On Her Majesty's Behalf (20 page)

Burke was still trying to shake off his mental fuzziness and might have sat there indefinitely if Jones hadn't taken advantage of the cover JD was providing and come charging over to squeeze in beside Burke.

“He's not going to be able to hold them for long, Major.”

Burke didn't say anything.

“Major?”

Nothing.

“All right, on your feet, sir. Let's go!”

The next thing Burke knew he was climbing down the ladder into the darkness and stink of the sewers beneath the museum, struggling to get his mechanical hand to grasp the rungs properly and only slowly coming to understand as he fumbled about that the last two fingers on that hand had been shot clean off.

The light he was using to see his injured hand was suddenly cut off as Jones hauled the trapdoor closed above them. Seconds later he was at the bottom of the ladder beside Burke.

“This way, Major,” he said and pulled Burke along in his wake as he hustled to catch up with the rest of their group.

Above them, the firing continued.

 

Chapter Twenty-nine

In the Sewers

London

S
OME TIME LATER,
Burke stumbled along through the sewer in the midst of the fleeing squad, barely aware of those around him or the passage they were taking. He kept seeing Sergeant Moore's face appear above the heads of the zombie soldiers in the German fighting unit, kept seeing the flare of recognition in the man's eyes as Moore spotted him in turn. Burke had no doubt that Moore had known who he was; he was certain of that down to the depths of his soul.

Burke had been wondering about Moore's fate ever since their previous mission, when the big sergeant volunteered to lead the German pursuit away from the rest of the squad in order to give them time to get Major Freeman to safety. Burke had spent several long nights lost in anguish and regret as the mystery over Moore's fate continued. Time and time again he'd second-­guessed his decision to use the sergeant as a decoy during their escape, wondering if they might have managed to break free of the rapidly closing German net even if they hadn't split up at that fateful moment. Moore hadn't been the only man lost from that decision, either; Clayton Manning, the big game hunter, had disappeared with him.

Now, at last, Burke knew the truth.

And the truth was worse than he'd feared.

News of Moore's death would certainly have been upsetting; there was no question of that. But he'd been preparing himself mentally and emotionally for that very thing for weeks now and knew he would have handled it just fine. He would have mourned and then moved on.

Hell, he would have even done the same thing if Moore had died and then risen as a shambler, for there was enough evidence now for Burke to rest assured that nothing of the original personality remained behind in that reanimated husk of flesh. It was a walking corpse and nothing more.

But this?

This was different, so different that it was almost too horrifying to consider.

Charlie clearly retained some memory of who he had been prior to being subjected to the transformation into one of Richthofen's supersoldiers. That knowledge hadn't seemed to stop him from trying to kill Burke or his companions, but at least the slate hadn't been wiped totally clean. Maybe the transformation could be reversed.

But what if Burke's identity wasn't the only thing Charlie retained? What if he remembered everything—­all the strategy conferences, the after-­action reports, the briefings on new gear coming out of Graves's lab? He'd been Burke's adjutant for several years now and had been privy to everything that had crossed through Burke's hands during that time. Granted, there weren't too many national secrets being bandied about in the trenches where Burke had spent most of his time overseas, but there was enough day-­to-­day operational information to give Burke pause.

Had Charlie shared it all with his new masters?

There was no way to know, and Burke knew that was the scariest part of all.

His attention elsewhere, Burke stumbled over a piece of detritus on the tunnel floor and would have fallen if a strong hand hadn't caught his arm.

He turned to find Jones off to his left.

“You okay, Major?”

Burke nodded, then realized the other man probably couldn't see him in the dim light.

“Yeah . . . thanks.”

“None needed.”

Jones was quiet a moment and then . . . “You saw?”

There could be only one thing Jones was referring to.

“I saw.”

Jones fell silent, no doubt lost in his own thoughts about their previous teammate, but the conversation was enough to drag Burke out of his reverie and get him focused on the situation at hand.

He had no idea of where they were or of how far they had come since entering the tunnels. He wasn't entirely certain any of the others did either, but he was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. If it turned out he was correct—­that they didn't know where they were—­that was okay, too, for anywhere was preferable to being trapped back in the lab with the German troops moments away from gunning them down where they stood.

They were moving through a low tunnel that had them all stooping slightly as they pushed along. Dirty, brackish water—­Burke didn't even want to think about what was floating there beneath the surface—­rose nearly to their knees and sloshed higher with every step they took. Sergeant Drummond led the way, the lantern in his hands illuminating the cracked and crumbling brick that lined the curved walls of the tunnel on either side of them and giving them minimal light with which to see. Behind Drummond was Doc Bankowski, helping along an injured Corporal Williams. Private Cohen came next, followed by Queen Veronica, Professor Graves, himself, and then Jones bringing up the rear. Burke glanced around, looking for Montagna, then caught himself, remembering how the young private and Captain Morrison both had sacrificed themselves so the rest of them could reach the temporary safety of the lab and hence the tunnels beyond.

Coming to the museum had proven to be a costly detour, even if it had provided them with a way to get the Queen to safety once they reached the Gardens.

If they reached the Gardens.

Don't think like that,
he scolded himself.
You'll reach the Gardens and you'll get the Queen out of here even if it's the last thing you do.

Determination replaced despair, and he physically shook himself as if shaking off the negative thought, standing straighter and refusing to be beaten down by recent events. He hadn't lived this long by giving in to his negative emotions, no matter how bad the situation.

Buck up, Burke.

The whispered command to hold up came back down the line, and he decided it was time to stop letting the others carry him along and to do the job he was here to do. He pushed his way to the front of the group where it was immediately clear why they had stopped. A ladder came down from above right in the middle of the tunnel, the first one they'd seen since entering the tunnels. Drummond was standing beneath it, looking up at the faint light coming in from around the manhole cover above.

“What have we got, Sergeant?” Burke asked, stepping up into the light next to the other man.

Drummond seemed relieved to see him.

Was I that out of it?
Burke wondered.

“Ladder to street level, sir. With your permission, I'll check it out.”

Burke nodded and then watched as the brawny British sergeant practically swarmed up the ladder.
He doesn't like it down here any more than I do.

There was a grinding sound from above as Drummond slipped the steel manhole cover to one side and peered out into the street. A few moments passed and then Drummond slid back down the ladder to join them.

“Looks clear. No sign of the enemy, human or otherwise.”

“Any idea of where we are?”

Drummond shrugged. “Somewhere near Grosvenor Square, I think. Maybe New Bond Street. I've been trying to keep us traveling in one direction as best as I can, but the tunnels have switched back and forth a few times so I'm not positive. We've come a fair distance from the museum, at least.”

That was good enough for Burke. He didn't know London's geography well enough for the location to mean much to him, he just wanted to be certain they wouldn't turn the corner and run into Moore's unit again. They needed some breathing room to deal with their injuries and take stock of how things stood.

He sent Drummond back up the ladder to provide security for the rest of them as they cautiously climbed up the ladder one by one and into the street above. When they were all clear, Burke slipped the manhole cover back into place and then took a look around.

The street was lined with a variety of shops. From where Burke stood he could see several clothing stores, both men's and women's, a stationery store, an antiques store, and even a butcher's shop. The doors and windows on all the buildings were intact, indicating that the area hadn't been hit hard in the recent bombing attacks. It could have been an ordinary day in London, if it weren't for the bodies lying rotting in the street, evidence that the shredders had come through at some earlier point.

A heavy stench wafted over him, and it took Burke a moment to realize it wasn't the corpses but himself and his companions that smelled so bad. All of them were splattered here and there with the muck of the sewers from which they'd just emerged, and it was going to take more water than they were currently carrying for them to get clean.

Look at the bright side,
Burke told himself.
There's no way the hounds are going to be able to track you now.

With the sun disappearing below the horizon, Burke thought it prudent that they find a place to hole up and wait out the night in some semblance of safety rather than stumbling about in the dark risking discovery by shredders and German special ops troops alike. Luckily, it didn't take them long to find someplace suitable.

The bank had been serving the financial needs of British customers since 1822, according to the plaque outside the front door. Burke didn't care about that. He was far more interested in the steel gates that had been pulled down over the windows and across the main entrance. The gate protecting the front door was locked, but they could take care of that easily enough.

“Williams, front and center.”

When the corporal limped over and joined him, Burke pointed at the gate. “Can you get us in here?”

“Does a pig smack its lips?” came the young man's reply.

Being a city boy himself, Burke had no idea what pigs did or didn't do, but given that Williams was pulling out his tool kit and having a go at the lock he took the other man's answer in the affirmative.

It took Williams less than three minutes.

Inside, the marble floor, mahogany desks, and hand-­painted murals on the ceilings spoke to the wealth of the customers who regularly banked there, but the small group barely noticed. They were exhausted from the day's events and simply wanted a place to lie easy for the night. They quickly checked the main lobby and nearby offices to be certain they were free of shredders.

The restrooms still had running water and a nearby closet held weeks' worth of cleaning supplies, so they took turns cleaning the grime from their boots and clothing as best they could. By the time they were finished their uniforms were a bit damp, but at least they didn't smell so strongly of sewage.

Rations were divided up among them so that everyone had something to eat and canteens were filled at the restroom sinks. Burke posted a sentry at the door and then suggested that the rest of them find space on the floor in front of the long counter of teller windows to try and relax.

He was just settling down himself, intending to take a look at the mangled remains of his hand, when he heard Jones give out a whoop of excitement and saw him emerge from the bank president's office, a slip of paper in his hand.

What now?
Burke wondered.

Smiling, Jones waved the paper in his direction but didn't stop his motion across the room toward the massive steel door that governed access to the bank's vault.

Uh, oh.

Burke hurriedly rose. “What are you doing, Jones?”

Ignoring him, the other man glanced at the paper in his hand and then began spinning the small combination dial to the left of the captain's wheel on the vault door.

Visions of being court-­martialed for robbing a British bank swam through Burke's thoughts as he hurriedly crossed the room to the other man's side.

“I said, what the hell are you doing, Jones?”

The corporal stepped over to the captain's wheel and grabbed the handles. “Found the combination to the vault in the bank president's office. Guy had it taped to the inside of his desk drawer.”

Burke scoffed. “There's no way the bank's president would do something so stupid,” he said. “It's probably just a decoy.”

“I'm sure you're right, Major,” Jones said, even as he spun the massive flywheel to the right. There was a brief whir as the tumblers moved inside the lock mechanism, followed by a very loud click.

Jones hauled back on the handle and the vault door swung open on well-­oiled hinges.

The corporal grinned, then stepped inside.

Burke followed.

The walls of the vault were lined with safe deposit boxes, most of which were locked shut. Those few that were open looked like they'd had their contents removed in a hurry, making Burke think they might have been the personal boxes of individuals who worked right there at the bank. Who else would have had time to get to their valuables after the German attack?

“Not the fortune you were looking for?” Burke asked, upon seeing the expression of disgust on Jones's face after he poked his nose into a few of the open boxes.

“Only a fool ignores the sound of opportunity knocking.”