According to Hoyle

by Abigail Roux

  Another pang traveled through Cage’s body like lightning. “Quiet time” had been Stringer’s wry euphemism for the times they’d enjoyed each other’s company.

  Cage felt nothing of the old attraction he’d once harbored. Stringer had changed. While he was still a handsome man to gaze upon, there was no hiding the hardness in his eyes. His opinion must have shone through, because Stringer narrowed his eyes and inclined his head. He glanced over a shoulder to one of the other bandits.

  “Harland. Keep an eye out. Me and my compadre here got some things to settle.” He pulled Cage to his feet by the strip of cloth around his wrists.

  Cage glanced to Wash, who was watching mutinously, looking as if he might try to intervene. Cage shook his head minutely. This was the chance he’d been hoping for. He’d see how Stringer handled himself without someone standing behind him with a gun.

  Flynn and Rose made their way down silently, searching for the route to the cargo hold and hoping the back stairwell they were using would lead all the way to the depths of the boat. It had the advantage of being far enough away from all the action that they’d managed to slip past the cabin deck and the salon without being detected.

  Flynn found himself twitchy and nervous, knowing that Rose was armed. He didn’t trust the Englishman one bit, but he was the lesser of two evils right now. He also seemed genuinely set on rescuing Cage, if not the other passengers held with him. As they moved, Flynn quietly popped the leather straps off both his guns to allow himself a faster draw. Just in case Rose turned on him.

  As they reached the main deck and neared what they hoped was the cargo hold, Rose stopped suddenly, holding his hand out to halt Flynn beside him. Flynn glanced around warily, but he neither saw nor heard anything. Rose turned in the dark corridor, and Flynn stepped closer to him.

  “What?” Flynn asked in a voice that was barely a breath of air.

  “The government would have men guarding that bullion,” Rose said quietly, as if the thought had just struck him.

  Flynn blinked in response. “You’re right,” he said. With all those soldiers who’d been loading those crates, some were probably down here with them.

  He peered down the hall in the direction of the cargo hold. Down here, there were no Oriental rugs covering the floors and no brocade wallpaper on the rough walls. Passengers weren’t meant to see these corridors. The lack of covering made sounds echo through the passageways. But for all the noise down here, they couldn’t hear anything from topside.

  “Makes you wonder if they even know anything’s gone wrong,” Flynn said with a furrowed brow. “There’s probably a lot of guns in that hold.”

  “We could use their help. We just have to convince them not to shoot us first.” Rose jerked his head that way, and they continued on. Flynn felt himself growing more confident in their position. If they could reach that detail of soldiers guarding the gold, they’d have plenty of men to take on the hijackers.

  Just as they turned down the final corridor, there was a commotion ahead of them. Rose ducked behind the corner again, yanking Flynn out of sight by his shirtfront just as four men emerged from another stairwell. Flynn held his breath as they listened to the heavy footfalls of the newcomers. Rose slowly drew a knife he’d taken off one of the three men he’d killed tonight and held it out, squinting at the reflection on the scuffed blade. They could just barely make out the shadows of the men as they headed directly for the door to what Flynn assumed must be the cargo hold.

  Rose cursed under his breath and lowered the knife, turning his head around the corner. Flynn peered around him, itching to move. He leaned on Rose, and Rose jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. Flynn jabbed him back and they grumbled at each other quietly as they spied on the corridor.

  He could feel Rose practically vibrating with the desire to attack, but both of them stayed hidden in the darkness of the corridor. It eased Flynn’s mind to know the Englishman was cautious enough not to charge into the fray, no matter how badly he wanted to do so.

  The man in the lead, a small, nervous-looking fellow with thin blond hair, walked up to the door of the cargo hold and banged on it. “Hey!” he yelled, sounding close to panicked as he continued to hammer his fist on the door. “We been hijacked, let us in! They’re coming, let us in!”

  Had other passengers escaped? These men did not look panicked despite sounding like it. Flynn shook his head in confusion as Rose cursed again with feeling.

  The door swung open and a man stepped out holding a shotgun. The blond man raised his gun and fired, hitting the guard right between the eyes and sending him sprawling back into the cargo compartment. A gunfight commenced within the cargo hold as the man and his companions stormed inside.

  Rose cursed colorfully. Before he or Flynn could do anything to help the guards within the cargo hold, the fight was over. One of the four hijackers had been hit in the arm, another in the thigh. But they had fared far better than the men who’d been bottled up inside the hold.

  The massacre was too much for Flynn to take sitting down. Anger brimmed over into rage, and he stepped out into the hallway. “US Marshal!” he shouted. “Hold it right there!”

  Rose reached out and jerked him back into the cover of the corridor as the four men turned and simultaneously fired in his direction. “What are you doing!?” Rose cried as bullets splintered the wall around them.

  “I was arresting them!” Flynn shouted over the blasts of the guns.

  “Are you insane?” Rose asked incredulously, covering his head as another hail of gunfire shredded the walls around them. “Have you never heard of sneaking? Just shoot them from behind, don’t give them warning!”

  “That ain’t honorable,” Flynn said as the shots began to taper off. At least one of the men was reloading, and Flynn ducked around the corner and fired off three quick rounds.

  “Honorable,” Rose repeated in dazed frustration.

  Flynn fired a few more shots to keep the four men on their toes. Rose remained crouched with his hands over his head, muttering to himself.

  Flynn ducked back behind the corner as the men returned fire once more, and he began to hastily reload. “This ain’t working,” he muttered.

  “Tell me something my grandmother wouldn’t know, Marshal. It’s time to do this my way,” Rose said as soon they were granted another lull in the return fire.

  “What’s your way?”

  Rose thumbed two shells into the shotgun and then held it up and cocked both barrels pointedly. Flynn opened his mouth to protest, but Rose lunged to his feet and stepped around the corner, shotgun slung low on his hip. He fired two resounding blasts as he stood in the middle of the corridor, and Flynn covered his head and winced away in expectation of the return fire. He didn’t want to see Rose blown away, no matter how much he still hated the man.

  No return fire came, however. Flynn glanced up and looked at Rose, who still stood in the middle of the hallway. He peered around the corner cautiously and saw that three of the men lay on the ground, torn apart by the widespread buckshot that had ricocheted in the enclosed area where they’d been bunched together and helpless. The fourth man, the small man who had been nearest the steps, was disappearing into the stairwell. Rose dropped the shotgun and drew one of his six-shooters to fire at him as he fled, but the man was gone.

  The last shot left a reverberating echo in the small corridor, and Flynn’s ears rang from all the gunfire. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Not just yet,” Rose drawled with a wicked grin.

  One of the three men was dead, another was well on his way, moaning and bleeding profusely from the wounds to his belly. The third was on the ground, badly wounded but frantically trying to reload his pistol and pull himself behind the heavy wooden door to the hold. Rose strolled toward them, calmly thumbing cartridges into his borrowed weapon. He sent two bullets into the head of the dying man, effectively putting him out of his misery. Flynn hung back, covering Rose and somewhat stunned by the cavalier attitude. />
  He heard the cylinder of the wounded man’s revolver slam home. Rose turned to look down at the man, aiming his gun and firing two shots in quick succession.

  The smoke hung heavy in the corridor, cloaking Rose and the men he’d killed. Flynn stepped forward despite the shiver that ran down his spine. Flynn was certain he’d never underestimate Rose again.

  He surveyed the carnage somewhat indifferently. After what they’d done to the men inside that cargo hold, they’d deserved this as far as he was concerned. He nudged one of their hands and then bent down to take the gun clutched in it. Rose peered into the cargo hold and then stepped inside, disappearing for a long moment as Flynn disarmed the three dead men and collected the precious ammunition they carried. He shoved their six-shooters into his belt and vest and anywhere else he could conceivably carry them.

  Rose came back several moments later, grim-faced and heavily armed. His expression told Flynn that no one inside had lived through the firefight.

  “Still want to give them their gold and let them slide away into the night?” Rose asked him softly.

  Flynn stared at him and then looked down at the blood on the floor. They hadn’t even given those soldiers a chance to surrender peacefully. They had no intention of leaving anyone alive.

  He shook his head solemnly. “Let’s do this your way.”

  Bat Stringer picked one of the luxury cabins at random and shoved Cage in ahead of him. He slammed the door closed behind him and stood with one hand on the butt of his gun as Cage drew up his shoulders and turned to face him.

  Stringer’s mind raced, dozens of things he wanted to say bouncing around, but none of them seemed strong enough now that he had Cage here in front of him.

  And damn the man, he still looked good. That fire in his eyes was something Stringer had sorely missed. He knew it was dangerous to be alone with him, but he didn’t care. He could handle whatever his old friend chose to throw at him.

  They stood staring at each other as the grand clock out in the salon began to chime the hour. The mournful tolling seemed appropriate to the mood in the elegantly appointed cabin.

  “Only way both of us is leaving this ship alive tonight is if you tell me what I want to hear,” Stringer told Cage after several long, tense moments. His words were soft and heavy with their shared past.

  Cage snorted at him and shook his head.

  “You used to think it was funny,” Stringer murmured as he unbuckled his holsters and slid them off his hips. He couldn’t risk Cage getting a hand on one of those guns.

  Cage raised his chin, defiant and stoic. Stringer stepped toward him with the same care one would approach a wild horse, reaching for Cage’s hands as his eyes stayed on Cage’s. Cage didn’t move. He didn’t even blink as his eyes followed Stringer’s every move. Stringer took the cloth at Cage’s wrists, noting that it was loose. A few more minutes of working at it and Cage would have been free. Stringer smirked at him.

  “I’m tempted to leave this on,” he said as he yanked Cage’s hands. Cage was forced to take a tiny step forward to keep from losing his balance, and Stringer pulled at him again to bring him closer. They stood almost nose to nose, Cage’s measured puffs of breath ghosting against Stringer’s lips as they eyed each other warily.

  Cage’s entire body was taut, like a coiled snake waiting to strike. Having him this close, looking into his angry eyes, Stringer could barely keep himself under control. He pushed his face closer, their noses touching and their eyes still open and locked on each other. Neither man was willing to blink.

  Stringer smiled slowly, enjoying the tension in the air and the rigidity in his companion. Anticipation for the sort of violent encounter this hostility might produce began to swirl through him. He jutted his chin forward and kissed Cage, enjoying Cage’s harsh intake of breath as their lips met. Cage didn’t react otherwise, his eyes still locked on Stringer’s.

  Stringer smiled into the kiss and licked at Cage’s lips. He pressed himself against Cage, at the same time pulling Cage’s body flush against him. Cage finally gave in, parting his lips and dragging his teeth along Stringer’s tongue. Stringer grinned wider with the small victory. He grabbed at the front of Cage’s shirt and allowed his eyes to drift closed, letting himself sink into all the familiarities of the man.

  It was his first mistake. He never saw the strike coming. Cage yanked away from the kiss and pain exploded just above Stringer’s left eye as Cage ducked his chin and then rammed him with his head.

  Stringer staggered back and shook his head as blood streamed down into his eye. He swiped at it with one hand just before Cage came at him again. They hit the wall of the cabin with all the force that Cage could put into it, and the air left Stringer’s lungs in a rush. He managed a few weak jabs to Cage’s ribs, but Cage had his shoulder jammed into the soft part of Stringer’s belly and was pushing him up against the wall, stealing his leverage, pinning him there. He was trying for the knife in Stringer’s boot, his fingers grazing the handle as he attempted to keep Stringer immobile with his shoulder. Realizing he was a dead man if Cage’s hands found a weapon, Stringer shook off the surprise and kneed him in the gut.

  Cage pushed away from him, then came at him again with both fists balled into one like a sledgehammer. He had no choice with his hands tied together, but it made an effective battering ram. Stringer just barely ducked the blow, and Cage’s fists punched a hole through the wall where Stringer’s head had been. Stringer dove sideways for the gun belt he’d discarded, and Cage kicked out at him.

  He went sprawling, his hand finding the edge of the leather belt when he landed. He fumbled with the stiff leather, dragging it closer, but he had to roll onto his back and kick at Cage as the man attacked again. He found himself under Cage, a position he’d never minded on past occasions, but this time it had a decidedly different purpose. His saving grace was that Cage was still fighting the cloth tied around his wrists, and Stringer managed to wrap him up and flip them. Cage slammed into the heavy desk chair near the wall and Stringer followed him, straddling him and grabbing Cage’s tied hands to hold them to the ground far above his head.

  Cage’s chest heaved and his eyes flashed. Stringer’s entire being ached with the desire to have him again, for Cage to want that too.

  “You couldn’t have done that after we had us a little fun?” Stringer gasped as he blinked away the blood still oozing into his eye. “Damn, Boss, you used to have sense.”

  Cage shook his head and gritted his teeth.

  “Get up,” Stringer growled, and he clambered to his feet, pulling Cage with him. He made certain he had a good grip on Cage as he snatched up his guns, then turned Cage and shoved him at the berth, stepping up to crowd him against the edge of the thin mattress. Desire still raced through his body, but it was tempered now. He wouldn’t force the man any more than he’d force anyone.

  He didn’t know if Cage was the better man in a fair fight. They’d come out pretty even the last time. But he didn’t want to find out. Or lose another finger. Cage didn’t try yanking away from him, even as Stringer forced him to bend over against the mattress. He knew to conserve his energy for his next attack. Stringer had to make certain there wouldn’t be another one.

  Despite how much he might still want the man, he had to make the smart choice here. Cage had taught him that.

  He brought the holster up and pulled his revolver out. He was ashamed to see his hand was unsteady as he aimed the gun. But it had to be done. Cage was too much of a handful if he didn’t plan on playing nicely.

  First Cage, and then that bastard Rose.

  Cage heard iron sliding on leather, and he tensed as Stringer drew his gun and placed the cold barrel against the back of his neck. He’d been expecting Stringer to try to cajole him into fucking him, but he hadn’t actually prepared himself for this possibility.

  “You got any last words?” Stringer asked grimly before pulling back on the hammer.

  Cage turned his head and tried to look back i
nto Stringer’s eyes, determined not to flinch when the gun went off. It was a small victory to see Stringer waver almost imperceptibly as he held the gun to Cage’s cheek and met his eyes.

  They had been good friends. Trusted partners. Occasional lovers. Cage was morbidly curious to know if Stringer really had it in him to pull the trigger.

  Fortunately, he didn’t get the chance to find out. The sound of gunfire coming from the decks below them drew Stringer’s attention, and he tilted his head, not daring to look away. He eased off the hammer as he stepped back, listening. There was a short pause in the firefight, then there was more gunfire. Finally, two shotgun blasts sounded, followed shortly by another round of measured shots. After the echoes had died away, all was silent aboard the riverboat.

  Stringer sighed. “Your Desert Flower might be buying you a reprieve,” he said in a low, almost relieved voice. He accompanied the words with a twist of his six-shooter. “Get up, let’s move.”

  Cage obeyed warily, keeping his eyes on Stringer as they exited the cabin and headed back into the salon. Cage didn’t have another chance to make a move. Stringer stayed too far to grab at him, and his gun was forever on that hair trigger. Even the passengers being held in the large salon were quiet after the gunfire, the group seemingly holding its collective breath as they waited for something to happen.

  The first thing Cage noticed was the look of intense relief on Wash’s face when he saw him.

  “On your knees by your marshal friend over there,” Stringer ordered, his voice harsh and strained.

  Cage briefly entertained the thought of another attempt now, while there were others in the room to distract Stringer, but the first one hadn’t ended well and he didn’t want to risk anyone else being hurt. He did as he’d been told, aided by a gun at his back.

  Stringer glanced around at his men and frowned. “Any of them fellers have a shotgun with ’em?” he asked, though the tone of his voice made it seem like he already knew the answer. His men shrugged or shook their heads in answer. Stringer looked back down at Cage and narrowed his eyes. “Your Desert Flower is puttin’ up a fight.”