The night was heavy with mist as Frost and Blake moved through the narrow alleys of London, their figures blending into the fog that clung to the city like a shroud. The rain had stopped, but the dampness lingered, seeping into their coats as they trudged through the quiet streets. The distant rumble of carriages echoed in the background, but otherwise, the city seemed eerily still.
They had spent the past few days methodically turning up the pressure on Blackwood, making calculated moves that were designed to unsettle him. Their plan was simple: make him feel the heat without him realizing it was them behind the flames. A series of well-placed tips to the press, anonymous letters sent to his associates—nothing that could be traced back to Frost and Blake, but enough to make Blackwood paranoid.
The first crack in his armor had come sooner than expected. One of Blackwood's business partners, a man named Randall Croft, had suddenly left the city under mysterious circumstances. Croft had been linked to several of Blackwood's more questionable ventures, and his sudden disappearance only fueled their suspicion that Blackwood was feeling the pressure.
Now, as they made their way to an underground tavern known to be a hub of illicit dealings, they hoped to capitalize on that momentum. The tavern, a hidden speakeasy tucked away beneath a nondescript building in the East End, was notorious for being a meeting place for criminals, smugglers, and those looking to stay off the radar. It was the kind of place where secrets were traded like currency.
"Do you really think we'll find anything here?" Blake asked as they approached the entrance, a small, unmarked door at the back of a narrow alley.
Frost nodded, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "If Blackwood is starting to panic, his people will be too. This is where they come to talk—quietly, in the dark. If there's something to hear, we'll hear it here."
Blake pulled his coat tighter around him as they stepped up to the door. A burly man stood guard, his eyes narrowing as he looked them over. Frost flashed a small silver coin, a token of entry for those who knew how to get in. The man nodded and stepped aside, allowing them to slip inside.
The tavern was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the scent of cheap alcohol. The walls were lined with booths, each one occupied by shadowy figures engaged in low conversations. Frost and Blake made their way to a corner table, where they could observe the room without drawing too much attention to themselves.
They ordered drinks—whiskey for Frost, beer for Blake—and settled in, their eyes and ears tuned to the conversations happening around them. It didn't take long for them to pick up on a familiar name.
"…Blackwood's not happy. Says there's a leak, someone's been talking to the coppers…"
Frost's ears perked up. He glanced at Blake, who had also caught the conversation. They both subtly turned their attention to the table where the voices were coming from—a group of men huddled over their drinks, their faces half-hidden in the shadows.
"Who's he blaming?" one of the men asked.
"Doesn't know yet," another replied. "But he's tightening the reins. Anyone who slips up is gonna pay for it."
Frost leaned closer, trying to catch more of the conversation, but the men lowered their voices, making it harder to hear. He frowned, frustrated. They needed more—something concrete they could use to push Charlotte Alderidge or even Blackwood himself.
Blake nudged him. "I've got an idea," he whispered. "Stay here."
Frost watched as Blake got up and casually made his way over to the bar. He struck up a conversation with the bartender, a rough-looking man who seemed to know everyone who came through the tavern. Blake leaned in close, slipping the man a few coins as he asked a question. The bartender nodded and gestured towards the group of men who had been discussing Blackwood.
Moments later, Blake returned to the table, a sly grin on his face. "Bartender says those men are part of Blackwood's crew—small-time players, but close enough to know what's going on. He also mentioned a name: Marcus Thorne."
Frost's eyes narrowed. "Thorne? As in Arthur Thorne?"
Blake nodded. "Apparently, Arthur had a brother—Marcus. We've never heard of him because he's been working in the shadows, keeping a low profile. But now that Arthur's out of the picture, Marcus has stepped in to take control of the remnants of their operation."
Frost's mind raced. This was new information—something they hadn't anticipated. If Marcus Thorne was involved, it meant that their fight wasn't over. Blackwood wasn't just cleaning up loose ends; he was trying to regroup, to rebuild what had been lost when they took down Arthur.
"We need to find Marcus," Frost said, his voice low but determined. "If he's as dangerous as his brother, we can't afford to let him slip away."
Blake nodded in agreement. "The bartender said he's been seen meeting with Blackwood's people recently. They're planning something—something big."
Frost clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. "Then we need to stop them before they have the chance to strike. We'll start by tracking down Marcus. If we can find him, we'll find out what they're planning—and we'll bring Blackwood down once and for all."
---
The search for Marcus Thorne proved to be more difficult than they had anticipated. Unlike his brother, who had reveled in the power and attention that came with being a crime lord, Marcus was a ghost. He had no known address, no visible connections, and no public profile. Every lead they chased turned into a dead end, leaving Frost and Blake frustrated and increasingly desperate.
But Frost refused to give up. He knew that Marcus was out there, and that he was planning something dangerous. The question was, how could they find him before it was too late?
The answer came in the form of an unlikely source—Charlotte Alderidge.
It had been nearly a week since their confrontation with her, and they had continued to keep a close eye on her movements. She had been cautious, avoiding any obvious contact with Blackwood or his associates. But one night, while tailing her through the city, they noticed something unusual. She wasn't heading home, nor was she going to one of her usual haunts. Instead, she was making her way to an old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city—a place that had long been rumored to be a meeting spot for criminals.
Frost and Blake followed her at a distance, careful not to be seen. When she entered the warehouse, they waited a few moments before slipping inside after her.
The interior of the warehouse was dark and cavernous, with the faint sound of voices echoing through the space. Frost and Blake moved silently through the shadows, their eyes adjusting to the dim light. They could see a small group of people gathered near the center of the room, their faces obscured by the darkness.
As they crept closer, Frost's heart began to race. He recognized one of the voices—it was Charlotte, speaking in hushed tones with a man whose voice he didn't recognize. But as they got closer, the man stepped into the light, and Frost felt a chill run down his spine.
It was Marcus Thorne.
He was taller than his brother, with a lean, muscular build and a cold, calculating expression. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room as if he were constantly on guard. Frost could see the resemblance to Arthur in his features, but there was something more dangerous about Marcus—something that made him even more of a threat.
Frost and Blake exchanged a glance, silently agreeing that they needed to get closer, to hear what was being said. They moved as quietly as they could, inching their way towards the group.
"…We need to move quickly," Marcus was saying. "Blackwood's getting nervous. He thinks the police are closing in, and he's not wrong. If we're going to pull this off, we need to do it soon."
Charlotte nodded, her expression tense. "What about the others? Are they ready?"
"They will be," Marcus replied. "I've already put everything in place. Once we get the signal, we'll strike. Blackwood's got his people in position—they just need the go-ahead."
Frost's mind raced. Whatever they were planning, it was big—big enough to involve Blackwood's entire network. He needed to know more, to understand the full scope of their plan.
But before he could move any closer, something went wrong. One of the men in the group turned suddenly, his eyes sweeping the room—and then, he saw them.
"Hey!" the man shouted, reaching for a weapon. "We've got company!"
Frost and Blake reacted instinctively, drawing their guns as the warehouse erupted into chaos. Marcus Thorne's men sprang into action, rushing towards them with weapons drawn. Frost fired off a shot, hitting one of the attackers in the shoulder, but there were too many of them, and they were quickly being overwhelmed.
"Get out of here!" Blake shouted, grabbing Frost's arm and pulling him towards the exit.
They fought their way through the attackers, ducking and weaving to avoid the gunfire. The warehouse echoed with the sounds of shouts and gunshots as they made their escape, narrowly avoiding being caught.
Once they were outside, they didn't stop running until they were a safe distance away, panting for breath as they ducked into an alleyway.
"Damn it," Blake cursed, leaning against the wall. "We were so close."
Frost nodded, his mind still racing. "But now we know," he said, his voice grim. "Marcus is planning something big—and we need to stop him."
Blake looked at him, determination in his eyes. "So, what's our next move?"
Frost took a deep breath, his mind already working on their next steps. "We need to regroup, get reinforcements. Marcus won't be easy to take down—but we have to try."
As they caught their breath and prepared to head back to headquarters, Frost couldn't shake the feeling that they were on the edge of something monumental. The stakes had never been higher, and the danger was greater than ever. But he knew one thing for certain: they couldn't stop now.
To be continued…