Page 122 of The Bachelor Spy
The bullet whispered past Blake’s ear, so close it left his skin burning. His own shot went wide as he threw himself sideways behind a fallen column.
“Falcon.” Weber’s voice held grim recognition as he stepped into a patch of moonlight. “I should have known you’d interfere. You have a terrible habit of surviving things that should kill you.”
Blake grinned from his hiding spot. “You know what they say about a bad penny and all that.” He checked his ammunition. Four shots left before he’d need to retrieve his other gun.
He spun from the column, firing, but Weber was ready.
The shots cracked through the empty hall.
Blake felt the burn along his left shoulder, shallower than theLusitaniawound, but the same shoulder. Confound it!
Weber dodged, but not fast enough. Blake’s bullet caught him in the arm.
But Smith was back on his feet—how was the man still conscious?—wild-eyed and furious. And he had a knife.
Because of course he does.
Apparently, fighting one trained German operative at a time was too simple.
Smith charged from the side, blade flashing in the moonlight. Blake spun, but not quite fast enough. The blade sliced across his ribs, hot and sharp. He gasped, stumbling. His side burned like a line of fire had been drawn across it.
Weber fired again.
Blake threw himself back behind the pillar as the bullet ricocheted off stone, sending chips flying. One caught his cheek—a sharp sting that would leave a mark.
Disappointing.
He rolled his gaze heavenward and sighed. Well, this was lovely, but he really needed to leave.
Smith came around the pillar, knife raised for another strike. But he’d clearly underestimated Blake’s tolerance for pain—or perhaps overestimated his own skill. Blake feinted left, then struck right. His fist connected with Smith’s jaw with a satisfyingcrackthat snapped the man’s head back. Smith staggered, and Blake followed up with a blow to his abdomen that drove the air from his lungs in a whoosh.
But Smith was well-trained and fighting with the desperation of a man who knew capture meant execution. He recovered faster than Blake expected, his next punch catching Blake’s already wounded side.
Pain exploded through Blake’s ribs. His vision grayed at the edges.
Smith pressed his advantage, landing another blow—this one to Blake’s jaw—that made stars burst across his vision.Devilish nuisance, face wounds.
How was he supposed to kiss Evie properly with a split lip? And he was rather proud of his teeth, thank you very much. They’d survived remarkably well this far into his intelligence career, and he’d prefer to keep them intact.
He was quite done being charitable.
Blake caught Smith’s next punch, twisting the man’s arm savagely. The knife clattered to the floor. Smith tried to break free, but Blake had already shifted his weight.
He drove his knee into Smith’s stomach, followed by an elbow to the back of his head as the man doubled over.
Smith went down hard.
But Weber had been circling to get a clean shot from around the pillar, and now he stood with his gun aimed directly at Blake’s head, no more than ten feet away.
“It’s over, Falcon.”
Blake’s hand shot out and tightened on Smith’s collar. He yanked the semi-conscious man up as a shield just as Weber pulled the trigger.
Smith jerked, his eyes going wide with shock and betrayal as blood bloomed across his chest.
Seizing Weber’s stunned moment, Blake shoved the dying Smith toward him. The body collided with the Handler, throwing him off-balance. Blake pulled his other pistol from his jacket and fired—once, twice, three times.
The first shot caught Weber in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. The second hit his leg, dropping him to his knees. The third—Blake’s aim was getting sloppy from blood loss—went wide, but it didn’t matter.
