Page 55 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

‘More units arriving topside, sir,’ Fenn reported. ‘Perimeter’s being secured.’

A voice crackled through the radio that Fenn now carried, requisitioned from his regiment no doubt. ‘Eagle One, be advised, roads are blocked. Bomb disposal delayed at least fifteen minutes. Could be longer.’

Jack turned to him. ‘What’s the back-up plan?’

Fenn hesitated. ‘No word, sir. Orders are to locate, isolate, stand by.’

Jack blew out a breath. Stand by. That would be the death of someone if they waited too long. ‘Fenn, take this level,’ he said, nodding towards the adjoining corridor. ‘Check the map room, records, cabinets. Sweep everything. I’ll take the lower level.’

Fenn, focused and precise, nodded and carried on. Another Marine was already checking bins, radiator grilles and storage cupboards out in the corridor.

Jack darted to the stairwell and descended two steps at a time to the lower level. The air here was closer. Two dorms. Rows of bunks stretched out in dim light.

He moved slowly through the women’s dormitory, scanning beneath each cot. Most had been stripped of linen, hastily abandoned with shoes scattered and a few personal items left behind. An enamel mug sat on the floor beneath the middle cot, still half-full.

His gaze snagged on a navy cardigan draped over the foot of a bed at the far end.

He crouched to check beneath it and froze.

There, pushed against the wall in the shadows, was a book.

Not the kind of thing someone would accidentally drop or forget.

He reached under and pulled it out carefully, cradling it in both hands .

Weighty . It was a large hardback. His brow furrowed.

And then he heard it, the faint, unmistakable ticking of a mechanism within.

Jack rose to his feet, and drew breath to call out, ‘I’ve got …

’ He stopped, glancing up. Idiot. They won’t hear you down here.

The realisation of what he’d done hit hard then, and his heart raced.

He shouldn’t have picked the damn thing up.

What would happen if he set it down now?

He swallowed. ‘Well Stratton. This is a fine mess. There’s only one thing you can do,’ he muttered.

Keep calm and carry on . With the device cradled in his hands he tip-toed out of the dorm, retracing his steps back to the upper floor, climbing the stairs in rhythm with his breathing.

‘In and out,’ he mumbled all the way to the next level, where he spotted Fenn waiting.

The Royal Marine’s face dropped. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

He nodded.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Fenn took a step back. ‘Don’t open it. Could be rigged to blow.’

‘Bomb disposal?’

‘Still stuck, sir.’

Jack was not going to wait. ‘We move.’ He cradled the book gently, arms curved around it like a sleeping child. ‘I’m going up. We’ll take it to the park. Clear the way. Get sandbags and cover ready.’

Fenn was already signalling to his colleagues upstairs.

***

The Foreign Office was filled with bustle; telephones ringing, footsteps echoing across polished floors and clerks darting about with files tucked under their arms. Having climbed the marble staircase, Ellie followed Churchill into an elegant office where he gestured for her to sit.

She perched on a stiff-backed green velvet chair near a polished oak table.

A tray of tea arrived swiftly, delivered by a middle-aged woman with greying hair and a kind smile.

The hands of the mantel clock edged towards a quarter to twelve.

Across the room, Churchill paced behind a large mahogany desk, speaking into the telephone, one hand tucked in his waistcoat pocket.

‘No, I said get them there by any means . I don’t care if you have to lift the blasted lorry yourself – just get them in before it’s too late.’ He slammed the receiver down and muttered under his breath, then knocked ash from his cigar into an ornate paperweight.

‘Lord Halifax won’t mind,’ he muttered. ‘Not if we save the building.’

Ellie was drawn to the window by movement below.

As she peered through the tall sash, a file of soldiers marched past carrying sandbags – dozens of them – heading towards St James’s Park.

Her breath caught. ‘What in God’s name is going on?

’ She leaned closer, fingertips brushing the glass.

Soldiers were moving swiftly into the park now, laying down sandbags in a tight circle.

And then she spotted Jack emerging from the Treasury, flanked by a Royal Marine, taking each step with infinite care.

What is he holding? The realisation struck her like a blow.

The device. He found it. Her heart plummeted. No , Jack. Don’t you dare ….

He moved carefully, every step deliberate, like a man carrying a baby. The soldiers gave him a wide berth as he crossed the street and headed for the wall of sandbags.

Ellie’s throat tightened and her stomach flipped. He was going to do it himself. No bomb suit. No shield. Just Jack. Her heart pounded like a drum, but she couldn’t look away.

Behind her, the PM was speaking to an aide in a voice low and clipped, but Ellie heard none of it. Only the thunder in her ears, the breath trapped somewhere in her ribs. Then, after a pause, the creak of footsteps behind her.

Churchill stepped to her side, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the scene below. ‘He’s a brave man,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what courage looks like, Miss Harcourt. No noise or medals. Just a man doing what must be done.’

***

The sandbags were in place: three feet deep, five feet high, the last row having been tossed across the top like a makeshift shroud.

Jack stepped back, sweat trickling down his spine despite the autumn chill. The device sat in the hollow, silent now. The ticking had grown fainter – whether drowned out by wind or his own heartbeat, he didn’t know.

‘That’s it,’ Fenn muttered behind him. ‘Thirty seconds left.’

Jack turned, his voice low and sharp. ‘Clear the line. Now.’

Fenn raised his arm and barked the order. ‘Fall back! Behind the wall, now!’

The soldiers scrambled. Jack followed, shoes slipping on wet grass, breath tight as wire. They all ducked behind the low stone perimeter just as the device detonated.

A deep, concussive thud ripped through the air, the ground shuddering beneath him. Dirt and grass flew skyward in a violent spray. The sandbags absorbed most of the blast, but the sound still hit like a muffled punch.

For a heartbeat, there was only dust and ringing silence.

Jack kept his head down, every muscle tensed.

Then he raised his head. Smoke rose from the centre of the park.

The sandbags were shredded, and the explosion had carved a shallow crater in the earth like an ugly wound.

But it was done. He let out a slow breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

‘Bloody hell, sir. Well done.’ Fenn clapped him on the back. The men were smiling now, the tension broken, a few nodding their approval. Jack managed a tired grin in return.

***

Ellie hovered by the window, eyes locked on the figure in the park. Jack, kneeling, gently placing the black object into the centre of the sandbag circle. Each movement was precise, careful, as if the world itself might detonate if he so much as breathed too hard.

Her own breath caught. She didn’t exhale.

Couldn’t. The seconds stretched, slow and syrup thick, as if the world had fallen underwater.

A trickle of sweat ran down her spine as she held herself perfectly still.

Time disobeyed its own rules. She watched as Jack backed away, pressing her hand to the glass, her heart crashing against her ribs like a bird desperate to escape.

For one terrifying moment he hesitated. Run!

Please, just run! Then he turned and sprinted out of the park, across Horse Guards Road and into the street below her window.

He ducked behind the sandbags shrouding the entrance to the Foreign Office.

A beat later, the ground he had just fled erupted. The blast came low and blunt, a boom that shook the windows and sent a ripple through the air. A spray of dirt and smoke burst upward, gouging a crater into the ground. Branches flinched. Dust hovered. And for a moment, all was still.

Ellie’s heart slammed in her chest. Her mouth was dry. She could barely breathe for the silence.

Then, in a low, gravelly voice Churchill said, ‘Some men speak of duty. Others live it.’ He paused, his gaze fixed on the smoke curling upward, as if he could still see the man behind it.

‘There is no glory in acts like this. Only necessity, and the weight of knowing you did the right thing, even when no one beyond this moment will know what you have done.’ His jaw tightened.

His voice dropped further. ‘History will mark victories. But I will remember the men who made them possible.’

Neither of them spoke after that. But inside her, a deep, silent knowing grew. Jack had done it.