Page 2 of Go, Rogue

“We’ve a bloke what would like a word,” the one with the pistol says.

“Aye,” McGann agrees, a sinking feeling in his gut. “Seems you do.”

For fuck’s sake.

Even after all his preparation, he’s still going to have to fight his way out of this mess. He doesn’t want to. Despite his size, and his talent for it, he doesn’t like fighting. But as the pistol maneuvers him out of the crowd and into the dark interior of the island, he knows he’s got no choice.

Because Andrew McGann has no intention of dying tonight, especially not from a bullet in his side. He thinks of his grandmother, whom he met for the first time this afternoon. And of the diary and small daguerreotype that had been hidden in his pocket while he did.

Thank Elphame these men didn’t find him then or he’d have put his gran in danger and lost the only insurance he still has against the East India Company.

He’s destroyed all evidence as promised—except for that daguerreotype featuring Lord Comstock, the governor general of India, and his right hand, General Sir Hugh Nash.

The two stand atop a pile of bodies, with their guns slung over their shoulders and smiles plastering their faces. Nash rests his boot on the pile as if it were the day’s quarry—elephants instead of men, women, and children. God help him, children.

He frowns in the dark while the pistol pushes him forward. Up the road and away from the crowd.

He goes willingly, biding his time. He is not going to die tonight. He just needs to find the right moment to strike.

He can wait for it, because he knows it will come eventually. It always does.