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His gut tightening, Roe stepped out of the shadows, his look trained on the coach. The springs of it squeaked and he could see the steps being pulled down by the footman.
The coach leaned to the far side. One step down, two and the man set his black boots on the ground.
His fists clenching and unclenching, Roe watched the feet from under the carriage. Back and forth, turning, turning again. Walking forward past the horses.
The man’s head bobbed just past the flank of the front right horse.
Bockton.
Here.
TheMinervawasn’t docked yet and Roe had thought they’d have another day before the bastard showed up. He was wrong.
But Bockton was here. This was his chance.
They were going in, whether they were ready or not.
He didn’t know about his men, but Roe was ready. More than ready. Desperate, even, to smash Bockton’s head against a brick wall.
But first he had to get to him.
Bockton’s pace brisk, he walked into the warehouse, disappearing into the bowels of the storage building.
Roe whistled, low, almost as though it was a moan of the wind.
The sound repeated, again and again along the streets surrounding him.
All were ready.
Pulling the cutlass from the leather scabbard slung about his waist, Roe stepped out from the shadows of the street, advancing on the warehouse.
The men unloading the wagon saw him first and they turned and ran into the building behind them, shouting, screaming.
It took less than a minute for his crew to assemble behind Roe, staring down the men piling out of the warehouse, blades flashing, pistols being loaded as they ran.
He didn’t wait, didn’t give them a moment. The crew of theMinervaoutnumbered his men two to one, so he wasn’t about to offer them a gentlemanly opportunity to collect themselves.
This was about vengeance, about survival, and that meant striking fast, brutally hard.
He charged forth, his cutlass high, rage in the growl tearing from his chest.
The boots of the men thundering through the slop of the street alongside him pushed him forward, unleashing all the fury that had stewed in him since Captain Folback had been killed. All the rage that had stewed since Bockton had dared to put a price on Torrie’s head.
Roe swung at the first man he met, cutting him down before the bastard could even get his sword up.
Next one. And the next one. And the next one.
No matter how many it took, he was getting to Bockton, one way or another. If he had to leave a trail of blood, so be it.
Minutes passed—minutes of swinging his sword, punching, kicking and slicing his dagger—minutes that felt like hours, days.
His back bumped into the side of Des.
“Hey, Cap.” Des blocked a blow of steel with his cutlass.
“Des.” Roe spun around him and swung at the man charging at Des from the side.
Des lifted his foot and kicked off the man attacking him from the front. “We’re not doing so well, Cap.”
