Rowan shifted the pistol wedged in his belt. The rest of the crew didn’t work armed. All weapons were stored in a single place, to be snatched up at the ready when called for. Ansel had already raised an eyebrow at the sight of Rowan’s gun. Rowan was surprised at how well the man read him—and he, him. He had shaken his head in response. No he wasn’t going to kill Sully.
Not yet anyway.
As Rowan tossed the handful of ropes and pulleys back onto the shelf, he saw Sully exit his cabin and drop the exterior bolt to lock it from the outside.
So someone is inside. An unwillingly guest obviously, but special enough not to merit the comforts of the below decks brig. A woman, maybe?
Sully was not only leaving his cabin—he was clearly intending on leaving the ship, too, once they dropped anchor in the Dry Tortugas.
Very curious.
But all that mattered to Rowan was that Sully would be out of his cabin, giving Rowan the chance to search it. This time, he thought, touching the grip of his pistol, if Toad interrupted him there would be a different outcome to the encounter.
Sully stopped in front of Rowan and frowned. He swiveled slowly on his boot heel as if to glance back at his cabin and then again at Rowan.
“You signed on?” he said. “I thought you were indignant about being kidnapped.”
“Decided to let bygones,” Rowan said, pulling his hat down over his face to protect it from the rain that began to pelt him. The rain, mixed with sleet, peppered his face like tiny shards of flying glass.
“It’s a day for interesting events,” Sully said cryptically. “By the by, Mr. Toad has instructions to shoot anyone who tries to enter my cabin while I’m gone.”
Rowan said nothing and Sully turned and walked up to the quarterdeck to speak with the pilot.
Looking up at the masts, Rowan noticed they’d already taken down all sails but one. If Sully really was thinking of going ashore, he’d better hurry. This didn’t look to be an ordinary storm and there was little to no shelter on the island.
Maybe with any luck the bastard would get washed out to sea.
As Rowan turned back to his work, he noticed the cabin boy, Kip, was standing outside the captain’s cabin now, a musket in his hands. The boy’s eyes were focused skyward and his face was white with concern.
Rowan shrugged. He didn’t intend to hurt the boy when the time came.
But he did intend to get inside that cabin, whatever it took.
It was early afternoon by the time they moored in the cove at Garden Cay in the Dry Tortugas. Rowan was mildly surprised to see that no other ships were there. Then again, the cove didn’t provide much natural protection, and this storm was one where you might reasonably look for that. Likely the rest of the brotherhood was off the coast of Cuba or on the gulf side of the Florida straits.
Looks like Sully has the place all to himself, which suited Rowan fine. He’d already figured that if he came up empty in Sully’s cabin he’d go over the side and try to find the bastard’s treasure on the island.
It shouldn’t be too difficult. Sully was a prissy bastard. He wouldn’t have hidden it under the mangroves, in the swamps or anywhere near the saltwater crocs. Knowing Sully, the treasure would be somewhere dry and easily accessed.
Its name not withstanding, there weren’t too many places like that in the Dry Tortugas.
As Rowan watched two crewmen lower a dinghy into the water, it was all Rowan could do not to run to the bolted cabin door, knock poor Kip out of the way, and begin his search. He rethreaded the cords of a rat line that had shredded and watched as Sully, a small bag bulging with something bulky thrown over his shoulder and his jacket pulled up around his ears with his trademark ruby scarf plastered around his forehead, climbed down the side of the ship into the boat. The captain waved off the man who would row him to shore and took up the oar himself.
Right behind you, Captain, Rowan thought as he watched Sully row the short distance to the beach.
Turning back to Sully’s cabin, Rowan was intercepted by Ansel, who had run up from below decks and was panting from the exertion. His face was white. “Mkubwa!” he called, “we need ye, man!”
Rowan sidestepped him but Ansel grabbed his arm. “It’s Scabs,” he said. “He was showing us that move that Captain Jack Sparrow makes with his dirk? The one where he tosses it up and catches it behind his back, ye ken?”
With one last glance at the barred cabin door and poor shivering Kip standing outside it trying to relieve the weariness in his legs by hopping from one foot to the other, Rowan sighed and gestured for Ansel to lead the way.
He had time. Sully would be gone for hours.
***
The mangroves weren’t as thick once Sully broke through the perimeter of the island’s outer edges. He kept a careful eye out for snakes or anything else that might be lurking just below the shallow, murky swamp that was his footpath. A kayak—if one had been invented yet—might have made a better vehicle, but even that was likely to become stuck every few feet. Pulling his heavily booted foot out of the mire, he felt the tension in his shoulders ease as he stepped onto firmer ground.
He stopped and listened. He should be hearing seabirds, but they were likely smart enough to find a place to roost against the coming storm. The rain was steady now but the wind seemed to have died a bit. He peered into the rain wondering if the judge was waiting for him.
Sully was early. He typically felt, as a general rule, that was his best strategy no matter what his enterprise.
An image of the judge’s daughter laying helpless on his cot came unbidden to his mind. He hadn’t expected her to be so bold, so cool. He hadn’t expected her to be a time traveler either. Which was unusual given travelers typically needed to insert themselves in existing lives. How did that work when you were pretending to be somebody’s daughter?
But more importantly, he hadn’t expected to feel precisely nothing when he kissed her.
Had that ever happened? Had there ever been a beautiful woman he’d held defenseless in his arms he hadn’t felt ready to pierce with his staff?
A sound off to the left shook the thoughts from his head as it heralded the possible arrival of his mark.
Sully tightened his grip on the leather sack and took a step back into the swamp. The two men were approaching from the southern part of the island, which didn’t surprise Sully. If they’d seen the Die Hard moored on the northern beach, they’d understandably prefer not to moor near.
The two men—one obviously the judge, his stocky build easily identifiable in the hazy weather—approached the small clearing that was ringed by the mangroves. As they got closer, Sully saw the judge was wearing hip-high waders. His companion’s shoes and jacket were ruined, as he was clearly not dressed for the outing or the weather. Sully recognized him as the young clerk from the judge’s office.
He stepped into the clearing. “Your Honor! Over here, sir.”
The two men snapped their heads in unison in his direction. He saw the younger man’s hand go to his vest as if he might have a weapon there, but if so he thought better of it as he allowed his hand to fall to his side.
Sully pulled his collar up against the drizzle. It seemed to have diminished somewhat but it was still a miserable outing—more so for the judge, he thought with a smile.
“Sully,” the judge growled in greeting.
“Did you bring the certificate?”
The man only grunted, but Sully could see affirmative written all over the clerk’s face. Perhaps the certificate had been what he had been reaching for?
“What have you dragged me out to this godforsaken place to show me? And before you get any ideas, I’ve alerted the army that we are here. If we don’t return—”
“Not to worry, your Honor,” Sully said, hoping his voice was effectively conveying his sarcasm. “You’ll be home by midday sitting in front of your fire sipping your tea as if this day had never happened.”
Sully pulled his bag off his shoulder an
d was rewarded again by the young man’s starting as if it were full of adders. Sully laughed.
“Am I to understand you’ve never been to the Dry Tortugas, sir?” he asked.
The judge made a face. “A den of cutthroats and thieves? Why would any law-abiding man come to this hell hole?” He waved a hand to take in the swampy scene before them.
“Indeed,” Sully said, as he walked past the two to a large outcropping of rocks and overhanging mangrove, its branches twisted in an ancient contortion of wet wood. “And yet, like many things not immediately discerned upon initial—or even prolonged—inspection, this island has much wonder to reveal.”
“Get on with it, Sully.”
“For example, did you know that it is the end destination for most of North America’s raptors?” He looked at the two as if expecting an answer. The clerk shook his head.
“Well, it is. In fact, fall migration—which we are in the midst of right now—brings a southbound influx of thousands of birds. I know it’s hard to see because of the rain, but if you look closely, you’ll see they are here with us at this very moment.”
“What the hell are you pulling, Sully?”
“Water birds, to be sure, gulls and terns, but also kestrels and warblers, even the belted kingfisher. I apologize, Judge, I was under the impression you were interested in bird hunting. Was I wrong?”
The judge snorted, but he looked around as if to see the birds to which Sully referred.
“I’m reliably informed that the Sooty Tern finds its only regular nesting site in the entire United States right here in the Dry Tortugas,” Sully said. “In fact, just there!”
As the men crested a small incline, a clearing of nearly a mile square lay before them. The perimeter was lined with assorted bird nests tucked into the mangrove branches. The clearing itself was filled with easily a hundred birds perched on scattered pieces of driftwood jutting up from the boggy grasses.
“Let me ask you, Judge. How many birds do you think you can bag in, say, a thirty-second time span?”
“Don’t be mad. No one can shoot more than one, perhaps two if they fly in a pair, in thirty seconds.”
“Really?” In one swift movement, Sully pulled a semi-automatic pistol from the bag and aimed at the gigantic flock of birds. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two men flinch and stagger away at the abrupt volume of the gun’s repetitive and booming report. The flock of birds erupted in a nuclear cloud of feathers and smoke as Sully sprayed them with the full sixteen rounds.
When he finally finished, the sandy clearing was littered with dozens of feathered bodies.
He turned to the judge. “Impressive, no?”
The judge was staring at the carnage, his mouth open. “How did you…how…?”
Sully held the gun up in front of the man’s face. “Ingenious weapon, isn’t it? Can you imagine one in the hands of every pirate within a hundred mile radius of Thompson Island?” Sully let the words sink in. “I am happy, however, to turn over to you, or Commodore Porter, every one of the one hundred semi-automatic pistols I have in my possession…for a simple slip of paper.”
He could see the judge was not taking his eyes off the beach area where the dead birds lay.
“I’ll give you the certificate when I have taken delivery of the guns.”
“Sorry, no. You’ll get the guns—as promised—after I get the certificate.”
“Why wouldn’t I simply go straight to the army when I get back?”
Sully dropped the gun onto the beach at the judge’s feet and reached back into his sack. This time, he pulled out the battered but distinctive brown silk of a lady’s bonnet. He shook the ribbons until they dangled obscenely from the hat.
“Recognize this?”
The judge gasped. “Where did you get that?”
“I got it from its owner,” Sully said. “And while she has indulged in a good deal of tears and prayers over her ordeal, your daughter is as yet untouched. Whether or not she remains so depends on my continued good health. So, I’ll ask you again. Do we have a deal?”
Without hesitation, the judge snapped his fingers at his clerk, who was visibly shaking. The young man opened his jacket and pulled out a slim leather envelope and handed it to Sully.
Sully opened the packet, careful not to get the letter inside wet and then sealed it back up. He tucked it into his own jacket and grinned.
“I can see now why everyone enjoys birding,” he said. “It really is quite satisfying.”
***
Ella wrapped the thick duvet from the bed around her shoulders but still she found herself shaking. She pulled her knees up to her chin as she sat on the bed, her back to the cabin wall, her eyes on the open journal on Sully’s desk.
Why is the emblem from her mother’s necklace on the book? While the design of two hearts intersecting might not be the most original of insignias, Ella knew, when combined with the dominant intersecting letter V, it becomes less and less likely to be found anywhere else.
V for Vogel, her mother’s original family name—the one that was forever tainted and so dropped in favor of Klaus, the family’s shame hidden by the moniker forevermore.
Was it a coincidence?
She shivered as the rain increased its assault against the single porthole in the cabin. Even though it was barely noon, she could see the skies darkening in advent of the coming storm.
She glanced at the lighter on the nightstand. She’d at least done that much. Now if she could just survive long enough to give it to Rowan.
Would the judge believe that Adele was a captive on a pirate’s ship? If not, would Sully’s resulting fury at being tricked come home to bear on her? Ella had tried the cabin door but it was solidly locked from the outside and the porthole was way too small to slip through.
Her only hope was to somehow trick or overcome whoever came to feed her.
How was she going to do that? Her eyes darted around the room. There was nothing in the cabin that wasn’t literally nailed down—obviously because everything on a boat moved and slid away if it wasn’t—except for the thunder jar, and that was wedged tightly behind the door.
Would someone come soon? How long had Sully been gone? How long would his meeting take?
Before she could imagine what horrors the anger-crazed pirate would likely dole out to her when he discovered she wasn’t Adele Morton, Ella heard the loud scrape outside the door of the bar being raised. She wrapped the duvet tightly around her.
She wasn’t ready! She had no clue as to how to use the opportunity—if indeed there was one in the offing.
The door swung open and the frame was quickly filled with the form of a man. He wasn’t tall, and as he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him she could see he held a tray in his hands. He set it down on the desk.
“Well, well, little ‘un,” he said, turning toward her. He had a headscarf wrapped around his head like Sully did, but his was black and shiny. As he approached, she saw that the shine was from the thick layer of grease his long hair appeared to be coated with. It hung in twisted dreadlocks to his shoulders.
Ella scooted as far away from the man as she could on the narrow bed. He smiled at her as if he were contemplating devouring a large meal. She even saw him lick his lips.
“Ye’ll be ‘aving your dinner, luv,” he said, standing over her, his hands flexing at his side as if having trouble controlling them. “As soon as I plant me pole in the cap’n’s turf, ye ken.”
Ella knew exactly what the man had in mind. Although there was a bolt on the inside of the cabin, he hadn’t bothered to throw it. That probably meant he was high enough up the food chain that her screaming wouldn’t bring help from anyone who valued their life.
“’At’s right, petal,” the man hissed as he lunged for. “They’ll be none to stop what’s coming, scream as ye might.” He grabbed her hands and jerked them apart so the duvet dropped from her shoulders as he drove her back onto the cot, his knee coming up sharply between
her legs to pry them apart.
24
In a panic, Ella squirmed to close her legs or free one of her hands, but she felt his weight come down hard on her chest, knocking the air out of her. When he felt her collapse breathless beneath him, the man loosened one of her hands to wrench up her skirts. Struggling for breath, Ella felt his nails grind into her flesh through the fabric in his attempt to pull the heavy skirt away. Stars shot into her eyesight as she felt his filthy fingers touch the bare flesh on her inner thigh.
“You bastard,” she shouted hoarsely, trying to twist away from the invading fingers. She heard him laugh as he removed his hand long enough to start unbuttoning the front of his trousers. With her one hand free, she pushed against his face and neck but he was immovable. She grabbed his long hair and tried to pull him away but her fingers slipped off his oily locks.
“Only a moment now, petal,” the man said, gasping, his breath rolling over her with the suffocating smell of rotting fish. “And I’ll be in ye. Just a little bit longer now. Can ye wait or do ye want ol’ Edward so bad ye can’t lie still?”
He was almost ready; she could tell by the way he settled down in seriousness for the next few seconds. In her mind, she already felt him punch into her, already felt him take her in all the viciousness she knew was in his mind to give her. Her hand flew back in desperation, the agony of his weight pressing down on her such that she could barely breathe, and knocked over the items on Sully’s nightstand. She reached for anything—anything that might help her—when her fingers closed around Rowan’s lighter.
Without caring which way she held it, she brought the lighter to the man’s head, flicked it open and spun the spark wheel with her thumb. The fire flared greedily, fed by the grease on the man’s head, and exploded into a halo of flames in his hair and his scarf. He screamed and released her to snatch at his scarf and fling it away.
Ella ignored his curses and the sight of the blood-red rash on his cheek where the grease-fed flames of his dreadlocks had seared him. She reached with both hands at this waist where she knew, prayed, his knife would be. Her fingers gripped the handle and wrenched it free. She brought it down hard into his chest.
Race to World's End (Rowan and Ella Book 3) Page 22