The carriage appeared, and the driver hopped down, moving to open the door with precision. Only then did a too-finely dressed man exit the vehicle, hat in place, fashionable cane extended. He looked around the dockyards, his nose wrinkled up in distaste, and then a shudder rippled across his expansive girth. He strode forward two steps, then paused, waiting.
Alex shifted in his hiding place, eyeing the offices across the yard, where, only minutes before, a few candles had been lit. A shadow crossed in front of a window, and then the candles were extinguished.
Oars splashed into water behind him, but he couldn’t turn to see. Gabe would have a better view of the water, as would Gent, and they could keep watch there. Still, Alex’s ears were trained enough now to know what he was hearing.
A small rowboat bearing three or four sets of rowing arms, no doubt with Battier riding in the front like Napoleon himself, propped up as though for a painting. Behind them was another more heavily laden boat with nearly double the oars, though it did not have the same crisp sounds as the first.
Rowing the captain ashore always ensured precision for fear of punishment.
Alex turned to look at Gabe, and his cousin met his eyes, nodding once. Alex returned the nod, touching the brim of his cap with one finger. He watched as Gabe gave a similar signal to the contact nearest him, and sensed, rather than saw, that the message was being relayed down the line.
Just a few moments more.
The warehouse where Poppy had been held was ready, still alight as it had been before. A sentry was even walking the dock near it, giving the appearance that all was well. For anyone who had an interest in the goings on of this evening, there was nothing untoward at all. They would never suspect.
Alex watched as Mainsley met Sir Vincent, shaking hands with grim smiles, both eyeing the docks, then moving in that direction. Mainsley’s three men followed, briefly looking about them in a cursory examination of the area, which was laughable.
A cursory examination would not show them anything.
Alex had intentionally not given himself a clear view of the docks or of the warehouse, waiting instead for the signal, as the rest would do. Despite what the others had said, this was not his operation. He was not the leader, and he did not have charge over any of them.
He had always been just one cog in the wheel of their team, their operations, sometimes spinning and working alone, but never at the head of the rest. He had no aspirations for leadership or status, much preferring to be part of something than guiding it. He could not do this alone, none of them could. But when they called upon the strengths and abilities of each man they had, miraculous things could occur, and had occurred.
This was not about Trace or Gent or Rogue or Weaver; it wasn’t about any of the Shopkeepers, the Garden, or any other group of operatives.
This was about England and her interests. Her protection. Her security.
England, who had always had his heart, and to whom he would still devote his life and his energies. She, who was greater than them all, and worth every one of them. She, whom he had vowed to serve and honor at all costs, and who had never let him down. England and her people were at the heart of his work, had all his loyalty, and whose soil his blood could only be so fortunate as to water. For her, he would do what had to be done, and had done, at the expense of his life.
England and Poppy Edgewood.
His heart soared momentarily, the nobility of his life’s calling reaching the corners of his being that had yet remained dark from his ordeal. Now, he was illuminated by purpose and renewal, restored to his former abilities, and magnified by his suffering and growth.
Trace was once more at large, and England would have no more valiant a servant.
And Poppy Edgewood would see him clearly for the very first time. No more secrets, no more shadows.
Whatever happened.
A lantern across the street was suddenly raised into view, then dropped down once more.
Alex smiled and slipped from his position behind the crates, sticking to the shadows of the buildings. His knives seemed to tingle at his side, reminding him of their presence, and his fingers itched in response. He clenched his hands, the tension oddly comforting, and he exhaled silently, pressing his back against the wall, now facing the docks.
Gabe was soon beside him, a makeshift quarterstaff in hand, followed by another contact, burly enough to be a skilled hand-to-hand fighter, and Alex nodded at them both.
“I counted fourteen on the dock,” Gabe breathed. “Not twelve.”
“Shut up,” Alex hissed, smiling.
“I’ll take the spare two,” the contact offered, grinning himself. “I need the extra work.”
Alex nodded.
“Help yourself, Checks.” He drew in a slow breath, then exhaled it, nodding to himself.
It was time.
The calm of battle filled him, and he strode out from the shadows, Gabe and Checks flanking him. His knives remained in their sheaths, and his fingers unclenched in anticipation of the fight ahead. He heard Gabe twirling the quarterstaff in his hands, could feel the energy from it, the eagerness of Checks and Gent and Weaver and everyone else involved in this plot of theirs.
The men on the docks saw them coming and shouted, but their words were lost on Alex. The sentry sprang into action, boarding up the door to the warehouse while three other contacts appeared and began clearing the men nearby.
Alex only spared them a passing look, eager and anxious to get his hands dirty with the men up ahead. Despite having fought only a few hours ago, it might as well have been a lifetime, and he craved more.
He met them with fists already swinging, roaring with a mixture of delight and fury. He connected with skin and cloth at once, slamming his elbow into the face of one while his fist collided with the jaw of another. He barely felt the blows he received, though he knew some of them would do damage or draw blood, but they were slow and clumsy to him as he moved and attacked, seeming to dole out two blows for every one thrown at him.
Gabe bellowed a laugh as his quarterstaff whirled and twirled with the skill of a performer in the streets as it whacked and pummeled and jabbed. They worked in tandem, nearly back to back, as they once had done, while Checks nearly bowled men over in his efforts. They would not come out from the melee unscathed, any of them, but they seemed to have the advantage over the rest, despite the number.
The cries and grunts and groans rent the air, mixing with the sound of fighting, and the occasional body splashing into the water. The dock creaked beneath them, and men in the distance called out in protest, racing towards them, only to be attacked themselves as the others flew from their hiding spots. The dockyards were filled with men now, fourteen of Battier’s and a few of Mainsley’s, while spies and contacts mingled among them, fighting with energy and gusto. They would overrun all of them soon, but Battier’s reinforcements were not far away, and all of this needed to be over before then.
One of the men landed a punch in Alex’s ribs, and he felt the bones crack within him, bringing him up slightly with the sharp pains. He whirled towards the man and kicked out hard, a satisfying crack resounding from the impact. The man crumpled, crying out, then rolled directly into Gabe’s whirling quarterstaff, and went still.
Shots rang out, and Alex glanced at the warehouse in fear, only to find one of Mainsley’s men falling to the wood of the docks.
“God save the King!” Rook bellowed from a nearby rooftop, whooping from his position.
“Saints above,” Gabe muttered darkly. “I hate him so much.” He turned and broke the staff over the head of a particularly large man, then slammed the broken halves across his face. “Trace!” he barked over his shoulder. “Get to the warehouse. Checks and I have this.”
“Not bloody likely,” Alex replied as he removed his knives from their sheaths, spinning them in his hands before slamming both into the sides of the man before him.
“Trace!” Checks shouted. “Look, we have help!”
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Alex glanced over to find two burly men coming towards them, both whistling God Save The King loudly.
Well, that was one way to show allegiance.
Wiping off the knives against his worn jacket, Alex dashed from the dock and headed towards the warehouse, where his men had cleared the way, and now held the door against those within.
Weaver, Gent, and Cap had taken on more of Battier’s men, and were still engaged with them, all bloodied in some way, as he was. Gent saw him and whistled, then slammed his fists into the side of his attacker’s head, tumbling him easily. He grabbed the gun from the man, then jogged over to Alex, one eye swelling already. But he grinned, a few of his teeth stained with blood.
“Having fun?” Alex asked, raising a brow.
“Of course,” Gent replied, craning his neck, releasing at least three cracks there. They both jumped as Rook released another shot from the room, whooping yet again when another man fell.
“I worry about him,” Alex muttered, shaking his head.
“Speak for yourself,” Gent returned, with a salute up to Rook. “I’m related to the hellion now.”
“Could be worse,” Ivy added, appearing on Alex’s other side.
Alex looked down at her, bemused. “Where have you been, and why are you spotless?”
Ivy shook her head, a pitying smile on her lips.
“Son, just because I am without blood or tarnishing does not mean that I haven’t done my fair share of roughhousing. I’m quick on my feet and know how to dodge, which, it appears, the pair of you could learn to do better.” She eyed them up and down, wincing. “Perhaps you’d both better come to the Convent and have Fists give you some lessons.”
Gent grumbled incoherently under his breath while Alex just grunted once and twirled his knives again. “I could teach Fists a thing or two, if given a chance.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him next time I’m at the Convent,” Ivy quipped, now grinning outright. “And Milliner, too. Perhaps we’ll get you a position there, Trace.”
“A bit busy, Ivy,” he replied, eyes fixed on the warehouse. “Sorry.”
She barked a laugh and shrugged as she walked on beside him, her smile fading into a satisfied smirk.
“How are we going in, Trace?”
“Through the front door,” he told her, a snarl welling up.
“And if one of them has a loaded pistol and shoots at you?” she returned.
He didn’t answer, knowing it was a real possibility, and that he wouldn’t have much of a chance if that happened. He couldn’t think about that now.
Nodding at the two men securing the door, and taking in the bullet holes on it, Alex waited as they removed the boards, both cocking pistols and taking up position behind them.
Alex exhaled slowly, then reached for the door, pulling it open.
“What’s going on out there?” Sir Vincent demanded when he caught sight of them, Mainsley and Battier coming to face them as well. “What’s happening?”
“What’s happening, Sir Vincent,” Gent growled, “is your plan going to hell, along with the rest of you, momentarily.”
Mainsley clenched his fists and started forward, but Battier put a hand to his chest, stopping him as he now stared at Alex with wide eyes. He smiled, nodding slowly.
“Torchon.”
The voice that had haunted his dreams sent a cold shiver down his spine, and his old name made him inclined to answer with obedient responses.
He bit down on his tongue to keep himself from doing any such thing.
“Very good, Torchon,” Battier praised, stepping forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “Luring us into our own trap, lying in wait for us, and taking out our forces while we were trapped here.” He nodded as if in approval. “But surely, you did not suppose we would be unarmed, did you?” He brushed at his long frock coat where his pistol sat against his hip, and instantly Gent and the two other men pointed their weapons at him.
Mainsley’s eyes widened, and Sir Vincent seemed to whimper and cower.
Slowly, Battier removed his hand, and showed both to the group. “Pardon, gentlemen. No gun. No weapons.”
None of them moved their weapons an inch.
Battier chuckled in his high-pitched way. “Ah, Torchon, I have missed seeing this energy in you. It’s been absent for years. You are back from the dead, as it were. Better than ever before. You remind me of my favorite words: J’ai vécu. I have lived.”
Alex stared at him hard, still biting his tongue, though not against obedience any longer. Those words bristled, the meaning irrelevant, given the significance of them.
Battier wasn’t just an asset for the Faction; he was a believer in them.
There was so much Alex wanted to say, could have said, things he’d spent years imagining he’d say, and yet his ability to speak was absent. He couldn’t say a single word; he could only grip his knives tightly and feel the hilt slide against his moistening skin.
Battier clearly took his silence for hesitation, and a new light entered his eyes. “Why don’t you have the guns step outside, Torchon? Leave the angry one for your protection, but you don’t need them. Let us fight this out, eh? You and me. Le Capitaine et le Torchon. Only fists. These two will not participate, he and she will not participate. We fight, Torchon, and you avenge your woman yourself.” He grinned, his teeth flashing in the faint light of the warehouse. “Like a real man.”
Alex blinked, then looked away, pretending to think it over. In reality, he was close to laughing. Battier had no power over him now, and his words fell perfectly flat. They rankled when he dared to mention Poppy, but Alex had training enough to be collected at this moment. His eyes raised enough to see the back door open, and he felt another satisfied wave crash over him.
Reinforcements, though they weren’t particularly needed.
Perfect.
Battier loved nothing more than to talk about himself, so if he could continue on…
More shots rang out from outside, and Alex looked at Battier, who was staring at the door, his jaw working, teeth grinding. His eyes flicked to Alex, and he struggled to regain his cool captain act, failing to reach the same levels as before.
“Come, Torchon,” Battier taunted, his mouth curving. “Are you going to be the great espion you are reputed to be? Or are you nothing but a le faible?”
Ivy snarled beside him and started to move, but Alex grabbed her arm.
Battier chuckled, looking at her now. “Oh, let her come, Torchon. I’d like nothing more.”
Rook, Cap, and Weaver were now visible to Alex, and he lifted his chin, fixing his gaze on the captain who had taken the last four and a half years from him, broken him, and ruined his life, along with several others. This worm of a man who was less than nothing, and yet held such power in the world.
No more.
“I don’t need to prove anything to you, Battier,” Alex said calmly, letting his knives hang by his sides. “I don’t need to avenge anything. Because despite what you think, you did not break me. You did not kill me. You have no power anymore, not over me and not in the world. It’s over, Battier, and that’s enough for me. I am free of you, and that is all I ever wanted.” He smiled, nodding in satisfaction. “And my name, Battier, is Trace. Not Torchon. There is no Torchon.” He nodded once more, then turned for the door, clapping Gent on the shoulder.
For a moment, there was no sound as he moved.
Then, Battier snarled a filthy French curse. “Don’t you turn your back on me, Torchon!” A rustle rent the otherwise silent air, accompanied by a sound that Alex knew only too well.
Alex whirled, sending his knives flying.
Battier stood there, dagger in hand, staring with wide eyes, both knives in his chest. His shirt began to dampen with blood as everyone in the room watched silently.
“I told you, La Capitaine,” Alex hissed with the darkness he’d hidden well. “There is no Torchon. My name is Trace, and I am a covert operative in the service of His Majes
ty, the King of England. I serve England, I honor England, and I am England. That is who I am.” He lowered his chin to glower more darkly. “Now, rot in hell, La Bellette, and I will sleep peacefully at last, knowing I sent you there.”
Battier dropped to the ground, hands fumbling for the knives, his face pale.
Alex snorted in derision, exhaling again, then turning away. “When he’s done making a meal of his death and finally turning cold, bring my knives back to me, will you, Gent? I rather like those.”
“Of course, Trace,” Gent replied easily. “I’ll even clean them for you.”
“No matter,” Alex told him. “His blood staining my blades would be a fitting improvement of them, don’t you think?”
“I quite agree,” Ivy said with pride. “Very patriotic.”
“How did you know?” Gent asked as Alex passed him. “I didn’t even get a warning out.”
Alex flicked his eyes to his friend’s, a humorless smile crossing his lips. “He keeps his prized dagger at his chest, easily accessible. It was his favorite toy when he wanted information. I could hear that blade in my sleep and know exactly what it was.”
Gent’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard, nodding only once.
And with that, Alex moved to the door and opened it, breathing in the night air deeply.
Though there were loose ends still to be tied up with Mainsley, Castleton, and the other men, not to mention the smugglers onboard the ship, it was over.
Finally, at long last, it was over.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It had been a long time since he had enjoyed England in the rain. He had experienced it since finding his freedom, of course, but never with the peace and joy he currently felt. Had he ever stood out in the falling rain and breathed it in, tipping his head back to catch more of the drops, feel more of the rich goodness, tune himself to the nature around him? He couldn’t have. This was England, after all, and rain was commonplace. Then again, nothing could be commonplace to him anymore.
He’d missed England in the rain.
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