Agent Crew

The night before...

Mrs Digby had never been one to shy away from trouble. You got to get your hands dirty, that's what she always said.

And if there was anyone worth getting your hands dirty for, it was the Redforts. Good people, even if they could be a bit too 'classy' for Mrs Digby's taste at times.

Just thinking about new year's, picturing Ruby up on that rooftop, made Mrs Digby want to jab something sharp somewhere soft.

She would do anything for that blasted child.

Which is why, when Mrs Digby received a call from someone who also had her fingers itching for a knife, she didn't immediately hang up on them.

Was that all it took these days? wondered Mrs Digby idly. One word.

"Ruby," the voice had said, and oh how that name on that tongue had Mrs Digby's hackles rising.

Now here she was, hunting cap on her head (family heirloom, don't ask), prowling around a cemetery of all places. They always had been on the dramatic side.

She weaved between the grave stones, surprised at how well she slipped back into the habit after all those years.

Finally, a familiar stone. Plain, unassuming, no heartfelt inscription. Just a name, and a date.

The name was unimportant, but the date... 1900 it used to say. No month, no day. Now, it said even less.

The only number visible any more was a single '0'. If Mrs Digby had been a jumpy sort of person, she would have shivered.

It was as she was puzzling out this new development that she felt something.

She was no longer alone.

As Mrs Digby spun around, thick winter coat flapping loudly, she saw the cold flash of metal under the moonlight.

He had a gun. That sneaky bugger had a gun.

With a grace that she wished Ruby could have seen (that child complained about her speed too much), Mrs Digby launched herself to the side.

This might have seemed odd to the casual observer, but what Mrs Digby was cleverly doing was placing the light behind her opponent. Creating a silhouette that she could follow. And attack, she mustn't forget that.

Shooting would be a last resort, she knew that. No one wants shots going off at night in an open space, that's just begging for trouble.

No, the gun was intended to scare her. Unfortunately for the attacker, Mrs Digby had first handled a firearm when she was seven. If the attacker was, as she hoped, experienced then she didn't see any reason to worry.

No stray bullets through the skull is always nice.

The attacker, catching onto the point of her sidestep surprisingly late (they didn't send an amateur, did they, that would be insulting), made an annoyed snarling noise.

Ever the professional, Mrs Digby resisted the urge to give a frustrated 'tsk'. She, after all, didn't give up her position for frivolous drama.

Drama was for the movies, not for work.

For a little longer, Mrs Digby danced around her would-be attacker. She forgot how freeing this could be.

Still, she had chores in the morning, and goodness knows the house would fall apart if she wasn't well-rested for them.

Pulling a long knitting needle from her coat pocket, Mrs Digby leapt silently towards the tall silhouette of her attacker.

She dug the tip into their soft neck just enough to show them she was not someone to be messed with. They gave a gratifying whimper.

And she was just considering whether or not to indulge in a light threatening, when she felt something pressing into her own neck.

Something hard and cold. It could anything. It could be a soup ladle for all she knew.

And yet, there were some things a person just didn't leave to chance. Mrs Digby - reluctantly - lowered her knitting needle.

"Hello old friend," purred a familiar voice in her ear as the incompetent attacker stepped quickly away.

"Can't do your own dirty work any more?" said Mrs Digby nonchalantly.

If that unseen object was a gun, she knew she was in safe hands. Until, of course, they decided to shoot.

That didn't seem to be on the cards just yet though, since all they did was laugh.

"Still as feisty as ever," they said, a touch of a sneer in their voice. Mrs Digby imagined digging her knitting needle into their throat.

She forced herself to shrug casually.

"I think you're getting old," she poked.

Instead of the angry reaction she was expecting, this jive caused a satisfied release of air against her neck.

"On the contrary," they said, and there was that dangerous edge she remembered so well. "I'm just getting started."

A/N: Sorry it's been longer than usual, but I wanted to make this chapter a little more exciting to thank you for 100 reads. I was happy flapping so hard when I saw, I really hope this showed my appreciation!