7. Pressure points

Safehouse, Vauxhall — 6:53 BST

The rain hadn't stopped since the Thames burned. By dawn the safe-house in Vauxhall felt like a damp lung, every brick sweating river fog and tension. I'd drifted through maybe an hour of fitful half-sleep on the lumpy sofa when Gaz's transistor radio coughed itself awake and clawed me back to the surface.

"...Met Police divers have extended the search radius along Battersea Embankment. Witnesses report a Caucasian male, thirties, tactical vest bearing a white skull insignia. Public advised—"

Click. Silence.

Gaz hunched over the counter, mug in hand, dark eyes already on me. "Please tell me your walking skull's not out for a morning swim, V."

"Different skull," I answered, rubbing the grit from my eyelashes. "Same habit of coming back."

Footsteps scuffed behind us; Soap slid in. "Spectre, aye? The bastard's floatin' downstream like a happy carp?"

"He crawled out," Gaz said. "Left a message."

Soap lifted a brow. "Yeah?"

"'Gonna pry the dove's wings off.'"

My pulse ticked once, hard.

The phrase was a private barb from the past—Spectre's favourite threat whenever I outscored him in training.

I pressed thumb to my sternum, that old anchor.

A floorboard groaned; Ghost filled the doorway, mask gleaming bone-white in the low light. "Message came through a homeless bloke by Vauxhall Bridge," he rumbled, Manchester vowels thick with sleep. "Spectre's walkin', talkin', an' wants his rematch."

Soap grinned, half admiration, half nerves. "Man's got style, I'll give 'im that."

Price's voice cut in from the hall. "Briefin' room, two minutes, kids. CIA's in a mood and London's eyein' us like loose ordnance."

The so-called briefing room was a gutted lounge: splintered fireplace, peeling wallpaper, a whiteboard balanced on an up-ended piano that had lost half its keys. Laswell stood near the window with her tablet; beside her loomed an MI5 liaison in a Savile Row suit and a CIA rep whose smile looked carved from cheap ivory.

Price planted himself centre-stage. "London's alive because we fried that nerve agent," he began, voice a low drum. "Spectre's missin', but the bomb's fish food. Now—questions?"

The CIA man—Anders, as I was told later—flashed a grin. "One. Why did your... consultant destroy millions in recoverable intelligence?"

He didn't bother hiding the disdain on the last word. It stung, but I let it pass.

Price's beard twitched. "Because my consultant values breathing over paperwork."

Anders fixed his stare on me. "You torched the evidence, Ms. Sokolova. Convenient, considering your résumé."

"Standard doctrine was stay alive," I said evenly. "Everything else is secondary when nerve gas enters the chat."

He opened his mouth for round two, but Laswell's voice sliced in. "We can trade insults later. Dragovich has phase-two moving. We need Ember talking."

MI5's liaison crossed his arms. "And you trust a former Directorate S asset?"

"She hasn't lied yet," Laswell answered. "But she's withholding the city targets."

Price jerked a thumb toward Ghost and me. "That's why these two will crack her. Today."

Anders scoffed. "A masked sociopath and a Russian defector. Charming."

Ghost tilted his head, voice soft as gravel. "You want results, or a portrait session, mate?"

The room went still. Laswell nodded. "Room's yours, Simon. Nikolina. Do your work."

Price added, "Just keep her alive. Paperwork's hell otherwise."

Blackwall station, Interrogation Block - 11:10 BST

Concrete walls, a single bulb, the chill of a walk-in morgue. Ember waited cuffed to the table, ankles chained to a floor ring. Her violet eyes followed us with feline interest.

Ghost shut the door; the lock thunked final.

I sat first, meeting her gaze.

"Krug zamknulsya, sestra." Circle's closed, sister.

Ember's smile curled. "Davleniye chuvstvuyetsya, da?" Feel the pressure, yes? She flicked a glance at Ghost. "Eto tot samyy prizrak?" This the famous Ghost? She switched to accented English. "Does he understand our mother tongue?"

"He picks what he needs," I said. "Speak English."

Ghost set a digital recorder on the table, red light glowing. "Names, dates, locations," he said, voice low. "No fairy tales."

Ember's gaze lingered on the recorder, then lifted to me. "Remember the winter barracks, Nika? 'Chistilishche.' The snow came through the cracks, and we slept back-to-back to stay warm."

"Spasibo, that memory can stay dead." Thanks.

I saw a flicker of hurt behind the tease—sisterhood never dies easy.

Ghost tapped the table. "Enough reminiscing. Where's Dragovich hitting?"

She studied him as though deciding whether the skull was painted or real. "Three cities. Praga, Berlin, Marseille. Forty-eight hours."

My breath snagged. Prague—home soil now.

Ghost's tone tightened. "Delivery method?"

"The same toxin you burned." She shrugged as the chain rattled. "Only refined."

"Killswitch?" I asked.

She nodded. "Spectre carries the transmitter. His heartbeat stops, bombers sing."

Ghost leaned closer, mask inches from her face. "Song's frequency."

A ghost of a smirk. "Zashifrovano v kolybel'noy." Encrypted in a lullaby.

Ghost's gloved finger drummed once. "What lullaby?"

Ember hummed three notes—haunting, minor key. Bayu-bayushki-bayu. The back of my neck prickled.

"You said we froze together," I murmured in Russian. "Pomnish, kak my delili posleduyushchiy khleb?" Remember sharing crusts of bread?

She swallowed. "Ty sgorela radi menya togda." You burned for me then.

"Tak zhe sgorim i teper'?" Will we burn again now? A soft plea flickered beneath her words.

I felt a crack of old affection—tiny, dangerous. I reached across, covering her cuffed hand. "Pomogi mne, Alya. I my ostanovim ikh." Help me, Alya, and we stop them.

For a heartbeat the chains and concrete disappeared; two skinny girls in threadbare uniforms whispered under frozen bunks.

She squeezed back, voice a ribbon of memory. "Ty vsye yesche verish v miloserdiye?" You still believe in mercy?

"Tol'ko v vybore." Only in choice.

She exhaled shakily. "Detonatory slushayut diapazon 4-6 MHz, modulirovanny pesney." Detonators listen on 4–6 MHz, song's the modulator.

Ghost nodded once, recording every syllable. "Give us the exact offset."

Ember's shoulders sagged. "4-point-92. Pulse every ten seconds."

Ghost clicked the recorder off. "Good girl."

Ember's gaze flicked to me, brimming with something fragile. "Spasibo." Thank you.

I squeezed her fingers again. "Uvidimsya posle." I'll see you after.

Ghost unlocked the chain from her ankle, shifting it one link so it wouldn't bite. Small kindness, almost invisible.

As we left, Ember's voice followed—soft Russian, almost a blessing. "Letay, golubka... poka kryl'ya derzhatsya." Fly, little dove... while your wings hold.

So Spectre's message really did spread around.

The corridor reeked of bleach and cold steel. My lungs felt thin. Ghost matched my stride, silence thick between us until he spoke.

"Hadta soften the edge, didn't ya?" he murmured.

"She's still my sister in the only home we had."

He grunted. "Aye. Hate an' love share a bunk, sometimes."

I touched my sternum. The pulse beneath fluttered like a caged bird.

"I need clear air."

"Armoury's clearer."

Blackwall station, armory - 12:28 BST

The weapon racks smelled of oil and metal comfort. I swapped mags with automatic care; Ghost stripped a suppressor, eyes occasionally flicking to assess the tremor in my fingers.

"You shaken?"

"No." Lie.

His head turned.

"Yes." Truth.

He offered a foil packet. "Electrolyte chalk. Down the hatch."

The grapefruit bitterness steadied me. Ghost set pieces of a sidearm on the bench, reassembling in silence. The lullaby's three notes echoed in my skull until I hummed the counter-melody, drowning it.

The moment shattered when Soap burst in, Gaz behind him, both damp from the rain.

"Got 'im!" Soap waved a printout. "CCTV nabbed our slippery fish slippin' inside an SUV. Shadow Company plates, driver's that Ortiz lad who worships Graves."

Gaz added, "Spectre's carrying a long case—likely transmitter. He's alive and mobile."

Ghost clenched the suppressor. "Graves keeps crawlin' back like mould."

"Then we cut the roots," I said.

"Captain's waitin'," Gaz told us.

Ghost clapped the pistol slide home. "Let's get our orders."

Blackwall station, briefing room - 13:05 BST

Price's voice filled the room like rolling artillery. "Cargo truck crossed into Czechia. Matches Dragovich's manifest. Forty-two hours. Soap, Gaz—Berlin. I wrangle Whitehall. Ghost, Vesper—Prague. You secure Spectre, recover the song. Clear?"

Ghost: "Crystal."

My nod was smaller, haunted by Prague's shadows. Price saw it, but merely squeezed my shoulder as we dispersed.

Packing should have been muscle memory. Knife, spare socks, med kit. Yet every item blurred.

The lullaby wouldn't let go, its minor key threading nerves like piano wire.

A dull throb bloomed behind my sternum—first warning.

I pressed palm to bone.

Breath snagged.

Second warning.

Vision tunneled, walls skewed.

Panic flared, or arrhythmia—no label, just terror.

Find Ghost.

I staggered into the hallway, shoulder clipping plaster.

Floor rolled like deck in a gale.

Words lost meaning; only direction mattered.

Down the stair, corridor lights wavering like broken strobes.

Armoury door ahead.

I shoved through, momentum spilling me against a locker.

Ghost looked up mid-inspection, brass brush frozen in his hand. The skull's eye-sockets almost narrowed.

"Dove?"

No sound left my throat. Air jammed halfway; the world pitched like a sudden drop in a lift.

I tasted metal, felt heat blooming up my neck.

My vision vignetted, nothing but Ghost's mask and the overhead strip-light buzzing like an alarm.

The suppressor clattered to the bench as he closed the distance—two strides, then his hands braced my elbows just as my knees buckled. The room felt miles wide; my heartbeat thundered against bone that suddenly felt too thin to cage it.

He eased me down, back against a locker's cold steel, staying low so the skull met my blurred gaze. "Talk t'me, love. Where are ya?"

I tried; only a rasp escaped, throat fluttering like a bird caught in wire.

Eyes wide, I shook my head—don't know, can't say—fighting for a single mouthful of air.

Panic gnawed, sharp and bright, every second stretching into hours.

Ghost's voice dropped to that gravelly calm. "Alright, stay with me. Look at me. Breathe when I tell ya—aye? In... two, three, four—hold—out, slow..."

I followed the cadence, chest hitching. The buzz in my skull dulled enough for words to scrape free.

"Where are ya?"

"Lon... London," I croaked, the name fraying on my tongue.

"Good girl. London, Blackwall Station. What's your callsign?"

"V... Vesper."

"Tha's right. Hold onto it." He pressed his gloved palm flat over my sternum—steady pressure, anchoring the riot inside my ribs. "Feel that? That's your beat, not the memory's."

The air met my lungs a little easier, though each breath still felt stolen. Sweat cooled on my temples; Ghost's presence filled the Iron Vault like ballast in a tipping ship. His questions kept coming—gentle, relentless—pulling me inch by inch back into the room, the now, the living.

"Lon—" My voice cracked, breath shattering. "London."

"Good love. What's your callsign?"

"V... Vesper."

He knelt, easing me down, back still against the locker, his large frame shielding me from the fluorescent glare.

"Alright. Eyes on me. How many hours till wheels-up?"

"T-wo... two hours."

"Right. Who brewed the worst cuppa this mornin'?"

I swallowed, fighting static in my ears. "Soap. Said it'd put hair on his chest."

"Ha! Daft sod." Ghost's chuckle grounded the moment. "Keep breathin'. In through nose, out slow. Match me."

He inhaled audibly—four count—exhaled six. I mirrored. The vise on my ribs loosened a fraction.

"Good. Temperature in this miserable room?"

"Cold... like the camp."

"Not there, love. Armoury in Vauxhall. Smells like gun oil and cheap paint, aye?"

I latched onto the smells—oil, dust, detergent—and the here-and-now brightened.

"Atta girl. Give me the joke Johnny cracked 'bout the eggs."

"Radioactive... bogeys," I managed, a shaky laugh tumbling out.

"There's the spark. Another breath."

The seconds stretched, syrup-slow. Sweat cooled on my spine. Ghost's gloved hand rested over mine at the sternum, firm pressure syncing my pulse to his calmer rhythm.

"Feel that beat? That's yours," he whispered. "Stronger than any poison memory."

Little by little, the world tilted back into place. The fluorescent buzz became merely electricity, not a siren. My lungs filled without fight.

Minutes—maybe ten, maybe an hour—passed before he eased back, staying knee-close.

"Colour's returnin'," he said. "Need water?"

I nodded; he fetched a canteen, held it till I drank. Metal tasted mercifully real.

"Better?"

"Not dead," I croaked.

"High bar," he teased, then softened. "When was the first episode?"

"Years. They come like storms. No name, no pattern."

His eyes—dark behind the mask—bore steady warmth. "You're not broken, dove. Just wired different. We adapt."

The kindness almost hurt worse than the episode. I brushed damp hair off my forehead. "If Price asks—"

"He gets the truth when you're ready," Ghost interrupted. "Not before."

I exhaled, chest lighter. "Spasiba." Thank you.

He rumbled a gentle laugh. "Thought you Russians din't say thank you."

"Only for life savers."

"Then you owe me a pint." He stood, offering a hand.

I took it; his pull was solid, a silent vow.

Boots stamped down the hall; Soap's shout echoed. "Oi! Lovers! Van's warmed—Gaz says Prague waits fer no lass!"

Ghost rolled his eyes. "He never shuts up."

I smirked. "That's why we love him."

Ghost handed me my rifle. "You ready to fly?"

Wings felt tender, but intact. I flexed shoulders. "Let's take back the sky."

Exfil Van, 21:05 BST

Rain peppered the windscreen as the van growled out of Vauxhall. Streetlights streaked orange across wet glass. Soap dozed against a crate, mouth open. Gaz thumbed a radio scanner, frowning.

Ghost sat beside me, mask reflecting the city blur. His gloved pinkie nudged mine—a tiny checkpoint. I glanced at him; he dipped his skull half an inch, approval and warning stitched together.

I curled my pinkie back around his. Steady heartbeat, steady mission.

Somewhere ahead, Spectre carried a lullaby that could kill three cities. But—for tonight—my wings were still attached, and they beat in time with a ghost who refused to let me fall.

Prague waited beyond the dark ribbon of the motorway, and Dragovich's clock had already started.