“Move on!” she hollered. “Get Coleman out of here!”
Graybone leapt to fill Kit’s spot at her abandoned window, gun drawn, ready for action, and all Jackson could do was stare out at his wife as she ran madly down the empty road.
So, there they sat. A target waiting to be hit. This was not even remotely part of their plan.
Though it killed him in a hundred different ways, he pulled the door shut and hollered for Quincy to drive on, all the while keeping an eye on his wife until she disappeared inside the Imperial Hotel.
Oh, Kit.
God, save her.
And God save them.
A mere twenty yards remained until they passed through the guarded gates of the barrister’s home. The last stretch. The final run.
Which—blast it all—was an assassin’s favoured strike zone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It wasn’t every day a woman hell-bent on stopping an assassin tore harum-scarum past the bellman of the prestigious Imperial Hotel. Kit would’ve smirked if she weren’t so out of breath—which concerned her. Racing about town never wore her out so much before she’d had Bella. Could she even get to Carky before she pulled off a shot?
“The—stairs!” She panted at the front desk, a few papers on the counter a’swirl from her hasty arrival. “Where are the stairs—leading to the roof?”
The attendant grabbed the papers before they fluttered to the floor. “I beg your pardon, madam?”
She slapped the desk. “The stairs, man! The roof!”
He glowered. “I don’t see how it signifies, but only the servants’ staircase reaches the roof.”
Flit! She didn’t have time for this nonsense. “And where might that be?” she ground out—barely.
“Why, down that corridor”—he pointed—“then to the left, behind an unmarked panel. But I don’t see why you would—”
Hiking her skirts, she took off, ignoring the clerk’s sputtering and the mutterings of several women aghast at her indecorum.
“Pardon!” She shoved past a server carrying a silver tray of goblets, then winced at the accompanying crash of glass behind her. At the end of the passageway, she dodged a maid turning the corner with a rolling cart of pastries, then dashed ahead to what appeared to be a dead end. She ran her fingers along the wainscoting and—there! A latch clicked. The panel swung open. Hiking her skirts ever higher, she took the stairs two at a time. Her thighs burned when she reached the first landing. Her body really wasn’t the same as it used to be.
No time to lament that now. She pushed onward, upward, a cramp in her side and hair flopping onto her brow. Thank the good Lord this hotel was only six floors! The revolver weighed heavy against her right leg as she climbed, the metal bouncing with each step. Despite the holster Jackson had fashioned for her, the gun chafed against her skin. She gritted her teeth and pushed on, ignoring the discomfort. She had to get to that roof. Now!
She burst through the final door, lungs heaving, and squinted into the morning light. Scanning for Carky—or any other danger—she shoved her hand beneath her skirts, grabbing for leather. She much preferred her trusty old knife, but Jackson had been adamant a gun not only took out trouble at a farther distance but also lent a psychological advantage. She’d given in, of course, but only because he’d not have let her come along if she hadn’t.
Fumbling with the holster strap, she finally freed the gun. She really ought to check the chamber, but no time for that now. Off to her side, her gaze locked onto Carky, flat on her belly, stationed against a chimney for support—and sighting down the long nose of a rifle.
One squeeze of that trigger and Coleman’s blood would spill…or possibly Jackson’s or her father’s.
Kit pulled her hammer back to a full cock and raced towards her. “Drop it, Carky!”
Carky didn’t so much as glance back. “Ye won’t snipe me,” she said evenly.
Taking aim, Kit pulled the trigger. A shot cracked loud. The bullet sailed true. Brick and plaster rained down on Carky’s head, the smooth line of the chimney now sporting a gouge from the blast.
Carky whipped her head over her shoulder with a curse and a scowl.
Kit recocked her revolver. “That was a warning. The next one is for you.”
A laugh ripped out of Carky. “Ye’ve changed, pet. Toughened up. I s’pose fallin’ in with a lawman’ll do that to a girl.” Then all her mirth died, her cat eyes narrowing to slits. “How did ye know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t, not until a few minutes ago.” Using her advantage, Kit advanced several steps, all the while keeping her muzzle trained on Carky. “It wasn’t until I was in the carriage, replaying the events of the morning, and realized Mr. Coleman is left-handed. And then it dawned on me that you are as well. When I surveilled this area yesterday, I wrote off this perch because that chimney would have blocked a straight shot from a right-hander. But this is the best—and only—clear angle for a dominant lefty.”
