Page 117 of New Storm Rising
Slowly, Gallagher raised his hands.
“Good. Now get down on the ground, and—Don’t even think about it!”
In a flash, Angleton’s other hand flew out, holding a second revolver that pointed straight at De La Fuente’s forehead. The Spaniard, who had been just about to pull a derringer from his sleeve, froze in mid-motion.[24]
“On the ground! Now!”
The nobleman hesitated—until a bullet ripped a piece out of the wall right beside his ear.
Bam!
De La Fuente was on the floor so fast he nearly left his moustache behind.
“Good boy. And thanks for the confession, by the way.”
“C-confession?”
“Indeed.”
That cold, domineering voice…that wasnotAngus Angleton speaking. All eyes, mine very much included, were drawn to Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who had somehow divested himself of his bonds, cut the rope and slipped out of the noose.
Reaching out, he handed it to the hangman. “Here. Hold this.”
“Y-yes.”
Mr Ambrose took a step forward, all eyes still glued to him in shock. That moment of shock was all he needed. Raising his hand, he snapped his fingers.
Clack!
Clack!
Thud!
Windows all around the square flew open. Doors were kicked outward, and armed figures appeared everywhere, aiming straight at the Spaniards and their thugs. Half a dozen armed men had appeared right behind De Ravera and De La Fuente, the muzzles of their guns pressed to the noblemen’s heads.
Arms clasped behind his back, Mr Ambrose turned his gaze upon them. In their shoes, I would have preferred to have a couple more guns aimed at my nose.
“Truly, I must thank you for being so cooperative. Not just anyone would have been so helpfully stupid as to confess to corruption, attempted murder and espionage in the presence of a US Marshal and half a town full of eyewitnesses. You have made my work considerably easier.”
It was then that it hit me.
“Everything is proceeding according to my plan.”
The son of a…!
…very smart lady.
He hadn’t been lying. And he hadn’t just been talking out of his backside, either.
This entire time…
Everything…
Everything had been under his control.
From the moment he had arrived, he’d confronted the Spaniards again and again—yet never had it actually been about winning. Scene after Scene had been arranged, helpfully allowing the two Spaniards to incriminate themselves to the maximum extent possible without actually signing a confession in their own blood. And always, Angleton had been there, observing in silence. Witnessing.
This had been his plan. It had been his plan this entire time.
