42. CHAPTER 42
F og and river mist clung thick around the warehouses when Dalton arrived just before midnight. His boots made no sound on the wet boards of the long pier, but he knew he was being watched. Every instinct in him said trap .
Warehouse Seven loomed ahead at the end of Bishopsgate Pier. Dark. Hulking. The perfect place to set up an ambush. He had come alone, as demanded. No advantage in numbers, no visible weapons. He carried the briefcase in his right hand and let the left hang at his side.
"Stop."
Alfred's voice from the dark. He could not see his cousin. He stopped a good twenty paces short of the door.
"Open the briefcase."
Slowly, keeping his hands visible, he worked the latches. He kept his head bent over the case.
Inside, the money was real and counted twice.
He angled the lid toward the dark.
The shot came from the warehouse roof, not from the window. He registered the angle at the same instant the round took him in the chest.
The impact was not what he had braced for.
He had been punched in fights, and a horse had once kicked him.
This was nothing like it. It was ten times worse.
He staggered backward, the breath going out of him.
He looked down, half expecting a hole in the breastplate, and saw red spreading across his white shirt .
He let his knees go. He fell and lay where he had fallen. Eyes half open, his right hand still on the briefcase.
His only thought, with absurd clarity: I hope to God Vivienne is not watching this.
S he could see everything from the loft.
Alfred had come back an hour ago, gagged her again, dragged her onto a chair, and positioned her next to the boarded window so she would have an unobstructed view. He had not bothered to explain, nor had he needed to. The intention was clear: he wanted her to witness her husband's assassination.
She had watched Dalton walk down the pier alone with a briefcase, and she had been screaming since the moment his boots touched the boards. The gag turned her screams into nothing. Her throat was raw. Her chest hurt from forcing breath through cloth.
She watched him stop where Alfred told him to stop, open the briefcase, and angle it to show the money inside. All with a preternatural calm so at odds with the danger she knew he was in.
The shot came from above her. She felt it vibrate through the structure before she heard it. She saw the way his body shook with the impact, and he staggered back. The way he looked, almost surprised, at his chest. And then her husband was falling.
"Noooo!" The word was a desperate roar torn from her chest, but it became only a muffled wail that could barely escape her gagged mouth.
He fell on his back on the wet planks, a red stain on his white shirt, and he was not moving. But he was not dead. He could not be dead on a pier with his eyes open and his blood on his shirt.
She fought the rope harder, pulling against her bonds with all her might.
She had worked one knot loose earlier, in the dark, before Alfred had come back.
Now she tore at the rest of it. The rope cut into her wrists.
She barely registered it. She pulled with her whole body, throwing her shoulders into it, and her hand slipped free just as she felt something in her shoulder go.
The pain was white-hot. Searing. For a moment her vision went dark at the edges, and she thought she would be sick.
She gritted her teeth and fought the dizziness until she was sure she would not pass out.
Then she pulled her other arm out of the rope while her bad arm hung at her side like a thing that did not belong to her.
Below her, Alfred was walking out onto the pier. Drawing closer to the prone body of her husband. Unhurried. With the confidence of a man who believed he had won.
She watched, holding her breath, her good hand fumbling at the rope around her ankles, working the knots she could not see because she wouldn't look away from Dalton's body.
Alfred picked up the briefcase first. Inspected the contents. Then he crouched down, and his hand extended toward Dalton's neck.
She forgot her shoulder, the ropes, the pain. Her entire body stilled, focused on that single point of contact. Holding her breath.
And then Dalton moved.
She could not parse all of it. He moved too fast. The gun went into the water. She saw a fist land. She saw him roll Alfred over and put cuffs on him, calm and methodical, like a man finishing a piece of business.
He was alive. Her husband was alive, and he was on top of Alfred, and Alfred was the one face down on the planks now, and Dalton was —
A laugh came out of her. Cracked and wet and pressed against the gag, but a laugh.
Then Alfred's head jerked, and his body went limp.
Another shooter.
Dalton was already moving. Rolling clear of the body. Getting his feet under him. Another shot took a piece out of the boards an inch from his hip.
He ran toward the warehouse door as the shooter walked his fire across the planks behind him .
"Vivienne!"
His voice, ragged.
He had made it inside. Alive. And he was looking for her.
"Here!" she screamed back, but of course it came out muted. He would not be able to hear it. And then… was that smoke she smelled?
She screamed harder, still fighting to untie the ropes that bound her ankles with her one working hand. Hoping and praying Dalton would find her in time. She was in a loft, toward the front of the warehouse. Hard to spot from the inside.
There was definitely smoke in the air, and an ominous orange glare painting the back corners of the warehouse.
Then he looked up and saw her. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before he looked around, found the stairs, and went up them three at a time.
He was real. Here. Running toward her. He was not dead.
She tried to say his name and could not, because of the gag. He saw, and his hands went to the cloth, taking it off her in one motion. Then he untied the rope around her ankles. His face was white. There was a small dark hole in the front of his shirt with red around it.
She fell into his arms, hugging him with all her might with her one good arm, while uncontrollable sobs racked her body. His arms squeezed her against him, and she hissed, the pain in her shoulder making her lightheaded.
"Are you injured?" It was more demand than question. His voice was urgent, strained. He was worried about her ? He was the one with a hole in his chest.
"You are wounded…" How could he be alive with a wound like that? How could he move, run, fight…
"I'm fine."
"But the blood — "
"It is fake. Let us go. We have to get out of here. The warehouse is on fire. "
Then he looked at her more carefully, in the increasing illumination provided by the fire, and his eyes widened. "Jesus Christ. Your shoulder is dislocated. If that bastard were not already dead, I would kill him with my bare hands for doing this to you."
He was already tugging his neckcloth off as he spoke.
"He did not. I did it to myself. I dislocated it trying to break free."
"Damn." With a gentle but swift motion, he positioned her arm across her chest and tied it securely with his neckcloth.
He got her upright. She leaned into his side, hard, because her legs were numb from being tied for hours, she could not yet manage her shoulder, and the pain in her wrists was only beginning to register. He took most of her weight, and they made the stairs.
They were at the warehouse door when a shot came again, impacting the door frame by Dalton's head.
He stopped them short and pushed her behind him with his body. Backed her into the doorway.
"Someone is still out there," she whispered.
"I know."
She looked around. The roof was on fire now. A rafter cracked somewhere overhead, a piece of burning wood fell into the open floor of the warehouse and lay there, hissing in the wet of the planks.
"There," he said. "Side door."
He took her toward it. The side door had a padlock. He kicked it once, twice, threw his shoulder at it, and the wood splintered, but the lock held. He kicked it again. The smoke was thicker now. Her eyes stung and her throat burned. They didn't have much time.
A voice came from the pier-side door, muffled by the noise of burning wood.
"Dalton. Are you in there?"
Dalton stopped with his shoulder against the wood. He let out a breath.
"That is John."
"In here," he called. "Do not come in. The roof is going."
"You can come out. I have dealt with the shooter. "
"Come," he said, placing his arm around her torso and leading her out.
She breathed in deep lungfuls of air scented with the varied smells of the docks as they exited the dark warehouse.
Not the cleanest, but after the suffocating smoke inside, it felt like heaven.
She took uneven steps, Dalton's arm around her waist the only thing keeping her upright now that the rush of danger had passed.
A dark-haired man who looked to be in his early thirties materialized out of the shadows to join them by the door.
"John," Dalton addressed the younger man, still moving forward. "Thank goodness. My wife is injured. I need to take her home right away."
John looked at her, and seeing her injury, winced. "I left my carriage right at the mouth of that alley." He gave a piercing whistle, and a carriage rolled forward with a clatter of hooves. "Take it. I will deal with the cleanup here."
"Thank you," Dalton said, continuing to support her as they made their way up the pier to the waiting carriage.
Her steps faltered, and Dalton stopped and lifted her into his arms.
"Don't argue," he said preemptively, although she had no plans to do so. "You look ready to faint."
She was. Still cradling her injured arm to her torso, she rested her head on Dalton's shoulder. The red stain was just an inch away from her nose, but she now knew it was not his blood. He was not injured. But how…?
Then she realized his chest was hard. Harder than usual. He was wearing armor under his shirt. He had known his cousin was likely to shoot him. And had come anyway.
"What happened? Who fired the shots?" Dalton was asking John, who kept pace next to them.
"Unidentified men. Sorry it took me so long.
I dealt with the first shooter as soon as he killed St Aubyn, but there was another one who was trickier to locate.
He was shooting from a window in the next warehouse.
It was a matter of spotting which window he was in and then — " He shrugged, patting the rifle he had slung over one shoulder.
"So you were not the one who shot Alfred. I thought so. "
"Of course not. I had him in my sights the entire time and was ready to shoot should the need arise. But you had him under control, and I know he is more valuable alive than dead."
Dalton gave him a single nod. "I'm thankful you acted when you did. Are both shooters dead?"
"Yes."
"I would bet they were Alfred's accomplices," Dalton mused. "When they realized he was going to be arrested and could inform against them, they eliminated him."
John nodded. "That sounds likely, yes. Stanley will not be pleased. He was hoping to catch St Aubyn alive. He wanted what information he could provide."
"So did I, but what else could we have done under the circumstances?"
"He will still blame you."
"Stanley can go to hell for all I care."
They had reached the carriage, and Dalton deposited her inside with extreme care.
"I must go with my wife, John. Can you handle affairs here by yourself?" Dalton asked over the din of the rain.
"Of course. Nathaniel will be here any moment to help."
John shut the carriage door.
The skies opened as they pulled away. A downpour. At least it would put out the fire and wash the pier of what had happened on it.
Dalton moved close to her, held her with extreme care, mindful of her injury. She lifted her head.
"You wore armor," she said.
"Yes."
"He could have shot you in the head."
"I counted on him aiming for the larger target of my chest. Alfred was never that good a shot."
Her good hand closed in the wet front of his coat.
"That is still… Do not ever… " She stopped. The words were not in her. She pressed her face against his collar.
He kissed the top of her head.
"I will not," he said.
It was a lie, and they both knew it. He would always come for her.
Even if it cost him his life.