Jack cleared his mind as he homed in on his target.
“On the count of three—one, two, fire!”
Jack whipped the revolver from its holster, cocked the hammer, and fired in one swift motion. Smoke clouded the air as the bullet from Jack’s six-shooter sped toward its target. It collided with Sir Richard’s pistol before the man had time to pull the trigger. Metal, blood, flesh, and bone sprayed into the air. Sir Richard shrieked and dropped to his knees, clutching his hand.
“My God! I think he’s lost a finger.” The doctor scrambled toward his patient.
“Back off.” Brandt strode forward and aimed his revolver at the doctor. “We ain’t done with him yet.”
“You don’t understand. He needs medical attention!” The doctor gesticulated wildly at Sir Richard, who’d collapsed onto his back.
“Don’t panic. He’s only lost his thumb. He’ll be right as rain so long as he does what he’s told.” Brandt lifted his boot and brought it down on Sir Richard’s mangled hand. The man shrieked.
“Now, look here,” Chelmsford roared. “What is going on?”
“Stay out of it.” Brandt swung his revolver at Chelmsford.
“Stop this at once! Do you hear?” Jebkin bellowed. “This is highly illegal.”
“I’ll tell you what’s illegal—” Jack strode forward, revolver in hand—“Stealing another man’s inheritance, that’s what.”
Brandt lifted his foot off Sir Richard’s open wound and moved it to the center of the man’s palm.
“Hello, Uncle.” Jack looked down at Sir Richard. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”
“Will somebody please explain what all this madness is about?” Jebkin pleaded.
“The fine general is about to confess his sins and tell you who I am and what he stole from me.” He smiled down at Sir Richard. “Aren’t you, Uncle?”
“Help me!” Sir Richard looked wildly between Chelmsford, Jebkin, and the doctor. “Please! He’s mad!”
Mr. Chelmsford dashed toward the carriage.
“Hold your horses!” Brandt fired a round near the man’s feet.
Chelmsford leapt in the air and held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot!” he said, getting down on his knees.
“You two”—Brandt gestured toward the carriage and motioned to Sir Richard’s footman and driver—“get down from that carriage.”
The terrified servants scuttled to join Chelmsford, who kneeled, helpless, in the eye of Brandt’s revolver.
“Now,” Jack pointed his revolver at his uncle, “speak.”
“You’re mad!” His uncle babbled. “You’ll hang for this!”
Jack cocked his revolver and fired a shot, narrowly missing Sir Richard’s kneecap. The bullet plowed into the ground in between his legs.
Sir Richard screamed.
“I won’t miss next time.” Jack aimed his pistol at his uncle’s foot.
“Don’t shoot!” Sweat beaded Sir Richard’s forehead as he looked wildly between Jack and the onlookers. “I’ll tell them.”
Jack gestured to Jebkin. “Come closer and ready your notebook. I don’t want you missing a word of this. Tell your friends who I am,” Jack said quietly.
“Sebastian—” Sir Richard gasped—“His name is Sebastian John Greyson.” He wheezed. “My deceased wife’s nephew. The grandson of Edward Knoll.”
“The dead boy?” Jebkin paused his scribbling.
