LITMIR.BIZ

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and squat buildings flashed by—red brick, black brick, blackened stone, dirty concrete, steel and glass. The ambulance turned, tossing her against a row of cupboards. With one hand, she clung to the track anchoring the gurney. She cradled her other arm over her head—like that would stop a bullet. The ambulance jolted left and right, braking and accelerating like it was tossing in the surf. She swallowed nausea. At least there was no panic attack.

       Don’t say “panic attack.”

      The London she knew was a sedate place—dim lamps in hushed private libraries, leather back seats in purring black embassy cars, silver calligraphy on heavy card. Until now, her scariest experience was getting separated from her father in Madame Tussauds when she was eight.

      Jamie checked his watch. “Eleven minutes,” he called to the driver.

      “Until what?” Her words dissolved in the noise.

      “GPS says there’s congestion on the one-way loop from Whitechapel,” the driver yelled. “If we approach from there, they should get neatly stuck.”

      “Good,” said Jamie, planting a hand on Samira’s back as the ambulance swerved again. “Time it right and we can squeeze in just before the gates close.”

      Gates? He was planning to hole up somewhere?

      “And if we arrive a minute later we’ll be trapped,” the driver shouted.

      “Well, don’t get there late.”

      “What’s to stop them slipping in behind us?”

      “Selfish bastard London drivers. Who’s going to let them through?” Jamie winked at Samira—like she had any idea what they were talking about.

      “You’re assuming those same bastards will part for an ambulance.”

      Doubt flicked across Jamie’s face, and vanished.

      “Mate, can’t you just call in an air strike or tank assault or something?” said the driver.

      “That’s plan B.”

      The floor shuddered as the ambulance picked up speed. They were on a wider road, passing the blurred tops of trucks and double-decker buses. The siren wailed and waned. If the driver switched it off, it would surely continue in Samira’s head.

      Jamie popped up to check the windows then knelt again. He thrust his phone at Samira. “Keep an eye on this. Tell me when you see the traffic stop.”

      She juggled it, struggling to focus on the screen while avoiding sliding into Jamie. A live webcam was trained on Tower Bridge, its castle-like twin towers straddling a gray river. Cars and trucks stuttered across it as the stream buffered.

      Outside, the gray light dimmed to charcoal—they’d driven into a tunnel, an underpass maybe. Fighting nausea, she pulled up to a sitting position, bracing her back against cupboards and her feet on the gurney, focusing on the traffic on the little screen. Everyday people going to everyday Sunday places—markets, churches, Christmas shopping, visiting a friend to collect evidence that would take down the future American president... Jamie crept between her and the blond’s gun. Had he deliberately given her a menial task to keep her from panicking?

      The driver leaned on his horn. “I can’t lose this bastard. He’s careering like a maniac at Le Mans.”

      “She,” Jamie corrected.

      “What?”

      “The driver’s a woman.”

      “Whatever. Still a maniac.”

      “That’s because she’s following you and you’re the worst driver in London.” Jamie dropped to a whisper and leaned toward Samira. “He’s the best, really. Totally mental.”

      If Jamie’s humor was meant to keep her from freaking out, it wasn’t working—though at least her lungs were no longer panicking. Just her brain.

      “I heard you, you know,” the driver called.

      “They’re not firing at us,” she said to Jamie, sounding like a child needing reassurance.

      “They’ll be waiting to corner us, waiting for reinforcements. If they create too much chaos we could slip away into it. Their job is to keep eyes on us while their team regroups and closes in—but don’t worry,” he added, quickly. “We’ll slip away, very soon.”

      She tapped a fingernail on the screen. “Traffic’s stopped in one direction.”

      “A couple of minutes,” Jamie called, rising a little to look out the windscreen.

      “It’ll be tight,” the driver shouted. “Hold on!”

      A stout cruise ship appeared on the screen, downstream of the bridge. Samira frowned. Tower Bridge...it was a drawbridge, yes? “Jamie, I think the bridge is about to lift.”

      “That’s the general idea.”

      She blinked twice. “You’re planning to jump it?”

      “Now, there’s a plan.”

      “Oh God,” she said. “All traffic’s stopped now.”

      The driver slowed, honking and bleeping the siren. Her limited vision told her they were nudging through traffic across to the right-hand side of the road—the wrong side, here. The driver floored it. The engine whined like it was gunning for takeoff. What the hell? Through the windscreen, the crown of the nearest bridge tower came into view. Her quads burned with the effort of bracing against the gurney. To their right was a beige stone wall, studded with...arrow slits. Above it rose spires, circular towers, a Union Jack. The Tower of London. She’d been there once, with her mother. A very different trip.

      “The gate’s closing,” the driver yelled. Underneath the wailing siren, another alarm sounded, high-pitched and wavering.

      “Keep going,” Jamie said. “We have to get past. The Peugeot’s through the traffic but fifty meters behind.”

      “It’s still closing!”

      “They’ll open it,” Jamie called. Samira caught a slight movement at his side. He’d crossed his fingers.

      “James? A few seconds and I won’t be able to stop in time.”

      “Keep going,” Jamie said. “Trust me.”

      The driver tooted again. “The Peugeot’s gaining.” Sure enough, the engine behind them was straining to a new pitch. More horns sounded.

      Samira pulled herself onto the flip-down seat. She couldn’t not watch. Ahead, on the bridge, under a stone archway, a pair of pale blue gates spanned the road. The left-hand one was closed, traffic queued before it. The other was at a forty-five-degree angle and drifting shut. The ambulance wail morphed into a panicked shrill squeal. She hugged the back of the seat.

      “Hold tight,” said the driver. “This’ll be close.”

      Her eyes burned but she couldn’t blink. Behind, the Peugeot was keeping pace. Jamie crouched, clinging to a handhold, muscles tight from his hands to his neck. Shouts filtered in from outside, over the alarms and horns and engines. The tourists were getting a show. The ambulance lurched sideways. The driver yelled. Jamie’s gaze flicked to hers, as steady and calm as his jaw was tense. This was one time she wouldn’t break eye contact. He winked. Winked.

      A thump. Her stomach lurched. A metal-on-metal screech—the side of the ambulance scraping against...the gate? But they were through. Behind them, the gate had stalled, almost closed. The Peugeot gunned it, its driver hunched. The gate lurched then swung shut. She winced, bracing for a crunch. The car fishtailed and pulled up sideways in a screech of brakes, smoke puffing from its wheels, maybe an inch short of crashing. The blond man whacked the back of his driver’s head, who spun toward him, evidently shouting, her arms flailing.

      Samira leaned back in her seat. Blue and white cables streaked past the

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