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Not wanting Sylvia to see the knife—not wanting to scare or hurt her any more than he, they, already had—Lancelot turned his back to them, snatched a gauze pad from the box of medical supplies the clinic in Florida had given them, and started wiping the blade.
Oscar walked into the front room carrying a small black box with two wires hanging off of it. That’s what he’d gone to get? That was probably how he’d gotten in, some sort of code generator he’d used on the keypad lock.
Where was the food or the doctor?
It seemed to Lancelot that the man was looking around the room like he’d never seen it before. Which was odd because Oscar had been the one to dump supplies in here, including the medical kit Lancelot had just raided, after he’d carried Sylvia to the ground-floor master bedroom.
The sound of additional footsteps made Lancelot whip the knife up. His body reacted to the threat before his mind could fully process it. Oscar was still looking around.
A second figure appeared in the open door of the parlor, a dark outline due to the sunlight that filled the foyer through the windows that flanked the front door. Lancelot tensed. It was probably the doctor.
The man—Oscar—stepped into the room.
Wait, what?
The second Oscar had on a heavy-looking backpack and went to stand beside the first Oscar.
“La vache!” Hugo exclaimed.
Lancelot blinked, but when he opened his eyes, there were still two versions of her brother standing there.
And then he heard it—a third set of footsteps, the sound of the front door closing with a boom.
Whatever the hell was going on with Oscar—the Oscars?—didn’t matter. He’d been expecting two people—her brother and the doctor. There was no reason for there to be a third person. And why had the second Oscar left the front door open?
Lancelot’s insides went icy. Clearly, Oscar was a twin. That, or the brilliant, devious man had managed to clone himself, which Lancelot wasn’t completely ruling out.
Regardless, there should only be two people walking into the house at this moment. What mattered was keeping Sylvia safe.
What matters is getting the answers the fleet admiral needs. Sylvia will come to hate you when she finds out who you really are, so focus on your objective.
Lancelot flipped the knife, holding the tip of the blade between his thumb and the middle knuckle of his index finger. He wasn’t an expert knife thrower, but he didn’t need to be an expert. A knife flying through the air made even the most highly trained soldiers curse and duck, even if that knife was just as likely to smack into them handle, rather than blade, first.
Lancelot raised his arm, tense and ready.
The third man stepped into the room.
Oscar.
A third Oscar.
Lancelot checked his knife throw, looking from the two versions of Oscar already standing there, to the man who’d just walked in.
“What the…what the fook?” Lancelot stammered. There were very few things in his life that really shocked him, but this surreal moment was at the top of that short list. “How many of you are there?!”
The third Oscar to enter was carrying two plastic bags that smelled like fried food. He set them on the end table. “I got your favorite, Sylvia.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m hungry. At least, I think I’m hungry.”
“I need to take care of your hand first, then you can eat,” backpack-wearing Oscar said.
“Who owns this place?” black-box-carrying Oscar said.
Hugo was on his feet, mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. Lancelot felt exactly the same way, but hoped he didn’t look that stupid. Hugo started speaking in rapid French, pointing at each of the men in turn. Lancelot’s French wasn’t enough to keep up with the rapid-fire words, but he didn’t need to understand what Hugo was saying. His expression said it all.
Time to take control of the situation. Lancelot tossed the knife in the air, high enough so he knew the movement would catch everyone’s attention. He caught it by the handle, flipped it so he was once more holding the blade between thumb and knuckle. He drew back his arm and then let the knife fly.
All three Oscars hit the ground. The knife embedded in the wall behind them. Even if they hadn’t moved, it wouldn’t have hit any of them—Lancelot was about sixty percent sure of that, odds he was okay with at the moment.
