There were teenagers on either side of him, behind him, in front of him. Some rushed forward; some fell behind.

Myron grabbed one harder than he meant to and pulled him up to his face: “Where does this tunnel lead?”

“Lots of places.”

Myron let him go. Lots of places. Terrific.

He reached a fork and stopped. Some kids went left, others right.

“Patrick! Rhys!”

Silence. And then a voice that sounded American: “Help!”

To the right.

Myron hurried after the voice, trying to move faster, trying so hard to keep a pace and yet not whack his head on the ceiling. The stench was starting to make him gag. He kept moving. He wondered how long these tunnels had been here—centuries maybe—the whole place feeling suddenly like something out of Dickens, when he saw two boys up ahead.

And a fat man in a yellow zoot suit.

Fat Gandhi turned toward him. He took out a knife.

“No!” Myron shouted.

There were still more teenagers in front of them. Myron sprinted as hard as he could toward the boys, lowering his head, pumping his legs.

Fat Gandhi raised the knife.

Myron kept moving. But he could see he was too far away.

The knife came down. Myron heard a scream.

A boy collapsed to the ground.

“No!”

Myron dove toward the fallen body. The zoot suit started to run away. Myron didn’t care. More teens were starting to push on through. Myron crawled on top of the stabbed boy.

Where was the other boy?

There. Myron reached out and grabbed his ankle. He held on. Other teens scrambled over him. Myron kept his grip on the ankle. He stayed on top of the stabbed boy, using his own body as a shield. He found the stab wound and tried to stem the flow with his forearm.

Someone’s foot landed on Myron’s wrist. His grip on the other boy’s ankle was starting to loosen.

“Hang on,” he shouted.

But the ankle was being pulled away.

Myron gritted his teeth. How much longer could he keep this up?

Myron held on, even as the boy tried to pull away, even as a kick landed hard on his face, even as the second kick landed. And then, on the next kick, his grip slipped.

The boy was swept away in the river of other teenagers.

Gone.

“No!”

Myron kept low, making his body a protective shell for the injured boy. He pressed his forearm down hard on the wound.

You aren’t dying. You hear me? We didn’t come all this way for you . . .

When the current of teenagers passed over him, Myron quickly ripped off his shirt and applied pressure to the wound. He finally looked down at the boy.

And recognized his face.

“Hang in there, Patrick,” Myron said. “I’m taking you home.”

Chapter 9

Three days passed.

The police asked Myron a lot of questions. He gave a lot of half answers and also, as a bar-licensed attorney, he called upon attorney-client privilege, known in the United Kingdom as legal professional privilege, so as not to name Win. Yes, he had flown over at the request of a client on the Lock-Horne jet. No, he couldn’t say a word about having spoken to or seeing his client. Yes, he delivered money in the hopes of securing the release of Patrick Moore and Rhys Baldwin. No, he had no idea what happened to the wall. No, Myron said, he had no idea who stabbed a twenty-six-year-old man with a long rap sheet of trouble named Scott Taylor in the throat, killing him. No, he didn’t know anything about three men killed near King’s Cross station days before. He was, after all, in New York City at that time.