Prologue #2
“Look at him!” Montgomery gestured at Blake’s drawn weapon, his voice breaking with false anguish.
“He’s pointing a gun at me right now. He would have killed me too if you hadn’t come.
My own partner. My friend.” He shook his head as if heartbroken by the betrayal.
“How long have you been working for them, Blake? How many of our operations have you compromised?”
Evie’s revolver swung toward Blake, but her expression remained carefully neutral. Too neutral. That mask she wore when processing information at lightning speed, when deciding whether someone was lying or telling the truth.
“Evie, listen to me.” Ignoring Montgomery entirely, Blake fixed his attention on her.
“I heard everything. Your brother was meeting with Stein. They were discussing the Midnight Angel—a female spy embedded in the hospital network. She’s moving to England now, to a convalescent hospital.
Your brother shot Stein to silence him before I could get further intelligence. ”
“Very creative,” Montgomery said smoothly. “But we both know the Midnight Angel is a ghost story—a rumor the Germans started to keep us chasing shadows while their real operatives slip by unnoticed.” He turned to his sister. “Isn’t that what the briefing said last month?”
“It did.” Evie’s voice was cool, professional. But her eyes—her eyes held a question Blake couldn’t quite read.
Because his mission—this mission—had been privately assigned. Director Lark had feared there was a mole in the division.
And he’d been right. Horribly right.
Montgomery tsked and shook his head. “You’re in a bad spot of it, old chap.”
“I know what I heard.” Blake lowered his gun just enough to encourage Evie to listen. “Your brother was smoking his cigarettes while conducting espionage, Evie. Can’t you smell it? Evidence he’s been here longer than me.”
“Or proof you were confident enough to wait for your mark,” Montgomery countered.
“I’m a cigar man, Montgomery.” Blake arched a brow. “I have standards.”
“Standards don’t pay as well as treachery, it would seem.” Montgomery’s lips curled, his eyes mocking.
There was a distinct difference in the two scents. Evie would know that, surely.
“That may describe you,” Blake shot back, “but it doesn’t describe me.” He turned his full focus on Evie, though his peripheral vision stayed alert. “Ask yourself—why would I kill Stein before extracting his intelligence? That makes no tactical sense.”
“Unless you were his contact,” Montgomery challenged, twisting his own plan and placing Blake in the part. “Unless you knew we were closing in and decided to destroy the evidence.” He sighed heavily. “I never wanted to believe it, Evie. You know how I admire Blake. But the facts are damning.”
Blake’s jaw tightened. Montgomery was good—he’d give him that. Every lie contained just enough truth to make it plausible.
A sound outside snapped all three of them to attention.
“We need to move,” Evie said quietly, though her gun never wavered from Blake’s chest. “Someone might have heard the shot.”
“First, we need to ensure there are no loose ends.” Montgomery grabbed a satchel from the desk, stuffing Stein’s documents inside, and then looked at his sister meaningfully. “You know what needs to be done with a traitor.“
Evie’s composure faltered for the briefest instant, barely a flicker, but Blake caught it. She hadn’t expected that order.
Not executing him. Not a man she’d once trusted.
Perhaps even cared for?
Her gaze shifted from her brother to Blake, the tiniest divot forming in her forehead, a hint of her true struggle. It was one of her few tells, but it spoke volumes. She wasn’t certain of Blake’s guilt.
“Check the corridor, Evan.” Her gaze never left Blake’s face.
Montgomery’s attention darted to Blake, but he nodded, moving to the door. “I’ll see our way is clear.”
Blake’s throat went dry. He’d faced death before—bullets whizzing past in no-man’s-land, knives in dark alleys, poison in wineglasses, one memorably awkward incident involving a Portuguese countess and a trained leopard that he preferred not to discuss.
But this? Watching Evie Montgomery weigh his life against her brother’s lies?
This might be the worst way to go.
The door clicked shut behind Montgomery, leaving them alone with Stein’s body and an inevitable choice.
Blake could rush her. Should rush her. Training screamed at him to disarm, to survive. But something stronger—hope, perhaps—held him still. Hope that the woman who’d laughed at his terrible jokes and matched him wit for wit still existed behind that mask.
Maybe just faith that she was better than her brother.
He managed a half smile. If he was going to die, it would be terribly disappointing to go begging. At least looking somewhat composed might preserve his dignity for posterity. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get that kiss you promised after our last mission, then?”
The faintest tic flickered on one corner of her lips. “I make a rule to kiss traitors only as part of an assignment.”
“Then I’m dashed out of luck,” he murmured, lowering his weapon and breaking every rule he’d ever learned. He took a step forward, holding her gaze. “Because I am no traitor.”
Her thumb pushed back the hammer, halting his approach.
“Think, Evie,” Blake pressed. “You must have seen something. A change. Meetings that didn’t fit. His transformation from British Intelligence to informer couldn’t have happened overnight.”
Something flickered in her eyes, but she didn’t lower the weapon.
“Evie.” He kept his voice low. “You know me.”
“I thought I did.” Her words were barely audible, but the gun remained level.
“You’re cleverer than this. Don’t make me wrong about you,” Blake said softly. “Please.”
Her lips twitched upward in that way he’d seen so often when she’d teased him, except this time there was a sadness to the depths of those eyes. “I’m sorry, Stephen,” she whispered.
He braced himself.
The shot cracked through the small cabin.
Pain exploded through his shoulder, spiraling him backward. He clutched the wound as warm blood seeped between his fingers, staining his favorite blue oxford—another casualty of espionage.
Really, the job was murder on one’s wardrobe. He groaned. Perhaps murder wasn’t the best choice of words at the moment.
He met Evie’s gaze one last time before she turned and dashed out the door.
He’d been shot before.
Several times, in fact.
He’d imagined his heart might bleed for her one day—just not quite so literally.
What a disappointing way to die.
Blake looked down at his palm-soaked hand and paused. She’d hit him in the shoulder. Not his chest. Not his heart. His shoulder—precisely placed to miss anything vital.
On purpose.
His attention flew back to the door.
Well. Perhaps not such a disappointing way to die after all.
She’d given him a chance.
Blake moved despite the burning pain, scanning the room for anything Montgomery might have left behind. Nothing. But at least someone had left clothes in the closet.
Convenient.
In no time at all, Blake had stripped off his shirt—not without a bit of remorse for the shirt’s sake—and wrapped it as a bandage around his bloody shoulder.
Then he donned a cheap soft shirt of far less excellent quality.
The fabric was subpar, the stitching mediocre, and the fit entirely wrong. Adding insult to literal injury.
Checking the corridor, he made his way toward the upper floors as fast as he could, while attempting to keep his heart steady. No need to speed up the loss of blood.
He had just reached the stairs when some sort of explosion rocked the entire ship. The blast threw Blake against the bulkhead, his wounded shoulder screaming in protest. Lights flickered.
What had just happened?
Cries from above echoed down the stairwell.
The terrible wrenching of metal groaned underneath him.
This could not be good.
He looked up the stairs just as a door opened up above and a man rushed toward him, muttering something about a life vest.
“What’s happened?”
The man turned as he passed, calling over his shoulder, “Torpedo!” The one word ripped a chill through Blake. “We’ve been hit!”
A torpedo. Good God.
Blake’s training kicked in even as his mind reeled. The ship was going down, and he was three decks below the waterline with a bullet wound and vital information that could save countless lives.
If he survived.
With a deep breath, he clung to the railing, mounting the steps. He’d barely reached the top when another, even larger eruption tore through the vessel, nearly sending Blake tumbling back down the stairs. The lights wavered once, twice, then died completely.
Had they been hit again? Surely there was no way a vessel, even this size, could withstand two torpedoes.
He regained his footing, but something wasn’t right.
The ground seemed unsteady. Slightly tilted?
When he reached the promenade deck, he registered the problem and his stomach knotted. The ship had already begun listing to starboard, a shift felt in the way the floor tilted beneath his feet, in the way doors swung on their hinges at odd angles, slamming against the ship’s walls.
They were going down fast.
Too fast.
He raised his gaze to the horizon. In the distance was the coast of Ireland.
So close. His shoulders dropped.
But not close enough.
The massive vessel was taking a nosedive at an impossible pace.
What had the torpedoes detonated?
The elegant promenade had transformed into a scene from Dante’s imagination.
Passengers rushed in all directions—some screaming, some paused in stunned silence.
Crew members attempted to maintain order, but there weren’t enough of them, and the list of the ship made launching the boats a nightmare of physics on both sides.
The starboard lifeboats swung too far out, the port side nearly rested against the hull of the vessel …
and the ship was still trudging forward at a speed too fast to lower any boats safely.