Page 105 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“’Ey now, no cause for that. I got lots o’ men willing to pepper yer insides. I can get the gold from your dead body as easily as from yer live one.”

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” squeaked a terrified man.

“I’m afraid they cain’t, m’lord. I’ve got their guns.”

Not to mention, everyone was still standing in the dark except for the gaunt and damned young face of Lord Mooney’s eldest son. The boy was crouching inside the carriage. Jesus, he couldn’t be more than nineteen.

“I’ll never give it up!” the boy cried as he held out a pistol in a shaking hand.

Bloody idiot! He was going to die. Peter pushed forward—Ash a bare second behind him—but they needn’t have worried. Before they could go more than a step, a weathered hand pulled the boy’s pistol away. It came from a man inside the carriage. He’d been sitting twisted around so he wouldn’t be visible from the open door. But his words were clear enough as he spoke.

“Don’t be daft. They’ve got us surrounded, and we’re sitting here like a bloody beacon.”

Peter exhaled in relief. A voice of reason. Likely the ship’s captain and a man experienced in violence. A moment later, his assessment proved correct as the man addressed Silas.

“I’ve got what you want right here.”

“No!” squeaked the boy.

“But I need to be sure my men and his lordship are safe.”

Silas released a dark chuckle. “Who knows? London’s a dangerous city, especially at night.” Peter moved silently forward.

“I still got my pistols, and I can shoot whoever comes near.”

Silas didn’t bother to answer. Instead, Peter saw the dark silhouette in front of him lift an arm. Then there was a bright flash as he fired, putting a hole straight through the side of the carriage.

That was it for Peter. Silas probably hadn’t been aiming at anything in particular, but a shot from this distance could hit anyone. All he’d been waiting for was the proof of deadly intent.

And there it was.

He sprang forward. Silas hadn’t been expecting an attack, certainly not from behind. Peter tackled the villain quickly, knocking the pistol away, then kicking the heavy mallet aside. But it was a heavy mallet, and it didn’t go far. Silas wheeled around, but Peter had the upper hand. He didn’t worry about other attackers. He knew from experience that Ash would keep off anyone coming to Silas’s aid.

The scuffle was quick. Within moments, Peter had the bastard subdued, though cursing enough to burn his ears. Then he called out in a strong voice.

“Constable? Have you caught the others?”

“Some,” came the response as the man lit a lantern and set it on the ground. In the pool of light, Peter saw a couple of lanky adolescents struggling in the grip of larger men. “The little ’uns are quick little buggers.”

Yes, the younger boys would have melted into the fog like water. Meanwhile, Lord Mooney’s boy was peering owlishly out at the darkness.

“What’s happening? What’s going on?”

“Just a moment, sir,” Peter said. “I’m with the constable, and we have been tracking this gang for a while now. Let us mop them up, and you’ll be on your way.”

“But the carriage—” the boy squeaked.

The captain’s voice interrupted. “I’m grateful, sir. We’ll be quiet in here, though I wouldn’t mind a word from my men.”

Peter understood that, and while the constable produced rope to tie up Silas and his boys, Peter looked to the carriage. “Speak up, men.”

Not a word. Damnation.

While Ash lit another lamp, Peter went to the closest perch. The man there was messy with blood, but when he touched the man’s throat, a pulse beat steady and strong.

“Alive but unconscious,” he said. “Come on out, Captain, and tell me if you have any skill at physicking.” The carriage lurched as the captain went to check on his men.

A moment later, he heard the man’s voice from the second perch. “Jones? Jones, man, wake up.”