8. City of broken clocks

Old Town, Prague — 22:15 CET

The rain in Prague carried memories instead of water. Every breath tasted of river-mist and cheap espresso, of nights when I'd tried to be ordinary—before the world reminded me what I was built to do.

We were on foot now, the van dumped five blocks south to keep our profile thin. Ghost padded ahead, a tall blur wrapped in a black slicker; Price guarded the rear, bucket hat brim dripping. Gaz and Soap walked close on either side of me. From the outside we might have looked like tourists who'd stayed out too late, but everything about the way we moved—the spacing, the constant elbow brushes, the synchronized pauses—screamed soldier.

Soap's shoulder knocked mine. "Ye keep stealin' glances at the rooftops, lass. City mean that much?"

"The trams," I said, voice low. "They rattle all night. Used to lull me to sleep."

"First place you felt at home, yeah?" Gaz asked, London vowels softening the question.

"First place that tried to forgive me."

He offered half a smile. "Still carrying a rifle now."

"Forgiveness is a long game."

We turned onto Pařížská, boutiques shuttered behind iron grates. Two Czech patrol soldiers came the other way, rifles slung. They caught our accents—Gaz's London drawl, Soap's Highland clip, and my own Russian ghosts tangled in English.

One of them spat on the cobbles. "Rus­ká děvka."

Russian whore.

Soap bristled. "Oi! You fancy repeatin' that, pal?"

Gaz's arm barred his chest. "Johnny. Mission first."

The soldiers kept walking, laughter ricocheting off wet stone. My pulse hammered once, a dull drum beneath the slicker. Ghost never turned, but his shoulders squared and he spoke just loud enough for us.

"Let 'em bark. They don't know the fight."

Family, he meant. The word warmed places the rain couldn't reach.

The puppet-theatre rendezvous was a workshop that smelled of turpentine and dust. Marionettes dangled like limp spies overhead. Jana—Czech BIS—waited under a single bulb, grey windbreaker soaked. She handed Ghost a thumb-drive and unrolled a city grid peppered with red circles.

"Their safe-house in Žižkov," she whispered. "Short-wave bursts on four-to-six megahertz—locals call it rozbitý hodiny, the broken-clock song."

Ghost tucked the drive away. "Appreciate it, love."

Her eyes flicked to me. "Vítej zpátky, slečno." Welcome back, miss.

"Thanks."

A faint smile, then she slipped into the rain. Strings overhead creaked as if the wooden soldiers saluted our exit.

Žižkov Safe-House — 23:06 CET

Third-floor door stood ajar. Ghost raised a fist; we stacked and cleared. The flat stank of wet ash and mildew, and a single dove feather—rain-soaked—was pinned to the crumbling plaster by a combat knife.

Gaz tugged the knife free, studying the sodden plume. He wiped rain from the barbs with a thumb, then reached over and slid the feather behind the webbing of my plate carrier, just above the heart-line.

"Luck," he murmured.

I tapped the quill once—promise acknowledged—then we moved on.

On a splintered crate a handheld scanner squealed, three minor notes looping like a half-remembered nursery rhyme.

Spectre's lullaby. Bayu Bayushki Bayu.

A tinny wall speaker crackled.

"Nikolina... slyshish kolybelnuyu?" Nikolina... do you hear the lullaby?

Ghost's grip tightened on his rifle; my pulse did the same.

"Skoro plamya opalit tvoi krylya, golubka."Soon the flame will singe your wings, little dove.

The words slid through the room like a razor across silk—pure Russian, straight from the place that had forged us both.

Ghost thumbed the scanner. "The signal's moving—old service tunnel under Hlavní nádraží heads straight for Letná. He's taking it."

We dropped through a rusted maintenance hatch, boots splashing in ankle-deep runoff, and jogged a single, foul-smelling kilometer north-west beneath the freight lines. Fresh boot-prints—Spectre's right heel had that crescent nick—climbed the next ladder. One kick sent the grate outward, and we surfaced inside the Letná tram depot, sodium lights glowing orange over gutted streetcars.

The lullaby's beeping spiked: Spectre was waiting.

Letná Tram Depot — 00:28 CET

Rows of gutted streetcars crouched under sodium lamps like iron coffins. The lullaby needle peaked.

Spectre stepped into the orange glow, temple bandaged, transmitter case slung cross-body. Two Shadow Company brutes flanked him.

"Dove," he crooned, English slick with contempt, "time to fold your wings."

Gunfire cracked.

I dived behind a maintenance cart, return rounds sparking tram panels. Gaz climbed a gantry, laying disciplined bursts; Soap's grenade punched smoke between trams.

Pain flared in my chest—sharp, seizing.

The world pinholed.

Not now.

Breath came ragged.

Not now.

Ghost's voice slid through the comm, only to my line, gravel wrapped in velvet. "Breathe, dove. Ten-count like London."

I forced rhythm: in-two-three-four, out-six.

Color bled back.

I vaulted couplers, flanked left.

Spectre's grin met me over iron sights. His bullet splintered wood inches from my cheek; Ghost's reply tore through his shoulder plate. The transmitter slipped. Spectre snatched a flare, slapped it to a moving tram, and swung aboard, red light strobing his retreat.

Soap sprinted but the tram slid through the exit bay, showering sparks.

Spectre vanished into rain.

We'd dropped his men and captured the hardened case—but the battery compartment gaped empty, wires snipped.

Price came over comms. "Berlin truck diverted to Dresden, timeline's shrinking. Need that code and a live transmitter. Clock's ugly, mates."

Ghost's eyes glinted behind the mask. "Then we make 'im bleed for it."

Riverside Boiler Room — 02:07 CET

Steam hissed through rusted valves; the place smelled of iron and damp wool. Gaz had jury-rigged a power block to trickle-feed the transmitter. Its indicator pulsed a slow green heartbeat.

Soap winced while Ghost stitched a graze along his forearm. "Ye looked proper chipper crossin' the border earlier, V. Place still charm ye?"

I leaned against a warm pipe, the ache in my chest faded to a bruise. "First nights I lived here, I'd buy coffee in this particular street—thick, bitter, thirty crowns a cup. Tried to learn Czech from a pensioner who insisted my accent was 'tragic but adorable.' Thought maybe I could be... habitual."

Gaz smiled around a swig of canteen water. "Doesn't sound tragic."

"Did when I smashed every porcelain verb I touched."

Ghost tied off Soap's suture, peeled one glove, and pressed two fingers to my wrist. The pulse check felt more intimate than anything.

"Steady?" he asked.

"Like the Astronomical Clock," I lied. Everyone in Prague knew that clock ran slow.

Price's voice cut in. "Spectre movin'. Two hours. Berlin's blind. We snatch code tonight or bombs go live."

Ghost's jaw set beneath the mask. "We bait him with his own tune."

I slotted the fresh battery; the lullaby hummed from the transmitter, a child's ghost voice under static.

Soap grinned. "Crank it loud—rats follow cheese."

Ghost offered me my rifle. "Ready to fly, dove?"

"Wings intact."

We stepped into the drizzle. Prague's clocks chimed out of sync—some fast, some slow, none telling truth. But we would. We would bend time, snap its gears, and make dawn wait until the job was done.

Letná Plateau — 03:44 CET

The Metronome's red arm loomed over the dark river, ticking useless seconds into mist. The transmitter on my hip sang its broken-clock song, guiding Spectre back like a moth to kerosene. Gaz and Soap flanked the hill, Price watched streets below, and Ghost breathed beside me, the skull soaked to matte grey.

I touched the dove feather he'd tucked into my vest for luck. The chest pain lay dormant, but memory of it kept each inhale honest.

Spectre's silhouette finally rippled through fog—alone, rifle lowered, transmitter battery in his fist.

"What now, little dove?" he called.

"Now," I said, raising my weapon, "we clip the hawk."

Behind me, Ghost chambered a round—metal on metal, as sure as sunrise.

The clock atop Prague stopped feeling broken; it felt like ours.

And it was about to strike.