Undercover Cavaliere

by Judith B. Glad

  "Only a little. He is not fluent.".

  "Then I must write the instructions."

  When the required writing paper was produced, he bent over the table and wrote in English: Pietro, you will bring the produce to the east end of end of the Bercy Bridge at three o'clock in the morning. The bearer will direct you from there. GB. By using English, he warned Peter to make sure he was followed by the rest of the team, all well-armed.

  While Gabe wrote the note, Heureaux tapped his feet, whistled tunelessly, and cleared his throat several times. It was enough to make Gabe wonder if something had gone wrong. Had he done something to give himself away? Had one of the others on the team been suborned?

  Although he was growing increasingly suspicious of the ease with which the whole deal had been transacted, he forced himself to relax, to lean casually against the wall.

  Having sanded the paper, he explained where Peter would be waiting. "Look for a small man wearing a red cap and driving a stakebed wagon."

  "Let me see that, please." Heureaux took the note from Gabe before Maurice could. "Why do you write in English?"

  "So Pietro will know I did so willingly. Had I written in Italian, he would have known I was acting under duress."

  "Ah! A cautious man."

  "As you see." Gabe made a small bow.

  "Of course. On your way, Maurice. We will expect you back here in one hour."

  * * * *

  Regina woke to the rattle of the cage door. Her thoughts were lethargic and every movement felt as if it was made against resistance. She rolled to the side and sat up, supporting herself with one hand. The lantern again hung over the cage, swinging slightly. The shadows it cast were somehow terrifying, as if ogres and monsters lurked in the shadows.

  The barred door swung open and a man entered. It was the big thug who'd thrown her into the carriage earlier, lifting her as if she were weightless. He was followed by three others, none so large, but all equally menacing.

  "Oop," he commanded, seconding his word with a thumb jab at the ceiling.

  The others went to the cluster of girls. Whatever they did elicited a squeal from Minerva, a yelp from Pamela and a small shriek from Marcy.

  Regina's movements were sluggish. Her body didn't want to obey her mind's commands. The thug grabbed her upper arm and jerked her to her feet.

  She kicked him. A feeble kick, but it had enough force to hurt her toe.

  He slapped her, hard enough that she saw little sparkles of light at the edge of her vision.

  Training took over. She swung with her free arm, connected with his nose. Blood spurted, and he snarled words that must have been the vilest curses in the French language.

  She grabbed at his crotch, but his britches were so loose that all she caught was a handful of coarse cloth. At the same time she stomped on his foot, the hard heel of her shoe aimed at his toes.

  He roared, a wordless sound of rage, and hit her with his closed fist. As she fell, he let go his hold on her arm. Dazed but still conscious, she could only lie on the filthy floor and watch as the girls were forced to their feet. Calm down, she told herself. Be vigilant. The last thing you want is to get yourself killed. You'll be no use to the girls then.

  Again the big thug jerked her to her feet, not nearly so gently this time. She bit her lip against the pain in her shoulder. He twisted her left arm up behind her back, until she could barely hold back a scream.

  Behind her she could hear the girls weeping and protesting, but fortunately their captors didn't seem to be abusing them.

  Just scaring them half to death, from the sounds of it.

  One of the other men made a laughing comment to the big thug as he approached, and received a snarl in reply. He bound her hands with rope, then wrapped it around her body so her elbows were held close against her. Kneeling, he tied her ankles so tightly the rope dug into the soft leather of her high buttoned shoes. He tested his handiwork with a hard jerk.

  Helplessly she fell and rolled. As she attempted to rise, she discovered that she could only separate her feet by perhaps a foot. For the first time she wanted to weep. In rage and frustration, though. Not fear.

  Although, she admitted, there was plenty of that, waiting, in a walled off place in her mind, to pounce.

  He knelt beside her and held a cup to her mouth. When she turned her head, he caught her chin and dug cruel fingers into her cheeks until her lips opened. Tipping the cup. He poured a bitter draught into her mouth, then quickly held her jaw shut. She swallowed. It was that or choke.

  Once more she was pulled to her feet. "Stay." The big thug told her.

  Since any movement was going to be both difficult and slow, she obeyed.

  "Miss Lachlan, what's going to happen to us?"

  "I don't know, Minerva. Just be--"

  "Se taire! Ne parle pas." The big thug pushed Minerva and Pamela against the bars. "Put hands behind," he told them.

  His helpers bound their hands, but left their feet free.

  So much for resistance. Just see what it got me.

  "What will they do with us?" Pamela said, her voice trembling.

  "I don't know. Perhaps they are just moving us to a better location." Was it wrong to lie, when to tell the truth meant a high likelihood of eliciting hysteria?

  "No they ain't," Marcy said in a whine. "They're white slavers, they are. My ma-- Owww!"

  "Ne parle pas," the big thug said again.

  "Don't fight them. Don't speak--" She bit her lip when the big thug slapped her, but almost gently, as a reminder. She glared right back at him. "Resistance won't get us any thing but bruises. Cooperate. For now." The next slap made her head ring.

  While she was still pulling her scattered senses together, he gagged her with a filthy rag. Handling her as if she weighed no more than a sack of straw, he tossed her across his shoulder and followed the others.

  They traversed a long, dark corridor. From the smell, Regina was pretty sure it was the same one they'd entered through. Eventually they halted. One of the smaller men opened a door just a crack and peered out. Closing it again, he nodded.

  The thug set her down, propping her against the wall. She gasped for breath, for she hadn't been able to inhale with his hard shoulder digging into her diaphragm. Before she could take more than a single breath, the gag was removed, a dirty sack was thrown over her head and a cord of some sort looped around her neck. For a terrifying instant she couldn't breathe at all, then it loosened just enough that she was in no danger of choking. More proof that they were destined for something other than the river. She heard Minerva give a terrified cry, quickly muffled. There was not a sound from the other two. How terrified they must be. The poor girls. And I'm useless. If only...

  A scraping noise, and she felt a draft on her ankles. Someone shoved her from behind and she stumbled forward, nearly falling when she stepped into emptiness. Strong hands caught her and steadied her until she had her balance.

  There was a different feel to the air around her. They were outdoors. The heavy sacking over her head muffled all sound, and made the men's soft-spoken words indistinct. Someone pushed her against an old brick wall, smooth, with deep gaps between bricks. She dig her fingers into one, but could find nothing that might help her escape, nor was the brick loose enough to extract.

  After a short wait, she heard the clip-clop of a horse's hooves. A change in the quality of the sounds told her that something fairly large had come to a stop in front of her.

  The rope holding her feet together was removed. Someone took her arm and guided her across a cobblestone surface. "Step up," she was told in heavily accented English.

  She climbed as best she could, grateful for the hand that grabbed her upper arm and pulled her forward. It shoved her, not ungently, onto a pile of something almost soft. It smelled strongly of tobacco.

  The wagon moved, swayed, and she decided someone else must be climbing in. Sure enough, Minerva fell beside her with a shrill squeak, distinctive even though the sacki
ng. A little later someone fell on her other side with a shriek. Marcy, almost surely. After a few more minutes, Pamela landed on top of her.

  More sounds, a rattle of metal and a clang as of a gate closing. Then a slithery sound, like a tarpaulin being pulled across wagon hoops. Like we're a load of hay, she decided, and wondered if she had reached her capacity for terror. Why else would she feel almost like laughing?

  Their conveyance stood unmoving. She heard voices from outside, but whoever it was spoke softly. If only she could hear. Would she know when it was useful to scream? Or would it ever be?

  Wouldn't her sister give her a bad time? Letting herself be captured like this, and not getting herself out of the pickle. Katie would have shot the big thug in the knee, sliced open the skinny one, and probably kicked her wide captor where it hurt the most.

  No, she wouldn't have. Even she admits she had help when she was running away from the rich crazy man who'd decided to marry her. Besides, Katie had had Luke, a donkey that liked to untie knots, and even a shootist who fought fair. All I have are three helpless girls who look to me for deliverance.

  She remembered something she'd heard her pa say about the time he met a grizzly face to face. "He was bigger than me, so all I could do was lie down and play dead." It had worked too. The grizzly had sniffed Pa a bit before he walked off.

  Pa had always said that he'd aged at least five years in those ten minutes.

  I'm a lot older tonight than I was yesterday, Regina admitted. I hope I'm wiser too. Or will be, if I ever get out of this pickle.

  The wagon moved, jolting across a rough cobblestones surface, then turning onto smoother pavement. The journey seemed to go on for hours. Regina found herself dozing.

  "Nothing else to do, so I took a nap." Had she read that, or had one of the men in her family said it?

  Occasionally one of the girls spoke, pleas for help, for reassurance, but of course, she couldn't answer. Her mouth was dry. Her face ached and one eye was almost certainly swollen shut. The corners of her mouth were crusted with spit or blood--or both. Her hands had gone beyond pain to numbness and, worst of all, her bladder was full to bursting.

  For once in my life I should have been docile and obedient, she told herself, all the while knowing it simply was not in her nature to relax and let events take their course. She might not be as adventurous as her brothers and sisters, but Regina Lachlan had never been one to drift with the current.

  Chapter Nine

  Gabe stood at the window of Heureaux's office, peering through a narrow slit between the draperies. An empty stakebed wagon was parked a little way along the street, probably waiting for its cargo. He'd like to have Peter bring their wagon here, but it was his gut talking, not his head. Bringing the money into Heureaux's territory would be asking to lose it. But if Peter and his team were here...

  Admit it, you want Gina out of their hands right now.

  The tall clock behind him ticked away the minutes. It had struck midnight long since. Damn it, Maurice ought to be back by now. Has something gone wrong?

  He glanced over his shoulder. Nearly three quarters of an hour. This time of night it shouldn't have taken Heureaux's messenger more than twenty minutes to ride to the rendezvous. Five minutes for Peter to read his note and get directions to where they'd make the transfer... What the hell is keeping him?

  "Impatient, monsieur?" Heureaux said. His tone had a smarmy, self-satisfied tone to it.

  "It's been a long day, and the night promises to be longer. The sooner we can get this taken care of, the sooner I'll find my bed."

  "You have somewhere to hold the merchandise, then? Somewhere they will be safe while you sleep?"

  "Since I could not be sure of the schedule, I was unable to schedule secure shipping in advance. My agents are trustworthy, and will make certain there are no missteps between when they receive the...merchandise and when it is sent on its way." Gabe turned again to the window, just in time to see a horseman approaching. "Ah. I believe this is your man now."

  In a few minutes, Maurice knocked on the door. He spoke to Heureaux in French so rapid and idiomatic that Gabe caught only one word in ten.

  "All is in train, monsieur," Heureaux said when Maurice fell silent. "The payment?"

  "Will be presented when the women are delivered to my associates. I trust you will be present?"

  The Frenchman bowed slightly. "If you wish." He looked at the clock. "Two hours and seventeen minutes from now we will expect your carrier."

  Raising one eyebrow, Gabe said, "I don't believe we have agreed on a meeting place, M. Heureaux."

  "Ah, of course. My error. There are stables at the rear of a pension near the Gare du Est where we may meet in privacy. I have prepared directions." He held out a slip of paper.

  Gabe took it, feeling ghostly fingers scrabble down his spine. This is too damned easy. He forced himself to smile. "A pleasure to work with one so well prepared."

  Again that slight bow. "I am a businessman, monsieur. I must leave you now, to instruct my men."

  "And I must assure myself that we are prepared to receive the shipment. Until trois heures, M. Heureaux..." They parted with mutual assurances of pleasure.

  He didn't trust the flesh merchant. There had been something in his tone, in his expression, that had warned of treachery. Wishing he had Bjorn or Dom at his back, he walked away from the warehouse and made his way to the narrow street where his carriage awaited.

  The hired carriage was filthy, but no worse than its driver. The scar-faced man on the step looked like he'd just as soon take Gabe's life as his money. He had the horse moving before Gabe sat down. The sudden motion surprised him and he fell sideways into the dirty bench, twisting his bad knee. Only a tight grip on his temper kept him from cursing Alain, who undisguised was an intelligent, charming fellow. A terrible driver, though.

  Air whistled between clenched teeth as he attempted to massage the stabbing pain away. Buff's right. I'm not really fit enough for this sort of thing any more. But retire? God! What would I do with myself?

  No, he was not ready to retire. There was other work he could do for the Coalition, work that didn't depend on physical strength and agility. Important work.

  But none anywhere near as exciting.

  Gabe thrived on excitement, on danger. The satisfaction obtained from untangling a political mess or a potential scandal of international consequence was nothing compared to that from pitting mind and body against those who did their utmost to undermine society. His most stimulating--and favorite--cases had been those where he matched wits with the purveyors of drug-induced dreams. The opium sellers, the hashish merchants.

  Next in line were cases like this one. White slavery. Although the Coalition opposed all slavery, that involving innocent women of any color was their primary focus. Both Gabe and Regina's brother, Buffalo, had a personal stake in ridding the world of flesh merchants, for more than once the slave trade had struck frighteningly close to their families.

  Life would be calmer and more predictable if he were to give up field work. "I just don't want to," he said aloud. Still, the day was coming when he'd have no choice.

  But not yet. Not yet.

  Once at the hotel, he began his preparations. Peter came in as he was finishing his report to Jonathon. Something could always go wrong.

  "Where's the meet?"

  Gabe handed him the slip of paper.

  Peter, who knew Paris like the back of his hand, whistled. "Bloody difficult place. Tight little streets, no place to maneuver. We'll need the whole crew."

  "Get them in place," Gabe said, as he packed fifty-pound notes into a small, shabby valise. "Make sure they're ready for treachery. I've got a bad feeling."

  "Which means something will go wrong. You're better at predicting trouble than my granny's rheumatiz is at forecasting bad weather."

  "Don't tell me it's going to rain, too?"

  "Already started. I'll alert the team."

  As he slipped out the d
oor, Gabe picked up the double barreled derringer and checked its load. He preferred his sword, but just in case...

  * * * *

  Regina woke groggy and disoriented. Her mind refused to focus. Each thought seemed to struggle through a thick, syrupy cloud before it could form. She could only open one eye, but that was enough to confirm that her head was still encased in heavy sacking. A soft patter on canvas told her it was raining, a soft summer rain. The only other sound was the muted rumble of the wagon's wheels on cobblestone. Still night then. Either that or I've been asleep a long time and we're out of the city.

  She attempted to roll to one side, and felt the suspicious dampness of her petticoats. My God, I've wet myself!

  Furious, she threw herself forward, determined to sit erect. "Minerva, are you awake? Pamela?"

  A moan was her only answer.

  She used her schoolmarm voice. "Minerva! Pamela!" Her jaw was stiff and opening her mouth made the whole side of her face hurt.

  "Miss Lachlan?" That was Pamela to Regina's left, not too far away. "Where are we?" Her voice was distorted, her words imprecise.

  Drugged. They drugged them, too. "Pamela, are your hands still tied?"

  "Hmm? Hands?" A long silence. "Something's wrong. My hands... They're tied behind me."

  "Listen to me, Pamela. I need you to come to me. Can you do that? Are your feet tied?"

  "No. But my hands-- Numb."

  Reaching deeply for patience and purpose, Regina said, "Yes, they are bound to be numb, since they've been tied a long time. Wiggle your fingers. That will help. When you can feel them again, tell me."

  Another moan, this one from across the wagon bed. "Minerva? Minerva, can you hear me?"

  "I think she's asleep." It was Marcy, the English girl. "I can hear her breathing."

  "Are your hands tied, Marcy"

  "Yes, mum, and they're numb too." A sniffle. "Mum, I've got to piss powerful bad."

  "Me, too," Pamela said.

  "I don't think our captors care," Regina said, grateful that she'd inherited a strong streak of pragmatism from her parents. The discomfort of lying in wet petticoats was more distressing than being unable to control her body's natural function. "Can either of you make your way to me?"