Chapter ThreeLondon, The City of Dreams

  Fifteen minutes after six the following morning, the first members of the team began arriving at headquarters for the outbound flight. The parking lot sat beneath an overcast sky, still clinging to darkness. Bo and Phil pulled in first, headlights cutting through the haze like quiet declarations. Johnson arrived next, stepping out with his usual quiet urgency. Tyrell followed in a sleek black sedan, James in his battered truck. Tony arrived with focused calm, and Haley brought up the rear, her expression unreadable behind aviator shades.

  The group gathered in near silence, trailing behind Johnson through sliding glass doors and down the hall into the operations briefing room. The air inside smelled faintly of paper and ground coffee—half-processed urgency lingering from missions past.

  The hunters filed into their usual seats around the long table while Johnson placed his black briefcase in front of him, the latches clicking open like gunmetal fingers. From the case, he drew several brown envelopes and slid one to each of them.

  “These are your tickets, passports, and cover credentials,” Johnson said. His voice was crisp, detached, but carried stern weight. “As always, the tech lab should already have your gear and phones ready, so don’t forget to stop by there before you leave this building. You’ll land at a private airfield just outside London. A limo will meet you curbside and take you directly to your lodging.”

  That was unexpected. “Did you say a limo?” Tyrell asked.

  “Yes, I said a limo.”

  “Damn, we are riding in style this time,” boasted James.

  This was unusual. CBH rarely ever assigned luxury transportation for agents on assignment.

  He tapped the nearest envelope with one finger, diverting their attention back to the more pressing issues. “Your cover is tourists. Photography club. Each of you has been assigned cameras—use them. If anyone asks, you're here to snap architecture and drink overpriced espresso.”

  Phil let out a dry chuckle. “Guess I won’t be ordering whiskey at breakfast.”

  Johnson didn’t smile. “This is a black book operation. Get in quietly, locate and extract. We know your target is still in London, bouncing around. We’ve captured him on several security cameras. But there have been no records of anywhere he could be staying.”

  The room dropped into a heavier silence. Even James, usually the first to quip, stayed quiet.

  Bo shifted in his seat. “Understood. What about our weapons?”

  “We’ve already shipped them,” Johnson replied. “Most likely, the crate will be routed to the customs warehouse in Canning Town. It has been equipped with our RTK devices, so once you land, you should have no problem pinpointing its location and making a plan. I have every bit of confidence in your combined abilities, and I believe that you six are absolutely the right ones to be sent on this job. I would trust it to none other.”

  From Johnson, that was high praise indeed. This filled the hunters with pride. Johnson had just told them indirectly that he considered them the best of the best. This also brought added weight. If they failed, it would be a massive hit to their reputation. But they were always up for a good challenge.

  “Where is Chief Lynden?” asked Tony. A valid question. Haley shuddered slightly at hearing his name.

  “Family emergency,” Johnson answered without missing a beat. “I’m handling your handoff today.” Johnson closed his briefcase. He looked down at his watch briefly and then back to the crew. “I believe that covers everything. You have one hour until wheels up. Get a move on.”

  Bo stood and cracked his neck. “Then we'd better get airborne.”

  The jet descended through a thin gauze of clouds and touched down on the tarmac outside London at precisely 8:42 p.m. local time. Night had stretched its fingers early, leaving only a low haze of city light along the horizon. The runway lights pulsed faint blue against the metallic belly of the aircraft as it taxied to a stop, its engines humming softly before powering down.

  Haley was the first out, the evening air brushing her cheek with a cool dampness that carried hints of jet fuel and distant rain. A small Cessna buzzed overhead, dipping sharply behind a row of hangars before vanishing behind distant rooflines.

  The rest of the crew followed, each carrying a single duffel bag slung over their shoulder—clean, discreet, non-military issue. Tony, alone among them, bore two: one standard travel pack and one matte black case with reinforced corners housing his tech gear. He also carried a compact laptop satchel by its shoulder strap, keeping it close as he stepped off the ramp.

  Phil adjusted his collar, glancing up at the industrial skyline. James cracked his neck and muttered something about needing British caffeine. Tyrell scanned the lot as if it owed him a favor. Bo walked at a steady pace behind them, his eyes half on the arriving limo.

  The vehicle—a jet-black stretch framed by polished chrome and glassy curves—glided into position beside the jet and eased to a stop. A driver in a tailored suit emerged from the front cab and opened the rear door with silent efficiency.

  He popped the trunk and started loading gear. When he reached Tony’s heavier tech bag, he hesitated slightly before doubling up his grip and hoisting it beside the others.

  Tony nodded. “It bites if you grab it wrong.”

  The driver - a polite grin. “Noted, sir.”

  The bounty crew began to file into the limo. Tony kept his laptop satchel with him, settling into the rearmost seat where he could stretch out his legs and open his tablet if needed.

  Haley was last to step inside, sweeping one final glance across the quiet tarmac. They were in. And London, for the moment, didn’t know they’d arrived.

  The black limousine rolled across West London’s quiet streets like a whisper on wheels. The city flickered past in warm pulses—pubs in mid-dinner lull, glowing storefronts, and the slow churn of evening traffic, each corner lit like an invitation with secrets behind the glass.

  Inside, the crew settled into plush leather seats. The mood wasn’t tense—but it wasn’t light either. Everyone knew they were playing tourists with bite. But for now... they let the night breathe.

  Haley sat closest to the window, her eyes tracing the edges of the skyline with quiet wonder. It was her first time in London, and the city felt impossibly layered—old stone brushing shoulders with polished steel. Streetlamps passed overhead, casting slow pulses of golden light that brightened and dimmed like the city was breathing in rhythm. She watched reflections skip across glass towers, then melt into the Thames.

  Phil mirrored her fascination, grinning softly as they passed rows of cafes with hanging flower baskets and wrought-iron railings. “Feels a long way from Atlanta,” he murmured.

  James leaned back, stretching out. “Y’know, I’ve never ridden in something with seats this soft and windows this smug. I feel like I should be ordering caviar.”

  Tyrell snorted. “Yeah, or asking the driver what year the leather is.”

  Haley cracked a small grin. “Don’t tempt him. He’ll actually do it.”

  “Only if the vintage smells like regret,” Phil added, adjusting his collar.

  Tony, wedged into the far corner, was glued to his laptop with the screen’s glow casting slivers of blue on his face. Tablet balanced across one knee, fingers tapping notes, pulse readings, and repeater range analysis.

  “Regret’s usually found in seat four of economy class,” he murmured. “This? This smells like someone else paid for the privilege.”

  Tyrell looked over. “You ever look out the window, Tony? Or is fresh air filtered through your firewall?”

  Tony didn’t glance up. “Windows are where people see you.”

  James grinned. “Well, that’s kind of the point.”

  The limo merged onto the Thames River route, wheels gliding past Canary Wharf’s shimmering glass skyline.

  Tyrell thumbed the armrest. “I swear, last time I was in London, I was sleeping in a room above a fish market that reeked like something you wouldn’t wish on an enemy. Place had a shower that screamed.”

  James laughed. “That’s character, man.”

  “It’s trauma,” Tyrell replied. “Character smells like bad cologne and unclaimed baggage.”

  Phil chuckled. “So, what were you doing above a fish market?”

  Tyrell exhaled through his nose, folding his arms. “I was out on leave from the military. I took my savings for a trip. It was my first time in London. I hit up a casino in Soho and lost more than I care to admit. Had just enough left to rent a shoebox for a few nights while I waited for my next check to post so I could get back home.”

  Bo intervened. “You gambled away your money? That seems unlike you. You’ve never seemed impulsive.”

  “Yeah, well—that was me when I was still young and dumb,” Tyrell said with a shrug. “But despite the smell, the place had its charm. I befriended a feral cat named Gandalf.”

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  Haley blinked. “Wait… Gandalf?”

  Tyrell nodded. “Tuxedo cat. Ironically, his best friend was a mouse named Frodo.”

  Every occupant in the car burst into laughter. Even the driver let slip a stifled laugh.

  “Gandalf always sat on an old shipping crate like he ran the block. He wouldn’t let anybody touch him. But after three or four days, I played my hand. I fed him a slice of steak. On my last morning there, I got close enough to pet him. The owner of the fish market said nobody had ever gotten within ten feet.”

  James leaned forward, amused. “So, what happened?”

  “It taught me something. Something I’ll never forget,” Tyrell answered. “I learned not to be impulsive. Persistence earned trust. Impulse wasted it.”

  Phil grinned. “So, you bonded with the cat and got schooled?”

  Tyrell shrugged. “Sometimes, that’s just how it happens.”

  Tony glanced over from his screen, eyes softer than usual. “That’s why I trust Tyrell on perimeter.”

  Bo, seated opposite, gave a rare nod. “He’s got quiet eyes. Sees through the static.”

  Haley leaned her head against the window. “And apparently connects with criminal cats. That’s a résumé booster.”

  Tyrell chuckled low, the sound barely audible but present. “Gandalf wouldn’t have liked any of you.”

  James cracked a grin. “But he liked you?”

  “Enough not to shank me with his claws.”

  The limo passed beneath the glow of Tower Bridge, its suspension lights flickering over the water like runway stripes. Then came the rounded stone dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral rising into the evening sky like a watchful sentinel.

  “I remember that one,” Tyrell said quietly. “Had a pigeon dive-bomb me from there. Missed by a whisper.”

  Tony smirked. “London’s low-tech defense.”

  Tyrell grinned. “Befriending a wizard cat and getting dive-bombed by a bird. Bet you don’t hear something like that every day.”

  “Guess not,” Haley remarked, her smile lingering.

  Phil chuckled. “London’s got character. Not sure it’s housebroken, but it’s got it.”

  Then, as the car turned down a quieter stretch near Parliament, Big Ben rose into view—its clock face glowing amber, ticking behind iron lattice and the rhythmic breath of history.

  Haley glanced toward it through the tinted glass. “That’s where time watches you.”

  Bo said nothing, but his gaze lingered.

  The limo eased onto Buckingham Palace Road, drawing closer to their destination. The Royal Mews passed quietly on their left. The palace itself glowed behind gates and polished stone—stoic, immovable.

  They pulled up to Hotel 41, its black-and-white facade pristine, its ruby awnings bathed in golden under-light. The entrance felt like an invitation dressed in velvet.

  As the vehicle rolled to a stop, Phil leaned out the window slightly and admired the view. “Not bad for simple photographers, eh?”

  “When you know the right people, doors can open,” Bo added.

  Haley stepped out first, her boots tapping softly against the stone. She looked up at Buckingham Palace across the way, its windows lit like distant eyes. She lingered a moment longer than the rest, mouth slightly open.

  “This… is unreal.”

  Tyrell followed, glancing once toward the Royal Guards. “They think they’ve seen everything.”

  Tony slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and stepped out last.

  James exhaled deeply. “Welcome to the quiet side of war.”

  The lobby of Hotel 41 opened like a stage dressed in velvet, with mahogany paneling, black-and-white marble underfoot, polished brass fixtures casting soft amber light over crisp monochrome textures. The crew stepped inside as if walking into a painting they weren’t sure they were meant to touch.

  Haley paused just beyond the doors, taking in the chandelier’s quiet sparkle and the hush of curated elegance. “This place is incredible!”

  Phil exhaled, eyes scanning the room like he was cataloging every polished surface. “Feels like stepping into another world.”

  Bo gave a nod of agreement, his gaze lingering near the orchid-filled reception desk where a host in a tailored suit greeted them with practiced warmth. “Sometimes you just want to kiss the feet of your backers.”

  James tilted his head. “Somebody pinch me. This feels like a dream. I need to wake up.”

  Tyrell snorted. “Tony, this is an impressive hologram. Make sure to save it.”

  Tony had his laptop bag slung close and scanned the room briefly before returning his gaze to the screen. “I wish. I couldn’t animate a convincing taco stand this impressive.”

  They moved toward the concierge desk, steps echoing softly against marble. Phil walked just ahead of Haley, fingertips brushing the edge of his duffel as he adjusted it. His hand slipped momentarily against hers as they passed through the narrow hallway curve. The contact was feather-light, but noticeable

  Haley looked at him, her expression unreadable. Phil’s hand shifted back quickly. No words spoken. No reaction shared. But something pulsed in the quiet.

  Bo approached the concierge. “Excuse me, we have a reservation under Kendrick.”

  The concierge—young, poised, likely mid-thirties—tapped quickly across her keyboard, her posture graceful and efficient. Her English was flawless but carried a hint of French elegance in its cadence.

  “Ah, yes,” she said with a gentle smile. “Reservation for two of our Executive Suites. Six occupants. Very nice accommodations, indeed. Suites 401 and 403.”

  She keyed in additional details, this time taking a little longer as the system processed the booking metadata. Then, with practiced ease, she handed over the keycards. No need to ask for payment.

  “It looks like your bill has already been prepaid. Please enjoy your stay.”

  “We will. Thank you very much,” Bo replied, polite but clipped.

  The concierge gestured to a nearby bellhop, who approached with precision. “May I take your bags?”

  Haley stepped forward, answering what everyone was thinking. “No, thank you. We can manage—but we appreciate it.”

  The bellhop nodded once, respectfully, and returned to his post without hesitation.

  The crew moved toward the elevators, the polished floor echoing their steps in quiet rhythm. Once inside, Bo turned toward the rest.

  “Haley, Phil—you’re with me in 401. James, Tyrell, and Tony, you three take 403. Tony, as soon as you get inside, prep the laptop. We need to move fast. We’ve got to secure our cargo before it gets intercepted, and I don’t want any missteps.”

  Tony gave a quick nod. “Gotcha. Won’t take long.”

  Once the elevator doors opened on their chosen floor, the crew split into assigned suites and began unpacking. Within fifteen minutes, Haley, Phil, and Bo joined the others in their suite to start planning the infiltration.

  They gathered around the central table, lit only by the glow of Tony’s laptop and the low embers in the corner fireplace. A city of sleep hummed below them, but up here, six operatives were trying to solve a puzzle before sunrise.

  Tony wasted no time. He pulled up a basic layout of the warehouse and activated his RTK GPS, custom-built and CBH-tagged to track the crate.

  “RaptorPoint’s online. RTK lock acquired. We’ve got centimeter-grade accuracy. If the package moves more than a coffee mug’s width, I’ll know—and so will you.”

  Tyrell leaned forward, scanning the transport manifest that had been tucked into Bo’s folder from Jonson. “The crate’s compact. Four by three. Nondescript casing, modded with a hidden base panel. That’s where our weapons are—six M-16s, six .45s, spare mags. Discreet, but it carries weight.”

  Tony nodded. “Outer layer’s foam insulation and lightweight piping. Manifest claims ‘commercial lighting components.’ That’s what cleared customs. But if they do a deep inspection, the false bottom won’t hold.”

  Phil studied the layout map. “Can we extract on-site? Ditch the crate?”

  Bo shook his head. “Not ideal. That’ll eat precious minutes. You’ll have to pull the fake contents first—then access the weapons. It complicates things.”

  James countered. “Crate probably weighs over three hundred pounds. Haley’s the smallest—we need her for stealth. No offense, but she can’t handle that load solo. Trolleys might be an option, but they’re likely parked far from the drop zone. Extraction from the crate gives us speed on the way out.”

  Haley nodded. “Adds time to the on-site work, but trims time off the escape.”

  Tony tapped his gear bag. “Three extra duffels, reinforced. Low profile. They’ll hold.”

  Bo hesitated. “If one of you drops a rifle or a clip? That’s noise we don’t recover from.”

  Phil zoomed in on the warehouse layout. “Trolleys, forklifts—they’re kept in a bay opposite the crate. We won’t get near them without cameras catching movement. And those machines aren’t quiet. We’d draw heat faster than just cracking the crate and packing up.”

  Tyrell gestured two fingers at the screen. “Only if we’re sloppy. Crack it at a blind angle. I’ll guide you through security vectors live. Phil handles the seal. Haley covers.”

  James chewed on his thoughts. “Leaving the crate behind… won’t that raise flags?”

  Tony shook his head. “Manifest matches. Customs will see exactly what they expect. We reseal, close it, and send it home. I’ll trigger a routing update once the weapons are in hand. No one’s the wiser.”

  Bo exhaled slowly, not fully convinced. “Alright. Formal protest noted. The majority rules. Haley, Phil—you extract the gear.”

  Tyrell looked at Haley. “You okay carrying heat through a customs warehouse?”

  Haley shrugged. “I’m not afraid. We’ve got this.”

  Phil backed her up. “Have a little faith.”

  The team shared a brief grin. Quiet. Sharp. Bo still wasn’t thrilled, but their confidence was contagious. Sometimes you trust the people in your foxhole.

  Tony rotated his monitor. “Camera grid’s standard. I can give you twenty-six seconds per blind spot—don’t linger.”

  Tyrell added, “I’ll patch in thermal overlays and local street traffic patterns. If we get rogue movement near the perimeter, I’ll reroute you.”

  Tony’s laptop chimed without warning.

  He scanned the alert and pivoted the screen toward Tyrell. “Johnson’s calling in.”

  The feed snapped open—clean, direct. Johnson appeared backlit by CBH’s Miami command suite, posture crisp, expression carved from protocol.

  “Hotel registration pinged five minutes ago,” he said. “Final confirmation came through—so transport’s cleared.”

  James leaned forward. “How recent?”

  “Approved roughly four hours ago—London business hours,” Johnson replied. “It’s a corporate asset. You will be looking for an unmarked van. It will be parked in Garage C near Piccadilly. The key’s taped inside the driver’s window. Fuel tank full. Routing logs already synced to your company tablets.”

  Tony gave a small nod, tapping one of them for verification.

  “No improvisation,” Johnson added, voice calm but firm. “Treat this as a quiet insertion. We want you as ghosts—not headlines.”

  The screen went black.

  Bo sat still, lips pressed into a line, eyes slightly narrowed. Thoughtful. Not alarmed—but something behind them moved. Just a twitch of calculation. A whisper that hadn’t found language yet.

  Haley caught the look—not directly, just in a chance-glance between updates. Her eyes lingered a moment longer than expected before her attention flicked back to the schematic. She dismissed Bo’s expression and moved on with ease.

  Tyrell pushed the blueprint toward James. “We’ve got wheels. Let’s thread the plan.”

  Tyrell circled the plan on the map. “One shot. No reload. No fallback. If we lose this package, it doesn’t come back—it gets buried.”

  Haley straightened. “Then we don’t lose it.”

  Phil glanced at Tyrell. “You’ll have eyes the whole way?”

  Tyrell nodded. “Eyes. Ears. Heart rate. Thermal bloom. If you stop moving, I’ll know. If you start bleeding, I’ll know faster.”

  James smirked. “That’s not comforting, but effective.”

  Bo pushed back from the table and grabbed the final map copy. “That’s it then. Our plan is locked. Haley, Phil, get your game faces on. Time to go to war.”

  Tony plucked a spare empty duffel from inside his and threw it toward Phil, but Haley intercepted it without breaking stride. She pulled out her secure CBH phone, thumb hovering over the tracker activation.

  Tony halted her. “Not yet. These RTKs broadcast in real time, and anyone smart enough can ping your signal. Activate only at the drop zone. And once you’re out? Shut it down. We can’t risk you being traced back to the hotel.”

  Tyrell leaned forward one last time. “You’ve got maybe thirty minutes from breach to extraction. No heroics. No errors. Just precision. One chance. Don’t fuck it up.”

  Haley looked at Phil. “Time to earn our keep.”

  Phil nodded. “Guess the camera crew’s getting some night shots.”

  Bo raised the keycard. “Let’s make it happen.”