Page 121 of The Bachelor Spy
No.
Every instinct screamed at Blake to leave, to run back to the house, to reach Evie before—
But Weber was still talking, and Blake forced himself to listen, to gather every scrap of intelligence even as his heart hammered against his ribs. Evie knew how to handle herself. She was as good as him, if not better.
Smith patted the satchel at his side before removing it and placing it on a table in the center of the room. “This intelligence alone will compromise three operations. The troop movements near Loos, the supply routes through Calais, the artillery positions at Vimy Ridge—”
Blake couldn’t wait. Wouldn’t wait.
Once the satchel exchanged hands, Weber would leave.
Perhaps kill Smith first.
Now was the time to move.
He gathered the rope, tested his grip one final time, and thought through the mechanics. Swing out, use momentum to carry across the space, disable Smith while firing at Weber, land in a controlled roll.
Simple. Clean. Efficient.
Grace had accomplished this maneuver in a dress and pantaloons, without any combat training whatsoever, and somehow survived.
Blake was a trained intelligence officer with years of field experience.
How hard can it be?
He took three steps back from the edge.
One breath to steady himself. Two to calculate trajectory.
Then launched through the hole.
The initial swing was perfect—exactly as he’d calculated. The arc carried him across the gallery with satisfying speed, the rope singing through his gloved hands. Moonlight streamed through the broken roof, painting everything in silver and shadow.
He fired mid-swing.
Weber dove sideways with impressive reflexes. The bullet sparked off stone where the villain’s head had been a heartbeat before. The satchel flew from Smith’s hands as he shifted to avoid Blake, documents scattering across the floor like startled birds.
Truly, he wished Evie could see him. He’d never felt so heroic in his life.
And then physics and reality collided with Blake’s calculations in a most unfortunate manner.
The rope twisted slightly. His body spun in the opposite direction. The unpredictable moonlight made depth perception a nightmare. And somewhere in the chaos of motion and momentum, Blake had the distinctly unhappy realization that rope swings were absolutelymad.
Grace must have the luck of ten Irishmen to have survived this.
But training took over. Blake adjusted mid-swing, used the spin to his advantage, and brought his boots up just as he reached Smith’s position.
The impact was immensely satisfying.
His boots connected with Smith’s chest with enough force to lift the man off his feet, sending Smith flying backward—arms windmilling—before crashing into the stone wall. The lamp he’d been holding shattered, plunging half the room into darkness.
Blake released the rope, attempting a controlled landing, but the stone floor came up faster than anticipated. He hit hard, the impact jarring through his legs and spine. He rolled with the landing, came up in a crouch with his gun trained on—
Weber had recovered his stance and weapon.
Blast.
Quite literally, as they fired simultaneously.
