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“Well, get on with it. I reckon he’s got a pile of blunt stowed in them pockets, not to mention a gold watch.”
Braden chuckled. “Oh, I never wear my gold watch into Old Town. That’s just tempting fate.”
When the two thugs exchanged a perplexed glance, he took advantage of their hesitation.
“Finally,” he said, shifting to look past his moronic adversaries. “It’s about time you arrived.”
Proving they were indeed morons, both men glanced over their shoulders into the stygian gloom. As they turned back to him, Braden hurled his satchel at Parson’s face.
Hit squarely by the bag heavy with medical instruments, the man roared and staggered back. Braden bolted, dodging between the men and slashing with his knife. The blade caught Mangled Nose in the arm. He bellowed, stumbling aside and clearing a path.
Braden took off into the dark. Skidding around a nearby corner, he bashed his elbow into a brick wall. Ignoring the pain, he ran as fast as he dared over the uneven cobblestones. His attackers were already in hot pursuit, their heavy footsteps pounding behind him.
Dark tenement buildings loomed over him like decrepit giants, blocking out the pale light of the moon. He couldn’t risk twisting an ankle on the uneven stones, or tripping over a doorstep. Fortunately, his assailants had to deal with the same problems. And since he was both younger and fitter, he just needed to keep on his feet until he reached safety.
Finally.
Light shone at the end of the seemingly endless alley, with Cowgate just ahead. There’d be at least a watchman or constable nearby, and a few taverns would still be open. Braden had friends in those taverns, people he’d doctored over the years. They’d never—
His thoughts splintered as his boot slid through something wet and slimy. He pinwheeled his arms but went completely off-kilter, landing hard on his right hip and arm. The knife flew, clattering somewhere off in the dark. Though pain lanced through his body, he forced himself to scrabble up just as his pursuers appeared out of the murk, like demons loosed from the pits of hell.
Well, huffing and puffing demons, anyway. Mangled Nose was cradling his injured arm, and Parson’s mouth was bleeding.
But they were mobile and furious. Like the boy who’d kicked the hornet’s nest, Braden was now about to get thoroughly stung.
“Think yer so clever, don’t ye?” growled Parson, raising his club. “We’ll see how smart ye are now.”
Braden put his hands up, as if in apology. With a little luck, he might be able to deflect the club before it bashed in his skull.
“In all fairness, I did manage to get past you.”
“Only because ye sliced me up good,” Mangled Nose complained. “Ruined my arm, ye did. And I thought ye were a doctor.”
“I am a doctor, and I’d be happy to stitch and bandage you up, free of charge and no questions asked.”
The man frowned. “Ye would?”
“Fecking hell, but yer an idiot,” Parson snapped.
“That’s nae way to speak to yer best friend,” his companion sulkily replied.
“It certainly isn’t,” Braden said. If he could just keep them talking. “In fact, I think—”
“No one cares what ye think,” bellowed Parson, brandishing his club. “I’m gonna shut that gob of yours once and for all.”
He moved in for the kill. Braden curled up his fists, and—
Boom.
Plaster exploded from the wall behind Parson, showering chips and dust down on his head. He staggered sideways, crashing into his friend.
Mangled Nose howled. “Dougal, that’s my bad arm!”
“Who gives a shite about that? Who the hell is shootin’ at us?”
Braden peered toward the end of the alley. “I believe they did.”
Two figures garbed in black advanced silently toward them. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man swathed in a greatcoat. He was carrying a pistol, so had obviously fired the shot. It had been an excellent one, too, stopping Parson dead in his tracks by barely missing him.
