Henri Beck & the Hidden Library | 📖

3

The waiter's name was MaliK JACKSON. That was all the information Henri got about it, though. The boy had a knack for dodging every question thrown his way. While the lack of answers didn't help soothe his growing anxiety, he couldn't be too upset. After all, Malik had saved his life.

With the off-duty waiter's help, Henri and Thea managed to flee the masked gunmen. They lost them at the construction site and eventually found themselves hiding in the backseat of Malik's old pickup truck. They were parked in a multi-tiered structure near the museum. The rain continued to fall from the black sky, the noise drowning out every other noise in the semi-populated car lot.

They hadn't seen the gunmen since they evaded them, which happened about thirty minutes ago, but Henri couldn't stop biting his nails. Once his cuticles had been reduced to nubs, he resorted to fiddling with the cufflinks of his suit.

He called Jeffrey to let him know he and Thea were safe. The old man sounded like he'd been bawling his eyes before he picked up. Their conversation was short, as Henri didn't want to take the risk of having his phone tracked by the people who kidnapped his parents. Following the phone call, he sank into his seat.

No one said anything as they sat in Malik's car. The radio wasn't even on. Their soundtrack consisted of choppy breaths, the occasional sound of someone shifting in their seat, and the incessant rain outside.

The silence gave Henri time to think, too much time to his liking. His psyche wasn't a place he liked to frequent often. After tonight, he had half a mind to board it up and put it up for sale. They'd be getting a decent deal—a near-genius level intellect with slight daddy issues and bad taste in men.

Henri squeezed his eyes shut as images of the night's events replayed in his head. He saw his father with blood rushing from his nose. He saw the gunmen grabbing his mother. He saw the stolen map in Sergei's grubby hands.

The memories were clear enough to convince him he'd never even left The Smithsonian. Times like these are what caused him to loathe his abnormal hippocampus. While other people's memories often were flawed and largely inaccurate, his weren't. They were clear and vibrant and permanent. He was an attorney's dream eyewitness. His professors back in London loved him for it. Other students didn't quite share their views. He remembered how they'd beg him to spout off random useless facts he'd memorized as if he were a walking search engine. His lips morphed into a scowl.

He couldn't forget those memories, nor could he forget what happened tonight.

A shiver wormed its way down his spine as he buried his face into his clammy hands.

"You two alright back there?" Malik finally asked from the driver's seat of his truck. His fingers were curled around the old leather of the steering wheel. He kept his head on a swivel, eyeing every inch of the parking lot around them. "It's way too quiet in here."

"I'm not sure alright is the right word," Thea began, "but we're safe."

For now.

"Who were those guys?" Malik asked.

"How're we supposed to know? They just showed up."

Henri's face remained in his hands, his eyes covered by his palms. His brain was involuntarily combing through everything that'd happened up until this part. He stopped on a single word his mother uttered before the gunmen burst into the museum.

"Arkangel."

Thea and Malik shot him confused glances. "Huh?"

"Mom said something about Arkangel right before we were attacked," Henri explained. He lifted his head. "She couldn't have been talking about Arkangel Industries, right?"