Her fingers grasp the gun, and Irene flicks the safety on without a second thought. Adrenaline is keeping her from feeling the jagged gash on her arm and the fragments of ceramic that will need to be picked out later, and she grabs the duffel while backhanding the already wounded assassin with the hand holding the pistol.

She steps over the woman, and nods. She sounds winded, almost.

"Is that what the sheet was for in Buckingham Palace?"