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Leaning over his desk, Cunnings doubled his efforts, smiling as he imagined Sheldrake's expression when he learned they were going to share equal roles at Colby and Sons.
Finally. He'd have all the wealth, influence, and position he deserved.
Cunnings's thoughts were interrupted by the telltale click of his office door—a click that told him he was no longer alone.
His head shot up, and he started as he saw who his visitor was.
"What are you doing… Dear Lord!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as he saw the stream of blood flowing from the man's hand, seeping through the torn forefinger of his glove and trickling down his wrist, saturating his coat sleeve. "What the hell happened?"
"Breanna Colby happened," the man snapped, sweat pouring from his face as the pain of his wound lanced through him. "The little bitch shot me."
"She shot…" Cunnings wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, his mind racing. "Before or after you killed Anastasia?"
"I didn't kill Anastasia, you stupid fool. It was a trap. Bow Street
was there. Anastasia goaded Medford into confessing everything aloud. They took him away."
The color drained from Cunnings's face. "Medford arrested? Then why did you…?"
"I never fail, Cunnings. Money or not. I waited for the perfect moment. Then I acted." Fury darkened his sweat-drenched face. "I didn't make a sound. I don't know how the bitch knew I was there. But she did. I would have killed them both—one bullet per cousin—if Sheldrake hadn't gotten in the way."
"Sheldrake saw all this?" Cunnings asked with a sick sense of dread. "He heard Medford's confession?"
"Every word." A determined glint flashed through his physical agony. "Including the part about you."
"Christ." Cunnings sank into his seat, burying his head in his hands. "How the hell will I…?"
The click of a trigger. "You won't."
Again, Cunnings's head snapped up. This time, his eyes widened with terror as he saw the pistol aimed at him, the assassin's blood trickling from his mutilated forefinger, which hung limply beside the gun's barrel, his middle finger against the trigger.
"You're the only one who can identify me," came the icy assessment. "You'd give them my name in a heart-beat."
"No," Cunnings whispered. "I wouldn't."
"You would." A wince, and the man swallowed, fighting to combat the excruciating pain. "Besides, I've never failed before. Until now. And you're responsible."
"Please…"
A bitter smile curved the man's lips. "Don't worry. My failure is only a temporary setback. I'll finish it. At the same time that I torture and kill the bitch who did this to me." A mock salute with his good hand. "Good-bye, Cunnings."
The shot echoed through the walls of the bank.
The assassin slipped into the street, ducking into an alley and doubling over with pain.
Cunnings was taken care of. In addition, the intriguing set of notes on his desk had been confiscated, to be put to use at a later time.
Now he had to get this wound fixed. Not in England. Somewhere else. Somewhere where they didn't know him. He stared at his saturated glove. The wound was bad. His entire forefi
nger had been severed. He'd had to shoot Cunnings with his middle finger. It was awkward. He'd need his weapon modified. Fine. He'd take care of that, too—and master the new weapon. There were no other options. His craft, his incomparable skill, would overcome this setback. He was a genius. And no amateur chit was going to take that away from him.
He'd do what he had to.
After which, his first order of business would be to come back and even the score, take care of that bitch. She'd die slowly, with the maximum degree of anguish.
Completing tonight's unfinished business would be part of that anguish—relatively easy to accomplish. Those two damnable cousins were rarely apart.
Another agonizing pain shot through him, and he emitted a muffled groan. He groped in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, then gritted his teeth as he tied a ruthlessly binding tourniquet around the wound. There. That would have to do, at least until he could get himself to a doctor.
