The Hanged Man (29 page)

“So do they. And it will be better for all if we stay out of their way. The last thing they want is us in the middle, distracting them. You've practical experience, but they've drilled for it, weeks on end, in all weathers.”

“How do you know?”

“One hears about special companies getting advanced instruction. Having an airship at one's disposal to deliver men, though, that's new. They're part of the Service?”

“Not that I've heard.” Which was disturbing. She thought she knew all the gossip and rumors. This was an altogether different level of secrecy.

“It's one thing to have the police at hand, but this smacks of being a private army,” he said. “I wonder if the queen knows.”

Their driver wanted to turn the wagon to face away from things. “Don't need the horses in the line of fire if it comes to that,” he added.

She and Brook aided in the operation, each taking charge of a horse, leading them around, backing and bringing forward. They made a good deal of noise. It occurred to Alex that they might be an intentional distraction, and she worried about snipers looking their way.

“If I might suggest,” said Brook when the operation was completed, “we should take cover inside the wagon.”

“I'd rather not.” She did not care for enclosed dark places, even if they were armored.

“It's defensible.”

“And a potential trap. I'd rather be a moving target.”

He grunted agreement and they waited in its shadow, the bulk of the wagon between them and the south end of the street.

The driver stood in front of the big draft animals, hands on their noses to calm them. They kept trying to toss their heads, anxious about something.

“Did you notice if the colonel was armed?” Brook still had the borrowed pistol.

“Not that I could see.”

“Doesn't strike me as a man who leads from behind.”

“Indeed. How did he know so much about what's on the other side of that wall? He couldn't have climbed it.”

“Probably found a ladder somewhere.”

“Hardly the sort of thing one leaves abou—”

From the mews behind the buildings, a horse shrilled, alarmed over something. Had it been shot? Alex anticipated gunfire, but the nearly silent air rifles changed everything. What damnable weapons they were.

A dog started up, barking, then another dog and another. Some howled, angry and afraid at once.

The row was in the next road over. What was going on over there? Alex kept watch on the shadows where the flying squad men hid. If anything happened on this side, they'd confront it. She could see little of the building where Mourne had gone, just a slice of the wall and gate.

Then the voice of another animal added to the din. For all her ingrained self-control, she gave a start and so did Brook.

“What the devil was
that
?” he asked, then hurried to help the driver keep the horses from bolting.

The sound repeated, louder and closer, and Alex fought her instinctive urge to run.

It had come from their target building and was an impossibility. It could not, simply could not
be
.

But it came again and was unmistakable: the full-throated angry roar of a big game cat.

Hollifield said the Polish engineer was mad; was he mad enough to keep a pet lion?

The Black Maria rocked as the horses reacted. The driver and Brook had their hands full; they missed when the front gate burst wide open and dozen men ran out, some shrieking in what seemed to be blind panic.

The flying squad emerged like black phantoms to stop them.

This was difficult, for the fleeing men were hell-bent on getting away. They dodged, fists swinging. Whatever had routed them was a greater threat than the squad, and they were too terrified to organize much resistance. A swift attack with truncheons took out most. The one exception was on horseback; his mount was just as eager to escape. He rode low over its neck, clinging to the saddle and mane like a cocklebur.

They slammed through the squad and came tearing up the street toward Alex. Webley in hand, she stepped forward. There would be an instant to shoot the rider when they passed, but at point-blank range she'd surely kill him or hit the horse, neither an option she liked. Jumping in front of the charging animal to grab the reins was lunacy, though.

The decision was taken from her.

She glimpsed it, a flash of something large and lithe topping, then leaping down from the wall, landing heavily and surging forward in pursuit of the horse. It was a matter of seconds, not enough for her mind to accept what her eyes saw, but she brought her gun up in a futile attempt to stop a far worse danger. She got one shot off and certainly missed, for the
tiger
kept bounding forward.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In Which Wild Beasts Run Amok

“Bloody hell!” shouted Brook behind her. He abandoned struggling with his horse, fired, and also missed.

The driver bellowed at them to stop.

Alex ignored him; there was time for one more aimed shot, but she didn't get the chance. Something blurred at her hand like a striking snake. She cried out as the driver's whip lashed the Webley from her grasp. The same action upset Brook's aim and in that instant the tiger leaped at the fleeing rider.

She knew it would be efficient and brutal. Tigers bit down on the neck, strangling their thrashing prey to death.

But that did not happen. In midair, the great cat gracefully swatted the man clean from the saddle with one huge paw, then dropped onto all fours. The horse staggered at the buffeting from the attack, but kept going, ears flat, eyes bulging.

Brook got in front of Alex, sighting down his arm like a duelist, then flinched and cursed when the driver struck again with the whip, accurately plucking the gun away.

“Stand down!” he shouted. “Help with the damned horses!”

He had one by the bit, but the other reared and squealed, trying to break free. The tiger was not twenty feet away, looming over the fallen rider.

Alex's pistol had fallen under the wagon. She started to retrieve it when the cat roared again. Her knees turned to water, she couldn't help herself. No one could hear that and not be paralyzed by sheer primitive terror. She gulped it back, bitter and cold, and clawed for the weapon.

She shifted to face the tiger. Brook was next to her, staring in the same direction and feeling about for his dropped gun.

“Stand down, damn you!” The driver's anger stirred the horses even more; despite the brake being engaged, they began dragging the wagon forward.

The man had to be mad—or knew something they didn't.

She hesitated. The tiger looked right at her, down at the rider, who lay prone on the muddy cobbles, and back to her again.

It was purring. The sound was not soothing.

Alex put her hand on Brook's shoulder. “Hold a moment … I … I think it's on our side.”

Brook forgot himself and cursed softly and urgently.

“It might be”—she struggled for a sane explanation—“trained—as for a circus.”

“Trained?”

“A raja I knew in India kept several as pets. Perhaps—”

Two of the flying squad hurried up, going straight toward the tiger, which obligingly moved out of their way. They checked the stunned rider over, then went to aid the struggling driver. The great cat trotted down the street where others of the squad, unconcerned by its approach, were lining the conscious survivors against the wall.

One of the squad cried out and fell. No sound of a shot, but he looked to have taken a bullet. His prisoner broke free and ran, then unexpectedly dropped as well.

Already chary of snipers, Alex called a sharp warning, pointing toward the rooftop opposite. She saw the movement of something black against a slightly less black background.

Two more men were shot, along with their charges, before the others reacted. One shouted a command and they rushed across the street to press against the building's front. The sniper would have to lean out and down to get to them.

But he did not do that, and instead fired on the remaining prisoners. Those lying insensible jerked as they were struck, others attempting escape did not succeed. It was a bitter reprise of Colonel Mourne's defense of the Service offices, but he'd cut down armed men, not helpless captives.

Alex centered her aim on the darkest patch on that roof, fired, and made herself a new target. She heard the smack of a bullet hitting the road almost at her feet, and dashed for cover in a doorway on the same side. If she could pick the lock and get in and up to the roof—damnation, her reticule and tools were in the wagon, which was being led away. The displaced rider had been thrown into the back and the two squad men ran to join their comrades, Brook at their heels.

“Stay there!” he shouted as they passed.

Not likely,
she thought, having spied a better vantage across the street. The sharpshooter continued to kill prisoners.

The big squad man who had accompanied Mourne raised the air rifle high and got off a silent shot. There was no way to tell if it struck. He attempted a second shot and failed. The gravity-fed ammunition must have jammed. He swiftly took cover behind the open gate.

She used the moment, hurried to the inset doorway and peered out. The range was bad for a revolver, but she could keep the sniper distracted. She used the building's corner as a muzzle rest. The resulting flash and recoil prevented her from seeing if she struck anything important.

The tiger roared, seizing everyone's attention for a few seconds, veered to the right, and leaped up. It gained the top of a protruding entry under the shooter's vantage, but could go no farther. Even its formidable claws could find no purchase to clamber up a bare wall.

The tall man emerged and ran across with startling speed, gave a jump, and grasped the top edge of the entry. Two of the squad each grabbed a booted foot and boosted him the rest of the way until he stood next to the tiger.

Alex saw movement above again and aimed for it, buying the squad man time for whatever his purpose. When her eyes cleared from the flash, she wasn't quite ready to believe them. He was flat against the wall, his feet on the tiger's massive head. Back legs braced, front legs on the building, the animal pushed upward until the man was in reach of a windowsill. One forearm taking his weight, he smashed the glass with his truncheon, knocking enough clear to allow him to climb in.

She stopped gaping and fired again. The tiger quit its perch and stood with the squad under the cover of the entry. They all looked up, as though listening to their friend's progress through the building.

Dogs continued howling, the only sound she could hear above the blood pounding in her ears. She breathed shallowly through her mouth, straining her eyes, hoping for telltale movement. She had one bullet left.

A blurring of shadows on top of the building, a strangled grunt turning from surprise to rage, she glimpsed two men so caught in their fight that they had no mind for their high surroundings.

The larger one seemed to be trying desperately to fling himself from the height, while the other was just as determined to drag him back.

She emerged from cover, checking the other roofs for more shooters.

The fighters bobbed from view. Alex ran to one of the fallen men, a prisoner. He was stone dead and she pulled back to avoid accidentally Reading him. The next man was one of the squad; he bled from his upper side under one arm, caught in an area not covered by the metal breastplate. The bullet might have gouged against his ribs; she couldn't tell, but he was stunned and in pain.

“See to the wounded!” she shouted.

The squad members remained diverted by the progress of their man on the roof. Only the tiger looked her way, twitching its ears. Blast the beast, men were dying.

This time putting more force into her voice, her language and tone lashed like a master sergeant. She surprised herself at the vehemence. It had the advantage of gaining their notice. Even the damned tiger reacted. The beast gave a strange coughing growl, almost sounding disgusted, then sped from cover, loping across and through the gate.

The others spread out and pulled comrades to cover. So far as she could tell, given the circumstances, the armoring had accomplished its good purpose, sparing its wearers from fatal wounds. But there was plenty of blood and she worried about the tiger's reaction to it. Just how well trained was it—and how the devil had it come to be here?

A short, savage cry drew her attention back to the sniper's building. The two men were against the low wall, their rasping breath audible as they slammed fists like pugilists who'd forsaken the rules of the ring.

One gained an advantage unseen in the distance and dark, locked his hands around the other's throat, and then flung himself backward—over the wall.

The second man was dragged along, but managed to grab the edge, taking the weight of both for two heartbeats before his grasp slipped. They struck the entry roof with a sickening thud, and momentum carried them down to the street. Alex heard the muffled pop of bones breaking.

The flying squad man landed on his much larger adversary, who lay still. The man moved feebly and fell away, struggling for air, having apparently had all his breath knocked out. His clothing was torn from the fight, one sleeve gone from the sweater and the balaclava askew over his face. He groggily pawed at it.

“I'm with Colonel Mourne,” she said, kneeling over him. “Let me help.”

He wheezed and attempted to push her away, but she got past his waving arm and pulled the covering clear … then rocked so far back on her heels as to go completely over.

He tried to drag the covering into place but was too late. She'd seen his face and were that not proof enough, then the tattoos snaking over his bare arm confirmed it.

“Blast and damn,” said Lord Richard Desmond, his pale eyes glaring at her. Then they clouded, and he collapsed, chest heaving as he fought to recover his breath.