Page 33 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
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 tobreathe.
“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?”
