Page 22 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

Inside, the lobby was quiet, austere and lined with pale marble. The uniformed doorman stood just inside, sharp-eyed and tidy. He looked her up and down – not rudely, just efficiently. ‘Miss Harcourt?’

Ellie blinked. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re expected. Third floor. Left corridor.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, but he’d already turned away. The lift rattled upwards, slowly. When the doors opened, Jack stood waiting at the far end of the hushed, wood-panelled corridor; hands in his pockets, he was leaning against a doorframe with studied casualness.

‘Harcourt,’ he said. No smile. No warmth. Just her name, crisp and neutral.

‘Stratton,’ she replied, matching his tone, though her heart gave an involuntary twitch.

His office was well organised, with maps pinned to one wall and folders stacked neatly on an oak cabinet.

His desk sat beneath the window, tidy and minimal.

A lamp stood on a small table in the corner, the only touch of comfort.

Through a connecting door, he showed her into a small, square room with a battered desk and narrow window.

‘You’ll be reviewing reports and cipher material,’ he said. ‘If I need you on a case, I’ll let you know.’

She turned, arching a brow. ‘And if I need you ?’

Jack’s mouth twitched. ‘Leave a note.’

He closed the door, leaving her staring out of the window at the street below. Not what she’d expected, but it was a beginning.

***

Ellie was halfway through the day’s third report, her head beginning to pound from stale air and bad lighting, when Jack pushed open the door.

‘Change of plan. Lambert had a contact down by the docks. Might be useful.’

Ellie stood. ‘You’re going now?’

Jack nodded, already shrugging on his coat. ‘I won’t be long.’

She hesitated. ‘Take me with you.’

Jack froze with his arm halfway into one sleeve, then straightened. ‘No.’

‘You said if you needed me …’ She stepped closer, noting how his jaw tightened. ‘What if I notice something you don’t?’

He hitched an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been here one day .’

‘I won’t get in the way.’

He exhaled sharply, like a surrender. ‘Fine. But you stay in the car.’

‘Understood,’ she said, already reaching for her gas mask.

***

They drove south in silence, the weight of Jack’s warning still sitting heavy in her chest. Outside, the city blurred past. Neither of them spoke.

When they reached the docks, Jack parked in a narrow side street, rain hammering the windscreen.

Up ahead, a tangle of warehouses and boarding houses slumped against one another like weary sentinels, their brick facades slick with moisture.

A ship’s horn bellowed across the Thames, followed by the rhythmic clatter of a passing train.

Men’s voices carried on the wind, low and indistinct.

Ellie tugged her coat tighter against the chill.

‘Stay in the car,’ he said, voice low. ‘Watch. Don’t move unless I call you.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought I was here to help.’

‘You observe, that’s all, and try not to get shot.’

Ellie nodded stiffly. She watched him slip into the mist, frustration building.

‘Great,’ she muttered. Just like it was with Calloway.

‘Stay in the car,’ she mimicked in a whiney voice.

What was the point in her being there if all she could do was observe?

They might as well lock her in the damn stuffy office with a mountain of filing, and throw away the key.

Then, a shadowy figure slipped into the warehouse Jack had entered.

Her pulse spiked. She couldn’t just sit there.

What if Jack was walking into a trap? Ellie slid from the Rover and walked towards the building, sticking to the darker edge of the street.

Her boots squelched on the wet pavement.

A gust of wind sent newspapers scuttling past, their ink-stained pages whispering secrets in the darkness.

She stepped over them and crept towards the warehouse.

Through a crack in the warped timber she glimpsed men around a table.

One broad shouldered with a beard, another tall and thin wearing a wool hat.

‘The package goes on the last train. King’s orders,’ the thin man said.

Ellie’s breath caught. Kingfisher?

‘Once the coastal stations go dark,’ the bearded man continued, ‘the south will be wide open.’ He scratched his bearded chin, his cigarette glaring as he took a slow drag, the ember glowing orange in the dim light.

She suddenly recalled that, according to the local ARP warden, even a lit cigarette could be spotted by bombers. Apparently it was true, as Lizzie knew a girl whose boyfriend was a fighter pilot, and he had told her that very fact.

‘God help us if anything goes wrong,’ the bearded man said.

‘It won’t. King’s counting on this to pave the way.’

Ellie held her breath. What did that mean? Pave the way. The coast flickered through her mind like a map unfolding. Dover, Portsmouth, Bawdsey. And then it hit her. The radar stations. The Chain Home network, the early warning for incoming Luftwaffe raids. If those went down …

A memory resurfaced. Her father at the breakfast table a few years ago, sleeves rolled up, cigarette trailing smoke as he spoke, half to himself.

‘Bawdsey was the first,’ he’d said. ‘Now it’s the whole coast. Massive towers, Eleanor, all concrete and copper, picking up echoes from the edge of the world.’

The fragile shield between Britain and invasion. They’re planning to strike. Sabotage. That’s what this is about. If Kingfisher pulled this off, the southern coast would be blind, helpless, and the war could be lost before anyone even knew where the blow had fallen.

A trickle of water ran free from a broken gutter, splashing Ellie’s legs, pooling around her feet.

Thank goodness for my leather boots . The building had seen better days.

Its wooden door, swollen from decades of London’s damp, hung slightly ajar.

A single bulb tucked beneath the door canopy buzzed with the effort of keeping the night at bay.

So much for blackout regulations – still, the odds of finding an ARP warden out here were slim.

But it would draw bombers like moths to flame.

Ellie exhaled slowly, tasting the metallic bite of the river on her tongue.

She needed to hear more. If only she could get closer.

Carefully, she eased the door and slipped inside, pressing herself against the wall in the shadows.

Her instincts prickled as she stepped forward.

Then, the floorboard beneath her boot creaked.

‘What was that?’

A hand seized her arm, spinning her around. She barely had time to gasp before another clamped over her mouth. Through the struggle, she glimpsed papers on the table, and a list of names, including her father’s.

‘Tie her up,’ the thin man ordered. ‘We’ll dump her with the next shipment.’

She kicked hard, one foot striking her bearded captor on the shin. He cursed and released her, stumbling backward, just as Jack crashed into the room, moving like a storm; gunshots, shouts, the thud of fists. Ellie scrambled free as he yanked her behind crates, bullets zipping through the air.

‘Stay down!’ He shoved a leather case into her hands. ‘Evidence.’ He returned fire.

The smugglers scattered, scrambling to get outside. Jack grabbed Ellie’s hand, dragging her along as they ran from the building and along the narrow street until he pulled her into a dark alley, breathing hard.

‘I told you to stay in the bloody car,’ he said, but his eyes swept her face with more than professional concern.

‘And if I had, we’d have missed everything.’ The intensity of his gaze sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. ‘You’re not my keeper, Jack.’

His lips pressed into a tight line. ‘Someone has to be.’

In the distance, the air raid siren began its mournful wail. Jack’s head snapped up, listening. The sound grew to a crescendo across the city until all of London echoed with the warning. Then came the drone, faint at first, but growing stronger.

‘Down here!’ Jack pulled her towards a coal cellar as searchlights swept the sky, hunting. Anti-aircraft guns opened fire along the Thames, a volley of thunderous pounding echoing through the darkness.

He fumbled for his torch and switched it on, the beam revealing a cramped space lined with old pipes and coal dust. Setting it on an overturned crate, the glow threw shadows across the ceiling above them.

‘Should be safe enough down here,’ he said, as the first wave of bombers closed in overhead. The whistle and crash of incendiaries began. Jerry sent the first wave to light the way.

‘This started in December,’ he said quietly. ‘When Kingfisher first appeared. A trail of leaks and vanished informants.’

Ellie’s hands tightened in her lap. December .

The word stirred memories she’d tried to bury, Christmas plans that never happened, a future that had simply evaporated.

She’d been so sure of Sinclair. But now, looking back, she realised how little she’d really known.

Silly, but she’d never even asked about his family.

A lump formed in her throat. ‘Sinclair vanished then.’ Her voice came out quieter than she intended. ‘Probably coincidence.’

Jack said nothing, but she sensed his attention sharpening.

‘The not knowing is worse than the betrayal,’ she whispered.

Then came the second wave; high explosives crashing down in quick succession.

Dust rained from the overhead pipes with each thunderous blast. She shut her eyes, feeling the solid warmth of his shoulder brushing hers as they huddled together.

The bombardment seemed to go on forever with wave after wave of destruction rolling over the city.

Eventually, the steady thrum of bombers began to fade, swallowed slowly by distance. Jack tilted his head slightly, listening. ‘They’re heading east,’ he said at last. ‘Skies will be clear now.’

When the all clear sounded, they emerged into a city of ash and fire.

She followed him out of the shelter in silence, shoes crunching over shattered glass and splintered brick.

The night smelled of scorched wood, mingled with the acrid bite of singed rubber.

The Thames glinted black beyond the rooftops, slick as oil under the fractured moonlight.

Fires burned in the distance, buildings lit from within like lanterns as firemen moved like ghosts through the haze.

A collapsed chimney jutted from the rubble like a snapped bone.

At least Jack’s car had survived. He drove her home through the carnage, his hands gripping the wheel, knuckles white.

Ellie stared out of the window, watching the city pass by in broken flashes; rubble-strewn streets, buildings torn open like wounds, firemen battling the flames, hoses snaking across roads. People stood helplessly by, watching their lives burn.

She thought of Sinclair, of her father, of the name buried in that coded message. Every answer led to another question. As Jack pulled to a stop outside her building, she didn’t reach for the handle straight away.

‘Get some rest,’ he said.

Ellie nodded, though she was barely listening. As she slipped out of the car, she felt his gaze follow her all the way to the door. Sleep? After what she’d seen? Sabotage plans and her father’s name on a list. He wasn’t a suspect. Which meant he was most likely a target.