Amberlough(106)

And yet.

He stole the bicycle from Finn’s landing, careful not to let it rattle against the bannister or the steps as he carried it down. A little scouting revealed there was a back way out of Finn’s building.

He took side streets in a roundabout route to the river, which he crossed. There were myriad ways into Bythesea from the south, through the train yards, but if one approached it from the direction of the central city, ingress was limited to the two sister bridges of Seagate and Station Way. If the Ospies were onto him they’d be watching both of those.

If the Ospies were onto him he’d be lucky to get out of the city at all.

He rode up to the high wrought iron gates of the station’s western entrance, casing the approach as he went past. No one lingering … wait. Black bowler pulled low, smoking a cigarette just outside the revolving doors. The man’s eyes were sharp under the brim of his hat. Some sculler taking a smoke break? Or was he waiting for someone of Cyril’s description?

Hopping off the bicycle, Cyril deposited it in the rank against the gates, not bothering to lock it—he didn’t have the key. He tried not to look at the man in the black bowler as he passed, but he did allow himself a deep, audible breath when those sharp eyes stayed on the street and didn’t follow him through the spinning panes of the door.

Approaching the ticket counter, he hooked his thumb into his ticket pocket, where it brushed Ari’s letter. He had the folder under one arm, and wished he had his briefcase instead. Traveling without luggage wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Still, it couldn’t be helped, and he was already here.

This early, there was no queue at the ticket counter—wouldn’t be, not for a few more hours. He approached the glass wearing what he hoped was the weary but charming smile of a man resigned to early travel.

The teller yawned and looked up from a crossword. “Help you, sir?”

Suddenly, he was viscerally glad he’d seen what he had of Aristide’s instructions. “The five o’clock, northbound.”

“How far?”

He tried to disguise his hesitation, wondering where he was supposed to get off. “Farbourgh City,” he said. It was somewhere to start. “Second class.” All he had was the money in his wallet, but in this suit he would stick out in a third-class compartment.

She started to make up the ticket, but caught herself halfway through. “Damnation. I forgot. Do you have your papers?”

“Must be hard,” he said, handing over the folder, “with all these new regulations.”

She started scanning the first page. “Like you wouldn’t believe, Mr. Darling.” Obviously reading from a cue sheet tacked to the inside of the glass, she asked “What’s your reason for traveling to Farbourgh?”

“Business,” he said. “I’m invested in a friend’s venture and he wants to talk in person.”

She nodded, uninterested, and turned the page to the physical description. She read it through, looked him up and down, and passed the papers back. “All looks fine to me. Let me just finish with the ticket and you’ll be on your way.”

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making his limbs weak. She slid the ticket under her little window. He reached for it, thrilling. He’d done it. He’d absolutely—

In the reflection of the ticket counter’s glass, movement caught his eye. Half turning his head, already knowing what he would see, Cyril looked over his shoulder.

The man in the black bowler came through the revolving doors, flanked by two other men, much bigger. There was a tense moment, stretched thin and sharp as wire across the gold-flecked expanse of marble floor.

Cyril dropped the folder. When he ran, loose papers flapped behind him like startled birds.

*

Coal smoke burning in his lungs, Cyril took the stairs down to the platform three at a time, leaping the final distance to the tile. Travelers were few and the rails were bare—the five o’clock wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes. That left the end of the soaring glass enclosure, open onto the train yards. He jumped from the edge of the platform. A fraction of a second later, a shot rang out, and he heard ceramic shatter. A woman screamed.

He landed badly, slipping on the oil-stained concrete around the rails, but caught himself and leapt into a sprint. He tried to keep under the lip of the platform. Bullets cracked into the ground at his heels. A chip of concrete struck his calf, and he felt a sting and a trickle of hot blood tracking down toward his shoe. They were aiming to stop him, not to kill.

As he ran, he drew his pistol and rammed the slide back. No time for the suppressor now, and no need. There was an obvious answer here. The Ospies had clearly caught him. He’d be dragged back to the Warehouse and questioned. He wouldn’t survive it. So why not just …

He skidded to a halt, just short of the open end of the platform. A stiff breeze came up off the harbor, whistling through the aperture. He turned and saw his pursuers gaining. He had the gun half lifted—could already taste the steel and oil, faintly laced with his own sweat.

When he hit the ground, his own consciousness surprised him until, dizzily, he realized he had never put the pistol between his teeth. They already had him cuffed by then, the men who had come from behind, from the yards.

He cursed himself for stopping and turning, for not shooting while he ran.

“Swear all you like,” said one of his captors. “Won’t get you anywhere.”