The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

179: Lair

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Storm by Diego Candia. All graphics by me.

"Tommy..." Storm hissed, pulling hard at the shackles keeping him anchored to the overturned chair. The boy had all but crawled into the kitchen, and Storm's relief at seeing him alive was immediately overshadowed by concern at how bad he looked and his abject horror at seeing Luis run off into the night with an armed madman on his heels. "Tommy, get the hell out of here before he comes back!"

Tommy ignored him, his jaw set in a determined grimace. He fell to his knees, scrambling behind the table, a pistol clutched in his blood-slick and trembling hand.

He's barely conscious. He shouldn't be here, there's no way he's going to fight in that kind of shape. Storm tried again. "Tommy."

"Ssssh! Shut up!"

Storm bit back his words, falling silent. The boy would have one shot, if he didn't pass out before he was able to make it. If he screws it up...and the way he's shaking, he probably will....Hooper will come back and kill us both. Kill all three of us. Baise moi...this is the worst mess I've ever found myself in. No contest. And Luis... He told himself Luis was nimble and clever, a fast runner and stealthy. It's dark outside, and he knows the area. He's got the upper hand. He'll get away.

Pinched between the chair and the floor, his arm was going numb, filling with phantom pinpricks and invisible crawling ants. The white-hot agony in his shoulder where he'd been cut and burned was stunning, quickening his breath and making him lightheaded. He fought to stay on top of the pain, to ride it out and not let it overwhelm him. He had to be able to think, to stay in control of himself. He'll get away...

He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, drawing in a steadying breath. His vision cleared, focused into a pinpoint on the rough flagstones of the floor, how the rust and wheat and white colors of them reflected the landscape that had produced them. How they fit together so neatly, how the sand between them wrapped around and secured them.

How the flagstone just ahead of his nose seemed unsettled and loose in its space, a faint hairline of darkness and air between it and the earth that cradled it. A depression in the earth beside it just big enough for slender fingers to slip beneath...

The ache in his shoulder was dim, muffled. He very nearly smiled. There it is...

He jumped when the gunshots ripped through the night outside somewhere on the other side of the kitchen wall. Two, fired nearly simultaneously. Physical and mental pain avalanched down the wall of his strength and he sucked in a deep breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his forehead into the cold stone beneath him. Luis...Little Brother....

Heat flooded his face, made his eyes heavy and wet. He groaned, holding himself at bay. "One of those shots was Luis," he whispered to his hidden crewmate. "Mind who comes through that door next."

There was a brief movement at the edge of the darkness outside. "It's us, lad." Wash was suddenly in the room, his pistol raised and his eyes bright and darting. "Jaysus," he rasped, glancing at Storm on the floor. "We're going to start charging you a dollar every time we have to rescue your arse, so we are." Satisfied that there were no other intruders in the room, he hauled Storm upright, wrestling clumsily with the chair.

Storm was nearly dizzy with gladness at seeing him. "See to Tommy, he's hurt," he gasped, grimacing as blood started circulating in his arm again. "Where's Luis?"

"I'm here!" Luis held up an iron key, stepping into the kitchen as Wash helped Tommy into a chair. Storm closed his eyes, sighing with relief. Adrenaline rattled around inside him with nowhere to go and he was glad he was sitting down. He started shaking as Luis fumbled at the cuffs.

The irons fell from his wrists and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees and his head hanging down, fighting pain and weakness. His shoulder throbbed with growing intensity. At least I'm not bleeding. We got through all that without losing anyone...except I don't see...

"Where's Miss Burgess?" He raised his head, looking around.

"Sent her off to town on War Bonnet, so I did," Wash said, shrugging out of his water-stained duster and wrapping it around the shivering Tommy. "Hopefully, Holt and Plunkett should  be here soon."

Luis turned, his voice cracking."You...what?"

"Didn't have a sodding lot of options at the moment, me boyo, so don't you be starting on me. Figured she'd be safer out there, on our fastest horse under cover of dark and rain than here where I didn't know what might be happening or how many there were. And now there's a dead sodding tosser in the yard. She didn't need to see that." He strode over, wincing in sympathy at the blistered, angry rent in the skin of Storm's shoulder and his torn shirt. "I can only hope she didn't know this shite was going on. Jaysus, lad...can you walk?"

Storm nodded, letting Luis pull him to his feet and steer him towards the door. "Yeah. Bunkhouse."

"Aye." He turned back to Tommy, hauling his arm over his shoulder and dragging him towards the door. "You're sure there's no more of them? That he was on his own?"

"Sh...sure as we can be," Tommy muttered weakly. "Never saw...anyone else. Looked best I could."

"Said his name was Hooper," Storm said. "That name was from Mr. Burgess' ledger. He claimed he was the one that burned Williams."

Wash stopped in his tracks, staring with his mouth open.

"Yeah." Storm nodded. He gestured at the stove, drawing Wash's attention to the handle of the glowing knife inside among the coals. "We have some things to talk about."

Wash did a double take, his eyes widening. He was clearly having a little trouble processing this new information. He reached down, fumbling his silver flask from his boot, and took a quick pull on it before handing it over to Storm.

Storm shook his head, feeling the burn on his neck pull with his movements. He winced."You know I don't drink."

Wash gestured at Storm's injured shoulder, nodding grimly and continuing to hold out the flask. "You do tonight, laddie."

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