Page 16 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

He rolled the whisky glass between his fingers, jaw set, unreadable. ‘If you keep digging, someone’s going to notice.’

She arched a brow. ‘Is that meant to be a warning?’

‘Call it advice.’

The fire crackled behind them, but the warmth couldn’t thaw the chill in Jack’s warning.

Ellie felt the familiar surge of stubbornness rising in her chest and she closed her eyes for a heartbeat, stealing this moment—the warmth, the quiet, the illusion of safety despite the war clawing at their heels.

Then, in the distance, the unmistakable thrum of an engine cut in above the hubbub of the inn.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the window, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

The bomber came seconds later, a single aircraft, its engine note unsteady, faltering. The air suddenly thickened around them.

A soldier near the bar glanced up, half-rising from his seat. ‘That’s a Dornier,’ he said grimly. Someone else muttered, ‘No sirens?’, but no one moved. Not yet.

The bomber was closing in, and Jack grabbed Ellie’s wrist, and yanked her down beneath the table as the piercing whistle of a bomb scythed through the silence.

A cacophony of voices erupted – cries, shouts, the scrape of chairs as others dived for cover.

The explosion ripped through the street outside, shaking the foundations of the pub.

A deep, guttural roar followed by a pressure wave that rattled the very bones of the building.

The floor shuddered beneath Ellie’s feet, the walls vibrating with a tremendous force.

Then came the sound of shattering glass as panic surged through the room like a current, swift and unrelenting.

Ellie’s breath caught. Choking dust and smoke filled her nostrils almost instantly, bitter with the stench of cordite. The lights flickered then died, plunging the room into darkness. A second blast, closer this time, sent bottles crashing behind the bar.

A firm grip clamped around her arm. ‘Move!’ Jack’s voice, sharp, urgent.

Her mind snapped back into focus as he yanked her to her feet, guiding her through the chaos. The air was already suffocating with smoke, the heat from the outside blaze licking at the edges of the pub like hungry fingers. Another explosion.

The world tilted sideways as a thunderous groan rose above them, timbers splitting, bricks shearing loose.

Ellie only had a second to react before Jack’s hands found her again, one arm sweeping around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head as he pulled her against his chest. They hit the floor hard, his body curving protectively over hers as plaster and brick rained down.

The weight of him pressed her into the tiled floor, but he seemed solid and warm despite the chaos.

She could feel his heart hammering against her ribs, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.

Dust swarmed around them, but all she could register was the way his fingers were tangled in her hair, and the desperate strength in his grip, as if he could shield her from the world itself.

When that world settled into stillness, neither of them moved.

His breath was warm against her temple, ragged and uneven.

Their faces were inches apart, his eyes dark – not with fear, but with the way she was looking back at him.

The noise of the pub, the groans, the settling debris, all faded to nothing.

‘Ellie.’ Her name on his lips was barely a whisper, rough with dust and the truth neither dared speak.

She felt the heat radiating from his skin, the subtle tremor in the hand that still cupped her head.

Trapped between his body and the floor, she was hyper aware of every point at which they touched.

The weight of him should have felt crushing, but instead it felt like safety, like coming home.

Time extended, fragile as spun glass, and for one breathless moment she thought he might kiss her right there in the ruins.

A beam crashed down nearby, splintering the spell. Jack’s eyes shuttered, and he pushed himself up, the careful mask sliding back into place. But his hand lingered at her cheek for a beat longer than necessary.

‘I’ve got you,’ he said, his voice steadier now, though she caught the slight rasp that betrayed him.

Smoke, scorched wood and the bitter tang of spilled ale filled her lungs.

The front of the pub was obliterated. Heavy beams had collapsed across the main doorway; twisted metal and masonry were piled up like barricades.

The side windows were cracked but intact, being high-set and barred – a wartime precaution.

Ellie coughed again. Her ribs ached, but nothing felt broken.

There were groans, murmurs. A woman sobbed near the fireplace.

Ellie scanned the survivors: a few shell-shocked drinkers, two uniformed soldiers and a barmaid – pale and cradling her hand where blood ran freely through her fingers.

Ellie hurried over and dropped to her knees beside her. ‘Let me see.’

The wound wasn’t deep, but it bled freely. She wrapped it quickly with a handkerchief and pressed the girl’s hand over it. ‘Keep pressure on it. You’re doing fine.’

Jack and one of the soldiers were by the wreckage, examining a heap of fallen joists and beams that blocked the only potential exit, the rear delivery corridor.

‘This was the old passage to the alley,’ Jack said grimly.

Ellie followed his gaze. The rear doorway was jammed with rubble. An enormous oak lintel had fallen at an angle, supported only loosely by a slumped wall. But behind it, if they could clear the debris, a narrow path might open.

‘We need leverage,’ she said. ‘That beam won’t budge by hand.’

The barmaid’s voice came from the floor, hoarse but clear. ‘There’s a hatch. Down to the cellar. It’s how they get the beer in. Back behind the bar.’

Jack didn’t wait. He vaulted the bar and pulled up a trapdoor set into the floor. A steep wooden staircase led down into blackness.

‘If the street hatch above hasn’t collapsed, we can get out that way,’ he said. ‘But we’ll have to move fast. The rest of the ceiling’s not going to wait forever.’

One of the soldiers tested the steps. ‘Feels stable. Let’s move.’

Ellie guided the barmaid to her feet. ‘You go first. Careful now.’

They descended one by one into the narrow cellar, where cooler air, sharp with damp stone and the sour tang of mould, greeted them. Jack found an oil lantern on a hook and sparked it to life with a match from his pocket.

In the glow, the delivery hatch was visible, set into the external wall above, a wooden ramp angling up towards street level.

Jack tested it. ‘Damn. It’s stuck.’ He braced himself on the ramp and pushed as Ellie held her breath. The iron latch groaned, then popped, and chilled air rushed in. Jack shoved it fully open and hauled himself through, then reached back down. ‘Come on!’

One of the soldiers helped boost the others through. One by one they emerged into the night, crawling onto the pavement through the open hatch. Rain had started – thin and cold, but clean. The clang of a fire engine’s bells cut through the eerie quiet.

Jack helped Ellie up last. Her legs shook with effort, but as she emerged through the hatch, the fresh air hit her like a wave. She stepped onto the slick pavement beside him, chest heaving.

Thank goodness they were out. The night air was sharp in her throat, dust coating her mouth, rain streaking her face. Around them, the survivors huddled beneath the pub’s battered awning. At least the inn was still standing.

Jack crouched beside her in the fractured street.

Windows gaped like dead eyes from surrounding buildings, and fire licked hungrily at the shell of a parked motor car.

The ground beneath them was solid, yet Ellie could still feel the terror of the collapsing pub in her bones.

The acrid scent of destruction hung in the air, but they were alive.

She straightened, brushing debris from her coat. Her arm throbbed where glass had bitten through her sleeve, blood painting a crimson trail down her wrist, coating her left hand.

Jack’s gaze found hers through the dust that powdered his cheek like ash. His knuckles were bloodied, raw from clearing the wreckage back in the pub. He stepped closer, scanning her face. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said, voice gentle as his fingertips traced her cheek.

She flinched at the contact but held still. His thumb came back red. ‘It’s nothing,’ she whispered.

He hesitated, his hand hovering between them like a question he couldn’t ask. For a moment, that sharp-edged armour he wore so well, cracked, revealing a rawness beneath.

Ellie pressed her spine to the wall, catching her breath. Jack leaned beside her, hands braced on his knees, shirt smeared with dirt. The last few minutes had been nothing but frantic movement, pulling people clear, escaping. But now, for a moment, all was still.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand across his face. His fingers trembled before he curled them into a fist. She had never seen him like this. His usual sharp-edged composure fraying at the edges. He spoke at last, voice low and deliberate.

‘As I was telling you, MI5 is compromised. And I don’t know how far it goes. But someone’s been leaking information, sensitive material. Names. Operations.’

Ellie turned her head to face him, studying the tight set of his jaw, the way his shoulders hunched under the strain.

For the first time, he looked weary. Worn down in a way that had nothing to do with the bombing raid, and everything to do with whatever he had been carrying on his shoulders for far too long.

She swallowed. ‘How long have you known?’

He huffed out a breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it. ‘Too long.’

Ellie turned her head, watching him in the dim light. ‘Are you certain?’

He nodded. ‘Files are going missing and someone’s feeding information to Berlin.’