Page 110 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Just enough.
Isabel drove her knee up between his legs. He made a strangled sound, doubling over. She didn’t hesitate – she rolled out from under him and brought her elbow down between his shoulder blades.
“That’s for every innocent you destroyed,” she snarled. “Every life you stole.”
Another blast rocked the building, closer this time. Shouts echoed in the corridor – men’s voices calling out in French and English. Something was burning; she smelled the smoke.
Favreau pushed himself up. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes – God, his eyes followed her with the same possessive gleam they always had.
“You need me,” he said. Almost tender. “Who are you without me, hmm? I made you extraordinary. You don’t have it in you to kill me. You never did.”
A third explosion rattled the windows, and dust rained from the ceiling.
“She might not have it in her,” a voice growled from the doorway. “But I fucking do.”
Callahan.
He stood there like something from her dreams – tall, dark, holding a pistol pointed at Favreau. His face was bloodied, his shirt torn at the shoulder, but his hand was steady.
His eyes found hers across the room, and for a moment, nothing else existed. Not Favreau. Not the explosions. Just them.
Then Favreau’s hand fisted in Isabel’s hair, yanking her against his chest. A blade kissed her throat.
“Lower the pistol, Agent,” Favreau hissed, his breath hot against her ear. “My hand might twitch. And that would be . . .” The knife dragged lightly over her jaw. “Such a waste of a beautiful face.”
Callahan’s aim never wavered. “Let. Her. Go.”
“Or what?” Lips brushed Isabel’s temple. Mocking. “You’ll shoot? Risk killing her to get to me? I’ve watched you with her, Agent. You won’t endanger her life.”
Isabel watched Callahan – the fury, the tension in his shoulders. But beneath it all, she saw him calculating. Measuring angles. Considering options. Trying to find a way to take the shot without harming her.
But Favreau needed to die, no matter what it cost her.
A strange peace washed over Isabel then. The animal panic ebbed, replaced by a crystal clarity she’d felt before she jumped from a roof or scaled an impossible wall. Isabel’s fingers found the second blade hidden at her waist – the one she’d taken from the guard outside. Her stare held Callahan’s, willing him to understand everything she couldn’t say.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
Then she swung back her hand and plunged the knife into Favreau’s eye.
He screamed, dropping his dagger. He clawed at the weapon protruding from his socket as he stumbled backwards.
And Callahan fired.
Isabel didn’t flinch. She couldn’t look away as the bullet punched a perfect hole between Favreau’s brows, his remaining eye widening in shock.
Then Louis Favreau, the monster who had haunted Isabel’s steps for so long, collapsed. The sound his body made hitting the floor was the sweetest thing she’d heard in years.
The pistol slipped from Callahan’s fingers. He closed the distance between them, hauling her into his arms. She breathed him in, solid and warm andreal.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered into her hair. “Next time, fucking warn me before you stab someone in the eye.”
“What was that outside?” she asked, her voice muffled against his chest. “Sounded like the building was coming down.”
“Lady Alexandra’s diversion. Apparently, she’s been experimenting with volatile compounds in her spare time. Aristos and their boredom.”
His fingers traced her jawline, tilting her face up to his. The tenderness in his touch made her chest ache. He studied her, hunting for injuries, for trauma, for something broken.
