Raven Pirate Assassin Spy Page 2

  Shaking her head, she dropped the ropes of hair in her hand and stepped toward him. “Give me the choker.”

  “So you’ll do it?” He extended the shock collar to her.

  Taking the choker, she eyed him for a moment as if trying to decide whose neck to slap the damn thing on. As quickly as the thought, whatever it had been, ran through her head, it disappeared, and, a few swift movements later, the clasp clicked closed.

  Only then did the bounty begin to show signs of life. Moaning and rubbing his eyes, fingers slipping up to touch the thick metal encased around his trunk, wires entwined around it. Ian knew the feeling of helplessness coupled with desperation when the realization hit that the collar couldn’t be removed.

  Trouble looked at him. “You’d better turn the damn thing on. Let’s fly the coop.”

  “Right.” He snatched the controller from his pocket and shoved his momentary compassion aside. The would-be rapist didn’t need sympathy, and they needed to get out before a guard change. He flipped the blue switch on the small black box in his palm. Hard to believe Tesla’s great technology had been used to develop objects designed to inflict pain on others, but Tesla had done what he needed to survive. Better to be the one with the box than the one locked in the device.

  He asked the bounty, “Are you ready to leave?”

  “Bollocks if I’m going with you.” He coughed, gave up on removing his new jewelry, and sank to his knees.

  “Well, you don’t have much choice.”

  As soon as the bounty put palms to the cell floor and moved to stand, Ian tapped the control button. The reaction was instantaneous. Tuul flipped to his back, trembling from the momentary voltage winding its way through each limb.

  “Now, do you understand?” Marshall stepped into the cell, not missing Trouble’s smile at her enemy’s weakened position.

  “Oy, I understand. It’s death here, and a chance to kill her if I go with you.” Tuul looked back at Trouble, whose gleaming eyes expressed her longing to end him, which would be unacceptable to Luther. For whatever reason, the bounty was worth more alive than dead.

  “If you’re so eager for a pass, come along,” she replied, and headed for the stairs.

  Ian offered a hand to his prone captive, but his assistance was rebuffed with a slap. The bounty rose on his own and followed the woman—who’d either get them out of Spain or get them caught.

  ***

  Sorella’s plan worked like all her plans—exactly as she had expected it to. This bounty hunter’s poor execution of his mission, not to mention his failure to knock out the scag before he disarmed the cells, showed he lacked experience. Definitely no triggerman, but she saw potential in him despite his less than stellarly executed capture. Besides his looks, a way with words appeared to be his most valuable feature so far. Too bad words and a smile weren’t needed to get them through the city streets and to her ship.

  He didn’t know it, yet, but teaming up with her would be one of his better choices, and after he led her to The Cursed, she’d toss him then rid the world of the scag who had tried to attack her crew.

  Once upstairs, she retrieved her balisongs, coil gun, and electo wand, silently lifting praise as her hands touched each possession and placed it in its proper place on her person. Outside, the city was surprisingly silent, a shock since bad behavior never tended to sleep in Europe these days.

  “Keep your heads down, and follow me,” she whispered, crouching next to the mortar walls near the city square. Less than a kilometer away, the Liberté sat anchored, ready to launch as soon as she arrived.

  Tuul and the hunter followed quietly. Thankfully, they were stealthy except for that small metal jingle on the heels of the hunter’s boots.

  Her father and teachers had told her often, “Perfection can only be sought by oneself and not others,” but she’d failed to follow the lesson closely. In some ways, it made her a better captain, and in others….

  She stopped mid-step, and the hunter bumped into her. The connection was like an errant spark from an electo wand, and one she was ignoring. “You need to silence your shoes,” she hissed.

  “No time. No one’s around to hear them anyway,” he growled, and pointed in front of her. “Keep going.”

  As she opened her mouth to reply, an alarm sounded in the distance. Out of time, she took off in a dead sprint toward the docks, hauling the metal whistle from the rope at her neck to her lips to announce her arrival.

  Three trills and a tweet. Your captain arrives.

  A metal shriek rent the air as the boarding deck opened, and the disc platforms, suspended on metal-infused ropes, descended. Two were empty, and Bastille waited on the third.

  “We board and launch immediately.”

  Her first mate eyed the men beside her and nodded.

  Sorella turned, grabbing an empty platform and shoving it toward the hunter. “You on this one. Scag, the other.”

  “What about you?”

  The question made her pause. When was the last time a man had worried about her or even thought to have cause? She linked an arm with her first mate and slipped a boot between his larger ones on the disc. “I ride with him.”

  The hunter’s mouth slackened, his eyes narrowing. He looked dismayed, but she didn’t know why. Nor would she allow herself to care.

  The platforms rose quickly, pulling them through the chilled night air up to her waiting ship. A crewman grabbed her upstretched arm and hauled her onto the deck. The others followed. Within a few minutes, everyone was secured.

  Sirens still rang out below in the city, and it wouldn’t be long before guards flooded the harbor. Time to depart.

  “Bastille?”

  “Yes, Captain.” He stepped up beside her, his towering, six foot four frame casting a long shadow on the wood beneath their feet, his bald head gleaming in the moonlight. “Release anchor and get us out to sea immediately.”

  She tucked her thumbs in the waistband of her pants, watching as the ship came to life. Harv and Mel, her technicians, raced to the engine room to stoke the electric tentacles of the Tesla engine. A couple of hands wound the cranks to release and raise the anchor. Steam bellowed forth from the exhaust ports. Her helmsman saluted, waiting for her approval to move the Liberté out.

  Sorella nodded, and away they went.

  As the ship moved away from the docking port and out over the open Atlantic, Sorella turned, ready to face her new passengers.

  Both hunter and bounty stood between two guards as bald and tall as her second and trained to remove any threat to their captain, the crew or the Liberté on command. Soldiers befit with enormous benefits, including their own cabins and larger meal portions. Ultimately, they didn’t need to protect her, but, according to her second, “Pirate captains always have protection.”

  “My name is Captain Castoa. Welcome to my ship.” She opened her arms, sweeping them in a wide arc. “There are only two rules. One, you do as I say. Two, you break rule one, and your life is forfeit.”

  The crew members chuckled at that, everyone except her first mate and his guards. Laughs from them weren’t common, and smiles proved to be far rarer.

  “Happy to follow your rules, Captain. As long as you take me where you promised,” the hunter replied with a smile of his own, a captivating one revealing less than perfect teeth, but a far cry better than Tuul’s mangled mouth. For a man constantly facing danger, he seemed to take a carefree approach to his conversations and mannerisms.

  “Name the location of The Cursed, and we’ll be off.”

  A few crewmen stepped back then. She waited for him to announce the hiding place, eager to hear the name spoken aloud, for that was the secret to the gang’s success—no one could find them. For years, they’d evaded not only the Germans, but the English, the Chinese, and the Americans as well. All nations longed to bring them down and coveted The Cursed’s ability to get jobs done when they couldn’t. Her father hated them with a passion,
her mother whimpered at the mere mention of their name, and Sorella—she burned with vengeful desire.

  The hunter stepped forward, closer to her, mumbling between clenched teeth. “I don’t have an exact location.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You retrieved a bounty for them.”

  He pursed his lips. “Yes, about that…. I did, but—”

  She grabbed him by the collar. “Then where are they?”

  Her eyes were so blue and perfect, despite her growling expression, that for a minute, Ian almost forgot the bargain he’d struck—almost forgot everything. Then he shook his head, clearing the momentary insanity away. He needed to focus if he was to keep himself alive, so he fixed his gaze on her lips, a pink, plump pair that had him licking his own. Noise ceased; everything went dead quiet. Then she scowled.

  “Now, ma’am”—always start with a polite salutation—”the location changes frequently, as you know.”

  She let go and stepped back, hands reaching for a small piece attached to her belt. “Then what good is that bounty to me? Might as well kill him.”

  The captain moved forward, and he jumped in front of his bounty, putting his hands up, palms out and pleading. “Wait! I’m all for slaying bad men unless the act prevents me from getting paid.”

  “How about I pay you for the privilege of killing him?” she asked while her crew chuckled. Everyone wanted to see bloodshed.

  “Normally, I’d take you up on the offer, but he’s worth more than whatever francs you could give. I’ll hold good on my promise to get us to them and split half of my reward, but can we get him locked up first?”

  Tuul was leaning against the ship’s side, and, with every passing moment, Ian wondered if he’d drop in to the water and escape. Not likely, since all the waters surrounding Europe were known for mines, especially close to shore. The damn things would send shrapnel shredding everything in its path within a kilometer if detonated. Sea travel was a damn thing of the past, thanks to Tesla and the kaiser.

  She hesitated, looking at Tuul, then pointed. “Grab him.” The two bald, dark-skinned guards hoisted him six inches in the air and headed toward a door under the helm’s deck. “Take him to the hold. Then take our hunter to a room to bunk down.”

  “What about the choker?” Ian chose to ask the most innocuous question rather than one of the many contentious ones swamping his brain. Why did she want to meet The Cursed so bad? What was the metal piece she’d tucked back into the holster on her belt? With any luck, he’d be able to ask those questions later.

  “Bastille will take care of it. He’ll show you where to go.” She pointed at the man who’d ridden the disc platform with her. “And, now, the directions you promised? Where to?” She motioned toward her helmsman.

  “Northern Germany, old Denmark.” Still looking at her, he held the controller out to Bastille, who towered over him by probably a couple of feet. “A town called Nordberg. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean my crew hasn’t.” She walked away, back straight like a debutante at a ball. He was familiar with that type of woman. His damn heart had been broken in two by such a creature. A mystery to find in an airship captain the same form, the same swagger, as she mounted the steps toward her helmsman with grace and poise.

  Bastille took the controller and motioned with his free hand. “Follow me,” he said, his words a deep bass reverberating through the air and breaking Ian from his musings.

  No sense in fighting the command or demanding more time with the captain. The choice to stay on the ship beat his alternatives. He’d need all his wiles to navigate the precarious situation he’d landed in. His constant string of bad luck would have his hometown’s natives claiming he had bad juju, but then he’d survived worse. So far, his gut had delivered decent results, and he decided to trust the organ one more time. “Lead the way.”

  His escort opened the ornate wood door the guards had disappeared behind earlier.

  “Mind showing me where my bounty is being housed?”

  The question received a nod and a grunt, and they marched down a dimly lit, narrow metal hallway. While he hadn’t been on many airships in the past, he found it odd that this one had wood planks trimming the wall edges then additional planks at certain intervals running from ceiling to floor as supports instead of the steel rivets normally used. The electric bulbs illuminating their way hung from the ceiling and were nearly the same size as a human head. At full strength, they’d burn skin, but they had been dialed down, giving off a hazy yellow glow.

  Ian and Bastille walked past several doors; one he swore went to the kitchen, based on the smells drifting through the air. His stomach grumbled. It’d been hours since he’d wasted the few francs he’d had left on a poor man’s bean stew and a slice of crusty old bread.

  They passed three more doors, each labeled with a different ship’s function, everything from the sick bay to the chart room, until finally they reached one with Brig carved into the wood.

  Bastille opened it and stepped inside. “He’ll stay in here.”

  Ian peered into the room, noticing the steel cage with electrified bars first. Very similar to the setup he’d busted Tuul out of a mere hour before. “Are you sure he can’t get out?”

  “You think you’re funny locking me up in here.” The man in question looked up, then, from his seat on the cell cot. “I’ll be having the last laugh, you bloody bruisers. And when I get out, expect some payback.”

  “Oui,” Bastille replied, his French accent thicker than before as he motioned for Ian to move so he could exit. “He’ll be given two meals a day unless he misbehaves. Then the con will get shocked instead.” Idiot in French was one way to describe Tuul.

  Leaving the brig, they continued walking down the hallway. More gateways appeared, this time with numbers on them.

  “These are the cabins,” the first mate announced, stopping before a wooden entrance marked with a seven. “This one is yours.”

  Ian grasped the handle this time and pushed. The timber door swung open, and he stepped into a dark space. No electric bulb on in here, only a circular stream of moonlight coming in through a small porthole in the far wall. He let his eyes adjust. The tiny room was furnished only with a cot, slightly larger than Tuul’s, and a small table next to it.

  Feeling along the wall, he found the switch and flipped it. A small spark, the faint smell of burnt hair that accompanied a light coming on, and then the room illuminated. He saw the small heating unit and walked over to it. A sharp sting hit his fingertips as they briefly brushed the block.

  He rubbed his hands together to chase the sensation away. “Does this keep the room heated at all times?”

  “Oui. As long as the engine is on, the heating units work.”

  “Good.” Because where we are going it’ll be colder than Spain. “That captain…. She’s got a princess air to her, eh?”

  Bastille cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

  “No disrespect, of course.” Ian walked away from the heating block and moved toward the bed. “I just thought she acted like many debutantes I know.” He was rambling on, fishing for information on a sexy, angry captain he didn’t even know.

  And he soon discovered that was a bad idea.

  He turned and found his companion looming over him. “You’ll stay away from her.”

  Those were the last words he heard before a brown fist, the size of a brick, hit him square in the chin.

  Chapter Two

  Ian woke with a massive headache. After checking his clothes and weapons, he found everything in working order. Now to check his face.

  Sunlight streamed through the porthole. He had slept several hours since Bastille dropped him, and someone had brought him a bowl, pitcher, and washcloth, setting it in a nice, neat grouping on the small table.

  He reached inside his coat, feeling for the private pocket where he kept a special watch with a small mirror in the top par
t. The silver piece had been his grandfather’s and displayed a raised image of the country manor his family owned on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, a home he’d never be welcome in again. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

  He flipped open the fob, balanced it in the palm of his hand, and checked for cuts or open wounds. Infections were dangerous; disease ran rampant and unchecked everywhere because medical supplies were closely monitored and doctors were only available to the rich. While he believed his host to be generous and maybe even a bit genteel in some respects, he doubted she’d spare limited antiseptic and bandages for an unofficial crew member.

  Thankfully, he had no open cuts, only a bruise on the underside of his jaw. A cheap shot, one he should’ve seen coming, and undeserved in his opinion. He tucked the keepsake back in his pocket and gave himself a brief wipe down with a damp cloth.

  Cool and pleasant against his skin, the cloth left behind the illusion of clean. In the skies or on the ground, you were never truly clean, at least not in Europe. So Ian settled.

  Settling involved water, most likely cycled through multiple uses, on a semi-clean rag. There were visible stains from previous use, but the fabric smelled like lavender. Scents of such caliber were expensive and unlikely to be found in anyone’s possession, especially on an airship

  Cleaning ritual complete, his stomach growled. Locating food struck the top of his list. He headed in the direction of what he’d believe to be the kitchen the night before. Sure enough, his instinct was spot on.

  He walked into a room where a woman in a pink ankle-length dress, white cap, and white apron bustled around a large stove. She whistled a tune he vaguely recalled from the ballrooms he’d visited years ago, though what grabbed his attention most were the smells of coffee and biscuits permeating the air.

  “Good morning, ma’am.”