"Don't mind me, boys," she said, the English accent now deliberately crisp. "Just a maid doing her… spring cleaning."
Her hand, previously occupied with buttons, shot to the garter belt hidden beneath her skirt. She drew a Derringer, no bigger than a lipstick tube.
Pop. The third.
Von Hammer’s smirk faltered. He was a disciplined officer, but he was also a man. His eye flicked down.
He smirked. "Empty your… uniform."
"A lady's possessions are her own, General," she said, voice steady.
The chateau stood silent under a slate-gray sky, a relic of occupied France in 1944. But within its cold, marble halls, a different kind of resistance was brewing. The Inglourious French Maids, a shadow unit of the underground, had only one rule: the enemy would never see the dusting rag coming. "Don't mind me, boys," she said, the English
Pop. The second button.
Mackenzee Pierce, known by her code name "The Duchess," was their secret weapon. Her Royal Air Force uniform, a crisp blue serge that strained magnificently across a chest that had made wing commanders forget their own flight plans, was her armor. Tonight, however, it lay folded in a laundry hamper. Tonight, she was in disguise. He was a disciplined officer, but he was also a man
A floorboard creaked behind her.
The shot was a soft phut . Von Hammer crumpled like a sack of flour, a surprised look on his face. a surprised look on his face.