And there she was. His spitfire. She was peering around a stone pillar in her long black cloak, staring right at him. Ransom gave her a slow, lethal smirk. She hugged the column, the shock on her face quickly blooming into horror. He almost felt sorry for her. But this was war, and she had drawn first blood. He had thirty-six stitches in his side to prove it. So he dragged a finger across his neck, and mouthed, I’m going to fucking kill you.
