Gabe stood at the window of Heureaux's office, peering through a narrow slit between the draperies. An empty stakebed wagon was parked a little way along the street, probably waiting for its cargo. He'd like to have Peter bring their wagon here, but it was his gut talking, not his head. Bringing the money into Heureaux's territory would be asking to lose it. But if Peter and his team were here...
Admit it, you want Gina out of their hands right now.
The tall clock behind him ticked away the minutes. It had struck midnight long since. Damn it, Maurice ought to be back by now. Has something gone wrong?
He glanced over his shoulder. Nearly three quarters of an hour. This time of night it shouldn't have taken Heureaux's messenger more than twenty minutes to ride to the rendezvous. Five minutes for Peter to read his note and get directions to where they'd make the transfer... What the hell is keeping him?
"Impatient, monsieur?" Heureaux said. His tone had a smarmy, self-satisfied tone to it.
"It's been a long day, and the night promises to be longer. The sooner we can get this taken care of, the sooner I'll find my bed."
"You have somewhere to hold the merchandise, then? Somewhere they will be safe while you sleep?"
"Since I could not be sure of the schedule, I was unable to schedule secure shipping in advance. My agents are trustworthy, and will make certain there are no missteps between when they receive the...merchandise and when it is sent on its way." Gabe turned again to the window, just in time to see a horseman approaching. "Ah. I believe this is your man now."
In a few minutes, Maurice knocked on the door. He spoke to Heureaux in French so rapid and idiomatic that Gabe caught only one word in ten.
"All is in train, monsieur," Heureaux said when Maurice fell silent. "The payment?"
"Will be presented when the women are delivered to my associates. I trust you will be present?"
The Frenchman bowed slightly. "If you wish." He looked at the clock. "Two hours and seventeen minutes from now we will expect your carrier."
Raising one eyebrow, Gabe said, "I don't believe we have agreed on a meeting place, M. Heureaux."
"Ah, of course. My error. There are stables at the rear of a pension near the Gare du Est where we may meet in privacy. I have prepared directions." He held out a slip of paper.
Gabe took it, feeling ghostly fingers scrabble down his spine. This is too damned easy. He forced himself to smile. "A pleasure to work with one so well prepared."
Again that slight bow. "I am a businessman, monsieur. I must leave you now, to instruct my men."
"And I must assure myself that we are prepared to receive the shipment. Until trois heures, M. Heureaux..." They parted with mutual assurances of pleasure.
He didn't trust the flesh merchant. There had been something in his tone, in his expression, that had warned of treachery. Wishing he had Bjorn or Dom at his back, he walked away from the warehouse and made his way to the narrow street where his carriage awaited.
The hired carriage was filthy, but no worse than its driver. The scar-faced man on the step looked like he'd just as soon take Gabe's life as his money. He had the horse moving before Gabe sat down. The sudden motion surprised him and he fell sideways into the dirty bench, twisting his bad knee. Only a tight grip on his temper kept him from cursing Alain, who undisguised was an intelligent, charming fellow. A terrible driver, though.
Air whistled between clenched teeth as he attempted to massage the stabbing pain away. Buff's right. I'm not really fit enough for this sort of thing any more. But retire? God! What would I do with myself?
No, he was not ready to retire. There was other work he could do for the Coalition, work that didn't depend on physical strength and agility. Important work.
But none anywhere near as exciting.
Gabe thrived on excitement, on danger. The satisfaction obtained from untangling a political mess or a potential scandal of international consequence was nothing compared to that from pitting mind and body against those who did their utmost to undermine society. His most stimulating--and favorite--cases had been those where he matched wits with the purveyors of drug-induced dreams. The opium sellers, the hashish merchants.
Next in line were cases like this one. White slavery. Although the Coalition opposed all slavery, that involving innocent women of any color was their primary focus. Both Gabe and Regina's brother, Buffalo, had a personal stake in ridding the world of flesh merchants, for more than once the slave trade had struck frighteningly close to their families.
Life would be calmer and more predictable if he were to give up field work. "I just don't want to," he said aloud. Still, the day was coming when he'd have no choice.
But not yet. Not yet.
Once at the hotel, he began his preparations. Peter came in as he was finishing his report to Jonathon. Something could always go wrong.
"Where's the meet?"
Gabe handed him the slip of paper.
Peter, who knew Paris like the back of his hand, whistled. "Bloody difficult place. Tight little streets, no place to maneuver. We'll need the whole crew."
"Get them in place," Gabe said, as he packed fifty-pound notes into a small, shabby valise. "Make sure they're ready for treachery. I've got a bad feeling."
"Which means something will go wrong. You're better at predicting trouble than my granny's rheumatiz is at forecasting bad weather."
"Don't tell me it's going to rain, too?"
"Already started. I'll alert the team."
As he slipped out the door, Gabe picked up the double barreled derringer and checked its load. He preferred his sword, but just in case...
* * * *
Regina woke groggy and disoriented. Her mind refused to focus. Each thought seemed to struggle through a thick, syrupy cloud before it could form. She could only open one eye, but that was enough to confirm that her head was still encased in heavy sacking. A soft patter on canvas told her it was raining, a soft summer rain. The only other sound was the muted rumble of the wagon's wheels on cobblestone. Still night then. Either that or I've been asleep a long time and we're out of the city.
She attempted to roll to one side, and felt the suspicious dampness of her petticoats. My God, I've wet myself!
Furious, she threw herself forward, determined to sit erect. "Minerva, are you awake? Pamela?"
A moan was her only answer.
She used her schoolmarm voice. "Minerva! Pamela!" Her jaw was stiff and opening her mouth made the whole side of her face hurt.
"Miss Lachlan?" That was Pamela to Regina's left, not too far away. "Where are we?" Her voice was distorted, her words imprecise.
Drugged. They drugged them, too. "Pamela, are your hands still tied?"
"Hmm? Hands?" A long silence. "Something's wrong. My hands... They're tied behind me."
"Listen to me, Pamela. I need you to come to me. Can you do that? Are your feet tied?"
"No. But my hands-- Numb."
Reaching deeply for patience and purpose, Regina said, "Yes, they are bound to be numb, since they've been tied a long time. Wiggle your fingers. That will help. When you can feel them again, tell me."
Another moan, this one from across the wagon bed. "Minerva? Minerva, can you hear me?"
"I think she's asleep." It was Marcy, the English girl. "I can hear her breathing."
"Are your hands tied, Marcy"
"Yes, mum, and they're numb too." A sniffle. "Mum, I've got to piss powerful bad."
"Me, too," Pamela said.
"I don't think our captors care," Regina said, grateful that she'd inherited a strong streak of pragmatism from her parents. The discomfort of lying in wet petticoats was more distressing than being unable to control her body's natural function. "Can either of you make your way to me?"
"I'll try," Pamela said.
"Ne parle pas." It was the same harsh voice that had spoken the words before.
Fro a moment, Regina was tempted to yell her head off. No, because it will only get you abused. Save your energy for an escape attempt. "Wait," she breathed to Pamela, who had wriggled close enough to touch her.
Just then the wagon's motion ceased. She could hear the scrape of metal on stone, heavy footsteps, muttered words in guttural French. If only she could see. By feel she had discovered that the planks forming the wooden side of the wagon had narrow gaps between them. She rolled closer so she could listen. Try as she might she make nothing of the activity she heard.
The wagon dipped lightly. She heard a muttered comment, then someone took her by the arm and pulled her to a sitting position. Something prodded at the back of her neck, and then the sacking loosened and was removed. She took several deep breaths, only now aware of how difficult breathing had been inside her mask. A moment later the canvas covering the back end of the wagon was thrust aside and tied back, allowing flickering torchlight to illuminate the interior just enough that the girls appeared as dark blobs against the lighter wooden planks.
A man--not the big thug--climbed into the wagon. He turned and spoke, received a reply from outside. Bending, he caught one of the girls by an arm and dragged her to the end. The girl lay limp in his grasp.
Minerva? Please, God, let her only be drugged.
As if in reply, she moaned.
Light flashed off a bare blade, and Minerva's hands flopped limply onto the dirty floor. Hands in her armpits, the man lifted her, lowered her off the tail into waiting arms. The big thug received her limp body with a curse. He let it down, into something that swallowed it whole.
When someone handed him a flat, circular object, Regina knew what was in store for her.
In short order, they had stuffed the other two girls into barrels. Hard as it was to admit, Regina found herself shaking with fear. Once in a barrel, she'd have no chance to escape. When the man came for her, she kicked him.
He ignored her feeble attempt. With one hand, he grabbed the rope around her arms and dragged her to the wagon's tail.
The light was brighter there. One of the men laughed and caught her around the right ankle. He slid his rough hand along her calf, pushing her skirts ahead of it, but stopped when the big thug spoke sharply. The man in the wagon rolled her over and cut the ropes binding her arms to her body and her hands together.
Regina bit back a scream as excruciating pain stabbed through her shoulders, stiffened from being wrenched, then bound in an unnatural position for so long. She hardly noticed when they freed her feet. But when the big thug picked her up and started to lower her into the barrel, she stopped resisting the scream that was hovering in her chest.
She let loose with every ounce of wind she had, and yelled fit to wake the dead.
This time when he struck her, it was with a closed fist. Her head snapped back. She felt herself collapse bonelessly into the barrel. She felt something damp close over her nose and mouth and gasped involuntarily. A sweetish smell assailed her nostrils, then...nothing.
* * * *
The carriage swayed as one wheel dropped into a deep hole in the cobbled lane. I hope there's room to turn around at the stables. Gabe didn't like this meeting place. The streets were even narrower than Peter had led him to expect. Rain was falling heavily now, and the lack of street lighting made it impossible for him to get any idea of where he was.
They'd passed a sign pointing to Gare du Nord a few minutes ago, so he knew they were close to their destination. Letting the curtain drop, he forced himself to sit back. There was nothing he could do. Either it was a trap or it wasn't. They'd free the women, or they wouldn't.
The very thought of Regina in the hands of Heureaux and his ilk threatened the tight control he held on his rage. We'll get her. We must.
Another turn, another sway, with the side of the carriage scraping the wet bricks of a nearby wall. He heard someone call out in French, but the words were indistinct. Alain replied, speaking the password Heureaux had given him. With a last sharp turn, the carriage came to a halt.
Gabe pushed himself upright. His bad knee tended to stiffen in damp weather. He was just reaching for the door handle when it was jerked open from outside. "Out," came a gruff order.
He paused in the doorway and cast his most supercilious look on the navvy who'd spoken. Slowly he stepped down, with all the arrogance and conceit he'd learned in years of rubbing elbows with the rich, famous, and crooked. "Oú est Heureaux?"
The man jerked his chin to the left.
"I am here." Heureaux stepped from the shadows. "You have brought the money?"
Gabe lifted the small valise. "Here. Where are the women?"
"They are here. Unfortunately there is little space. Your carriage must retreat to give room for the wagon you were instructed to bring."
Well, hell! He'd counted on Alain and Dom to lend a hand if the situation went to hell. He stepped to the front of the carriage, ordered Alain to take it out of the stableyard and park it in the nearby lane. Alain's expression made it clear he was no happier than Gabe.
Shortly the heavy wagon, with Peter at the reins, appeared out of the alley. The navvy gestured for Peter to turn it around, with the horses in the alley and the tailgate open into the stableyard. As soon as it was in place, two men rolled a beer wagon out of the stable's wide door. It held four barrels, larger than hogsheads. My God, they really do pack them in barrels!
He banished the thought of Gina, stuffed inside a reeking cask, probably drugged and possibly bound and gagged. With any luck, we'll have her safe within the hour.
The wagon holding the barrels was pushed close to Peter's. Heureaux's two helpers climbed in and unhooked the ropes holding the barrels in place. Quickly they rolled them from wagon to wagon, taking no care to be gentle.
Once they were tied securely in Peter's wagon, Heureaux said, "You have your merchandise, M. Basilio. Do you wish to inspect?"
"I do," he said, wondering how it would be possible to ascertain the women were alive and uninjured.
"Maurice, show him."
The lids of the barrels were, it turned out, hinged so that about one-third would fold back, allowing a view of the interior. One by one, Gabe looked inside, reached inside and felt a warm, living female. As dark as it was, he couldn't tell if any of them were Regina, and none of them moved when he touched them. "These are the women I saw?"
Heureaux tossed him a leather pouch. "Here are the contents of their purses and pockets. Less, of course, any coins or bills. We are, after all entitled to be paid for their food and wine." His tone held a sneer.
Quickly Gabe went through the contents. One was a silver card case. Regina's. Her initials were clearly visible. He fought back a relieved exhalation and handed the valise to the Frenchman. "You will want to count this, I presume."
"Not at all. You would be a fool to attempt to cheat me. Merci, M. Basilio. It has been a pleasure dealing with you." Waving his men before him, he faded into the dark maw of the stable.
Gabe mounted the wagon and sat beside Peter. He put the items Heureaux had given him into a valise and stowed it under the seat. As the wagon slowly rolled away from the rendezvous, he sat back in a vain attempt to relax.
Those icy fingers were once again scrabbling up his spine.