Chapter Twenty #2
Gideon could not argue with that logic, largely because he was so out of his depth with this underworld he hadn’t realized operated right beneath their noses. It turned out that Oliver was quite the accomplished committer of espionage and had made many enemies because of his talents.
“I often operated under an alias with a complex backstory and some alteration to my appearance—whether it be my clothing, a beard, shorn hair—but that does not mean I was never going to be recognized…not when my wife’s mother’s business happens to reside next door to a location where I was nearly killed during an investigation. ”
Gideon had seen his scars as Oliver had changed; a particularly nasty one was revealed when Oliver lifted his arms to slip his shirt over his head. The wound was positioned between his ribs and Gideon thought it was a wonder that Oliver had survived it.
Gideon loosed huff of incredulity.
“What was that?” Oliver asked distractedly as he continued his preparations.
“I’ve only just now realized that I never stood a chance in our wrestling match at Bray Castle, did I?”
Oliver’s lips curled despite the seriousness of the situation. “You are lucky fisticuffs were decided against.”
They continued discussing their preparations, running through their plan over and over again until Oliver was positive Gideon was familiar with every aspect.
His body thrumming with anticipation and anxiety, they exited the townhouse just as the last blush of sunset began to melt from the sky and headed toward the river and the meeting place indicated in the note demanding the surrender of “Marcus Holden.”
Several blocks before they reached the spot, Oliver peeled away from his side and disappeared into the shadows with unnerving ease.
If he’d needed any further evidence of his half brother’s talents, then that would have been it.
Oliver had reassured him that he’d be nearby even if Gideon could not hear or see him.
He took comfort in the soft triple trill of a whistle as it echoed against the buildings—a reminder that Gideon was not alone.
As he waited, stock-still as a headstone, the slick cobbles beneath his boots cooled rapidly.
The early hints of fall were already creeping into London, adding a light chill to the damp air that carried with it the stench of the Thames and the overflowing gutters in this part of town.
He released a long, slow breath and reminded himself of his task.
He had to keep his head about him if he was going to distract these men and get them to lead Oliver to Emily and Caroline.
Gideon would stand in as decoy, keeping them occupied until the women could be rescued.
He would do whatever it took—endure whatever he needed—to know Caroline was safe once more.
Soon, man-shaped shadows peeled away from the dark buildings and alleyways…so many that he quickly lost count. His muscles tensed instinctively, but he knew he was no match for this many men, even with Oliver hidden away nearby.
“Marcus Holden?” asked one of the shadows in lightly accented English. Their plan hinged upon the fact that the men had either never had a good look at Oliver or had seen him months prior. It would be difficult for even their wives to tell them apart in a night this dark.
“You took something from me and I want it back,” came Gideon’s powerful reply. His fists clenched, but he was otherwise motionless.
“The women will be released,” said another shadow.
“Only if you surrender quietly,” added a third.
“Lay down your weapons and kick them away,” the first figure instructed.
Slowly, so as not to startle anyone into retaliation, Gideon peeled open his coat and began removing the knives Oliver had tucked away. He did as he was told, dropping them to the cobblestones and using the toe of his boot to shove them, and they skittered away.
“Search him,” ordered one shadow to another.
Gideon was roughly patted down and his every pocket was invaded by a barrel-chested man with bovine features. He couldn’t help but notice a relatively fresh bandage wrapped around the man’s left hand, noteworthy because he was otherwise remarkably dirty.
“She did that to you?” he muttered, not needing to clarify who “she” was.
“The red-haired bitch,” the man grunted and then pulled a small knife from the top of Gideon’s boot. Oliver had placed it there so they wouldn’t search the soles more thoroughly. Gideon shrugged in a poor apology as the man pocketed the blade for himself. “She got what she deserved.”
I look forward to killing you, Gideon thought as his hands were bound behind his back, a musty sack was placed over his head, and he was led away with a harsh shove to the center of his back that almost sent him sprawling.
The sack was ripped from Gideon’s face and, though only two candles illuminated the large black space, he had to blink several times to regain his sight.
He’d done his best to keep track of the turns and, as near as he could tell, they were at the docks.
He’d lost count, though, after one man had slammed his head into the carriage floor.
He hadn’t seen it coming, so he hadn’t been able to brace himself in the slightest…
and it was difficult to recall much when one’s ears rang like his head had been stuck inside of a church bell.
He was roughly carried and dragged into a building smelling of wood and salt where he was shoved down into a chair and strapped to it with thick, chafing ropes.
His ankles had been pulled back until his knees were bent at more than a ninety-degree angle; they were then tied to his wrists, which had been stretched behind him over the back of the chair.
In all, it was terribly uncomfortable, but he hadn’t expected much better.
Gideon blinked at the men in the room—there were only two that he could see, but he knew there were more around.
“You do not seem like the vicious killer or the elite spy we were told to expect,” observed the man with the thin mustache. He recognized the voice as the first shadow.
“Are we supposed to have a certain look to us? I hadn’t realized.” Gideon’s tone was remarkably flippant despite his pounding heart.
“He thinks he is a jester,” remarked the second man—the one with the bandaged hand. Gideon was more pleased than he should have been to see him; it meant he did not have to seek him out to kill him.
“He will not for long,” said the first man before he advanced on Gideon. “You killed Charles, Gilbert, and Paul,” he snarled. “Henri died in your jail. Le Général…he, too, will be avenged. And you, you English excrement, will beg for the sweet release of death before I am through with you.”
“That sounds markedly unpleasant,” Gideon said flippantly. “I apologize for whatever happened to your friends, but can we not simply allow bygones to be bygones? From what I hear, they may have deserved—”
Crack!
Gideon’s words were cut short by a vicious fist to his jaw.
He tested his molars with his tongue, but none seemed to be loose.
He did, however, taste the copper tang of blood where the inside of his cheek had been split on the edge of a tooth.
He held onto his rage, bottling it up to save for later.
“Cocky English pig,” growled the bullish man in French before he spat a wad of phlegm on the toe of Gideon’s boot.
“Now that was terribly impolite,” Gideon commented in the man’s native tongue. “These are borrowed, and I am certain the owner will not appreciate them being returned in such a sorry state.” His French was imperfect from disuse, but he could still speak and understand it with relative fluency.
Both Frenchmen scowled before the first charged Gideon and pressed a blade to his throat. “You arrogant pox-ridden filth,” he hissed.
“I thought the Froggies were more pox-ridden—”
“I should slit your throat right now!” The blade pressed more deeply into Gideon’s neck, and a warm trickle of blood began to soak into his neckcloth.
“No!” shouted the other man. “They want him alive!”
“For now…” He removed the blade and pocketed it. “But that doesn’t mean we cannot have some fun first. Give him what he deserves.”
Immediately, fists began to rain upon Gideon’s head and chest. Still tied to the chair, he was knocked to the floor, unable to stop his head from striking the stones.
The momentary blinding, ringing pain was a blessing before he once again felt every blow.
A kick landed in his ribs and he heard, as well as felt, the crack of bone.
He groaned and grunted, refusing to give them the satisfaction of crying out.
It was hell, but he knew he could—he would—weather anything as long as it distracted these men long enough for Oliver to get Caroline to safety.