Free Rogue Spy by Joanna Bourne

and almost certain death. On the other, your placid village and the life you have earned for yourself. The life you deserve.” Smith let that sink in for a moment. “One code. I will never approach you again.”
    She let time pass, as if she were thinking the matter over. “I need to talk to her.”
    â€œThat’s understood. You will have your chance to trade girlish confidences with the amiable Camille. When you are satisfied, we’ll make the exchange. The woman for the code. But I choose the time and place.”
    â€œYou give me no choice.” She put on a sullen expression, held it for several seconds, then let her shoulders slump. “Where?”
    â€œSemple Street, outside Number Fifty-six. Eleven o’clock in the morning, three days from now.”
    Three days. That left almost no time to prepare. “I need—”
    â€œYour needs do not interest me. You will come to Semple Street, as ordered. You will bring the key to the Mandarin Code. You do not want to face the consequences for disobedience.”
    She made a muscle in her cheek twitch. She’d practiced. “You’ll have your code.”
    â€œDo not disappoint me, Miss Leyland,” he said quietly.
    She gave a sharp nod. She didn’t touch him as she walked around and past, her hand under her cloak, on her gun. The shop door jangled as she pushed it open and stalked out into Fleet Street, away from him.
    Little glances behind told her that Smith had stayed where he was, studying the selection of books in Franklin’s Bookshop. But his henchman abandoned his lackadaisical perusal of the passing scene and followed her.

Nine

    The man who plays with fire will be burned.
    A BALDONI SAYING
    Pax pushed breath past the strangling knot in his throat.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Air clawed its way into his clenched chest.
Don’t cough. Control the need.
Fire tore at his mouth and lips. Raked his throat all the way down to his heart. But especially, fire burned his eyes.
    The blur of a woman held the bucket while he sluiced water again and again over his face. He sucked it into his mouth and nose. Spat down onto the street.
    He cupped water and held it against his eyes. Everything else was just pain. He could live through pain. But his eyes . . .
    The jabbering, shuffling crowd let a voice through. “. . . no more sense than a gaggle of molting pigeons.
Out
of my damned bloody way. You there—yes, you—hop it!”
    Hawk wavered into his line of vision, back too soon to have done a job of murder. Even Hawk needed a few minutes.
    He’s lost the bastard. God damn it. He’s lost him.
Pax steadied himself on the edge of the horse trough and pushed himself up to his feet. His voice came out in a croak. “Did you kill the son of a bitch?”
    â€œCouldn’t find him.”
    The monster had slithered away to his hole. He could be anywhere in London. “Go back. Try again.”
    â€œI can’t catch smoke. I never got a look at him.” Hawk waved somebody forward. “Give me those.” And there were white towels. “Take this.”
    A wet towel and a dry one. Breathing through the wet cloth helped. “Get back and track the woman. She’ll lead you to him, sooner or later. She’s pretty. Somebody’ll remember which way she went.”
    â€œLater. I’ll find her again. I saw her face.”
    â€œFollow her. Don’t hurt her.”
Hawk’s planning to forget that part.
“Won’t tell you anything . . . anyway. Police Secrète.”
    â€œAnd will remain silent under all but the more melodramatic tortures. So I kill the man and leave that pustulant excrescence of a woman alive. You made yourself clear. How bad is it?” Hawker’s hand, shadowed and huge, came toward him and lifted an eyelid. Exquisite, precise pain stabbed.
    â€œDamn it. Let be.”
    â€œYour eyes are swimming in blood. Can