They skulked in and paused behind the first stack of barrels, taking in the layout of the warehouse. With some trepidation, he rubbed his finger over an oozing stave and brought it to his nose: no gunpowder, only fish.
A sudden creak and Rakecombe spun but saw no one. Dust danced in the faint gloom, mocking his racing heart.
Both he and Winterbourne glanced at each other, frowning, and he signalled they split up. Rakecombe took the left side, quietly approaching an opening in the division, but as he trod softly, a voice rent the air.
“Non,je ne le ferai pas.”
Rakecombe wondered what exactly the man wouldn’t do.
Fierce rattling echoed around the warehouse followed by a vague unidentifiable cry of distress from the other side, and he was tempted to storm in.
“Non, je ne peux pas.” That same voice repeated its non-compliance.
Rakecombe slipped his pistol free and stepped closer behind a cluster of crates. Winterbourne crouched on the opposite side, but as he nodded, his comrade’s gaze promptly shifted to the fishy barrels behind them, eyes rounding in horror.
That feeling, that feeling of being followed and he quickly twisted.
A hand knocked his pistol muzzle to one side and a knife immediately dug into his lower regions. He stopped dead.
His wife stood before him, hair bundled beneath a cap. She wore an open black redingote, from which a slender arm protruded holding one of the wickedest blades he had ever seen. It had a bloody curve to it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed. “Get back to the house.”
She leaned close; the blade dug a fraction deeper. “Listen, you dolt,” she whispered, “I’m purely here to warn you that a child might be in there, held for blackmail. I’m bringing you information from Mrs Blue.”
“What child? Damn it,” he rasped in her ear. He’d take umbrage with “dolt” later.
“She said Mr Blue didn’t catch a name. It’s a girl. And you should also know a dark-haired man with a red scarf has been following you. He’s behind that barrel stack to the left.”
The knife shifted away – a mite too slow for his liking – and she stepped back.
Not that now was the time for noting fashion, but she seemed to be wearing an overwide skirt in plain wool, akin to a riding habit, also in black, and he briefly, very briefly, wondered if she’d followed his instructions and stowed that knife in her garter…and if said garter was black.
Quick as a wink after that disquieting thought came downright anger. Her arrival must have violated every single rule on his list. And they wererules. They had to be rules, for her sake.
“Aideen, you–”
“At home,” she spat.
His retort was forestalled by another rattling and muffled cry, but the terrified whimpering now took on new meaning – a child. It didn’t matter who she belonged to, French or English. The red-scarfed stranger would also have to wait his turn.
“Je ne la ferai pas de mal,” a voice yelled.
“Je la ferai alors.”
“What was that?” whispered Aideen, leaning over his shoulder.
“One man said he won’t hurt someone and the other said he’ll do it himself. We have to go in. Stay here, Aideen.” He waggled his finger at her mutinous eyes. “Do. Not. Move.”
Waiting until she bobbed her head, he and Winterbourne then snuck from behind the crates and edged to the opening in the partition wall.
Glancing through, he saw a large storage expanse, empty save for a makeshift sleeping area to one side. A grubby stove and an overturned crate as table were shoved against the brick wall and in the corner sat a small bed.
Three men blocked his view of the occupant, but the frame rattled as the person upon it drummed their heels.
Bloody hell.
A shrill child’s whimpering raised the hairs on his arm, and he braced to burst in, when a sudden pounding footfall from behind grew louder. The French startled, and before he could act, a huge man with a red scarf brushed past him, storming through the door, pistol aloft, and Rakecombe was left cursing the loss of their element of surprise.
