Bank of Westminster

Chapter 9

"This is Inner London. Trains will stop for fifteen minutes. Please disembark in an orderly fashion..."

The woman's recorded voice droned on, and Baron hoisted his briefcase and followed the flow of commuters. The scene that had unfolded mere minutes ago in the carriage still played behind his eyes.

Five hijackers had been taken down in the blink of an eye by a Battle-Sister. She moved so fast that Baron had barely registered her face—only the three-foot Japanese sword she wielded, its gleam stretching three whole yards.

Lawrence hadn't lied. Once these so-called enforcers set their sights on you, victory was impossible. The only option was flight—endless, ceaseless flight.

For the moment, Baron was still off their main wanted list. Perhaps because the Timed Death Sentence already hung over his head: a condemned man with an execution date, hardly worth the extra effort.

Thinking of the Timed Death Sentence darkened his mood for an instant, then he shrugged it off.

Live—no matter what. Survive with everything you have. Death once was more than enough.

He was about to leave the platform when a hand blocked his path.

"Your ticket, sir."

It was the same conductor from the train. Even after a robbery attempt, the man remembered Baron hadn't shown his ticket. His silent stare drew the attention of passing travelers.

If your security were half this diligent, those bank robbers would never have boarded... and I probably wouldn't have either.

Baron produced the ticket without expression. The conductor exhaled, suspicion fading, and bowed slightly.

"Apologies, sir. Checking tickets is every Dragon Subway employee's duty. I hope I didn't trouble you."

Baron waved it off and turned to leave. A runner arrived, whispered in the conductor's ear, and Baron's gut clenched. He pivoted and walked away.

Too late. The conductor's face shifted from polite to solemn. He stepped forward.

"Sir, please wait a moment."

"What now?"

Had they found him out?

Baron feigned a glance at his watch, signaling he was in a hurry.

The conductor's smile was perfectly professional. "The announcement said six robbers, but we only found five in your carriage..."

His gaze settled on Baron's briefcase.

So they thought he was the sixth accomplice.

"We'd like to inspect your case," the conductor said.

"Searching a citizen without cause violates personal freedom and privacy rights," Baron replied calmly. He adjusted his black-framed glasses. "Haven't you read the newly published Old-Blood Act issued by the Prol Court?"

The conductor blinked, caught off guard.

Baron pressed on. "Dragon Subway is a private company, correct? It lacks enforcement powers over passengers."

"But—"

"Don't trust me? Or don't trust me because I'm a bloodless scion?"

Noticing the gathering crowd, Baron raised his voice, turning public opinion to his side.

"Or do you suspect my briefcase holds the robbers' stolen cash—just because I took a moment to find my ticket and happen to be a bloodless scion?"

He lifted the case for everyone to see. "If mere suspicion forces a man to empty his pockets to prove his innocence, then I guess Jesus must have been Egyptian."

"Why?" the conductor asked, dry-mouthed.

"Because they mummified him, you idiot!" someone shouted, and laughter rippled through the onlookers.

The conductor flushed crimson.

Baron spread his hands. "You have your job; I have my rights."

"If you insist, let Fate decide. She's the fairest judge."

He flicked the lock. The case snapped open—and two ornate double-barreled shotguns clattered to the floor.

Baron: "..."

Conductor: "..."

Crowd: "..."

So this is the choice that's supposed to turn my luck around? Brilliant.

He remembered Lawrence's words and felt a pang of regret—then moved. In one smooth motion he scooped up the guns, checked the safeties and loads the way countless short videos had taught him, stuffed one in his coat pocket, and jammed the barrel of the other against the temple of the hostage he'd just seized.

A faint scent of incense, a body soft and slight. A woman? He hadn't noticed before.

His gaze dipped. Twin rose hairpins. The girl who'd spotted him as a bloodless scion in the carriage.

Great. He'd kidnapped an acquaintance.

Black-clad figures closed in. He clicked the shotgun's safety off and shouted, voice steady from countless rehearsals in his memory:

"Let me go, or I'll blow her head off!"

...

November 17, 1987. 5:04 a.m.

Roman Street, Inner London.

Everything—buildings, sky, mood—was the color of wet ash. Only a handful of early risers stirred: newsboys, bakers hawking croissants, coffee vendors, the occasional flower girl and shouting peddler. The one difference from the Outside: some of the vendors were dwarves.

Baron leaned against a phone booth, newspaper shielding his face, watching armored knights on lion-back ride past. Once certain no one was tailing him, he walked straight to a little flower stall.

"Sir, would you like a bouquet of Alfheim blue roses? The elves love the dew that gathers on the petals at dawn—only seventy pence." The girl's voice was bright.

"What do you usually pay for flowers?"

"Fifty pence a bouquet, sir. We have to pick them fresh before dawn..." Juliet assumed he thought the price too high and hurried to explain.

"I'll sell your flowers for you and clear your stock within an hour—ten pounds for my trouble," Baron cut straight to the point.

Juliet: "?"

Before she could answer, Baron snatched the fountain pen from the stall and scrawled beneath "Fresh flowers 70p per bunch": "We buy back—two bunches for £1.60."

Juliet opened her mouth; Baron flicked open his coat just enough to show the gun grip. Juliet pressed her lips together—no tears.

...

"Little girl, two bunches of roses."

"That'll be £1.40."

"I'll sell them back to you."

"Here's £1.60," Juliet said, aggrieved.

The Jewish gentleman counted the coins, eyes twinkling beneath his beard. "How many bouquets remain?"

"Fifty bunches, sir."

He drew seven crisp fifty-pound notes from his purse and waved them grandly. "I'll take the lot."

He smiled at the two baskets of blue, white, and red roses. "Now I'll sell them back to you."

"We're not buying. Thank you."

Baron folded his newspaper, scooped the money from the table, grabbed Juliet's hand, and ran.

The Jewish gentleman stood dumbfounded.