Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,15

in more tightly, dragging me deeper into the fold. Elbows knock against mine, unfamiliar hands landing on my spine to roughly usher me forward, toward St. James’s Park. Fighting against the push would be akin to fighting a current, and I accept the trajectory with a shaky breath that rattles in my lungs.

“Go!” someone shouts. “Move faster!”

“Bugger,” another voice cries out, each syllable merging with the sound of water hitting pavement. It might not be tear gas—water cannons are more humane, some say—but it still hurts like the devil and has the power to lift you clear off your feet if you’re caught in the crosshairs.

My own feet stumble forward out of gathered momentum, but I manage a desperate glance over my shoulder to search the crowd. The cone of light from the helicopter continues to dance over faces, but none are recognizable. No blue eyes or short, jaggedly cut hair in desperate need of a trim. No Queen Mary pullover in dire need of a wash. No Peter.

Don’t think the worst. Don’t you dare think the worst.

Easier said than done, especially when screams erupt around me and my back dampens with water. The ground turns slick beneath my shoes, and I know my fate seconds before I hear the horn.

I go down in a sea of scrabbling hands and slipping feet, sucked under thrashing bodies all fighting for survival.

Terror clamps around my heart like a restricting vice, and then I hear nothing.

Not the yelling.

Not the whirring helicopter up above.

Just . . .

Nothing.

6

Saxon

I reach down, grabbing the man by the threads of his shirt, and turn him over onto his back.

Under the moonlit sky, his face appears ashen. Blood pools beneath his right nostril. His upper lip is busted, his left cheek sliced open—a gift from another bloke’s fist, I imagine—and it takes me less than three seconds to catalog the rest of him.

Blue tracksuit. Black trainers with untied shoelaces and blood spattered across the toes.

Seems I’m not the only one with my sights set on Alfie Barker tonight.

All around me, the protest at Buckingham Palace is a cacophony of chaos. The air crackles with tension—fear at its most formidable. And as I slip my thumb over my target’s throat, I can’t help but wonder if Queen Margaret is watching tonight’s festivities.

We told her to stay away, to remain hidden.

If I were a betting man, though, I’d place every last quid I have that she’s perched in one of the palace’s windows, unable to tear her gaze away from the frenzy.

Because that’s what this is. A frenzy. A mob.

And there’s no stopping it.

With one palm hovering over Barker’s throat, I use my free hand to search his pockets. A stick of chewing gum. A fiver. A purse stuffed full of identification cards. Multiple. All with different home addresses and different surnames though the picture remains the same and the first name never changes. Burner IDs. Shoving the wallet into my trousers, I make quick work of moving to his next pocket.

The throat beneath my palm gasps for air. I feel the withdrawal, the innate desperation, in the split second that it takes for him to exclaim, “Get away from me! Who the fuck do you think you—”

The rest of his sentence ends with the heel of my hand pressing into his larynx. He gurgles immediately, his fingers grasping my wrist to tug fruitlessly for release. When I don’t ease up on the pressure, and instead continue searching for the mobile he’s carrying, his knees hike up in a futile attempt to kick me away.

In the light of day, someone might care about this man dying. In the dark of night, though, secrets are kept with infinite care. No one steps in to help. No one shoves at my frame to push me off. No one gives a damn. Everyone is too busy saving themselves.

“Please,” he grunts, squirming from the chest down, “please don’t kill me.”

I lean over him, digging my knee into his abdomen until he folds like an accordion. “Where is it?”

He swallows under my grip. Claws his nails over my wrist, my forearm. Yanks so hard on my sleeve that my hood falls from my head. “What? Where is what?”

“Come now, Alfie,” I say, my tone eerily pleasant, “a man like you visiting the palace so late after hours? The Guard won’t let you through those front gates, which means we both know what you planned to do.” I drop another centimeter, until my mouth hovers by his