Page 132 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Had to figure out how to keep him alive when the sky started falling.

TWENTY-FOUR

IN THE CROSSHAIRS

ART

The summons came at dawn.

I hadn't slept. Couldn't sleep. Had spent the night pacing my small room, listening to distant sounds I couldn't identify, wondering if every footstep in the corridor was someone coming to tell me Tom was dead.

He'd gone after Peter. That was the last I'd heard. Ruth had whispered it through my door sometime after midnight, her voice tight with fear. “Tom's pursuing him. Toward the perimeter. Finch has sent guards.”

Then nothing. Hours of nothing. Just silence and darkness and the steady tick of my own heartbeat counting down to something I couldn't name.

When the knock finally came, I was already dressed. Already waiting. Already braced for the worst.

“Mr Pembroke.” A guard I didn't recognise, face professionally blank. “Captain Finch requests your presence. Immediately.”

The walk to Finch's office felt longer than usual. Corridors that I'd memorised over three years suddenly seemedunfamiliar, distorted by exhaustion and fear. People passed me with expressions I couldn't read. Some looked away. Others stared with something like pity.

Ruth was already there when I arrived, standing at attention before Finch's desk. Her face was grey with tiredness, dark circles carved deep under her eyes, but she straightened when she saw me. Relief flickered across her features, quickly suppressed.

“Mr Pembroke.” Finch gestured to the space beside Ruth. “Join us.”

I took my position. Waited. The silence stretched until it became its own kind of torture.

“Lance Corporal Rowe was apprehended last night.” Finch's voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Attempting to set a signal marker beyond the perimeter. He's confessed to passing information to enemy intelligence handlers for the past four months. Including details about this facility's function and location.”

The words landed, but they didn't bring relief. Just a different kind of dread.

“So I was right,” I said. “The estate is the target.”

“You were right about many things, Mr Pembroke. The leak. The source. The pattern of betrayal.” Finch's jaw tightened. “I should have listened sooner.”

Should have. Past tense. The words tasted like ashes.

“And Tom? Sergeant Hale?”

“Alive. Minor injuries from apprehending Rowe. He's been debriefed and returned to duty.” Finch's expression flickered with something that might have been approval. “He caught Rowe cleanly. Got a full confession.”

The relief was so intense it made my knees weak. Alive. Tom was alive. Everything else could wait.

“What happens now?” Ruth asked.

Finch stood, moved to the window, stared out at the snow-covered grounds. His reflection in the glass looked older than the man I'd faced across this desk so many times. Tired in ways that went beyond sleepless nights.

“Rowe claims the bombing run is scheduled within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Possibly sooner.” He turned back to face us. “Command has decided the intelligence value of this facility outweighs the risk of evacuation. We're implementing defensive protocols. Hardening what we can. Preparing shelters.”

“So we're staying.” My voice came out flat. “All of us. Right in the target zone.”

“Yes.”

“And if their accuracy is good?”

“Then we accept casualties as part of the cost of maintaining operational capability.” The words sounded rehearsed, like he'd already had this argument with superiors who'd made the decision and left him to enforce it. “I'm telling you this because you deserve to know what's coming. And because I need you both to continue working.”

Ruth made a sound beside me. Something between a laugh and a sob. “You want us to keep cracking codes while bombers line up to kill us?”