18
Tower Bridge quaked. The ship’s bow buckled and a few boards split, but it groaned to a halt. Something must have halted its speed at the last second or it would have smashed itself into splinters.
‘Anyone order the cavalry?’ shouted a gruff voice.
It was a grinning man in his mid-twenties, with swirling blue-black tattoos. Judging by the patterns sticking out from under his collar and cuffs, he belonged to a Celtic tribe. Only, his markings were completely at odds with his fashionable leather overcoat. Two similar figures appeared at his side, massaging their necks. They both wore black; one robes, the other a leather peacoat that hung to his boots.
‘That was close,’ said the one in the coat; bald, late-thirties with a Viking beard and an indigo-coloured dragon tattoo coiled around
