Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

“We’ve done surveillance here,” Eva said. “Managed to get the plans to the house, as well, so we know the layout.”

“Plans don’t tell you that he keeps an armed man in the hallway outside his bedroom, and that he’d go through the mews when he’d come home late at night.”

“I don’t see extra guards outside his house now.”

“You wouldn’t. But his men would be on the inside. He didn’t want his posh neighbors to know he paid a bunch of East London toughs to watch his arse.”

She nodded, taking in this information.

“Look there.” He pointed to one of the second-story windows. “That shadow against the glass? That’s the hallway. His bedroom faces the back, where it’s quieter. But I’d stand in that hallway there outside his room as Rockley got dressed for the day. He’s got someone doing the same job.”

“So he’s still at home.” She checked her pocket watch. “Twelve-fifty. Just like you said.”

“And in about five minutes, the coach’ll come around and wait for him by the front door.”

“Unless he’s concerned about your escape and chooses to leave through the mews.”

Jack shook his head. “He’s got his patterns. May be hard to follow him if you don’t know ’em, but he always starts his day the same way. He’ll go about his business as he usually does, to send a message. He won’t let a piece of filth like me disrupt that.”

She looked at him sharply. “Why would you say that?”

“Because to Rockley,” he said, spreading his hands, “there’s nothing more important than appearance.”

“No, I mean, why would you call yourself a piece of filth? Do you really think of yourself that way?”

He blinked. “I don’t think of myself in any way. I just am.”

The idea seemed to flat-out puzzle her. “You’ve got to have some conceptualization of yourself. Some idea of who you believe yourself to be.”

He gave a quick bark of laughter. “Self-reflection—I think that’s the word for it—that’s a luxury for them that don’t have to worry about their next meal, or whether the rain will come through the holes in the roof. There’s only survival. And if you don’t fight to survive”—he shrugged—“you don’t.”

“Not once during those nights listening to the rain did you ever ponder who you were, or what you were meant to be doing? Something beyond survival.”

Shifting on the creaking squabs, he glanced away from the amber knives of her eyes. “I may’ve,” he allowed. There had been dreams, plans. Hopes for a life beyond the crowded, dirty alleys he’d known. His own boxing academy, for one. Like the kind Maclaren had, but instead of just training men, it’d be a place where boys could get off the streets, away from the gin palaces and dicing games. Someplace where they could feel safe and have dreams of their own.

He shook his head, clearing away the cobwebs of old hopes. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s all led me here.”

“But I—” Her words stopped abruptly. She sat up straight, her gaze fixed on something out the window.

Everything within Jack tensed. He knew what she saw. Slowly, he turned his head to look out the window.

A footman held open the front door, and a big, strapping bloke stepped outside. It wasn’t Fowler, Curtis, or even Voss. Probably they’d moved on to other jobs, or died. Men like them—men like Jack—never lived long, despite their size. A hazardous life, one might call it.

This new chap wore a checked suit and a bowler hat. Jack didn’t know him by name, but names signified nothing. Five years ago, Jack had been that man. Like him, he’d looked up and down the street, scanning for any signs of trouble, body primed to fight if danger arose. No mistaking the telltale shape of a gun in the hired man’s coat. Jack had favored an Enfield Mk II, if his fists couldn’t finish the job.

Jack ducked back as the hired man’s gaze swept past the hackney cab.

“That’s Fred Ballard,” Eva said. “His main bodyguard.” She glanced at the carriage. “Rockley’s moving on.”

Turning back to the window, Jack saw Ballard give a quick nod to someone standing in the doorway.

Rockley emerged.

Fire roared through Jack’s veins, and his vision hazed. A fist seemed to close around his throat. He wanted to launch himself from the cab. He could already feel the crunch of bone against his fist as he smashed it into Rockley’s handsome face. He could smell the blood as it coated the spotless front steps, hear the wet gurgle as Rockley struggled to breathe through the ruin of his aristocratic nose and mouth.

“Dalton.”

A woman’s gloved hand closed around his wrist as he grasped the handle to the cab door. He stared down at the female’s hand.

“Dalton,” the woman repeated, her voice an urgent whisper.

He looked up. A woman stared at him intently. She had sherry eyes and wheat-gold hair and he didn’t recognize her. Not at first.

“You can’t go out there,” she said, her words tight. “The moment you do, Rockley’s thug will shoot you down.”

Eva. That’s right. The woman was Eva.

“Might get to him before that.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

“It’s nearly a hundred feet between the cab and Rockley. More than enough time for his thug to fire off several rounds.” Her hand tightened around his wrist. “Don’t take that gamble, Dalton. Don’t throw this entire mission away.”

“Edith—”

“Would want her brother to stay alive,” she finished. “Remember what I said earlier? You have to think if you want Rockley to pay. Rushing him in the street has only one result: your death.”

“Goddamn it,” he snarled. Because what she said made sense. Rockley always made sure his bodyguards were good shots. Jack would be a corpse before he made it half the distance.

His hand made of rusted iron, he unwound it from the door handle. Slowly, Eva released him.

“Good,” she said after a pause. “Good.”

“Don’t feel good,” he growled. “Feel like tearing up lampposts.”

Glancing out the window again, Eva said, “He’s getting into his carriage.”

Jack followed her gaze. Rockley was, in fact, stepping into his waiting vehicle, with the footman waiting to close the door behind him. The bodyguard sat beside the coachman, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes constantly moving. Once Rockley had seated himself, the footman closed the door. The coachman snapped the ribbons, and the two matched bays responded, setting off at a trot.

Eva leaned forward and opened the small sliding door mounted at the front of the cab. “Driver, do not lose that carriage. And make sure they don’t see us. There’s a guinea in it for you.”

With that kind of carrot, the driver hurried to follow. The hackney sped after Rockley’s carriage.

Jack gripped the leather straps mounted on both sides of the hackney’s walls, stretched out like a man on the rack. His muscles felt as though they’d burst right out of his clothing, and his heart slammed inside his ribs. Goddamn it, Rockley looked the same, exactly the same as he had five years ago. Everything had changed for Jack. Nothing had changed for Rockley.

Tall and elegant in his perfectly made, stylish clothes, his hair shiny and combed beneath his top hat, sporting an elegant mustache, Rockley was the model of a flawless aristocratic gentleman. Handsome, too, the blighter. Dark hair, blue eyes. The kind of face that women push each other aside to get close to. Hundreds of years of breeding pretty people gave him a face that truly got away with murder.

“You did the right thing,” Eva said.

“Still want to rip his fucking guts out through his mouth,” he gritted.

“I’m sure you do. But we have to keep our sights on our objective. This is my eighth mission for Nemesis, and I’ve learned that success relies upon logical, precise thinking.”