Page 116 of New Storm Rising
“Tell me…” I enquired out of the corner of my mouth as the hangman stepped over to a certain lever. “Is everythingstillgoing according to your brilliant plan, Mr Ambrose?”
“Why, of course, Mrs Ambrose.”
“Why did I marry you again?”
“Because you love me.”
“On se count of sree!” De Ravera called out, gesturing towards the hangman. I closed my eyes, inwardly praying for Mr Rikkard Ambrose to be sent straight to hell. Then I could join him there with some nice, pointy pitchforks and offer the devil my services as my dear hubby’s private torturer. “On se count of sree, men! One…”
My fists clenched. If only my revolver weren’t out of reach! If only…
“Two…”
“Freeze!” a roar echoed over the square. “Hands above your heads, now!”
Rikkard Ambrose’s Plan
“You,” Mr Ambrose stated, his cold voice carrying all over the silent square, “are late.”
“My apologies.” From between two lines of houses, out of the darkness of an alleyway, stepped a shadowy figure, revolver raised and pointed straight at De Ravera. “I had not really wanted to believe things were this bad in this town…but you were right. You were right about all of it.”
“Who’s there?” Revolver flying to his hand, Gallagher leapt towards the newcomer. “I’m William Gallagher, US Sherriff! Step out with your hands over your—”
Bam! Bam!
One moment, Gallagher was raising taking aim—the next, he was clutching his hand, staring at the gun lying on the ground, his hat blown off his head, fluttering away.
“One more word out of you,” said the newcomer, voice filled with steel, “and the next bullet goes through your brain.”
Then the figure of our rescuer moved forward, fully stepping out of the shadows and revealing the face of…
My mouth dropped open.
What?
How?
And most of all,why?
Completely and utterly flabbergasted, I stared at the man who stood there, aiming a revolver at a US sheriff, as if it were the most natural thing to do.
Angus Angleton?
Although…the figure in front of me bore little resemblance to the overenthusiastic travelling salesman with the ever-present sample case under his arm. His eyes were sharp, his revolver hand steady, and the case was nowhere to be found. Instead, a gun belt was slung around his waist, and pinned to his chest was a gleaming emblem.
A very particular emblem, in the shape of a star.
“A sheriff?” Gallagher snorted, eyes narrowed. “I’mthe sheriff in this town!”
“Look again,” Angleton advised.
Gallagher did. And so did I, for that matter. At second glance, there was indeed some difference between this star and Gallagher’s. There was a circle surrounding this star, and on the lower part of the circle letters were etched, proclaiming…
All colour drained from Gallagher’s face.
“U…US Marshal?”
“Smart boy. Now, hands above your head! I won’t ask a third time!”
