THE SHARD (London Bridge Station, England)

The first hint of dawn was a bruise on the horizon, a reluctant surrender of night's dominion. Four AM. Cold. Dark. London Bridge Station, a skeletal framework of steel and concrete, stood mostly deserted. In the looming distance, the Shard pierced the pre-dawn gloom, a jagged spire of glass and ambition.

John Storm descended onto the tracks with the practiced ease of a phantom. He was a man carved from shadows, tall and athletic, his rugged handsomeness a quiet defiance against the harsh urban landscape. Black hoodie, jogging pants, climbing shoes – he was a predator in his element, always one step ahead, his charisma a silent weapon. A rucksack, heavy with purpose, clung to his back.

Beside him, Dan Hawk, a boyish twenty-two, followed with a nervous energy that belied his geekish good looks. John Lennon glasses and a laptop case were his armor, a digital warrior in a concrete jungle.

They clambered onto the opposite platform, the sudden arrival of a train a momentary shield, a fleeting invisibility. Hawk, with a quick boost, helped Storm scale the perimeter wall. From there, Storm hauled himself onto the station's roof, the city spread out beneath him like a sleeping giant. He glanced down at Hawk, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"See you after breakfast," he said, his voice a low rumble, then vanished into the darkness above.

Hawk, alone now, spoke into his face mic, his voice tight with anticipation. "Steve? It's go."

Inside the sterile confines of the helipad terminal, Steve Green, a forty-year-old reporter with a sharp, no-nonsense air, held his phone to his ear. The glow of the screen illuminated his determined face. "Check that, Hawk." He turned to Charley Temple, her raven hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, her combat trousers and Doctor Martins a testament to her readiness. "Ready, Charley?"

Charley, efficient and focused, stowed her camera, the click of the lens a sharp punctuation in the pre-dawn silence. "Ready."

Steve drained the last of his coffee, a bitter jolt against the cold. They moved as one, a team with a shared purpose, heading out into the nascent day.

Back at London Bridge Station, Hawk's laptop screen flickered to life, displaying Storm's YouTube channel, simply titled "STORM." With a decisive click, Hawk initiated the live stream.

At the base of the Shard, Storm landed with a quiet thud, his movements fluid and precise. He scanned his surroundings, orienting himself in the half-light, the monolithic structure towering above him.

Hawk, watching the live feed, saw the CCTV images, Storm’s figure a dark silhouette against the pale concrete. “Three-sixty degrees,” he whispered into his mic. “I’m inside their system. Cameras are mine.” His fingers danced across the keyboard, manipulating the surveillance feeds. “We are live.”

Storm’s voice, a low murmur in Hawk’s ear, cut through the digital static. “You have visual?”

“Roger that. Twenty meters to your right. Start point.”

Storm moved like a shadow, hugging the wall, his senses heightened. Hawk’s voice, a warning, snapped him to attention. “Unwanted visitors.”

Two security guards, their footsteps echoing in the predawn stillness, ambled past, oblivious to the figure pressed against the wall. Storm held his breath, a statue in the half-light, until Hawk’s voice, clear and concise, gave the all-clear.

With a fluid motion, Storm hauled himself onto the metal framework above, his rucksack revealing two suction cups. He looked up, the Shard a dizzying climb into the sky.

Hawk, his laptop packed away, left the station, his mission complete.

Inside the helipad, the EcoBird helicopter’s rotors whirred to life, a low, electric hum. Steve and Charley, strapped in, lifted into the air, the city unfolding beneath them.

A suction cup slapped against the glass panel of the Shard, a sharp, echoing sound in the vast emptiness. Storm began his ascent, a human spider climbing the impossible wall. Fifty meters above London, he paused, a moment of vertigo, then continued his climb.

Hawk, on London Bridge, watched through digital camera binoculars, his gaze fixed on the tiny figure scaling the Shard.

The EcoBird helicopter approached, the Shard looming in the distance. Charley, at the open door, camera ready, captured Storm’s progress.

Storm reached the halfway point, the ladder-like metal structure his only purchase. He peeled off a suction cup, the sound a sharp crack, and continued his climb, sweat stinging his eyes.

Hawk, his binoculars trained on the Shard, muttered encouragement, his voice a prayer against the wind.

Inside a hotel room high in the Shard, a mobile phone alarm pierced the silence. A young woman, wrapped in a towel, crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains, her breath catching in her throat. Storm, his face inches from the glass, stared back at her.

“Beautiful morning,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

Hawk, listening through his earpiece, raised an eyebrow. “Skip, focus.”

The young woman snapped the curtains shut, a sudden, violent motion.

Storm reached the top of the Shard, the city spread out beneath him like a map. As the EcoBird helicopter swooped in, Charley’s camera capturing his every move, he waved, then unfurled a banner, “CLEANER OCEANS FOR A GREENER PLANET,” a stark message against the grey sky.

Security guards, their voices amplified by a megaphone, called for him to come down. Storm, with a wry smile, fell backwards, the abseil rope catching him, his descent a controlled freefall.

Halfway down, he secured the banner, then swung himself onto a small balcony, his phone vibrating in his pocket. George Franks’ face stared back at him.

“Hello John. You must be hungry. I ordered eggs,” Franks said, his voice smooth and menacing.

“Organic, free range,” Storm replied, his eyes scanning the balcony.

Simon, a waiter in crisp livery, appeared, a silent invitation. “This way, Sir.”

Storm stepped through the black door, and it closed behind him, sealing him in.

SHARD AQUA RESTAURANT (London, England)

This Novel is Copyright © 2nd April 2025 Cleaner Ocean Foundation. Protected by the Berne Convention. All rights reserved.