Page 14 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Isabel paced the lanes of Belgravia while keeping an eye on the townhouse.

Callahan hadn’t come back. She wondered if he’d watched her at all from the shadows. If he even wanted to bother.

He’d probably washed his hands of her. Decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. What good was a thief who let herself get tracked down, anyway? Who became exhausted enough to let her skills atrophy?

She’d tried to start a new life after Hong Kong.

She went back to Paris to leave that note for Emma and tie up any loose ends.

It had seemed so easy to convince herself that she’d wiped her trail clean when she’d left.

New name. New face. Not a fugitive, not a traitor, but just another unremarkable urchin scuttling amid London’s faceless masses.

Such a sweet, comforting lie.

Those lies were for marks.

She’d spent too long conning herself. Her face was known, thanks to Favreau’s singular talent for description and the money lubricating his every demand. There’d be no sanctuary for Spectre on either side of the Channel.

“ Stop it ,” she snarled at herself, picking up her pace.

A shadow moved at the mouth of the alley.

Isabel reached for the sheath at her thigh, but not fast enough. Someone sprang out of the darkness. Arms clamped hard around her middle.

Her head snapped back, her skull connecting with a satisfying crack. Her captor let out a low grunt of pain, but his arms cinched tighter.

A strange calm descended. Gone was the frantic thud of her heart – only the familiar fury remained, cold and clean.

If she was going down, it would be fighting.

She drove her elbow back into his gut, fuelled by desperation and the clawing animal need to breathe .

“Bitch!”

She hit the cobbles hard.

“Fuck Favreau,” he snarled. “I’ll kill you myself.”

“ Va te faire foutre ,” she growled.

Then she bolted. The slap of her pursuers’ boots echoed off the walls. One, two – she flicked a glance over her shoulder.

More . Christ, it was like an entire battalion bearing down on her, cutting off her avenues of escape one by one.

Panting, she slowed to a stop. The only way out was the way she’d come in, but that was no longer an option.

Isabel gripped her knife hard.

The men slowed to an arrogant, swaggering walk as they blocked her in. Even in the guttering flicker of the one lone gas lamp at the mouth of the passage, she could see the sly twist to their lips as they took in her panting breath, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts.

Oh, they’d enjoy this. She’d enjoy this more.

She bared her teeth at them in a feral grin. “Come on then, you bastards.”

The first one came at her low and fast. He twisted to avoid her slash, but the point opened the skin of his cheek.

She didn’t spare him another glance, already whirling to meet the next attack. They fell on her like a pack of starving dogs.

Had it only been a year since Favreau ran her through drills like these? Dancing between blades as he barked corrections? His fingers had dug into her bruised flesh later as he praised her, rewarded her, sharpened her into the weapon he wanted.

Nothing existed now but the hammer of her heart. The burn in her muscles as she pivoted and lunged. A knife skated along her ribs, parting fabric and flesh. A fist cracked across her cheekbone.

Isabel fell to her knees. A wheeze lurched from her chest. Hands wrenched her upright, and with a snarl, the man drove his fist into her stomach. Once, twice, until she couldn’t even gasp. Black stars swam at the edges of her vision.

Through the high-pitched ringing in her ears, she could make out the distant murmur of voices. “Careful, idiot! Boss wants her alive.”

“Just making sure the message sticks,” came the response, punctuated by a sharp sting in her midsection.

Isabel tried to scream, but all that emerged was a breathless keen.

Rain kissed her upturned face. A strange lassitude crept over her then, smothering thought, feeling. It would be so easy to just . . . drift. Surrender to this seductive darkness rising to claim her.

Then, clarity pierced the grey haze. A single thought.

Emma.

They would go for Emma.

Biting back a groan, Isabel rolled to her belly. One breath. Two. She levered herself up on wobbling elbows, then to hands and knees.

A boot landed between her shoulder blades and shoved her back down. Her cheek smacked the wet stones.

“Look, mates, she’s still got some wiggle in her. What do you say we make her dance more before we truss her up for delivery?”

More hands on her, in places they had no right to be. Palming the curve of her arse, dipping between her thighs.

The void rose up to meet her. A siren song luring her into the cool, dark depths, an endless sea of forgetting.

It would be so easy to sink beneath the surface.

To close her eyes and let oblivion take her.

Maybe this time, she wouldn’t have to resurface, wouldn’t have to drag herself back to a world determined to break her.

Favreau’s face swam out of the shadows behind her lids. Not smiling, for once. Grim and intent.

Get up, ma petite , he murmured, stroking a finger down her cheek. Pain is nothing to creatures like us. Show them why you’re mine.

Her eyes snapped open. The guttering embers of her fury stirred. Coalesced.

Became an inferno.

Her fingers closed around the hilt of her fallen blade, and she buried it in the bastard’s thigh.

He reared back with a bellow, his grip loosening. She tore away and staggered to her feet, ripping the knife free.

Her legs shook, barely willing to hold her weight.

Black streaked through her vision. But she locked her knees.

The buildings wavered as she stumbled out of the alley.

Direction had lost all meaning, the world smearing in her periphery.

An endless stretch of pain and putting one foot in front of the other.

She had to get off the street. Her new bolthole was too far, an impossible distance in her current state.

But Emma . . .

No. It was too dangerous. She wouldn’t risk leading Favreau’s men to her sister’s doorstep.

Her shoulder collided with a wall, the impact igniting fresh agony along her left side. She bit back a whimper and blinked hard to clear the black fog crowding out her vision.

No choice, then.

She needed Emma to contact Callahan. She didn’t know where he lived, and his offer was the only way she would survive.

Isabel pushed off the bricks and stumbled forward, her battered body moving on pure instinct. She couldn’t remember going to the townhouse. Couldn’t recall navigating the twisting streets and alleys. But soon, the elegant facade of Kent’s brother’s home loomed out of the murk.

There . The second floor. Emma’s bedroom window.

Her shaking fingers found holds in the cracked mortar between the bricks as Isabel heaved herself up the wall. Determination propelled her onwards.

Emma, Emma, Emma.

At last, her groping fingertips located the sill. She hauled herself up and over, tumbling into the darkened room beyond. Pain exploded through her body as she hit the floor.

Distantly, she heard a gasp. The clatter of a fallen candlestick. Then gentle hands were smoothing over her shoulders, turning her onto her back. “ Isabel . Isabel. Open your eyes. What happened? How did you find me here?”

Isabel grimaced. “Ambush . . . barely escaped this time. Watched you . . . to make sure you were safe.”

She might have slipped into unconsciousness then, but Emma gave her another shake.

“Stay with me, Isabel. Look at me.”

With a soft groan, Isabel forced her eyes open once more. “Didn’t know where else to go.”