Brentwood's Ward (35 page)

“Follow the light, and don’t try anything.”

The muzzle shoved his head forward, emphasizing the gunman’s words. The other man passed him, and Nicholas fell into step as directed.

A bead of sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. It didn’t matter how many times death handed him its calling card, the familiar physical reaction always sent a jolt through him.

They wound their way past a half wall of rotted shipping crates. The moldering stench triggered a tingle in his nose, and he fought to hold in a sneeze. Any quick movements would be a death warrant. If this was his night to die, so be it. But God help him, it had better not be Emily’s.

He counted each step. Memorized every twist and turn. Most matched up to what Hope had told him. But not all—and his whole plan hinged on what the girl remembered of this particular warehouse.

They stopped near the back of the empty space. To his left, nothing but rotted floorboards and a broken-glassed window facing the alley where Flannery waited outside. If he listened hard enough, he just might hear the Irishman’s ragged breaths. To his right, crates had been gathered and stacked into a wobbly tower. A rusty-wheeled excuse of a ladder leaned into it.

In front of him, a lantern’s glow lit a profane halo above the bare-skinned skull of a third man, who stood with arms crossed. “You do not follow instructions very well, Mr. Payne. You disappoint Sombra. You disappoint me.”

“Life’s full of disappointments, Mister…” Nicholas drawled out the last word, fishing for the man’s name. Unless the man lied, the name would be French, though the fellow had done an admirable job with a Southwark twang.

“Who I am is not important. Where is the money?”

“You think I can lug in five hundred pounds alone?” He rolled his shoulders and shot a pointed glare at his upraised arms. “I have a back condition, Mr…. Frenchie, for lack of a better name. And holding my hands up like this merely aggravates that condition, so if you don’t mind…” He lowered his hands, measuring the calculation in Frenchie’s stare. Though the movement brought him one step closer to disarming the fellow behind, he wasn’t yet quite sure how he’d do it.

“Your back is the least of your concerns, Mr. Payne.” The Frenchman widened his stance. “Where is the money?”

“Where is the girl? You think I’d hand over a small fortune to the likes of you without seeing her? I’d sooner trust ol’ Prinny with my daughter.” The question earned him more pressure from the muzzle. If the man pushed any harder, he’d die from a puncture wound instead of a bullet.

The Frenchman cocked his head like a vulture studying a carcass. “You will have the girl when I have the money.”

“How do I know she’s still alive? I want proof.”

A smile rippled at the corners of the man’s mouth. “You English. So predictable.” Without varying his gaze, he ordered the man with the lantern. “See to it, Weaver.”

Nicholas filed away the name. Weaver set the light on a nearby crate, disappeared behind another, then reappeared with a newspaper in hand. He extended it to Nicholas then stepped back.

Nicholas’s breath caught in his throat. Emily’s signature, shaky but familiar, was near the top of the
Times
header, next to the date—today’s. He slid his gaze from the paper to the Frenchman. “This shows me she was alive earlier today. Doesn’t mean she is now.”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“The word of a criminal?”

Frenchie unfolded his arms and advanced. Though his hands fisted at his sides, the fellow would not use them. With his thumbs tucked in, he’d break his bones in one swing. This was a man used to having his dirty work carried out by others. What kind of sway did he hold?

“You are in no position to bargain, Mr. Payne. Supply the money, or the girl is dead, and you as well.” He stopped six paces away, far enough that should a shot go off, Nicholas’s blood wouldn’t sully his shirt.

Fie. This was not going as he’d hoped. He nodded toward the alley-side wall. “Look out the window. Your chest is there.”

With a single snap of the Frenchman’s fingers, Weaver strode the length of the empty space, taking care to step over missing planks. He didn’t come at the glass straight on, but edged in sideways, like the snake he was. Smart move, though, in case a sharpshooter waited to pull a trigger. He peered into the darkness then swiveled his head back to Frenchie. A single tilt of his chin was his only response.

The Frenchman laughed—the jagged-edged kind that rang of doom instead of humor. “Did you really think leaving the money outside would assure you of your safety?”

“My man’s been instructed that if I don’t walk out that door with Emily, he’s not to—”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. I said she was alive. I did not say she was here.” The man’s mouth curved upward like a scythe, his words every bit as sharp and cutting.

Nicholas sucked in a breath. “Where is she?”

“Barbados? America? Who can say?” He shrugged. “The captain did not apprise me of his route. I suppose that depends upon if he intends to keep her or sell her.”

Every muscle in Nicholas’s body hardened. He’d been duped, double-crossed—but not defeated. Not yet. Timing would be everything. He counted the steps needed to clear Frenchie, the inhales and exhales of the man behind him, and the pounding of his own heartbeat.

Then he smiled. “Thank you. Very helpful. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He waited, watching for the ripple of disbelief across the Frenchman’s face. There. The beginning of a sneer. Check. And the parting of the lips to issue a command to kill him.

Nicholas spun to the left, jerking up his arm. He snagged the gun muzzle under his armpit and thrust his other elbow forward with all the force he owned. Cartilage gave way. Bone cracked. So did a bullet. Fire burned the tender skin of his inner arm. Shouts echoed along with footsteps.

He shoved the man from him and wheeled about. Tearing past Frenchie, he sprinted for the back right corner of the warehouse.

Another bullet lifted the hair on the side of his head. Hope’s information was the only barrier between him and his last breath—would to God that the girl was correct. Hard to tell when the lantern light didn’t reach this far.

He leaped into the dark corner. Either he’d crash into the floorboards, making him nothing but target practice for the thugs on his heels, or he’d sail through a hole concealed by a burlap bag and disappear down a drainpipe.

Midair, the next shot bored into his flesh.

Ten paces one way. Ten the other. Years ago, Emily had seen a lion at the Tower of London’s menagerie. Now she understood the animal’s bizarre pacing behavior. Locked in Captain Daggett’s quarters, she was every bit as caged—yet deprived of the roar that begged for release. Still gagged. Still bound at the wrists. The only things free were her feet and her mind.

So back and forth, one foot after the other, she slowly wore away the thin leather of her shoes, worrying, wondering, waiting. What was to become of her? A month ago she’d had her entire life planned out. The perfect marriage. The perfect husband. A fresh trickle of tears leaked down her cheeks. The only thing perfect now was the mess she was in.

And this time Nicholas wouldn’t be getting her out of it.

At the wall, she stopped and rested her forehead against the wood paneling. Nicholas. Just thinking his name brought a small measure of comfort. The short time she’d spent with him hadn’t been enough. Would never be enough. Above, the footsteps of sailors preparing for a dawn departure beat a steady cadence. Would she ever see her guardian again?

A sob rose in her throat. The gag cut it off. She’d never felt so alone in her life. Not when her mother died. Not when her father ignored her. Not all the times she’d clung to her little pug, trying to ease the ache in her heart.

Whirling, she flounced to the single chair in the room and sank. Deprived even of speech, she closed her eyes.
God, why? Why? I have nothing left to hope in. Not my father’s provision, not a prosperous marriage match. Not even Nicholas. How will I survive? All I have is the dress on my back and You. Is that enough to live through this? Are You enough?

“I am!” The words rumbled like the crack of an unexpected thunderstorm tearing from one end of the sky to the other.

Her eyes snapped open. A jolt of heat shot through her. Prickles raised gooseflesh on her arms. Had God seriously just answered her?

“And if you think I am not the sole reason you live and breathe,” the voice continued.

She slid off the chair to her knees.
Yes, Lord. Yes, God. You are. You are!

“Then I’ll give you some time to think on it in the brig. Is that understood, Mr. Snelling?”

The door crashed open—but it wasn’t God who entered. It was Satan.

Captain Daggett.

Chapter 31

N
icholas fell through the jaws of hell. Spikey edges ripped through fabric and flesh alike as he plummeted through the hole in the warehouse floor. It was a great escape route—for a small child. Not for shoulders like his. Splinters lanced into the gunshot wound in his upper arm. Darkness swallowed him and then spit him onto the mucky bank of the Thames. Pain stole most of his breath. Low tide’s stench took the rest.

How had things gone so wrong?

Panting, he rolled to his knees and pressed his hand against the torn muscle on his arm. Warmth oozed through his fingers. Dizziness swirled in like an eddy.

And another pair of boots
thwunked
into the muck behind him.

He doubled over, giving the impression he’d been hurt badly, though the added moan was real enough.

Footsteps neared. Closer. Louder. He waited for the telltale whoosh of air, signaling the lift of a pistol handle to crack against his skull.

Then he twisted and sprang.

The heel of his hand thrust into the soft flesh of Weaver’s throat. The man’s windpipe gave. His head snapped back. He dropped like a drunk on a binge. If he lived, he’d never again hit the high notes of a bawdy song.

Sucking in air, Nicholas forced away the blackness creeping in at the edge of his vision, then turned and ran. Staggered, really. Sludge yanked his boots with every step. The incline of the bank wasn’t steep, but that didn’t make it any less treacherous. Slipping, he caught himself and pressed on until the mire stopped at a wall of rotted timbers—the barrier marking the alley’s end.

The place where Flannery should have been crouched and waiting.

Dread knocked the wind from him an instant before an explosion thundered through his bones. A red flash desecrated the black sky. Both happened within the space of a breath.

Neither boded well.

Nicholas threw himself against the wall and hoisted himself upward, not caring who heard his deep grunt each time he grabbed for a handhold with his wounded arm. Clearing the top, he rolled over the edge, the fire in his arm burning well past his injury.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet. The reek of burnt flesh added to the nausea building in his gut.

God…no
.

Swiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he straightened. Onlookers emerged at the opposite end of the alley, creeping out like life-size cockroaches. Two bodies—or what remained of them—lay on the far side of what had been the rigged chest. The body nearest him sprawled facedown. One of his arms stretched out. Reaching. As if he’d tried to swim the current of the blast to safety. Remorse ran red through Nicholas’s veins…the same color as the hair on the man lying dead still.

He sprinted and slid to a stop on his knees next to Flannery. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he carefully eased the man over. “Here now, come on. Flannery? Come on, man!”

Sharp bits of gravel pitted Flannery’s brow. His eyes didn’t open. His lips didn’t part. A sour taste pooled at the back of Nicholas’s throat. He never should have given such a dangerous task to an untried man.

“Flannery!” His ragged voice bounced from wall to wall.

Somewhere deep inside Flannery’s rib cage, a low rumble started. Or was that merely because Nicholas wanted to hear it? To believe it? To not have to live with Flannery’s death on his conscience? He bent closer.

Flannery spasmed. His hands shot up, grabbing handfuls of Nicholas’s coat, and pulled him nose-to-nose. “Did we…did you…” His grasp slackened, thin as his voice. When his eyes rolled back, he let go completely.

Nicholas stared, horrified—until the rhythmic lift and fall of Flannery’s grit-coated chest caught his eye. He was alive. For now. But how much longer?

Rising, Nicholas hated the choice set before him. He reeled to catch his footing. Should he hasten Flannery to a doctor and risk the possibility that Emily might set sail for God-knew-where? Or should he leave the man here and continue his search?

Rock. Hard place.

His decision was every bit as granite—cold and unyielding.

He cried out as he slung Flannery’s limp form over his shoulder. Even so, the white-hot agony in his arm was nothing compared to the torture in his heart.