Phoebe nodded. “Yes. Let’s wait for them to get far from the wagon before we do anything. Those wagons make for a quick getaway.”
Slade’s directness was in his eyes and in the curtness of his nod. “Agreed.”
As adrenaline pumped through her veins, she positioned her previously loaded pistol and the musket within easy reach. Slade had clearly done this sort of work before. Was the army’s training similar to the Movement’s? But that wouldn’t explain his mask, would it? Phoebe’s brain screamed something at her, but she ignored it. She couldn’t afford to be distracted.
Phoebe, musket in hand, quickly worked the angles, deciding on the best position for shooting as Slade drew his own pistol and musket, and laid them next to where she’d put her own.
Phoebe eyed him quizzically, a heavy cold sinking into her belly. “What are you doing?”
Slade considered, but it was difficult to read him through the vizard. “Once the alarm is raised, I want you to incapacitate as many men from this position as you can. I’ll leave you the firearms. I will go and see how many I can quietly eliminate before they know we are here.”
Something hummed inside Phoebe’s chest as she voiced one of Falcon’s mantras. “I agree. Secure success by subduing the enemy before the fighting begins.”
There was amusement in his voice when he spoke. “Yes, but if fighting is required, you fight.”
Phoebe eyed him for a breath before speaking. “I’m good at close combat. I can help if I go with you.”
His jawline hardened. “Yes. But here you will have a bird’s eye view of everyone and can incapacitate more effectively. I know how good you are disarming your opponent face-to-face and with a pistol. I recall Hortons shooting range. But I don’t want you getting hurt or distracted.”
“I don’t want you getting hurt either,” she said, pushing past the blockage in the back of her throat. She couldn’t imagine her life without him.
CHAPTER 63
Phoebe’s gaze darted from the manor back to her husband. Slade was trying to protect her, and she loved him for it, but he was taking the most risk. This was her mission, she should be in the line of fire.
Yet, there was no time to discuss. They either moved forward as a cohesive force, or not at all. The delay could cost them the success of this mission.
Her chest tightened, torn between fear and logic, blood racing through her veins.
“All right, I’ll remain here with the guns, but at least take one of them,” she said.
“I’m better with a blade,” he said.
They’d wasted enough time discussing it, and she didn’t want any delays with further discussions, so she acquiesced.
As she positioned all the firearms within easy reach, he grabbed the collar of her cloak. Yanking her to him, his mouth crushed hers. His tongue plundered her mouth. It was quick, rough, and exacting. Her head spun, and her breath was coming fast and hard when he released her.
“Stay safe, my brave love,” he whispered, his eyes boring into hers. Before she could speak or catch her breath, Slade hadalready slipped away behind the next tree trunk, and then to the next, staying low, like a graceful predator on the prowl, all the way to the back of Hawley’s barn.
With heartbeats hammering in her ears and her body starting to sweat under her cloak despite the cold, she took up her position behind the trunk of the tree and waited. She’d risked her own safety before on missions but had never risked the safety of someone she loved. The danger of it hovered around her, thinning the air. She realized her knuckles had gone numb with her death grip on the musket before she relaxed her fingers. She wouldn’t give in to the fear because then it would make her useless, slowing her reaction and mental clarity which would be a sure way to increase the risk to them both.
Hawley and one of his armed guards were now standing closer to the manor, next to two mercenaries, one armed, all deep in discussion.
Phoebe made out the remaining two men, one unarmed mercenary and an armed Hawley guard, by the back of the barn. Just then, a tall, dark, broad-shouldered figure slipped out from behind a tree, approaching the men from their rear. It was Slade. He silently drew his rapier and thrust it swiftly into the back of the mean-looking armed guard, the bloody blade protruding from the man’s stomach. The unarmed mercenary standing next to the now-slumping guard bellowed a loud invective, raising the alarm.
Stunned, her heart pounding her chest, Phoebe didn’t have time to react to Slade’s second move as he knocked the bellowing man in the head with a blow only a trained spy would use. She was already taking aim closer to the manor and firing at the chest of the guard standing next to Hawley. Her musket ball dropped him. Phoebe grabbed the second musket and shot the armed mercenary in the head as he bolted, acrid tangy smoke wafting from her musket’s barrel.
She dropped the second expended musket and grabbed the two loaded pistols. With pure adrenaline pouring through Phoebe’s veins and fear a forgotten emotion, she bolted for the fray.
Between her and Slade, they’d eliminated four opponents. Only Hawley and the out-of-place mercenary remained. Recalling the informant’s confirmation that there were usually two to three men with Hawley, she was confident they’d accounted for everyone who’d be a threat to them from the manor, except Hawley himself. The former had disappeared into the manor and the latter was scrambling towards the wagon.
She positioned herself in front of the mercenary just as he rushed for the seat of the wagon. Terror and wildness were plastered on his young face.
“Move that wagon and I’ll shoot you,” she said, training her pistol straight at his head.
The young mercenary’s eyes bulged, and his hands went up in the air in total surrender just as Slade sprinted past her from the barn on his way to the manor and Hawley. “Situation in hand?” Slade asked.
“Situation in hand,” she said, her breath coming fast. In that second, Hawley stepped out the manor’s front door with a loaded musket trained right on Slade’s chest.
