Sirens blared. First from a distance, but that seemed to trigger others, and soon the night was filled with the angry warning sound. From somewhere far off, an unmistakable boom shattered the night still more. The antiaircraft guns, stationed around London.

Red took off at a run, and Drake and Camden followed. If the Gothas were here, it meant one of two things—either they hadn’t received Margot’s revisions to their plan in time and this factory would soon be targeted, or they’d soon be dropping their loads on the abandoned warehouse on the other side of the river, and Regnitz would realize he’d been foiled. Either way, they’d probably be safe from any sniping he might have planned right now . . . but not for long.

They stopped at the first of the two locations the agent had given them, where a metal rubbish bin slouched forlorn in the mouth of an alley. Into this Drake slid the false code. And then straightened, looking about, wondering what sort of signal Regnitz would offer.

He had his answer when a bullet bit off a chunk of brick a foot above his head. It had likely come from across the street, but he didn’t have time to investigate. He motioned Red and Camden onward.

No more bullets whizzed by them as they made their way, but the drone of the planes was growing louder now, and the sirens continued to scream. “It isn’t midnight yet!” Drake shouted as they gained the side door of the factory and, upon testing it, found it unlocked.

Convenient. And probably thanks to Dieter Regnitz, who wanted them to gain entrance.

Let Dot be here, Lord. Help us find her. Help us get her out. Only by your grace, Father.

“They must have caught a tailwind and made it across the Channel faster than anticipated—those that made it. Some would have dropped off, they always do.” Camden bent in half long enough to suck in a breath. “You definitely owe me now, Elton.”

Flying him to France and home in one day and then following him to a known bombing target? He’d owe him for the rest of his life. Lord, let it be long enough to repay him. “I’ll send you a tin of biscuits.”

“I see something, chaps. Over there.” Red indicated the corner of the factory floor.

Drake followed his finger to where a figure was slumped—too long to be Dot. Too wide to be Regnitz. “A guard?”

“I’ll see.” Movingly quickly, Red took off.

Drake surveyed the factory floor. This room had no machines, no equipment. Just enormous shells, lined up like rows of wheat, from this wall as far as he could see toward the opposite. Support beams stretched up to the ceiling every few yards, and walkways intersected each other in a grid.

Almost, nearly, like a game board. But where were the players?