Before he knew what was happening, the messenger felt his arm being grabbed and found himself being dragged into the abandoned bank.
He felt a sense of relief flooding through him. They believed him!
That belief lasted about three seconds. Right up to the point where he found out that the abandoned bank was not quite so abandoned after all. Dark figures moved in the shadowy hallway, surrounding him.
"Diego. Brass." Cobra nodded to two of the figures. "I hope you are well?"
A grin flashed in the darkness, and a massive man stepped forward. "Well enough, now that you've brought us a toy to play with." The gentleman called Brass chuckled and cracked the knuckles he was apparently named for.
"Wolf." Cobra nodded at another man, whose ruggedly handsome face made the Spaniard jerk back. He could practically see the words $100,000 — Dead or Alive above his head. "I hope you are miserable as usual?"
The man who had killed over seventy-two people looked as if the number would soon become seventy-three. Then, without a word, he turned away.
"Grumpy bastard," someone chuckled.
"Still..." The vicious grin on Brass's face widened, and his eyes fastened on the messenger as if he were a snack. "Leaves all the more fun for us, doesn't it?"
The Spaniard took an involuntary step back. Which wasn't really sufficient, since Brass took three very voluntary steps forward. Raising his metal-studded fists, he reached out—only to be stopped by Cobra's outstretched arm.
"I'm afraid you can't, my friend. He has a message for the leader."
Again the Spaniard breathed a sigh of relief. That's right. He was a messenger. He was needed.
"Does he need his legs to deliver a message?"
"Unless you want to carry him down the stairs."
Immediately, Brass stepped back. He levelled a glare at the Spaniard. "Move, Dago! Use those damn legs of yours, or I'll crush them!"
With such a friendly invitation, how could one possibly refuse?
Surrounded by men whose collective heads were worth more than half a million dollars, the messenger was led down into the cellar. Soon, he found himself in front of a steel door that almost looked like the door to a...safe?
Cobra, who seemed to notice his incredulous gaze, gave a low chuckle. The criminal's poisonous eyes raked over the Spaniard as if he could read his every thought.
"There is a reason why the leader is still alive after over a hundred bounty hunters aimed for his head. Always thinking in a way no others can. Never taking foolish risks."
"Or prisoners," Brass added with a smirk.
Reaching for the door, he pushed it open, and grabbed the Spaniard by the scruff of his neck. With a shove, the poor man was sent stumbling into the dark interior of the safe that was only dimly lit by a single lamp. Other than that, the only thing in the room was a cot, a rough desk and a chair. There wasn't a single person in this pla—
"I hear you have a message for me?"
The Spaniard nearly jumped out of his skin. Whirling around, he came face-to-face with a tall, blond, blue-eyed man. A moment later he wished he hadn't. The man's face was the face of an angel. But his eyes...
His eyes were the eyes of a devil.
The Spaniard swallowed and nodded. This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for. The moment he'd ridden across mountains and deserts for.
"Señor C-Creed."
The name of the most wanted man in more than a dozen states rolled off his tongue haltingly. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a letter sealed with an ornate red wax seal. A sight very seldom seen in this modernized country—yet far more common in the old world. In the Spanish Empire, in particular.
"H-here you go, Señor."
He held out the letter. The hand that took it was refined. Elegant. Not at all what you'd expect the hand of an outlaw to look like. Maybe this man wasn't as bad as his reputation would lead you to believe.
With a low tearing noise, the envelope opened. Moments passed, as Creed read in silence. Finally, the desperado with the angel's face lowered the letter.
"Good news?" the Spaniard asked hopefully.
"Oh yes." Creed smiled—then in a blink, raised his revolver.
The Spaniard's eyes widened. "B-but you read se letter! You know I'm not lying! I'm a messenger!"
"Yes," Creed agreed. "And now you've delivered your message."
Bam!
A moment later, something hit the floor with a thud. Still smiling, Creed holstered his revolver.
"Men?"
"Yes, boss?"
"Someone, take the body away."
"Yes, boss!"
"And..."
"Yes?"
"Prepare the horses." The smile on Creed's face widened into a beatific expression of someone who would never do evil—because he could not tell it apart from good in the first place. "I think it's time to meet up with our new employers." Pulling a bullet from his belt, he methodically reloaded his revolver. "Them and their unwelcome travelling companions."
***
"Bleeeeargargargargargh!"
Carriages. Were. Inventions. Of. The. Devil.
I wasn't certain if they were patented by Lucifer Ltd, but I was darn sure the bastard was behind them in some shape or form. Dry-heaving, I came back up and pulled myself back into the coach that was rattling down the road.
"Here," Mr Ambrose held out a cloth to me.
"Th-thanks." Taking a deep breath, I reached out to take the cloth—and jerked back when I realized what kind of cloth it was!
"Rikkard! Ambrose!"
"Yes?" he enquired, his chiselled face completely innocent and unperturbed, as if he hadn't just offered me a piece of adult-rated underwear to wipe my mouth with.
"I swear," I breathed, supporting myself against the coach wall to keep my head from spinning. "Once I feel better, I'm going to tan your hide for this!"
"Indeed? I shall make a note in my calendar for a few months hence then."
Was there a state in the US in which whacking a husband over the head did not count as domestic violence?
Actually, you're in a territory right now, not a state. Territories don't have many laws. At least not many people bother to follow.
Hm...this was definitely worth considering.
Not that I currently had much concentration or willpower to spare. Days passed slowly and pukingly as the caravan of coaches rattled through the desert. Slowly, the landscape changed around us. The dry air became moist. The desert turned into a swamp. Mud splattered the sides of the coaches at regular intervals—which made it so much more fun to lean out of the window to empty my stomach.
"How much farther?" I groaned.
"Approximately five minutes less since you last retched."
"Thank you so much for your concern, hubby, dear."
"You are welcome."
I leaned out of the window again, once more ready to appreciate the beautiful swamp scenery. While I was busy "appreciating", I noticed one little fact: nothing of the road seemed remotely familiar. That wouldn't be odd, normally. After all, what sane person would spend their travel time memorizing the countryside. Then again, no other traveller had probably spent quite as much time leaning out of the window as I had.
"Say...this isn't the same route we took on our way west, is it?"
"No."
I waited for more for a moment.
After three moments, I realized nothing would be forthcoming.
"Mr Ambrose?"
"Yes?"
"Why are we not using the same road?"
"Last time, we took the direct route. This time, we are travelling with several dozen criminals in tow. Do you wish to drag them several hundred miles to New York?"
"I suppose not." Just then, the coach hit a pothole, and my face turned green. "But do we have to take such an out-of-the-way road?"
"We are looking for the nearest representative of law and order in a place referred to as the Wild West," Mr Ambrose pointed out. "What do you think?"
"Spiffing!" I moaned. "Just spiffing!"
And, once again, I leaned out of the window, determined to prove that Tantalus didn't have it that bad in comparison to me.
Yet, fortunately, nothing except bad weather in England lasts forever. Finally, at the sunset of the seventh day, the silhouette of a city appeared in the distance, outlined against the sea of flames painted by the setting sun.
"Bleeargh!"
And now there was a little vomit added to the beautiful picture.
"We're here?" I groaned. "This is it?"
Mr Ambrose nodded. "The city with the nearest judge."
"I don't give a damn about the judge! I just need a soft bed and a big bucket, pronto!"
"Very well. Karim?"
"Yes, Sahib?"
"Spur the horses to a gallop. Mrs Ambrose wishes to arrive quickly."
"Yes, Sahib!"
A moment later, the coach jerked forward, starting to wobble wildly.
"I hate you!" I moaned, clutching my stomach. "I really, really hate you!"
A familiar strong, elegant hand landed on my shoulder. "I love you, too."
Damn him! Why did that man have to know me so well?
Because you married him?
Drat! That'd be it. Dear Aunt Brank always said I get the stupidest ideas.
Just then, two strong arms reached around me, holding me close, cushioning the rattling of the coach.
Or maybe this one wasn't so stupid after all.
By the time we reached town, my nausea had mostly subsided. I was not, however, as pleased by this as I thought I might have been, because in the absence of the incessant urge to vomit, the exhaustion finally set in. I guess seven days of continuous puking, a bumpy coach ride through deserts and swamps, and, oh, nearly getting bloody hanged, really takes it out of you.
By the time the coach rolled to a stop on the main town square, I was hardly able to clamber down on my own two legs. And I didn't even protest one little bit when Mr Ambrose supported me. That, more than anything else, should tip you off about my condition.
"I'll handle those jail birds," the marshal, who, even with his star pinned to his chest and two revolvers at his sides, still managed to look like a harmless little salesman, nodded down to the two of us from atop one of the prisoner carriages. "You go take care of your lady wife, Mr Ambrose."
Mr Ambrose opened his mouth.
"A little marital advice," I groaned. "Listen to him!"
Mr Ambrose closed his mouth again. His arm came around me, allowing me to lean into his oh so wonderfully solid chest.
"God, I'm dead on my feet!" I groaned, looking around the town square for a suitable, comfy grave. No, better a coffin. The fancy ones had upholstery, right? "Please tell me you're not going to make us camp outside again and we can sleep in an actual room, on an actual, real bed?"
"Yes."
I blinked. "Did...I just hear right? Did you say yes?"
"Indeed."
"You rented a room? As in paid for it? Of your own free will?"
"Indeed, Mrs Ambrose. I happen to know some very affordable and comfortable accommodations around here. In fact, it is guaranteed that the beds will be soft and preheated."
"Really?" I stared at my dear husband in utter disbelief. "They offer a service like that? That's supposed to happen only in really fancy hotels!"
"Oh yes. They offer quite a wide variety of...services."
"Well, that sounds marvellous, I must admit." Especially coming from Mr Rikkard My-Piggy-Bank-is-Made-from-Titanium Ambrose. He really was taking care of me. He was taking me to a fancy hotel! And to think I had suspected him of being stingy once again. "Let's go then, shall we?" I yawned. "I can't wait to get into one of those soft, warm beds."
I heard a choking noise from behind me. When I glanced around, I saw Karim trying to wipe the strained expression from his face.
"Something wrong, Karim?"
"N-nothing whatsoever, Sahiba. Everything is perfect, Sahiba."
I looked at his strange expression for a moment longer—but then shrugged and turned around. Right now, I was too drained to think about what was the matter with him. With Mr Ambrose's strong arm supporting me (Pleasedon'tletpatsyfindoutaboutthis! Pleasedon'tletpatsyfindoutaboutthis!) I let myself be led down the cobblestone street.
"Is it still far?" I mumbled.
"A little. The place is somewhat out of the way from the respecta—ehem, main parts of town."
"Oh," I muttered. "Why's that?"
"Don't worry about it. We'll be there soon."
Humming, I leaned further into him, drawing strength from his warmth. He really was an amazing husband.
It was indeed not too long before we reached our goal. With heavy eyelids, I blinked up at the house in front of us. It was really a nice place. A few too many pink lace curtains, maybe, and the red-tinged lamp shades in the windows were a little odd, but all in all, it looked very comfortable. Even the name above the door was welcoming: Mama Dumant's. It gave off such a comfortable, homey feeling.
"Come on." Tightening his grip around my shoulders, Mr Ambrose led me towards the door. "Let's get you inside and up to your room, quickly."
My heart warmed. He was so good to me.
In a blink, he swept me through the door, past the reception desk and towards the stairs.
"W-wait. Don't we have to register at the desk?" Yawning, I glanced around at the...rather sparsely clad receptionist. The very sparsely clad receptionist.
"No need, no need." Mr Ambrose's pace increased. "Karim will take care of it. You need to go up and lie down, you must truly be exhausted after—"
"Monsieur Amby?" he was abruptly interrupted by a female squeal from behind us. "Monsieur Amby, is that you? It is!"
Mr Ambrose froze.
As for me, I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and give them a thorough cleaning. Monsieur Amby?
I turned around. Or at least tried to. Mr Ambrose's rock-hard arm around my shoulder suddenly seemed not so much supporting as firmly restricting, keeping me pointing the other way.
But someone appeared to have other plans.
"Monsieur Amby!" A tornado of pink, fluffy femininity plucked Mr Ambrose from my arms and enfolded him in a cleavage-squeezing hug. "Monsieur Amby, you've come back! Wait till the girls here about this!"
I blinked. Slowly and deliberately. One of my eyebrows rose. "The...girls?"
Ignoring me completely, the tornado—who, now that it had come to a stop, turned out to be an elegant middle-aged lady with the most massively bountiful assets I had ever seen—whirled around without letting go of my husband and hollered: "Sally! Delilah! Sarah! Meg! Come out and look who's come to visit y'all!"
My eyebrow rose higher. Sally? Delilah? Sarah? Meg?
Slowly, but surely, the warmth in my heart intensified. It was quickly heading towards the boiling point, driving away any hint of weariness.
"Dear?" My voice was calm, sweet and gentle as I stepped towards Mr Ambrose. Or, as I now knew him, prospective murder victim number one. "Who are those four ladies? Why does it sound as if you are familiar with them?"
Mr Ambrose shifted, trying to extract his arm from between asset one and asset two of the middle-aged femme fatale.
"Well, Mrs Ambrose...as to that..."
"Yes, dear?"
But before I could grab hold of Mr Ambrose's throat to squeeze an answer out of him, several girlish screams issued from above, and four girl-shaped blurs came dashing down the stairs.
"Hey! Look who it is!"
"Don't all you grab him at once! I wanna get a piece of him!"
"Ha! First come, first served!"
Four scantily-clad women jumped on Mr Rikkard Ambrose, clinging to him like limpets. Extraordinarily well-endowed, exotically perfumed limpets, decorated with feathers and glitter.
"Hello there, handsome." Limpet number one batted her eyelashes at my husband. "Did you miss me?"
"Probably not," Limpet number two cut her off, elbowing her out of the way. "Leastways not half as much as me!"
"What about me?" Limpet number three threw her arms around him from behind. "You still remember me, Mr I-don't-pay-for-things-that-I-could-get-for-free, don't you?'"
"Ha! He likes me the best, you all know that! Unlike you all, he actually paid me!"
"For a meal from the staff kitchen."
"It still counts!"
"My oh my...he's grown even more handsome since he's been away."
"This time, should we keep him?"
I took a deep breath.
All right. That was it!
"Dear?" I purred, catching the one arm of my husband that wasn't yet in the clutches of prostitutes. "Could you explain to me how you came to be friends with a gaggle of...liberal ladies?"
--------------------------------------------
My dear Lords, ladies and Gentlemen,
If you'd like to be the first to see a teaser of the Storm & Silence 8 cover, keep an eye on my Twitter account TheSirRob! :)
Oh, and in case any among you were confused by the mention of Tantalus in this chapter - Tantalus was a person from Greek myth who was condemned to Tartarus, the Greek version of hell. He was sentenced to forever stand in a lake with fruits dangling over his head, both food and water forever out of reach. His name has become synonymous with endless torture.
That is, except for a trip to a certain summer camp for demi-gods ;-)
Yours Truly
Sir Rob