Page 24 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
He convulsed once, twice. A long, rattling exhalation. Somewhere nearby, a rusted pipe dripped. One. Two. Three.
And then he went limp.
She knelt over him, chest heaving. The din of her pulse crashed through her skull. From some distant corner of her mind, she could feel the girl reeling back, hands pressed to her mouth.
The crack of a hand across a tear-streaked face, pale eyes like sleet—
Take it, ma petite, fold it up and tuck it away.
Isabel pushed to her feet. She made herself look at the corpse sprawled before her, the ruin of his throat. Her handiwork.
Sloppy, Favreau would’ve said, clucking his tongue.Too much wasted energy. Killing is a precise art. Like surgery.
Her torn wrists screamed as she flexed them, but the pain grounded her. Sharpened her resolve. She’d leave her kill for Favreau to find – a message from the servant to her master.
So she kicked the Butcher’s limp hand out of her path and left the flat.
7
Ronan was having a shite day.
It was the kind of day that made a man contemplate hurling himself into the Thames. But that would deprive him of the vindictive pleasure of imagining all the creative ways he could murder the two women at his front door.
Lady Alexandra Grey and Miss Emma Dumont were the very last creatures he wanted invading his domain. Especially when he was sleep-deprived.
“I said I had a lead,” he growled. “I didn’t ask you to come.”
O’Sullivan had arrived the night before with news, and Callahan had dashed off a note to Alexandra like a proper gent getting paid seventy quid.
Damned fool that he was, he’d thought it might buy him a bit of peace. Should’ve known her ladyship would use any excuse to come barrelling through his door.
The woman in question breezed past him into the flat. “Oh, Mr Callahan. Charming as always. As you’ll recall, I paid you a small fortune in advance. Therefore, I have every right to ensure it will be put to good use. Now, what’s this about a lead? Out with it.”
Callahan smothered the urge to throw her out and focused on Miss Dumont. “A female matching your sister’s description was seen leaving a property near Charing Cross.”
“Well, then. What are we waiting for?”
He blinked. “We?” he repeated. “I’m not taking you.”
Images of Nick Thorne’s retribution danced through his mind. That ruthless bastard would spend an afternoon happily sifting through Callahan’s guts if anything happened to his estranged wife. And Callahan was rather fond of all his bits remaining attached and in working order, ta very much.
“Don’t be obstinate,” Alexandra said. “I paid for results, and I mean to see them.”
With a noise of exasperation, he snatched up his greatcoat.
“Christ alive,” he muttered. “Fine, come to some rat-infested rookery. But this is against my better judgment.”
He nudged his unwanted companions towards the door, trying not to think too hard about all the ways this was sure to end in misery, maiming, and a long, messy demise.
The journey to Charing Cross passed in blessed silence, for which Callahan was profoundly grateful. Sparring with Alexandra always left him feeling like he’d gone three rounds with a vicious alley cat.
The building Leo told him about was unremarkable. Just another red brick structure huddled among its equally dilapidated fellows. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of mould.
Callahan led the way up the rickety staircase. They reached the landing, and he paused before a door already ajar.
He eased it open.
Darkness greeted them, barely penetrated by the wan light from a narrow window at the end of the cramped corridor.
