nor was it an accident.

It was an execution, and someone was tying up loose ends.

The wind funnelled through the alley, scattering bits of paper and soot.

Ellie’s eyes swept over Lambert’s body again, cataloguing details.

His coat was unbuttoned. One gloved hand rested on his chest with fingers curled.

The same fingers had tapped that cup like Morse code, his eyes darting to the windows of the tearoom as though he had expected someone to burst in and finish him then and there.

She narrowed her eyes. Why were you so afraid, jittery man?

He looked as if he may have been reaching into an inside pocket as he was shot, or perhaps as he lay dying.

She leaned closer, carefully lifting his hand.

A sliver of paper peeked from between his fingers, damp but intact.

Gently, she coaxed it from his grip, fingers not yet stiff but clinging defiantly to the note.

Then she straightened it out. It was a mere scrap; the ink blurred but legible.

A series of letters – groups of letters – with spaces between.

Ellie had seen similar before, back at Oxford, while reading books on codes and ciphers.

Her breath caught. Maybe Lambert had been trying to warn someone. A message undelivered . Well, whatever he had been caught up in, it had cost him everything.

The constable hovering beside her cleared his throat. ‘Sir?’ he said, directing his words to Calloway. ‘Found these on him.’ He held out an evidence bag filled with the victim’s personal effects. ‘Not much to go on. Usual stuff – ration book, cigarette case, some loose coins.’

Calloway stepped forward and took the items without a word. He cast Ellie a glance; half warning, half resignation. ‘Make it quick, Harcourt.’

She nodded, her heart lifting at the small victory.

So, she was in again. Not officially. Not with any real authority.

But after the last case – after the questions she’d asked and the details she’d spotted before the men in uniform had even noticed – Calloway had stopped telling her to stay in the car.

He hadn’t started trusting her. But he’d started listening. And that was enough, for now.

She held out a hand for the wallet. Calloway hesitated, then passed it over without comment, watching as she flipped through its contents.

At first, it was all as expected. ID. Ration book.

A receipt from a pub in Holborn. Then her fingers brushed a thin fold behind the lining.

She teased it out carefully. A scrap of paper, damp but legible.

Ink faint, scrawled. One name: Templeton . Her stomach twisted.

Lambert had been tracking him. But why? He wasn’t MI5.

Not officially. And yet, here he was with intel on Templeton tucked into his pocket.

A chill settled between her shoulder blades.

This wasn’t about a frightened man with a guilty conscience.

This was espionage. She’d seen clues like this before: scribbled names, half-buried secrets. Like the ones in her father’s study.

A drop of rain struck the paper, blurring the ink, but the name still stood out, stark and unmistakable.

Perhaps Lambert had been working undercover.

Close enough to the truth to die for it .

Ellie slipped the paper into the evidence bag and stepped back, giving the constable room to finish logging the scene.

His breath curled in the damp air as he scribbled notes, pointedly ignoring her presence now.

Calloway glanced around, then leaned closer, his voice dropping. ‘Forget that name. You never heard it from me. Understand?’

But I did hear it, Ellie thought. Lambert . She opened her mouth to protest, but the warning in his eyes stopped her.

‘Do as you’re told, Harcourt,’ he said, quieter now. ‘This one’s above our pay grade. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’

‘Of course not.’ Subtly touched by his obvious concern for her safety, she fell silent as a well of respect swelled within her.

Calloway nodded, his hazel eyes softening slightly, and the alley fell quiet again, save for the slow drip of water from the eaves above, pooling between the cobblestones.

The body remained slumped against the wall; one more loose thread, expertly severed.

And Ellie knew with rising certainty that Lambert wouldn’t be the last.

The wind shifted again. A sound, too soft for footsteps.

But her instincts prickled. She turned her head slowly, scanning the alley’s edge where the darkness was thickest. Beyond the glow of the constable’s torch, the street was little more than an inky void, the buildings lining it faceless in the velvety dark.

Still, the feeling lingered. Someone was watching. She wasn’t imagining it.

The eerie sensation clung to her skin, the same prickle she had felt during that phone call at Scotland Yard. A shadow just out of reach. A presence slipping between the cracks of her world.

Movement caught her eye. The barest shift at the alley’s mouth, a figure sliding beyond the light’s edge.

Ellie’s breath caught. One step forward and the shadow dissolved back into darkness.

Gone. The silence pressed down, broken only by her pulse hammering against her throat. She forced herself to breathe.

Whoever had killed Lambert had stuck around long enough to see the aftermath. Or worse – long enough to watch her.

***

Hours later, Ellie stepped out of Scotland Yard and into the night, her shift finally over.

The mist still hung in the air, heavier now, curling beneath her collar as she walked.

Her thoughts returned to the figure in the alley, the flicker of movement, gone too fast. She quickened her pace, boots ringing out against wet stone, her ears filled with the rush of her own blood.

The cold pressed into her skin, but she barely noticed.

Her senses felt stretched thin, alert to every echo, every shadow.

Someone had wanted Lambert dead. Of that she was certain.

They had made a clean job of it too. She swallowed down the tightness in her chest, pushing herself onward.

This wasn’t just about Templeton anymore.

Loose ends were being tied and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was brushing dangerously close to becoming one.

She turned onto her street, rolling her shoulders where the stress had settled.

Home meant peace, and peace meant she could finally think.

The blackout wrapped everything in silence, the buildings looming like giants in the dark.

That was when she saw it. A car, parked across the road from her flat, engine off, no lights.

She hadn’t seen that particular vehicle before.

Ellie kept walking, steady now, even as the hairs on her neck began to rise. Tucked in behind an Austin 7, a shadow sitting perfectly still behind the wheel. No cigarette glow, no movement, only the brim of a hat, dipped low over the eyes.

She reached the gate, fished out her keys and let herself inside, locking the door behind her with practised calm.

Then, for the first time since moving in, she double-checked every window.

In the living room she paused at the latch, her breath fogging the glass as she looked out.

The street was empty, the car had gone, but the feeling hadn’t, and whatever this was, it wasn’t over yet.

The game had changed. Someone had taken notice, and they – whoever they were – were watching her.