Page 21 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Sloane sped up, carefully avoiding anything that might make noise, as well as possible traps. Buildings soon loomed ahead, and Sloane slowed to a walk when he reached the abandoned structures. He glanced all around for lookouts and guards, his ears open to the sound of the scuff of a heel, the squeak of a board, a whistled signal. He found none. Parker was apparently too confident in the remoteness of his location.

Sloane stopped in the shadow cast by an abandoned warehouse. In the distance were newer docks, but across a narrow alleyway from them was a brick building where a man stood beside the front door, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze turned toward the active wharves, and his wooden baton hanging at his hip.

Sloane turned back. His four men were right behind them, and he gestured toward the guarded door and gave a sharp nod. As his men moved silently past them, Sloane pulled out the small pistol from inside his jacket and tossed it to Nathan. “Here. You better not have lied to me.”

In front of them, Sloane’s men broke into a run. He took off right behind them, and Nathan joined him. The guard at the door let out a shout and raised his baton, bracing to face his attackers. Sloane’s men crossed the alleyway, roaring as they stormed up the steps.

But Sloane veered off, jerking his head at Nathan to follow him. He ran the length of the building and ducked behind it. There, at the rear, was a door. Sloane turned the handle, but it was locked. From another pocket, he whipped out his lock picks and set to work.

“What are you doing?” Nathan whispered.

“More ways to win than a front assault,” Sloane whispered back. There was a satisfying click; Sloane turned the handle. He held a finger to his lips for silence, and moved stealthily through the door. Nathan followed, moving more quietly than Sloane would have thought, the door closing on a snick.

Sloane slipped along the wall to an open doorway where light spilled out into the hall. He could hear the muffled sound of the fighting at the front door, and a man’s voice inside the room said, “What the hell?”

A chair scraped back, and just as a heavyset, scowling man reached the doorway, Sloane slammed into him, shoving him back into the office and up against the wall, knocking the breath from the man. Behind him, Sloane heard Nathan close the door and turn the lock.

Sloane pinned the man to the wall with an arm braced across his chest, and whipped out a slender sharp knife from his boot. Sloane pressed the point against the man’s throat. “Where is she, Parker?”

“Who?” Parker’s voice was gruff, but fear showed in the whites of his eyes. “Where’s who?”

“I don’t have time to waste here. Tell me where Annabeth is or you’re a dead man.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Are you familiar with a stiletto, Parker?” Sloane’s voice was almost conversational, but cold enough to freeze one’s blood. “It’s a nice little blade I picked up in New Orleans from an Italian. Italian assassins prefer it, I understand. It’ll go through almost anything, but right here—” he lightly pressed the knife to the side of Parker’s neck “—here, where your head and spine meet, it’ll slide in slick as ice and you’re dead in an instant. Or maybe just paralyzed for the rest of your life.”

“I don’t know!” Parker’s brow was wet with sweat. “I swear to God. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know where she is! I don’t know who she is!”

“I’m losing patience with you.” Sloane’s nerves were roiling his stomach, a cold fear looming at the back of his mind.

“I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll pull out of the north side. It’s all yours.”

“That’s good. Now all you have to do is tell me where she is.”

“I don’t know!” The last remaining shreds of Parker’s composure were visibly breaking down. “I don’t know who you’re talking about!”

“Sloane...” Nathan said in a low voice. Sloane looked over at Nathan and saw his own doubts reflected in the other man’s eyes. “I believe him.”

Sloane turned back to Parker. “You better be telling me the truth. If I learn you had anything to do with taking her, I’ll find you. No matter what you do or where you go, I’ll find you. And you’re a dead man.”

Sloane brought his fist and the hilt of the knife down hard on Parker’s head, and the man went limp, sliding to the floor. Sloane swung around and charged out of the room. The hallway was empty, sounds of the fight still echoing down the hall. He burst out the back door and around the side of the building.

He’d been chasing the wrong villain. He’d accomplished nothing. Even in his fury, he had believed Parker wouldn’t kill Annabeth or harm her; she was his bargaining tool. There was no assurance like that now. It could be anyone; he had no idea who took her or where she might be or how to find her. Visions of Annabeth hurt and scared filled his mind.

Despair coursed through him, driving out the anger and nerves that had fueled him. He slumped against the wall, cursing.

Sloane had never felt so helpless. He’d been trapped before; he’d been caught; he’d been tossed in jail. But he had always been confident that he would find a way out of it. He would fight; he’d bluff; he’d find a way to slip through the cracks. But now...he had nothing.

No. That wasn’t true. He had himself. He had his men and plenty of money. He had this fool beside him, for whatever that was worth—Nathan had held up better than Sloane had expected, little as he liked to admit it. There was always Lady Lockwood, who was never a force to be taken lightly. Sloane had friends in the government—or, at least, former colleagues—men who knew things, and he would have no hesitation in calling in those chips.

He levered away from the wall, willing out the terror of losing Annabeth that had gripped him. He couldn’t acknowledge it; he refused to accept the possibility of a world without her. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled two long blasts. Then he started toward the hackneys, his steps growing ever faster until he was in a trot, then running.

Behind him, his men emerged from the building. Two of Parker’s men came out after them and whooped and called taunts from the building’s door but did not chase them. Sloane and Nathan reached the waiting carriage and threw themselves inside, too winded to speak for a moment.

“I believed him,” Nathan said finally.

Sloane nodded.