After quietly removing his great coat to leave it in a heap on the stairs, he flattened his palm on the door. Pushing it open, he stepped through.
Something didn’t smell right. In a place most often scented with the dust of charcoal, sweat, and whiskey, the new smell was starkly out of place. Fresh and quietly rich with the fragrance of some exotic flower, it momentarily distracted him from the immediate threat, giving the intruder a chance to take the first swing.
Something the man was destined to regret.
A fist connected with Mason’s jaw and he smiled. It seemed he’d been right not to expect much of a challenge in this confrontation. The punch was ill-timed and carried only a fraction of the force it could have if it had been properly executed. Boothe had obviously been in a rush to claim his advantage...possibly because he knew he wouldn’t get another.
Mason kicked the door shut behind him, closing off an avenue for the man to escape before Mason had a chance to question him about the woman who’d hired him.
“You’re gonna have to do a helluva lot better than that,” he noted with a smirk as the Runner squared off in front of him with fists raised.
Mason rolled his shoulders and shook out his fingers before curling them into his palm.
Though the lighting was dim, it was enough to determine his adversary was a big man, broad and barrel-chested. His expression was stern and ready for a fight; his gaze was focused. At one time, the former Runner might have been an imposing figure. Now, however, he was a man significantly past his physical prime and way out of his league.
But that didn’t stop him from lunging forward to swing a hard right.
Mason easily ducked out of the way and sent a swift jab to his opponent’s ribs. The man stumbled and coughed but recovered quickly enough to come at Mason again.
Deflecting the next blow with an easy block, Mason decided to bring an end to the pointless tussle.
After allowing Boothe to get close enough to manage a quick cross to Mason’s jaw, Mason responded with a blurred left jab that had the other man dropping to the floor—out cold.
Mason huffed an irritated breath.
He’d wanted to end the fight, not knock the man out. Now he’d have to wait for him to wake up before he could get the answers he wanted. As he took a step toward the fallen Runner, intending to search the man’s pockets for anything useful, the distinctive click of a pistol hammer being pulled back echoed through the room like a cannon blast.
Mason froze.
Boothe hadn’t come alone.
Holding his splayed hands out from his body, he slowly turned toward the sound to discover a figure standing in the deep shadows behind his desk.
“Do not move.” The woman’s voice was an intriguing combination of elegance and arrogance. Smooth and strong. The texture of it slid warmly down Mason’s spine.
She was shrouded in a thick cloak of midnight-blue velvet. With the oversized hood drawn over her head, he could see nothing of her face. But considering her cultured accent, he suspected Freddie’s sister had opted not to sit quietly at home while her man followed Turner’s effectively dropped clue.
Mason would have his answers sooner than later after all.
Keeping his gaze trained on the lady and the glint of dark metal she extended from the folds of her cloak, Mason lifted his hands to release the tie of his queue that had come loose during the brief scuffle with Boothe. In slow, deliberate movements, he shook his head—never once taking his eyes off the woman—before combing his fingers back through his hair to secure it again at his nape.
Then he lowered his hands back to his sides and smiled. “’Ello, dove.”
“You are Mason Hale?”
“I am.”
She hesitated. It was a just a brief pause, but Mason noticed it. He might have suspected it was caused by uncertainty if not for the fact that her voice was strong and steady when she spoke again. “Where is the boy?”
Mason made a play of looking around the room, even glancing behind him before he tilted his head back toward the cloaked woman. “What boy?”
She made a short sound of impatience.
“I was informed he’d be here. We’ve already searched the place and I know he’s not, but I suspect you know where he is.” She lifted the pistol suggestively. “And you’re going to tell me.”
Mason tilted his head thoughtfully. “Am I now?”
Her tone sharpened. “Where is he?”
“As you said, he’s not here.” Mason took a step forward. The pistol never wavered.
“You will turn him over to me. Immediately.”
Impressed with the woman’s boldness though not yet assured of her intentions, Mason asked, “What d’you think the likelihood is of me being the type of man who’d do something just because you demand it?”
“I will pay ransom. Any amount. Double—triple—what you were paid to take him.” Tension rose in her voice. A thread of desperation gleaming within the stern command.
Mason continued across the room, his slow, even steps sounding ominous on the bare wood floor.
The woman adjusted the pistol’s aim to follow his advance. “Not another step.”
He ignored her. “You won’t shoot me.”
“Do not underestimate me,” she replied coldly.
“If you shoot me, you won’t find the boy.”
A soft, swift inhale. “You do have him.”
Mason strode forward until the expanse of his heavy oak desk was the only thing between them. That, the pistol, and the gathering darkness. “What d’you want with him?”
“Not your concern.” Irritation colored her tone and shortened her words. “Release him to me.”
Mason lifted a brow. “You keep making demands, dove, but you’re not the one in charge here.”
She made a subtle gesture with the gun. “I beg to differ.”
Without warning, Mason placed his hand flat on the surface of the desk and vaulted over it. The woman took an instinctive step back, which allowed him to land right in front of her. At the same time, he grasped her slim wrist
