Chapter 17 #2
Blake felt the burn along his left shoulder, shallower than the Lusitania wound, but the same shoulder. Confound it!
Weber dodged, but not fast enough. Blake’s bullet caught him in the arm.
But Smith was back on his feet—how was the man still conscious?—wild-eyed and furious. And he had a knife.
Because of course he does.
Apparently, fighting one trained German operative at a time was too simple.
Smith charged from the side, blade flashing in the moonlight. Blake spun, but not quite fast enough. The blade sliced across his ribs, hot and sharp. He gasped, stumbling. His side burned like a line of fire had been drawn across it.
Weber fired again.
Blake threw himself back behind the pillar as the bullet ricocheted off stone, sending chips flying. One caught his cheek—a sharp sting that would leave a mark.
Disappointing.
He rolled his gaze heavenward and sighed. Well, this was lovely, but he really needed to leave.
Smith came around the pillar, knife raised for another strike.
But he’d clearly underestimated Blake’s tolerance for pain—or perhaps overestimated his own skill.
Blake feinted left, then struck right. His fist connected with Smith’s jaw with a satisfying crack that snapped the man’s head back.
Smith staggered, and Blake followed up with a blow to his abdomen that drove the air from his lungs in a whoosh.
But Smith was well-trained and fighting with the desperation of a man who knew capture meant execution. He recovered faster than Blake expected, his next punch catching Blake’s already wounded side.
Pain exploded through Blake’s ribs. His vision grayed at the edges.
Smith pressed his advantage, landing another blow—this one to Blake’s jaw—that made stars burst across his vision. Devilish nuisance, face wounds.
How was he supposed to kiss Evie properly with a split lip? And he was rather proud of his teeth, thank you very much. They’d survived remarkably well this far into his intelligence career, and he’d prefer to keep them intact.
He was quite done being charitable.
Blake caught Smith’s next punch, twisting the man’s arm savagely. The knife clattered to the floor. Smith tried to break free, but Blake had already shifted his weight.
He drove his knee into Smith’s stomach, followed by an elbow to the back of his head as the man doubled over.
Smith went down hard.
But Weber had been circling to get a clean shot from around the pillar, and now he stood with his gun aimed directly at Blake’s head, no more than ten feet away.
“It’s over, Falcon.”
Blake’s hand shot out and tightened on Smith’s collar. He yanked the semi-conscious man up as a shield just as Weber pulled the trigger.
Smith jerked, his eyes going wide with shock and betrayal as blood bloomed across his chest.
Seizing Weber’s stunned moment, Blake shoved the dying Smith toward him. The body collided with the Handler, throwing him off-balance. Blake pulled his other pistol from his jacket and fired—once, twice, three times.
The first shot caught Weber in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. The second hit his leg, dropping him to his knees. The third—Blake’s aim was getting sloppy from blood loss—went wide, but it didn’t matter.
Weber collapsed, his gun clattering away across the stone floor. He reached desperately for something in his coat—suicide pill, most likely—but Blake kicked it away and then, for good measure, delivered a boot to Weber’s temple that knocked him unconscious.
Not dying on my watch.
Not yet.
Blake stood over the unconscious operative, breathing hard, his side screaming with every inhale. Smith lay nearby, eyes glassy, breathing in shallow, wet gasps that wouldn’t last much longer.
“Sorry, old chap,” Blake muttered, though Smith was beyond hearing. “Wrong side. Wrong choices.”
Stumbling back and blinking his vision into focus, Blake pulled heavy twine from his coat pocket—Grace would have been proud—and bound Weber securely to one of the pillars.
Hands behind his back, ankles crossed and tied.
The man would have a devil of a time escaping, even if he woke before Blake could send help.
Then Blake gathered the scattered documents, shoving them back into the leather satchel. Intelligence. Proof. Everything Director Lark would need.
Mission accomplished.
Except for the part where Evie was walking into a trap and Blake was currently bleeding from his side, his shoulder, and his face.
Minor details.
He pressed a hand to his ribs, and his palm came away dark with blood. Darkening his excellent blue-pinstriped oxford.
With a deep sigh, he tore a strip from the shirt and wrapped it clumsily around his ribs. Not enough, but it would have to do.
Blake forced himself toward the exit, each step an exercise in will over body. Through the broken doorway, across the moonlit grounds, he could see Havensbrooke in the distance.
Impossibly far.
The world tilted slightly. He braced himself against the doorframe, willing the dizziness to pass. Blood loss. He’d lost too much already, and the makeshift bandage wasn’t holding.
He thought of Evie. Her violet-blue eyes. The way she’d looked at him in the storage closet, trust and vulnerability warring in her expression.
The way she’d kissed him.
He wouldn’t allow her to die. Not if he had a choice in the matter.
Blake pushed off from the doorframe and stumbled forward. One foot in front of the other. Don’t stop. Don’t think about the pain. Just move.
He was going to reach her.
He was going to save her.
Or die trying.
Pennington barely spoke to her during the walk from the house.
And anytime Grace started a conversation, he demanded silence.
When she asked about his family.
Or where he’d been stationed in the war.
Or even whether he enjoyed Mrs. Lennox’s cooking.
Which, in Grace’s opinion, was rather telling about a person’s character. Anyone who could remain unmoved by Mrs. Lennox’s seed cake was either deeply troubled or thoroughly villainous.
Though from the sweat on his brow on such a cool evening, she felt certain Pennington was the former rather than the latter.
His hand shook where it gripped her arm—not with violence, but with panic, if she guessed right.
Angry people usually didn’t keep staring wide-eyed behind them, expecting pursuit at any moment.
And when they’d passed near the ruins on their way to the chapel, she’d noticed his entire body tense, as if he’d heard something.
Perhaps the search parties had ventured that far after all?
Grace turned to look behind them. Wait.
Her gaze sharpened. Was that where Blake had gone?
She stumbled, but Pennington steadied her, his eyes dropping briefly to her stomach before he released a curse and continued their walk.
She really hoped babies couldn’t hear too many things from the womb, because in the fifteen minutes they’d been walking, Pennington had released quite a few words and phrases she’d prefer the little one not overhear.
Her eyes blinked wide. And could a baby hear his mother’s thoughts?
She glanced heavenward. God already heard them, and that was quite humbling enough.
The chapel rose ahead of them in the moonlight, its ancient stone walls glowing silver. Haloed. It really was a lovely building. And tonight, beautiful and eerie all at once—exactly the sort of setting one found in Gothic novels.
Pennington pushed open the heavy wooden door, the hinges groaning in protest. The interior was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the stained-glass windows, painting pale-colored shadows across the stone floor.
It looked very different at night.
In the dark.
A chill skittered up her arms. And a low rumble surfaced from her stomach, sounding much louder with the acoustics of the hallowed, empty nave.
Pennington looked down at her, brows nearly touching.
Grace shrugged. “I was too busy being kidnapped to eat supper, if you recall.”
And the man had the gall to roll his eyes.
Grace had liked him a little better before that.
“Where’s the entrance?” Pennington demanded, his voice echoing in the empty space. “Your daughter knew. Where?”
“I told you I would help you, and I keep my word, Private Pennington.” Grace jerked her arm free of his hold. “You don’t have to manhandle me.” She walked toward the font. “Zahra said it was hidden behind a curtain on this wall.”
Which, as Grace examined the wall, was really a tapestry, but Zahra probably didn’t know much about those.
Pennington followed silently, but Grace stopped and turned back to him as they reached the tapestry. Frederick would be on his way by now. He couldn’t be too far behind.
If she kept Pennington talking, slowed their progress, maybe Frederick could get here before they traveled too far into the tunnel.
Close spaces hadn’t been her favorite since Egypt.
Nearly dying in a sand trap left a lasting impression.
“You could leave now. Run away.” Grace waved toward the door. “Act like nothing happened. Even if you find the jewels, the authorities will search for you as long as it takes. Is that the way you want to live your life?”
He stepped forward, looming over her. “My family has suffered for twenty years because of what happened at Havensbrooke. My grandfather died in disgrace. My father couldn’t find decent work.
We’ve been poor, desperate, ashamed—all because my grandfather took payment for services rendered to the late Lord Astley. ”
“What sort of services?”