This was his world now, something he hoped a spy would not have experience of. He had fought battles on the ground, in the nightmare land of the Western Front. Sometimes, in that land, a sharpened spade or a war club were better weapons than a rifle and bayonet.

And the other man trying to get his weapon was precisely what he wanted to happen. He rammed an elbow at the man's midsection, his fist rising quickly thereafter to hit him in the face. He stepped inside the man's guard, pushing the other's gun out of line. He kept his own for the moment, but shifted his grip, using it as a club.

The man had threatened his fliers, threatened to almost enjoy it - that man had to die, and every skill in his arsenal was being brought to bear on that objective.