Page 128 of Dukes Are Forever
"Anyone volunteering?" Byrnes drawled, staying exactly where he was.
Gemma sighed. "You're faster than me."
"You're prettier."
"What's that got to do with anything?" she demanded. "It's amachine. It's not going to be staring down my bodice."
"You do realize," Malloryn snarled, "that you're both hiding behind boxes of explosives?"
"Fuck," Byrnes cursed under his breath as his thighs bunched. He was the closest to the automaton. "I hate fire."
Then he was darting forward, trying to engage the metaljacket's motion sensors so it would lock on him as a target.
Fire spewed across the factory floor as Byrnes skidded behind another set of crates. It licked at the crate, and Byrnes seemed to realize his predicament and bolted further into the darkness. The monstrosity followed, each clanking step echoing on the cement floors.
Malloryn glanced up at the warehouse's office, noting the light there had been swiftly snuffed. The metaljacket was merely a distraction. The office was where he'd find whoever was in charge.
"Go!" Gemma told him, watching her lover slip behind the metaljacket. "You can't let whoever that is escape."
He'd given her command of COR upon their return to Russia, but as he slipped away, he wondered if she realized she'd just told him what to do.
Moving like a ghost through the darkness at the back of the warehouse, he headed for the office. Shoes rang on the stairs as the overseer escaped into the morass of rooms at the back of the building.
And a figure loomed nearby—
"Don't shoot me," Kincaid called, materializing out of the shadows, as Malloryn jerked his pistol up at the last second.
"Follow me," Malloryn commanded, moving to cut the bastard off.
Charlie and Lark were presumably cutting off the rear, as instructed.
Sure enough, the overseer had returned, clearly sighting the trap. Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Malloryn pressed his back to the nearest wall, holding a finger up to his lips.
Kincaid vanished into the shadows with a nod.
Someone cursed under his breath, and Malloryn could hear his target panting. Not Balfour. Whoever it was, they weren't used to running.
Malloryn coolly stepped out of the shadows, his pistol locking on his target's chest.
Sir George Hamilton skidded to a halt, the tails of his coat flapping.
They both stared at each other in shock.
"Malloryn," Sir George spat.
"Sir George." This was an unexpected boon. Caught red-handed with his fingers in the till. "Fancy findingyouin a warehouse full of explosives."
Sir George's eyes darted this way and that. "You son of a bitch. You have no right to be in here."
"I have every right," Malloryn told him as he advanced. "My men tracked a dangerous suspect who has ties to a dangerous organization to this building last night. My information tells me a group of terrorists are planning an attack on the queen, and they have enough explosives to level the tower. The only anomaly—as far as I can see—is your presence. But surely you can explain."
Sir George's mustache fair quivered with rage. "I don't have to explain anything to the likes of you!"
Malloryn stared along the top of his pistol. "You don't. But you will. Eventually."
"What are you going to do? Shoot me?"
A part of him would like to. He'd spent years dealing with belligerent fools like this, who thought themselves entitled to do anything they desired. They'd sneered at him at Eton, and spat behind his back when he first ventured into society.
