Blackstone shook his head. ‘Please, harsh language isn’t necessary. Ty, could you attend to Mr Baumer? I suspect he’s going to need a medic. If you pass me your gun, I’m sure I can persuade Miss Monroe to behave herself.’

The appearance of six TDF troopers at the French doors drew Caitlin’s attention away from her long-time nemesis.

The men looked anxious, uncertain as to whether to come barging in or to wait outside when they saw Blackstone holding the pistol and obviously still in control.

‘Might be an idea if we had the fellows wait in here for a few minutes,’ said the Governor. ‘Miss Monroe has a reputation as a difficult woman. I can see it’s well deserved.’

His aide nodded before limping over to the doors to let them in. He’d hurt himself kicking her. But he’d hurt Caitlin even worse. She could feel a couple of cracked ribs grinding against each other as she found her feet.

Baumer looked ashen, his previous confidence entirely gone. He fixed her with a glare, suffused with murderous intent.

‘Gonna pay for that, whore.’

‘Now then, where were we?’ said Blackstone. ‘Oh yes, you were traducing my honour, my patriotism and my judgment.’

He shot her in the leg.

She registered the roar of the handgun before the shock of the bullet tearing into her thigh. Caitlin screamed an obscenity as she went down, the leg snatched away from beneath her as if by a giant hook. She had been shot before, but it never got any easier. The pain and trauma and sense of violation were new, every time. Still, her training ran deep, and she controlled her collapse towards the floor, screaming to empty the air from her lungs, again, and tucking both arms around her wounded ribs and her chin into her chest to save herself a concussion should her head hit the floor. The impact wasn’t so bad. The bullet had stunned her nervous system and she was still numb. It would be a few seconds before she felt the real pain.

Echelon’s senior field operative found herself down at the same level as Baumer, who was still struggling to recover from the kick to his face. His arms seemed weak and rubbery as Ty McCutcheon, having returned from opening the doors, bent down to support him, and haul him back to his feet. If Caitlin could have dragged herself over to put out his eyes and choke the life from his body, she would have. But she knew that Mad Jack would put a bullet in her head before she got close. The debilitating rage of being so close to the man who had sent killers after her husband and child, of being within killing distance herself, but being unable to act, was nearly as crippling as her wound.