Praying to God it wasn’t the last time she’d ever see him.
“God go with you, sahib.”
Jackson gave a crisp nod to the barely visible Punjabi perched on the driver’s seat of the carriage. Dark had fallen hours ago, yet still they had waited in the station hours more for the clock hands to creep towards the appointed time.
Moving past the barouche, Jackson strode along the gravel lane to the wagon pulling up behind it. He would need God’s intervention to carry out this swindle seamlessly…not to mention the burliness of the six police officers hidden beneath that wagon’s canvas, and the twice as many stationed in the shadows.
Baggett pulled on the reins, halting the dray, while next to him, Graybone frowned down at Jackson. “You ready for this?”
“Your daughter made sure I am.” He patted his hip where one of the many knives Kit insisted he bring rested in a slim sheath.
Graybone’s moustache twitched. “That girl,” he grumbled. “Please tell me you slapped a pair of darbies on her to keep her at home tonight.”
Pah! As if that would work. “That same girl can pick a cuff lock before either of us could blink.”
Charles snorted. “Let’s be about it, then, before she shows up.” He glanced at the soot-blackened warehouse. “Unless she’s already in there making a deal with the devil.”
She very well could be, and the thought of it hardened Jackson’s gut. “Let us hope she is not. Now, to reiterate, the moment Child hands over money for the crate of opium at the back, I’ll give a shrill whistle. I assume the rest of the men are posted to flank the villain and whatever henchmen he may have with him?”
“All is set.” Charles nodded.
“Good. Then converge on Child and his cronies as planned.” Jackson turned on his heel and approached the old warehouse. A torch in a medieval-era sconce sizzled and flickered on one side of the big front door, making the place seem more like a castle fortress than a quayside storage building. He tried the handle, which gave, then sucked in a breath and charged ahead, ready for anything.
Anything but nothing, that is. No Child. No henchmen. The only movements were the macabre shadows he’d induced by the waft of air that came in with him, flickering the flame of a nearby lantern—which didn’t do a thing to dispel the darkness of such an abyss. He snatched the light off the hook and held it out, scanning the area. The front ends of long rows of shelving mocked him in their resolve to be hiding any number of assassins. One could be training a muzzle on his head right now.
Banishing the thought, he advanced several steps then stopped, nerves on high alert. The faint scent of cigarette smoke wafted down a wooden staircase to his right. Craning his neck, he peered up the length of it. Dim light glowed at the top.
He took the stairs two at a time, lamp in one hand, the other poised to snatch his revolver from a hidden holster. As much as Kit loved a blade in her hand, he’d take a six-shot Webley any day.
There wasn’t much to the upstairs but a short passageway with a few doors. Only one of them stood open, golden light cutting a triangle on the dusty floorboards. Keeping a sharp eye lest this be a trap, Jackson approached, with each step calculating how to react should he get jumped the moment his foot crossed the threshold. Heart beating hard, he swung into the room.
One man sat behind a paper-strewn desk, feet kicked up and crossed at the ankle, the red glow of a cigarette sticking out of his mouth. He was a middle-aged fellow, thick of waist and thin of hair. He wore a fashionable woolen coat, a crisp white dress shirt with a neatly knotted bow tie, and a pair of dark trousers. He could be the manager of this place or any number of other businesses. But that cold blue gaze belonged to a man who knew how to handle himself in a back-alley deal. He craned his neck, peering beyond Jackson before finally settling back on him. “Alone, are you?”
“Unlike your boss, I can manage on my own. Speaking of which, where is he?”
He took a final drag on his cigarette, the red tip flaring like a demon’s eye, then abruptly sat up and ground the thing out in a glass dish overflowing with spent butts. He produced a card from inside his coat and held it out between two fingers.
What sort of game was this?
Wary, Jackson pinched the thing and retreated a step, positioning his back to the wall before flicking his gaze to the paper.
Unforeseen circumstance. Must reschedule.
8:00 P.M. tomorrow.
Bellow’s Glassworks
Jackson stifled a growl. Stood up. Again. Unless this were some sort of trick and even now Baggett and Graybone were outside fighting for their lives. He slammed the paper down on the desk. “Tell your boss I’m finished with his games.”
“Tell him yourself.” The man’s gaze shifted slightly.
Jackson wheeled about.
No one was there.
Ugly laughter spilled out of the man in great peals. Snatching the throwing knife from the front slit in his sherwani, Jackson hurled the blade through the air. The man’s hair riffled just above his ear as it passed and thwacked into the wall behind him.
The laughter instantly stopped.
