The damp air clung to Frost's skin as he slowly regained his composure. His head pounded from the blows, but his mind sharpened with each passing second. The room they were trapped in was nothing more than a glorified cell. No windows, no ventilation save for the stale air drifting in from the single door, and no obvious means of escape.
Blake groaned beside him, slowly coming to. His eyes fluttered open, and he winced as he shifted against the cold, unforgiving floor.
"Welcome back," Frost whispered, his voice barely above a rasp.
Blake gave a humorless chuckle. "Never thought I'd wake up in a dungeon under Mayfair. Any bright ideas on how we get out of here?"
Frost shifted his position, testing the bindings on his wrists. The rope was tight, but not expertly tied. He could feel some give. "I've got one or two," he muttered. "But first, we need to find out what kind of game Rookwood is playing."
Blake winced as he sat up, rubbing the back of his head where he'd been struck. "We know he's working with the Black Hand, that much is clear. But what's their endgame?"
Frost glanced at the door, then back at Blake. "Rookwood said they already have what they want. Whatever it is, it's in motion. We're running out of time."
The tension in the room was palpable. The silence only deepened their sense of urgency, making every passing second feel heavier.
Frost shifted his wrists again, feeling the rope loosen slightly. He glanced over at Blake, who noticed the movement. "Keep talking," Frost whispered. "We need a distraction."
Blake's brow furrowed, but he understood. He cleared his throat, raising his voice enough for anyone outside the door to hear. "So, Frost, what do you think of Rookwood's plans for world domination? Do you think he's planning to buy out every bakery in London, or is he going for something bigger? Like tea shops?"
Frost smirked, keeping his focus on loosening the knot. "Knowing Rookwood, he'd want to monopolize the tea industry first. Start with the fancy blends, work his way down to the everyday stuff. After all, he's nothing if not ambitious."
Blake laughed loudly, playing his part. "Of course! And then he'll move on to biscuits. Before you know it, he'll control the entire afternoon tea market."
The banter continued, with Blake making increasingly absurd jokes about Rookwood's hypothetical business ventures, each louder than the last. It was a farce, but it was working. Frost could hear footsteps approaching from outside the door. Just as the knot gave way and his hands came free, the door creaked open.
A burly guard stepped inside, clearly annoyed by the noise. "Keep it down in here, you—"
He never finished his sentence. Frost was on him in an instant, delivering a swift, precise blow to the side of his head. The guard crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he hit the floor.
"Nice timing," Blake said, quickly freeing his own hands with Frost's help.
Frost grabbed the guard's pistol and checked the chamber. Loaded. "Let's move quickly," he said, slipping the weapon into his coat. "We need to find out where we are and what Rookwood's planning."
The two detectives crept out of the room and into a dimly lit hallway. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, confirming their suspicion that they were underground. They moved silently, avoiding the creaking floorboards and staying close to the walls.
As they turned a corner, they heard voices coming from a room at the end of the hall. Frost motioned for Blake to follow as they inched closer. Peering through a crack in the door, they saw Rookwood standing at a table, speaking with two other men. One of them was tall and lean, with a cruel smile that sent a shiver down Frost's spine. The other was shorter, stockier, with a scar running down his cheek.
"The shipment is ready," the tall man said, his voice smooth and cold. "Once it's delivered, the rest of London will fall in line."
Rookwood nodded, his expression one of satisfaction. "Good. We can't afford any mistakes. If the Black Hand is to succeed, we need everything to go according to plan."
Frost's mind raced. Shipment? What were they transporting, and how was it connected to the Black Hand's larger scheme?
Blake leaned in closer, trying to catch more of the conversation. But just as they were about to learn more, the stocky man looked up and noticed the door was ajar.
"Hey!" he shouted, reaching for his weapon.
Frost and Blake sprang into action. Frost kicked the door open, knocking the stocky man off balance as Blake tackled Rookwood to the ground. The tall man drew a knife, slashing at Frost with deadly precision, but Frost dodged the blow, grabbing a nearby chair and using it to block the next strike.
The room erupted into chaos as fists flew and furniture was overturned. Frost ducked under another swing of the knife, using the chair to knock the blade out of the tall man's hand. Blake wrestled with Rookwood, trying to pin him down without losing control of the situation.
Finally, with a well-placed punch, Frost knocked the tall man unconscious. Blake managed to subdue Rookwood, pinning him to the floor.
Breathing heavily, Frost grabbed a length of rope from a nearby crate and tied up the unconscious men. Blake hauled Rookwood to his feet, keeping a firm grip on him as they dragged him out of the room and into the hallway.
"Where are you taking me?" Rookwood demanded, struggling against Blake's hold.
"To Scotland Yard," Blake replied curtly. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."
But Frost wasn't convinced that was the best course of action. Something about the shipment they'd overheard nagged at him. If they took Rookwood in now, they might never find out what the Black Hand was really planning.
He stopped in the middle of the hallway, turning to face Blake. "We can't take him to Scotland Yard just yet. We need more information. We need to find out where that shipment is going."
Blake hesitated, his grip on Rookwood tightening. "Are you sure, Frost? We've got him right here. We could end this now."
Frost shook his head. "No, we need to see this through. If we don't, the Black Hand will just replace Rookwood with someone else. We need to cut the head off the snake."
Blake sighed, nodding reluctantly. "Alright. What's the plan?"
Frost looked at Rookwood, who glared back at him with defiance. "You're going to take us to that shipment, Rookwood. And if you're smart, you'll cooperate. Otherwise, things are going to get a lot worse for you."
Rookwood sneered. "You think you've won, Frost? You don't know anything. The Black Hand is bigger than you could ever imagine. You're nothing but a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things."
"Maybe," Frost replied calmly. "But we're about to sweep that dust away."
With Rookwood in tow, they navigated their way out of the underground hideout and back into the cold, rain-soaked streets of London. The city seemed quieter than usual, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.
As they made their way through the winding streets, Frost's mind raced. They were close—so close to uncovering the Black Hand's ultimate plan. But he knew that the most dangerous part of their investigation was still ahead of them.
Whatever the Black Hand was planning, it would be big. And if they didn't stop it in time, London would pay the price.
But for now, they had a lead. And in the world of detectives, a lead was all they needed to keep moving forward.
To be continued…