This crazy plan might actually work.
*
Bertie was perched high on the barrels across the way. He held up his hand, thumbs up, maybe congratulating me, maybe asking if I was OK. I held up two fingers, letting him know there were two fewer men to deal with.
He held up three with a smug grin. Not counting the guard, that brought the count down to eight, and the action – the real action – had yet to start.
Down below, Eduard stood above Matthew. One of my godfather’s eyes was swollen closed and there was a gash at his temple. But he was breathing.
‘Get up!’ Eduard barked.
Matthew didn’t move, and I looked away. A pack of cigarettes was perched on the balustrade and I would have given anything in that moment for the chance of lighting up. Instead, I loaded the dead man’s rifle, and moved into the shadows, before anyone could notice me.
‘What did you do to him?’ Eduard asked one of the men. ‘Drugs?’
‘Not yet. Orders were to hold off until an interrogator arrived.’
‘Yes, I can see how well you followed them.’
Sarcasm was lost on the man, who spat at Matthew’s feet.
‘Open your eyes, you English bastard!’ Eduard barked, removing his sidearm and sliding the safety off. I picked up the rifle and lined up my shot, and waited for Eduard to make his move.
The strange thing about a Luger: when it fires, the knee joint mechanism jerks up, so fast it’s a blur. Clever thing. It jumped twice and the two men to the left of Matthew fell. With a loud report from my rifle, the third sank to the ground. Eduard kicked Matthew’s chair, toppling it to the ground. He knelt, worked on the ropes.
Pandemonium.
I aimed just ahead of the soldier running at Eduard. The bullet clipped his arm. He roared but didn’t stop. With one fluid movement, Eduard picked up his gun and shot the soldier through the heart.
A tremendous explosion rocked the warehouse and I fell to my knees. Watched helplessly as the rifle dropped over the balustrade. Reached for my pistol, bracing myself for the second charge.
Eduard had thrown his body over Matthew’s to protect him. Now he knelt with his Luger clutched in both hands while Matthew acquired a sidearm from one of the bodies.
Two; three; another three . . . no – four. Assuming no one was killed in the blast, perhaps another three men were left. Other than the greedy flames, there was no movement below. No stutter of gunfire; no soldiers racing at us. I edged down the stairs, my back skimming the wall.
At the base was a small stack of barrels. Over the hissing of the fire, I heard breathing, and tightened my grip on my pistol. The man’s weapon was in front of me seconds before I could locate the rest of him through the smoke. The flames glinted off his fair hair, and the pistol in his hand.
For a moment, I thought it was Köhler, but the eyes, the cheeks were wrong. I straightened my back and squared my shoulders, watching as recognition dawned.
‘You,’ he said. ‘You’re that woman. The one that was following the English spy.’
Was that it? Laura was worried because of what she’d thought Allen-Smythe revealed. She was targeting me to protect her asset. And then, presumably herself when I connected them. The flames were coming closer; the smell of burning wood, oddly comforting. They moved up the walls and now licked at the ceiling, coming closer and closer.
‘The countess mentioned a tall woman. One that just wouldn’t die. Me, I can fix that.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
The roof groaned as I squeezed the trigger. Instead of the bark I’d expected, the gun made a small click. The clip was empty.
The man smiled. His forefinger began to contract and I lunged to the side, damned if I’d allow him to kill me. Not now, when we were so close.
I was on one knee when the bullet whistled by my ear.
I lunged forward, my hand on his wrist, forcing it away from me. He was stronger than I was, and I struggled to maintain control. I did the next best thing, forcing his finger on the trigger, firing shot after shot until his clip was also empty. A well-placed knee evened the odds, and his fingers released the empty gun. Throwing it to the side, I tightened my hand and lunged forward again, as I had learnt on Special Operations’ practice field. Holding the grip until his body crumbled, his breath gone. Slit his throat to make sure he was dead.
‘Angel!’
Eduard’s voice bellowed over the rumbling flames and the creaking of the burning building. I ran for the door. For Eduard. For safety.
A section of the warehouse caved in, sending flames and sparks scattering. I fell to my knees outside, gasping in the clean air, the pistol resting against my thigh.
Eduard dropped to the ground beside me. Pulled me hard into his arms.
‘Don’t you ever, ever do that again!’
I couldn’t find my voice to respond. Coughed, trying to clear the smoke from my lungs.
‘Matthew? Bertie?’
Eduard pointed at the boat pulling away from the pier. Bertie’s stocky figure stood at the controls as the boat skimmed the whitecaps. Matthew leant against the neat rows of barrels stacked behind them.
‘Your thug will drop Harrington off at the boat he came in on and do God-knows-what with the barrels. ’ He held up a finger. ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’
‘And us?’
‘You change into something less disreputable. There’s a canteen of water somewhere in the car.’ Debris had fallen on it, but so far the vehicle was still intact. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he took in the bloodstains on my tunic. His eyes widened at a thought: ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’
‘Me? No. Are you?’
‘No.’
‘Thank God.’ I cleaned my
