London
The sky over London was a rolling sheet of gray, the kind of thick cloud cover that felt like a lid over the city, trapping the damp chill and the ever-present hum of traffic. Judd strode purposefully across London Bridge, collar turned up against the wind, his eyes scanning the pedestrians moving past him—businessmen glued to their phones, tourists snapping pictures of the Tower of London, and the occasional runner pounding the pavement along the Thames. Any one of them could be watching. Any one of them could be Wolf’s eyes.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Another text.
“Traitor’s Gate. Now”.
Judd didn't hesitate. He pivoted, breaking into a jog, weaving through the crowd as he crossed the bridge toward the Tower of London. The message had come from his contact—name unknown, voice unheard—but the intel was too good to pass up. Security codes to Wolf’s new facility outside Lausanne. A golden key to the locked door standing between Judd and stopping the activation of The Lazarus Code.
He hit the cobbled path near the infamous Traitor’s Gate, where prisoners once arrived by boat before vanishing into the tower’s depths. Fitting, he thought, for a meeting with an informant who might be walking himself into his own execution.
His phone buzzed again.
“Bike share. Cannon Street. St. Paul’s.”
Judd swore under his breath but moved without hesitation. The game was clear—keep moving, stay unpredictable, ensure he wasn’t being tailed. He sprinted to the nearest Santander bike dock, yanking a red rental free and kicking off hard onto the pavement.
London wasn’t built for speed. The streets were a maze, choked with black cabs, double-decker buses, and delivery vans that barely fit through the gaps between buildings. Judd navigated through the chaos, threading between traffic, dodging pedestrians, pumping the pedals like he was storming up the Col du Galibier in the Tour de France.
A bus lurched into his lane. He veered sharply, clipping a side mirror, ignoring the driver’s shouted curses as he swerved onto Cannon Street. St. Paul’s Cathedral loomed ahead, its great dome cutting into the sky.
His phone rang. Not a text this time.
Judd pressed the answer button without slowing down.
“You’ve got twenty minutes.” The voice was clipped, British, no accent to place. “Covent Garden. I'll be there.”
The line went dead.
Judd sucked in a breath, pushed harder. The Thames flashed past on his left as he veered into The Strand, cutting a hard right up Bedford Street. Sweat dripped down his back, his pulse hammering from exertion and adrenaline.
Covent Garden was packed, a swirl of street performers, shoppers, and tourists snapping photos of the grand market halls. He ditched the bike and moved on foot, scanning for the sign—a red baseball cap and a blue sweater.
Then he saw him.
Across the road, a man leaning casually against a lamppost, as if waiting for a friend.
Judd started toward him, heart still pounding, when his phone rang again.
This time, the voice was different.
Not the contact.
Another player had entered the game.
