Page 120 of The Bachelor Spy
It was a good thing Blake had worn one of his nicest suits.
On the far side of the ruins, the forest grew closest to the walls, one tree near brushing against the aged stone. A glassless window gaped open on the upper floor.
Perfect.
If he climbed the nearest tree, he could transfer to the trellis and reach the window. The upper floor had a hole large enough to peer down into the gallery below—right where the two men appeared to be.
How tidy.
Which always made him a little nervous.
He scaled the lovely oak rather quickly, his shoulder giving a slight protest but nothing of consequence. With nearly soundless movements, and a moment where he thought he might take on the flight patterns of a wingless bird, he transferred from the tree to the trellis. It groaned under his weight but held. Barely.
Blake froze entirely, listening.
But the voices below didn’t seem to notice. Their low rumbles continued, punctuated by the occasional scrape of boot on stone. With another look around, he transitioned from the trellis to the window, its ledge narrower than he’d thought … but he’d worked with worse. He pulled himself through and into what had been a sitting room a century ago.
Broken furniture. Scattered stones. A few decorative pillars reaching from floor to ceiling. And … was that aropealready tied to one of them?
How peculiar.
Blake’s brow rose. Wait a moment.
Could that possibly be the same rope Grace had used nearly two years ago to “rescue” Freddie when he’d been taken by Celia Blackmore Percy’s henchmen? Blake pondered the idea for a moment—the sheer improbability of it—until the sound of voices, clearer now, drew him forward.
Directly ahead, a gaping hole in the floor opened onto the gallery below, giving him perfect visual access. He crawled to the edge, following the line of the rope as it dropped through the hole into the room beneath.
Smith stood in the center of the ruined gallery, still in his hospital blues but moving with none of the hesitation or pain he’d shown at Havensbrooke. His posture was straight, his gait fluid—every inch a trained operative rather than a wounded soldier—and he had a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
He was a brawny fellow too, shoulders the size of the tree Blake had just ascended, which meant he’d hopefully be slow. Or at the very least, Blake needed to be faster than him, because a facer from one of those meat cleavers he called hands and Blake might see stars for weeks.
Beside him stood a man in his mid-forties wearing civilian clothes. Dark hair, angular features, and a distinctive scar cutting through his upper lip.
Blake stifled an undignified groan. He knew that face from intelligence reports.
Klaus Weber. One of Rook’s most trusted lieutenants. The Handler himself.
Jackpot.
“Angel insists she has it all under control,” Smith replied, his voice tight. Ah, the conversation must not have been going well for the man.
“She’s planted enough evidence on Wilson to—”
“Angel.” Weber spat the code name like a curse, pulling a cigarette from his coat and lighting it with sharp, angry movements. “She’s careless. Takes too long. Too many risks. This entire situation should have been handled weeks ago.”
Angel? Rivers.
Blake’s hand moved slowly toward the revolver at his back, careful not to make a sound, as he surveyed his options. Two targets. One rope. A fifteen-foot drop onto the stone floor. He needed to take one—preferably both—alive.
Weber, especially. The intelligence he carried could save thousands of lives.
“That housemaid slowed things down,” Smith said defensively. “The one called Helen Gale. Angel says she’s Montgomery and thinks she’s working with someone inside.”
Evie.Blake’s chest constricted.
“She should have been eliminated weeks ago.” Weber took a deep draw from his cigarette, the tip glowing bright orange in the darkness before fading. His German accent was barely detectable beneath perfect English. “You’ve both failed.”
“We haven’t failed,” Smith protested. “I’ve already provided you with valuable intelligence, and Angel has more. She’s set a trap tonight.” His voice gained confidence. “The Montgomery woman will walk right into it when she comes for the wireless equipment. She’ll never leave that room alive.” He checked his pocket watch with obvious satisfaction. “In fact, it should be happening right about now.”
