To her credit, Madeleine didn’t shriek. She looked at Petrovitch.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Two figures were striking out for the tower from the other end of Piccadilly. Their grainy-green images pushed forward through the refuse-strewn sea. They made big bow-waves, almost running where they could, slowing only when their momentum threatened to lift them off their feet and send them floundering below the surface.

A giant splayed foot stamped into view, sending up a wave that threatened to engulf them. They bobbed like corks for a moment before regaining their stride. They made no pretense at stealth, shouting at each other in wild, high voices.

The pursuing construct stopped at the water’s edge, the second of its three feet checking its advance. A single arm dangled from the belly of its body; it reached out with it, claws from a wrecker snapping open as it descended.

It hesitated, then withdrew it.

“Sonja. It has to be Sonja.” Petrovitch stared again, trying to make sense of what he saw.

“They’re not shouting in English,” offered Madeleine.

“No. No, you’re right. Who the huy is that with her, because it’s not Chain.”

Whoever it was had Sonja by the arm. The taller figure was in front, the shorter behind. There was a hint of a struggle in their body language, in the way that one was pulling forward and the other seemed to be leaning back, resisting. But it could just as easily be explained by exhaustion on the girl’s part.

He passed the goggles back to Madeleine.

“We haven’t got another plan, have we?” she asked.

Petrovitch tutted. “Not anymore. Wait until they’ve reached the lobby, then we move.”

“They’re not looking at us,” she said. “We can move now.”

Madeleine used the pipe to steer the box ahead of them as they continued to use it for cover.

“You can touch it with your hands, you know. I guarantee it’s a hundred percent rat free.”

“Unlike everything else here.” She peered over the top. “They’ve just gone inside.”

Petrovitch shoved the box aside, which made a lazy circle and started to sink. “The Jihad is watching us, so look impressive.”

The tripod-construct turned its body toward them, tracking their movement through the water. When they reached the tower, it turned away, creaking toward Mayfair.

The water was up to Petrovitch’s navel by the time he peered through the demolished doors. Strip lights guttered overhead, and something was sparking in the ceiling, sending showers of electric rain across the submerged reception desk.

Bodies like bloated bags rotated slowly, turned by the current. Slick, furry shapes crawled over them and between them, squeaking feverishly. The air was sweet with decay.

“Blessed Mother. Save us.”

“The stairs up are on the far side.”

“They would be.”