Take every advantage offered.
She followed at Duncan’s heels. As he shouldered the gunman up, she pocketed her knife, slid on her knees, and snatched the abandoned pistol—a Glock 17 threaded with suppressor. Cradling the pistol in both hands, she fired at the second man in the doorway. She squeezed the trigger three times, until a round struck his face.
As her target fell backward into the Tower, Duncan turned and tossed his attacker over the edge of the parapet. Arms flailing, the man fell away. His body struck with a wet slap on the dark cobblestones far below.
The battlement’s third defender landed on the path. Hugh limped, holding a wing askew, plainly injured.
But he was not the only one.
“Guard the door,” Sharyn ordered Duncan as she rushed to the others.
Tag sat on his knees next to Moira. Blood welled through the side of her sweater. “Bullet went through and through, I think,” Tag assessed.
Moira tried to push to her feet. “I can manage.”
She could not and fell back to her bottom.
Tag shrugged off his jacket and hurriedly bunched up the lower half. “Lift your arms. This is going to hurt.”
“Do it,” Moira seethed between clenched teeth.
Tag pressed his wadded up jacket against her wounded side. Moira moaned, her eyes squeezed tight. He then quickly tied the coat’s sleeves around her thin waist and knotted them tight.
“Help her get moving,” Tag said, struggling to gain his feet himself.
As Archie hauled her up, Moira cursed a bloody streak, which was echoed by Hugh, who came limping up. It was plainwherethe raven had picked up this foul habit.
“Stay, my boyo,” she groaned to the bird, recognizing he was hurt. “Extra biscuits when I get back, I promise.”
Hugh clucked at her, sounding like a chicken, which he certainly was not by any definition of the word.
They set off toward the open door into the Beauchamp Tower, trying for as much speed as possible. Sharyn glanced back along the battlement.
Hugh leaped to a perch atop the parapet, casting his gaze in all directions, continuing his role as the Tower’s guardian, likely still worried about Moira.
“We’ll take it from here,” Sharyn whispered, clutching her pistol.
She then rushed after the others, stepping over the man she had shot. She kept her gaze away. She had dropped many an opponent, but she had never killed anyone. While the death was justified, a darkness weighed on her. She knew she would need time to come to terms with this.
Just not now.
She hurried with the group down through the depths of the dark tower, where plaster still covered sections of raw stone. Tour exhibits dotted their path. As she ran a hand along a wall for support, she felt the scars of ancient graffiti carved into the stone, left behind by either guards or prisoners.
They finally reached the exit, where the door had been left open. They paused at the threshold. It lay a full landing below the level of the Tower Green.
Sharyn edged up, climbing the steps with Duncan, who had collected the pistol from the man she had shot. She hunched with him at the top step. She noted the tremor in Duncan’s hand as he held the weapon. She didn’t know if it was from terror, adrenaline, or, like her, the knowledge that he had killed someone this night.
She pushed this all down and forced her focus ahead.
After failing to encounter anyone else inside the Tower, she hoped this meant the enemy had limited numbers. If so, she could guess why that was. The Tower’s thirty-two Warders must be a close-knit group. The enemy’s masquerade risked exposure if the bastards brought too many impostors into the Tower. The attackers must have used the cover of nightfall before changing into their costumes, and they had planned on escaping with the last tourists after acquiring the book.
Praying she was right, she huddled low and searched the grounds.
By now, twilight had darkened to a moonless night. A heavy layer of mist had settled over the parklands, where a few lamps glowed. The flight across the battlement had dropped them halfway along the Tower Green. A well-lit path stretched directly ahead, bisecting the lawn in two. It led to the bulk of the White Tower castle, which was brightly illuminated, like a turreted birthday cake sitting at the center of the fog-shrouded grounds.
She spotted no one moving out there. From the rowhouses to her right, she heard the occasional soft pop of a pistol. But she had to strain to hear it. The noise was barely discernible, muffled by the house’s thick brick walls.
Still, one thing was evident . . .
