Page 80 of Shadowfox
Still no one.
Still no father and daughter.
Still no miracle.
And then the second watcher—cigarette man—turned toward me.
I dropped my gaze.
Turned back to the paper.
Didn’t read it.
Didn’t have to.
I took one breath . . . two . . . then folded the newspaper in half and placed it on the bench beside me.
That was it.
That was the abort.
The team would scatter in two minutes, each in a different direction.
We would set a new meeting point, make a silent retreat.
Shadowfox was a no-show.
31
Will
Thomasfoldedthenewspaperwith clinical precision—creased twice down the spine, then once across the middle—and dropped it beside him on the bench. The sound it made was soft, barely audible over the hiss of the train and the shuffle of boots on the platform.
But it was the sound that meant everything.
Abort.
I didn’t wait. None of us did.
Sparrow stood first, veering left down the far edge of the platform, her gait clipped and precise.
Egret moved in the opposite direction, hands in his pockets, casual and unbothered like he’d just realized he’d stepped onto the wrong platform entirely.
Thomas stood last and turned without glancing back.
I was already moving, my eyes down, coat buttoned tight. My heart was thudding too loudly in my chest, but I didn’t let it touch my face.
We moved like clockwork, four pieces breaking away from a center no one else could see.
Behind me, I heard the scuff of boots. Then more.
I cut right at the ticketing hallway, ducked between a trio of elderly travelers, and slipped into the side exit near the café. The air outside bit at my throat. I didn’t stop moving.
Our watchers were no longer subtle.
They scattered like flies. We were too many for them to follow everyone; they were too few to look composed doing it.
I picked up my pace near the tram line.
