The assassin lunged at her again, and this time Ambrose heard the clink of blades as they made contact. Maggie hissed, and Ambrose saw a flash of red before she pivoted away.
“Maggie!”
“Just a scratch,” she said, returning to fighting stance. The assassin had his back to the bookshelf now, his only option with two opponents. Maggie was on his right and Ambrose on his left. As much as Ambrose wanted to examine her, to see where she’d been injured, he kept his gaze on the assassin while reaching into his boot and withdrawing the knife. He should have brought his pistol. This would have been over much more quickly.
“Two against one,” Maggie said. “Drop your knife and live.”
“Maggie?” the assassin sneered. “Is that your name? Well, Maggie, I’d rather die than surrender to a woman.”
“My name is Margaret, actually, and—” She didn’t finish, just lunged and struck with the knife. The assassin raised an arm to block her then grabbed at her with his other arm. He caught her wrist, twisted, and her knife fell. Then as Ambrose watched in horror, he yanked Maggie to him, wrapped his arm about her throat and smiled. “Hello, Margaret.”
***
MARGARET WAS ANGRY. She’d made an error in striking out on her own. She and Ambrose should have attacked in tandem. That’s what she’d been taught at the Farm. But she wasn’t used to fighting with her husband, and he wasn’t giving her any of the signals other agents she’d trained with gave. She suspected he was terrified she’d be injured and not thinking clearly. He never would understand that she was as capable as he.
The assassin smelled of sweat and fried onions. His arm tightened about her throat, but he’d have to shift positions to actually strangle her. It was the knife in his other hand that worried her. He could gut her with it.
“Drop your knife,” he told Ambrose.
“No!” she cried out, but Ambrose didn’t hesitate. He dropped his weapon.
“Sit in that chair,” the assassin ordered. Ambrose again obeyed, taking the chair behind the desk as the assassin had ordered. Margaret wanted to hit him. If she were any other agent, he would have attacked. Now they were both in positions of weakness.
“I see you have unlocked the desk drawers already,” the assassin said, motioning with his knife toward the desk.
That’s right, Margaret thought.Keep your knife pointed away.
“Fetch any blunt inside and set it on the corner of the desk.”
Ambrose’s gaze met hers, and Margaret nodded imperceptibly. She could see his jaw working. He wasn’t just scared; he was furious. Good. They could use that. She bit her lip as she felt the knife press against her side.
Slowly, Ambrose pulled open a drawer fully, reached inside and withdrew the box containing money they had found earlier. He held the box up and made a production of placing it on the far edge of the desk. “Now let her go,” he said.
“Sit back down,” the assassin said. The pressure of the knife eased, and she lowered her gaze. Once again, the assassin used the knife to gesture to the desk chair. She didn’t wait this time. She reached for the extended arm, locked it in place, leaned forward and slammed her head back into the assassin’s nose. She hadn’t always liked being tall as a child, but she appreciated it now as she would much rather plow the back of her head into his nose than his hard chin. The assassin made a sound, and he bent his arm to bring the knife toward her. She couldn’t match his strength, but his hold on her had loosened and she lowered her head to slip out.
“Maggie, down!” Ambrose yelled.
She didn’t hesitate but released the assassin’s arm and let her body weight carry her to the floor. She landed heavily and heard the sound of a projectile winging through the air. The assassin cried out and stumbled back. Margaret swiveled and used an arm to jab at his feet, causing him to stumble. He fell, and she jumped up and put two feet on the arm where he held the knife.
Ambrose was right behind her, bending to take the knife, then kicking another out of reach of the assassin. He wasn’t dead, Margaret saw, but he was wounded. Another knife protruded from one shoulder.
“That’s not a knife,” she said, looking closer.
“Letter opener.” Ambrose said. “In the drawer with the money.”
The assassin moaned.
“Good throw,” she said.
He looked at her. “We need to talk.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but just then the door to the library burst open, two men in rumpled clothing coming through.
“Who the devil are you?” the older man demanded. Margaret recognized him as the butler. “What’s happened here?”
Ambrose didn’t miss a step. “We caught this man breaking into your house. We’re with the Home Office, working for the Crown.”
This was not untrue. The Royal Saboteurs were housed under the auspices of the Foreign Office.
