Movement stirred in the shadows.
Grenville didn’t hesitate. His boot scraped against the gravel as he lunged.
The attack came fast. A fist struck hard, snapping Grenville’s head back. He staggered but barely lost a step before driving forward with practiced precision.
Bridget’s heart lurched as the Order’s enforcer, a hulking brute with a scar down his cheek, threw another brutal swing.
The fight was fast and vicious. Fists met flesh, gravel scuffed beneath their feet, and the sounds of struggle echoed in the clearing. Thomas was fast, but the brute was strong, his blows heavy and punishing.
A glint of steel, low in the shadows caught Bridget’s attention.
A figure burst from the shadows, steel flashing in his grip. The knife gleamed under the swaying lanterns as he closed in fast, silent, swift, and deadly. He moved swiftly, closing the distance between himself and Thomas, his blade poised for a lethal strike.
She tossed the book into the fire and ripped the sgian-dubh from her boot. Gripping the handle with practiced ease, she threw it.
The blade whistled through the air, striking true.
The man let out a strangled yell as the knife sank into his shoulder, planted deep. His body jerked backward, his weapon slipping from his grasp falling uselessly to the ground.
A collective gasp rippled through the Order’s ranks. The man staggered, his injured arm limp at his side, blood spreading rapidly through his coat. He let out a guttural curse, glaring at Bridget through pained, narrowed eyes.
Bridget stood her ground, meeting his glare with cold defiance. From the corner of her eye, she caught the glint of steel, the knife he had dropped in the scuffle.
Slowly, deliberately, she stooped down, fingers closing around the weapon’s worn handle. The blade was still warm from his grip. She straightened, the knife firm in her grasp.
“Stay down,” she warned, her voice like steel. She lifted the blade just enough for the firelight to catch along its edge. “Or the next one goes through your throat.”
The leader stared at the fire as he realized what was in it.
“The journal.” His voice was low, deadly. “What have you done?”
Bridget took a slow, deliberate step forward, her voice unwavering. “I’ve ensured you’ll never get what you came for. This is over.”
The leader’s jaw clenched, his fury barely restrained. The flickering firelight cast long shadows across his face, deepening the scowl carved into his features. His hands curled into fists, the barely contained rage of a man whose carefully laid plans had just crumbled before his eyes.
Before he could speak, another voice cut through the night like a blade.
“I believe she said this was over.”
Bridget knew that voice. Barrington.
A series of sharp, deliberate clicks shattered the silence. The unmistakable sound of dozens of flintlock pistols being cocked in unison sent a ripple of unease through the clearing. The Order’s men froze. They were surrounded.
Barrington stepped forward, his silhouette framed by the firelight, his gaze locked onto the leader. “Drop your weapons.”
The leader’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hand hovering near his belt, but he wasn’t foolish enough to draw. His men hesitated, their gazes darting between the pistols trained on them and their leader as if waiting for a signal.
Barrington lifted his chin. “Make no mistake. You are not walking out of here on your own terms.”
The leader’s fury twisted into something colder. Calculating.
One by one, the Order’s men dropped their weapons.
“Bind them,” Barrington ordered.
Ropes bound their hands, their weapons kicked aside. The leader didn’t resist, but his gaze was sharp and calculating. Even in defeat, he was already calculating his next move.
Barrington turned to Townsend. “Get them to Sommer Castle. The militia can deal with them from there.”
