Another weapon in an arsenal. They both have that in common, she thinks, inclining her head in acknowledgement, face carefully blank. The bag's left with Grey--funny how she trusts him enough to know what to do with the bloodied fabrics--and she's hoofing it after the queen and her entourage, with them, but not.

Her misgivings settle like a lump in her stomach. Taking the job, face associated with a high profile figure, as well as stepping back through the airport to return back to London. The crowd's already looking at her, studying her, pictures taken of the queen in her new garb; and with a sinking feeling, like each step tightening the noose around her neck, she realizes the ease of anonymity is over. In London, for the time being.

The walk back to the car is uneventful. The drive back is uneventful, though there was an accident which made them sit in traffic and had her twitching. Enclosed spaces, not a fan. It's not until they step out of the cars that there's a cry and a body barreling across the drive. A man. No--there's a second and third licking at the first's heels. A crazed look to him, to all of them. The way they run seems almost unnatural. Straight for the group.

"Stay down." Voice sharp, a quick glance spared to the queen, gun already drawn as she shoots the two flanking the man. Bang, bang, the guards are moving, their own guns drawn and firing, sloppily aimed bullets piercing bodies. The two drop. The first staggers. She's sprinting forward and slide tackles him, spinning up and straddling him, one hand around his throat, constricting around his windpipe. "Who are you?"

"And he'll beat you, beat you, beat you, / And he'll beat you into pap, / And he'll eat you, eat you, eat you, / Every morsel snap, snap, snap!"