by A. W. Exley
A chair scraped over the floor and boots made the floor under her cheek jump. A rough grasp pulled her up to a sitting position. Her head spun and her hands ached where they were secured behind her back. A tin cup touched her lips and she gulped at the chilled water. "Thank you." She might be kidnapped and treated appallingly, but she could still show some manners.
Her eyes struggled to focus and her skull throbbed. Her body identified a heat source to one side and she turned to the warmth. An insipid fire burned in an open grate and she edged as close as she could to thaw her chilled bones. Her damp dress clung to her body and she wondered if she would ever be warm again.
"Don't think you're going anywhere," a voice growled behind her.
"I'm cold and wet, I just want to sit closer to the fire." She turned her head and saw a man sitting at a table by a high window, watching her. Another man dropped in the chair opposite.
The one looking at her gave a grunt and turned back to his companion. They shared a ploughman's platter and a jug of beer. Playing cards were scattered between them.
Hunter. She remembered him from the night of the bonfire, when Nathaniel turned his back on the upstart and walked away.
Tingles ran down to her fingers as the extremities turned numb. She tried to squirm her arms into a more comfortable position and let the blood flow through her bound wrists. This would never have happened if she had stayed in London. Of course she probably would have been walled into the closet by now if she had stayed, and she would never have known the pleasure of Jack's touch.
Remembering brought a sob back to her throat. Her heart ached. She loved him and he used her to win a bet. If she dwelt on that she would never escape.
"What do you want?" she asked of her captors.
Hunter laughed. "It's simple — I've sent a message to Lyons. He either gives us a piece of what he's got, or we give him a piece of what we've got." He waved a knife in her direction and the chills ran over her body.
Nathaniel and Cara were in London. It could be hours or days before they returned, and that was assuming anyone even noticed she was gone. Now the boys had had their fun, would they even care? Pieces of her could be carved off and no one would notice, no one would want her back at the estate, except Cara.
Her heart splintered. She was broken on the inside, what did it matter what they did to her on the outside? She tried to be brave and sucked back the tears. She was not a helpless noble girl, not anymore. She had determination and spirit. She would survive, she would escape, and she would go to medical school. Decision made, she straightened her back a little more and opened her eyes wider. If she was going to get out of this she needed to think like Cara. She needed a plan. First things first; escaping would be a lot easier if her hands weren't tied behind her back.
She took in the surroundings: The two men talked at the table. The only other furnishing in the room was a narrow bed against one wall. Another man sat on the bed, propped up in the corner, his legs buried under a pile of blankets. His face was flushed, and sweat beaded on his brow. He had his eyes closed but he didn't look like he slept.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked.
"None of your business," Hunter bit back. His friend shifted his gaze back and forth.
At least one of them is worried about their friend.
"Knife," the prone man said. His voice sounded worse than hers.
The man who was wounded the same day as Davie. This one had the benefit of a qualified medical practitioner, except he didn't look like the doctor helped at all.
Her daze darted back to Hunter. "I have a small amount of medical knowledge; I may be able to help him."
The men exchanged glances. Hunter laughed, the other shook his head. The fevered man did nothing.
"My father is a surgeon." Her throat still burned and she wondered how long she had lain unconscious.
Just then the prone man moaned as he readjusted himself in the corner. A pistol lay on the bed next to him, mere inches from his outstretched hand.
Hunter gave a shrug. "Untie her, Jones, let her have a look at Alfie."
The man called Jones stood and pulled a knife from his side and advanced on her. Amy was glad she was sitting given the tremble in her knees. She wasn't entirely convinced he would only slit her bonds. He knelt behind her, and soon her arms fell free.
She rubbed her chafed wrists to return feeling to her hands. Then she rose and approached the bed. As she neared it, the sweet scent of infection hit her nose. Alfie's eyes cracked open, revealing bloodshot pupils and yellow crust in the corners.
"I'm just going to look," she said. She pulled back the edge of his shirt to peer at his shoulder. She spied a dirty bandage and pus seeped through from the wound beneath. The men's lack of sanitation extended to failing to change their friend's bandage. His arms ran with angry popped lines. She could trace the spread of infection like a map as the network of veins carried it deeper into his body and closer to his heart.
"This wound is infected." She didn't need to lift the filthy bandage to know what she would find underneath.
"Doctor said it would come right, just give him a few more days," Jones said from by her shoulder.
She gave a snort. "He'll be dead in a few more days the way this is spreading."
The watery gaze fixed on her and worry etched on the man's brow. She felt obliged to try and save his life, even in her current predicament. It's what a doctor would do.
"And what do you recommend, in your medical opinion?" Hunter said.
"You need to clean this up, and then cauterising the wound is his best bet. But it could already be too late for the arm." Given the high position of the original wound, she didn't want to mention how difficult it would be to remove the limb above the infection.
Hunter's face pulled in a sneer. "Why would I believe you over a doctor? What would a woman know? You're just a Lyons chit who probably wants to kill our man since yours died."
She gave a shrug. Davie survived and thrived under her care. These men really were idiots.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to Alfie and pulled the shirt back over his flushed torso. There was nothing she could do to help him. She cast a glance at the pistol next to his fingertips. So close, if only she knew how to use one. If she escaped — no, when she escaped — she would have Cara show her how to fire one. The chill crept into her bones from her wet dress and she stood in front of the fire, her hands outstretched, trying to warm herself. Now her hands were free, she just needed an opportunity to run for the door.
She plonked herself down in front of the fire and huddled around her knees, which only bunched up the wet fabric and soaked the few remaining dry spots. Being held captive really was a complete bore. She cast a longing look at the window, but it was too high for her to reach without a chair to stand on, and that would attract attention.
Time ticked by. She stared at the flames and the wounded man gave the occasional fevered moan. He seemed to drift in and out of lucidity, while his moronic friends didn't even attempt to bring down his temperature. The card game ended and Jones started muttering.
"I'm bored." He pushed his chair back and stared at Amy. He licked his lips. "Bet she keeps the Lyons boys entertained. I heard he provides them with high-class whores."
Her back stiffened. "I am not a whore."
Hunter chuckled. "Then what were you doing out there all on your own with all those men?"
Jones rose from his seat and walked toward her. "London whores don't like being called that; they have some fancy name instead, but you still stick them the same."
She edged away from him, casting a glance to his leader. Surely he wouldn't let the man rape his hostage?
"Don't mess her up too bad, just in case Lyons wants her back." He turned his back to them, gathered up the cards and dealt out a game of solitaire.
"No," Amy said, holding up her hands. Her search for an escape route became frantic. She stood, but Jones kept advancing. She ran a few steps and he grabbed her. O
ne hand covered her mouth, while he fondled her roughly with his other. She bit down hard on his fingers and tasted sweat and a copper tang.
He gave a roar and released her.
"If you can't cope with a live one, tie her back up," Hunter said, turning over another card.
The man dragged her over to the discarded rope.
*
Tor hurtled down the track. "Where do we look for her?" Davie yelled in his ear. "Hunter and his men have a number of bolt holes scattered around the region."
Jackson swore under his breath. He and Lyons would have words after this and his damned policy of waiting for the jumped-up idiots to make the first move. "We start at the first one and keep moving till we find her." He'd tear the whole countryside apart if he had to, he wasn't stopping until he held her again.
Davie ran through their options. "There's a farmhouse over the seaside where most of them lay up. Then a place on the edge of the village, or sometimes they hole up at the Rook."
He gave a bark of laughter. Of course, the Rook. He was going to rescue his princess from the tower after all. "We're going to the Rook."
"You sure?" Davie's brow crinkled. "The old pub would be an odd place to hold a hostage."
He pushed the accelerator lever forward and Tor jumped like a race horse from the gate. "Bloody unicorn is giving me a sign. I'm sure."
The ride nearly rattled their teeth free. Tor's hard metal frame transferred every bump, hole and jolt in the ground up through their bodies. Jackson only eased back on the throttle as they approached the northern-most tip of the village. The Rook sat off on its own, once a staging post before the railway came through and bypassed it completely on its way to the port. Now the pub catered to drunken locals and petty criminals wanting to lay low.
He ran his gaze over the two-storeyed structure. "He'll be upstairs, in one of the rooms. I'll find her and signal which one."
"Then what?" Davie asked, a frown on his brow.
Jackson gave Tor a pat. "Flag down flyboy if you see him buzzing around. And aim the barrel at the window. Give me a minute from when you see the signal, then send them a special Lyons message."
The pub had seen better days; the door sat uneven on its hinges and scraped over the floor before yielding to his shoulder. Light struggled to make it through dirt-encrusted windows, which was just as well, as it hid some of the myriad of stains covering the floor. Some of the chairs were broken, and at least one table wobbled on three and a half legs. The patrons looked no better. A small huddle sat in front of the fire, each staring into their beers. Another collapsed half over the bar.
He cast a glance around. The place was a complete tip, and he didn't want to touch anything. Which was saying something, given he grew up in the St Giles Rookery and was no stranger to dirt. He strode to the counter, rifle slung over his back and coat unbuttoned to access the pistol on his hip. The barman didn't even raise an eyebrow, but mopped the bar with a filthy rag.
"Where's Hunter?"
The barman ignored him and the slumped patron slid along the bar to nudge his arm.
"Who wants to know?" he slurred out the vowels around several pints of lager.
Jackson didn't even bother to look — he struck out with his elbow, waited for the thump of the drunk hitting the ground and kept his gaze fixed on the owner. "Hunter. Or are you trading sides and no longer want Lyons patronage?"
The man paused in his efforts to spread disease all over the counter top. "I don't want no trouble," he muttered.
"Then figure out which side of your bread you wanted buttered and which side burnt to hell."
Bugger this. The bastard had his princess. He reached out for the man and grabbed the front of his grubby shirt and hauled him over the counter. He drew his pistol with his other hand and shoved the butt hard against a bulbous nose. Amazing how chatty the man suddenly became.
"Upstairs." He jabbed with his finger, his gaze going cross-eyed to stay focused on the pistol about to play rough with his face. "Last door on the left."
He gave a grunt, pushed the man away and then holstered his weapon. He trod on the drunk and headed up the stairs. For a large man he knew how to walk on the balls of his feet, even in steel-capped boots, and he crept along the hallway. His ears pricked for any sound of Amy, his gaze intent on the door at the end of the hall. Hunter was so arrogant he wouldn't be found he didn't even bother to have a man standing watch.
A woman cried no, feet scuffled and then came a thud. His heart dropped in his chest and he abandoned his quiet plan. He ran down the hallway, kicked the door open, and then grabbed the rifle from his back.
He only needed a split second to see the bastard wrestling Amy to the ground, and a second later he put a bullet in his side. The man spun, but kept hold of the struggling woman with rope looped around her arms. Hunter rose from the table and drew two pistols. One aimed at Jackson, the other aimed at Amy.
From the corner of his eye another man on the bed lurched for a pistol and wavered it at him.
"Well, well," Hunter said. "Look who dropped in for a wee visit."
The wounded man tightened his grip on the rope around Amy's wrists and she struck out backwards to kick him hard in the shins. He pulled the rope up her back, contorting her arms. She cried and dropped to her knees. He gave a grin at Jackson.
"You all right, princess?" He kept the rifle aimed at the walking dead man who dared touch her, his pistol on Hunter, and tried to ignore the man behind him who didn't seem to know what the hell he was aiming at. He hoped none of the upstarts were trigger-happy.
The stupid corpse had left his weapons draped over his chair, and his hands were full keeping hold of Amy while blood spread over his stomach. That just left Hunter and the sick fella.
"You came," she blurted out with a frown on her face as if he was the last person she expected to see.
"Of course I bleedin' came. I came to take you back to the cottage." He hoped she caught his meaning; he wanted to bolster her spirits without making a display Hunter would use against them.
"How touching," Hunter said. "You okay, Jones?"
The man have a grunt. "Winged me, nothing major."
Hunter nodded. "Now, unless you want to see her bleed all over the floor I suggest you tell us what Lyons is offering."
"Yeah, Lyons has a deal all right. How about everyone relaxes, we put down the guns and talk it out?" He gave his crooked grin and shoved down his worry for Amy. She had that tilt to her chin, even from her spot on the floor. His princess had guts, and he just prayed she would follow his lead.
"You're out-numbered; why don't you toss the rifle and we'll talk." Hunter leaned back in his chair and gestured with his weapon.
"Fine. Stop waving a pistol at her, and I'll throw my rifle out the window."
Hunter gave a smirk. "Deal."
Both men lowered their arms in time with each other. Jackson shoved the pistol back at his side and strode over to the window. With a grin he tossed his rifle out. He started a mental countdown. The boy was an idiot; he much preferred using his fists over a gun any day.
The walking corpse grabbed his arms from behind. The slightly warmer corpse had risen off the bed and now wavered his pistol at Amy. Fingers tried to dig into his biceps as Hunter approached.
"The offer?" Hunter stopped in front of him.
One more step, you git.
"Boss wants to see you promoted." From the corner of his eye, Amy's fingertips reached for the poker laying by the fire. He shuffled to one side to block her from Hunter's view, and tested the grip of the man behind.
"Really?" He took one more step, his interest drawing him closer. "That might be acceptable. Promoted to what?"
Jackson grinned. "The devil's bitch." He struck hard and fast with his head, smashing the other man in the nose. Cartilage splintered against his forehead. Hunter fired his pistol as he staggered back, but missed and took out part of the ceiling plaster instead.
Then he spun in the other man's grip, smashe
d his fist into his face, and then pressed a finger deep into the bullet hole, sending the man to his knees.
Amy lashed out with the poker, catching the sick man in the knees.
He grabbed Amy and lifted her to her feet as he drove the point of his elbow into an eye socket. The other two scrabbled for guns.
He didn't have time to explain, or untie her — his mental countdown neared its end. He threw her over his shoulder and ran.
The explosion threw them out into the hall, and they crashed into the opposite wall. He pushed her to the ground as a second and far louder explosion sent timbers and roof tiles raining down around them. He lifted his head and looked back. The two-storey hotel was now mostly one-storeyed. Flames rose in one corner of the room, where the fire broke free of the grate and devoured the loose wood.
He looked up at the Hellcat hovering above. Men peered over the side. He recognised one who gave a casual salute.
He patted down Amy to check for injuries and untangled the rope around her arms. "Stay here," he said, as he rose and gave the finger to the bleedin' pirate who nearly killed them both dropping a bomb from above. Then he stepped through the smouldering rubble to check the other men. Hunter slumped below the remains of the window. He had lost his head when the small ball from Tor's canon blasted through the wall, and his surprised face looked back at his body from across the room. The man who'd hurt Amy lay in the middle of the room. A piece of timber impaled him to the floor.
"Help," he moaned and raised a hand.
"Sure." Jackson leaned on the timber and twisted.
Jones screamed, and blood sputtered from between his lips. His limbs flailed for several moments, and then his struggles ceased. The third man now had the collapsed roof on top of him, his protruding limbs still. Satisfied Hunter had received the message, he returned to Amy.
She shivered in the remains of the hall, shock and cold taking their toll. He knelt down and stroked her face. "I protect what's mine, told you."
"Yours?" she asked with tears of relief running down her face.