Page 193 of Storm over the Caribbean
“Aagh!”
A slew of French curses came from somewhere down in the street beyond the trees.
“This whole place is surrounded.” Mr Ambrose’s voice was cold as ice and hard as granite. “That man went after my family. He won’t escape.”
“Mr Ambrose?”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes I really love you.”
“Only sometimes?”
“Shut up and move!”
During the last few weeks, I had been waddling around at a snail’s pace, cursing the weight that was tugging me down. But you know what? A pregnant lady can moveamazinglyfast when someone threatens her child. In a blink, we were down the stairs and out the door. From there, it wasn’t particularly difficult to pick up the bastard’s trail. Mostly due to the literal trail of blood spatters on the ground leading down the deserted street.
“Isn’t that nice?” A wolfish grin spread across my face and, reaching under my tailcoat, I pulled out my pistol. “He’s pointing the way for us. We should repay him.”
“Indeed.” Giving a curt nod, Mr Ambrose strode down the street, his long legs somehow eating up the distance faster than if another man were running. I hurried after him, taking three steps for every single one of his. The streets around us were completely empty, people having fled the moment the first gunshot sounded. It didn’t take long for us to round the nearest street corner and spot the limping figure in the distance.
In a blink, my pistol was up and aimed.
“Don’t! We need him alive, remember?”
“I was trying to forget. But you’re right.” Cracking my knuckles, I sped up my steps. “We shoulddefinitelytake him alive.”
The man ahead glanced back over his shoulder, terror flaring in his eyes.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Stay away!”
Mr Ambrose shook his head. “No.”
“Stay away, I said!” the man shouted, suddenly pulling a derringer from his sleeve. “Stay back, or—”
“No.” Faster than a flash, Mr Ambrose’s hand came up, holding a gun.
Bam!
“Aagh!”
The derringer dropped from a bloodied hand, and the Frenchman stumbled back—right into the path of the coach that was coming around the corner.
“Oy!” With a shout, the coachman reined in the horses, bringing the coach to an abrupt stop. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, mate? You can’t just walk out in the middle of the road and—”
That was when he was grabbed by the lapels and jerked down from the box. Uttering a startled yell, he sailed through the air and slammed down onto the ground. The next moment, the Frenchman was up on the box, reins in hand.
“Yee-ha!”
In mixed rage and horror, I watched as the bastard threw us a grin over his shoulder and raced away down the street.
Hunter and Prey
I stood there, frozen for a moment, staring after the escaping coach. Mr Rikkard Ambrose, however, was not similarly afflicted by paralysis. He dashed forward, eyes narrowing in determination.
What the heck is he doing? Does he think he can catch up to a carriage on foot?
Only then did I hear theclip-clopof hoofbeats. Not those of the carriage horses racing away down the street, but ones that were approaching fast from around the corner.
