AI "Double Talisker. Keep the bottle."
The voice scraped against the ambient hum of The Raven's Nest, familiar yet distorted, like a radio signal tuned just a fraction off the frequency. I froze halfway through pulling a pint for the tourist in the sequinned top. The glass began to overflow, amber foam spilling over my knuckles, cold and sticky.
I ignored the mess and the tourist's huff of indignation. I knew that voice . I knew the sharp, precise diction, the way the vowels flattened slightly on the vowels.
I turned slowly .
Eva.
The name hit me like a physical blow, forcing the air from my lungs, but the woman standing there held only a ghostly resemblance to the girl who had shoved a packed suitcase into my hands three years ago and told me to run.
The Eva I remembered was a whirlwind of second-hand wool, smelling of patchouli and rebellion. She had hair the colour of autumn leaves that changed with the seasons, and eyes that held a manic, desperate hope for the world.
This woman wore a charcoal trench coat that cost more than my flat. Her hair was sheared into a severe, sleek black bob. She stood with her spine rigid, one hand resting on the brass rail of the bar, manicured nails tapping a rhythm that wasn't a song, but a countdown.
"Rory."
She didn't smile. The warmth that used to radiate from her had been excised , leaving behind something polished and cold.
"Eva." I wiped the foam from my hand onto a rag, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "It's been a while."
"Three years, two months, and eleven days."
"Who's counting?"
"Accountants."
Her gaze swept over the dimly lit room, taking in the peeling wallpaper, the maps stuck to the ceiling, the general air of benign decay. It was a predator 's assessment. She wasn't looking for comfort; she was looking for exits.
"This is where you ended up," she said. It wasn't a question. "A delivery girl living above a pub in Soho. I thought you'd be... somewhere else."
"I thought I'd be dead." I moved the bottle of Talisker across the polished mahogany. "This one's on the house. For old times."
She caught the neck of the bottle, her thumb brushing over the label. "I don't drink on the job anymore."
The words hung there, heavy and final. The Eva I knew wouldn't have recognised the concept of a 'job', not in the way she meant it. She used to scrounge for change to buy us instant noodles and cheap wine, railing against the capitalist machine while smoking roll-ups on the fire escape of our Cardiff flat.
"Since when?"
"Since I realised chaos doesn't pay the bills." She signalled Silas, who had been watching us from the end of the bar, polishing a glass with methodic, deliberate slowness. He didn't move immediately. His hazel eyes flicked from Eva to me, assessing the threat level, his face an inscrutable mask.
"Water," Eva said to him. "Sparkling. Lemon."
Silas set the glass down without a word. The ice cubes clinked, a sharp, brittle sound.
"You've changed," I said, leaning against the beer taps. The crescent scar on my left wrist throbbed , a phantom memory of the night I left. The night Eva forced me out the door while Evan screamed my name from the street. She had stood in the doorway, a wild thing, protecting me. Now she looked like she belonged in a boardroom, signing off on layoffs.
"We all do, Laila."
She used my middle name. The one Evan used to hiss. I flinched, but held her stare.
"Not like this. You look like them."
"Them?"
"The suits. The machine. The people we used to hate."
"Hate is a luxury of the young, Rory. I grew up." She took a sip of the water, her eyes never leaving mine. "And I learned that survival requires... adaptation."
"Is that what this is?" I gestured at the coat, the sharp hair, the hard line of her jaw. "Survival?"
"It's pragmatism." She placed a heavy manilla envelope on the counter between us. "I need you to hold this."
"Excuse me?"
"Don't ask questions. Just take it."
"I'm not a courier, Eva. I deliver noodles for Yu-Fei."
"No. You deliver. You have routes all over the city. You know the back alleys. You know who to talk to and who to avoid." She pushed the envelope closer. It was thick. Heavy. "This needs to disappear for forty-eight hours."
"And then what?"
"Then I come back for it."
Silas drifted closer, the limp in his left leg barely noticeable as he moved with a fluid, predatory grace. He placed a hand on the bar, inches from the envelope. His silver signet ring caught the dim light.
"We don't take packages from strangers," Silas said, his voice low and roughened by smoke and age . "Even old friends."
Eva didn't look at him. She kept her eyes fixed on me, searching for the girl she used to know. "I'm not a stranger, Si. And I'm not asking. I'm telling."
"Then tell us why," I said. "Tell me why you look like you haven't slept in a week. Tell me why you're terrified."
"I'm not terrified."
"Your hand is shaking."
She pulled her hand back from the envelope, curling it into a fist. "It's caffeine. I've been awake for thirty hours."
"Bullshit."
"Rory, please." The mask slipped. Just for a second. The polished, corporate veneer cracked, and I saw the exhaustion underneath. The fear. "I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have involved you. But I didn't know where else to go."
"You involved me the moment you walked through that door," I said. "What's in the envelope, Eva?"
" leverage."
"Leverage for who?"
" people who make Evan look like a playground bully."
The mention of his name sent a jolt of ice through my veins. Evan. The reason I was in London. The reason I had a scar on my wrist and nightmares that wouldn't stop.
"Evan?" I whispered.
"Is small fry," she finished. "He works for them now. He found me, Rory. He knows where I live. He knows what I took."
Silas moved. Fast. He reached out and flipped the envelope open. I caught a glimpse of documents, dense with text and diagrams. He didn't read them; he just looked at the stamp on the top page.
"Department of Defence," Silas muttered, his face darkening . "You stole from the MoD?"
"I didn't steal it. I copied it." Eva turned to him, her voice rising. "They're planning something. A black site operation. Here. In the city. If they find out I have this..."
"They won't kill you," Silas said, his voice terrifyingly calm . "They'll make you wish they had."
"Exactly." She looked back at me, pleading. "Please. Just hide it. Two days. I'm meeting a contact from the Guardian on Tuesday. I hand it over, and it's done. I vanish again."
"And what happens to me?" I asked. "If Evan is working for them, he knows I'm your friend."
"He knows you ran away. He thinks you're weak. He thinks you're hiding."
"He's right."
"No." Eva reached across the bar, grabbing my wrist. Her grip was tight, desperate. "You're the strongest person I know. That's why I sent you away that night. Because I knew you wouldn't survive him. Not then. But now?"
"I'm still the same girl, Eva. Just a little more tired."
"No." She shook her head. "You're still standing. That counts for something."
The bell above the door chimed.
The sound was cheerful, bright, and completely at odds with the heavy atmosphere in the bar. The three of us froze.
Silas moved first. He stepped sideways, positioning himself between the door and us, his hand disappearing beneath the bar. I knew what he was reaching for. He kept a sawn-off shotgun taped under the register. Old habits die hard.
I looked at the door.
Two men stood there. They wore dark suits, incongruous in the dive bar atmosphere. They didn't look at the menu on the wall. They didn't look at the empty tables. They looked directly at the bar.
At Eva.
One of them pulled a phone from his pocket. He said something into it, too quiet to hear over the sudden rushing in my ears.
Eva let go of my wrist. She turned slowly , her back straightening, the corporate mask sliding back into place. She reached for the envelope on the bar, but Silas's hand slammed down on top of it.
"You brought the wolves to my doorstep," Silas growled.
"I'm sorry," Eva whispered.
"Sorry doesn't pay for the windows," Silas said, his eyes locked on the men.
The man with the phone ended the call. He smiled. It was a thin, ugly thing. He reached into his jacket.
"Time's up, Ms. Vance," he said.
My breath hitched. Vance. Not her old surname. She had changed everything.
"Rory," Eva said, her voice tight . "Run."
I didn't move. I looked at the men, then at Silas, then at the envelope. I looked at the woman who had saved my life once, expecting me to run away while she played the hero again.
I grabbed the envelope.
"Silas," I yelled.
Silas moved. He vaulted the bar with an agility that belied his age and his bad knee, landing in a crouch between us and the intruders. He raised the shotgun, the pump-action racking loud and definitive in the silence .
"Get the girl," Silas barked, not looking back at me .
I grabbed Eva's arm. "Come on."
"No," she tried to pull away. "I can't leave you—"
"You made your choice when you walked in here." I hauled her toward the back of the room, toward the bookshelf that hid the stairs to the upper flat. "Now live with it."
The first shot blew the mirror behind the bar into a thousand silver shards. The sound deafened me, ringing in my ears like a church bell. Glass rained down like diamond dust.
"Go!" Silas roared.
I shoved Eva through the gap in the bookshelf and slammed it shut behind us, throwing the deadbolt just as the wood splintered near the handle. We were in the dark, narrow hallway. The stairs were up.
"They're inside," Eva gasped, her back against the wall . "Silas is—"
"Silas can handle himself," I said, though I didn't believe it. I shoved the envelope into my waistband, pulling my shirt down to cover it. "We have to move. Now."
We ran up the stairs, the thud of boots and the crash of furniture echoing up from the bar below. The sound of violence. The sound of my old life catching up.
We burst onto the rooftop. The London air was biting , sharp with the smell of rain and exhaust fumes. I ran to the edge, looking down at the alleyway below. It was a three-storey drop.
"We can't jump," Eva said, panting. "We'll break our legs."
"Better than a bullet to the head." I looked at the fire escape on the next building over. Too far to jump.
"There's no way out," she said, her voice cracking .
I turned back to the roof door. It was locked, but I could hear the footsteps pounding up the stairs. Heavy. Determined.
"There's always a way out," I said, scanning the darkening skyline. "You just have to be willing to pay the price."
The door handle rattled. Then came the impact of a shoulder against the wood.
I looked at Eva. The corporate mask was gone . She looked just like she did the night I left. Scared. Young.
"Remember what I told you?" she asked, tears standing in her eyes . "The night you left? I told you to keep running."
"I remember."
"Then run."
She shoved me. Hard.
I stumbled back, tripping over a loose roof tile. I fell toward the low parapet, scrabbling for purchase. I caught the ledge, my feet dangling over the drop.
Above me, the roof door gave way with a splintering crack. Two figures stepped out into the night. They weren't looking at me. They were looking at Eva.
She stood between them and the edge of the roof. She straightened her coat. She smoothed her hair. She faced them alone.
"Here I am," she said, her voice carrying clearly in the night air . "Let's make a deal."