Smugglers' Gold (18 page)

Pickering counted off ten seconds in his head, then followed them inside.

*   *   *

B
ryan Marley had begun to sympathize a bit with dead Jack Menefee. The siege of Awful Annie's had surprised him, made him wonder whether Pickering had soaked his brain in too much rum and lost his mind entirely, but that didn't matter now. They were surrounded in the brothel and, worse yet, some of the
Banshee
crewmen were inside. He hadn't paid attention to the back door—hell, he hadn't stationed any guards at all around the place—and now he was regretting it.

It was amazing, how the world could shift in nothing flat. One moment, he and Pickering had been the best of friends, drinking and whoring together; now, they were at each other's throats over a stupid accusation that Marley had sent George Revere, of all people, to burn the
Banshee.
Revere, who should have been still stranded on Timbalier Island, thanks to Otto Seitz. And Otto, once his trusted right-hand man, was dead now, after killing two of Marley's men in a botched robbery.

It was too much. He didn't even want to think about the treasure storehouse, left unguarded. Not while he was busy fighting for his life.

Three of the gunmen who had come in through the back door were behind the bar, rising by turns to fire around the room. They'd shot the barkeep first thing, and they had his shotgun now, aside from any others weapons they had brought along with them. A fourth intruder had been gut-shot in the early moments of the skirmish. He was lying on the threshold of the hallway leading to the kitchen, Annie's office, and the back door, through which Marley was expecting more invaders anytime now.

What he needed was a new perspective on the battlefield, a view from higher ground. And that, in turn, might offer him a chance to slip away unnoticed in the general confusion. Some might call that cowardice, desertion of his men, but Marley's first concern had always been self-preservation. Friends might come and go—take Otto as a prime example—but he had only stayed alive this long by looking out for number one.

His first step was to find a way upstairs. That offered him a better vantage point for fighting, plus more windows he could possibly escape through, if raiders didn't have them covered from below. And even if they
did
, Marley imagined that his odds of taking down one lookout, then escaping, were a great deal better than if he remained downstairs, hemmed in by shooters to the front and rear.

Marley was moving, ducking bullets from the street and watching out for Pickering's three men behind the bar, when someone in the outer darkness shouted, “Now!” A storm of gunfire peppered Awful Annie's bat-wing doors and shattered streetside windows, forcing Marley down to hands and knees, then driving him to wriggle on his belly like a lizard, making for the stairs. Passing Harry Morgan, Marley heard his squawk of pain, felt warm blood splash his cheek before he crawled on by.

He reached the staircase, started scrambling toward the second floor on knees and elbows, as the gunmen he had seen outside burst through the brothel's swinging doors. One leaped in through an empty window frame, then tumbled out again, backward, when one of Marley's people shot him in the chest.

“The lamps!” somebody shouted, and a fireball streaked across the barroom, bursting when it hit the old piano, spreading flames.

Marley could not afford another moment's hesitation now. He had to get upstairs and find a way out of the house before it all went up and he was cooked alive.

*   *   *

R
yder was halfway down the hall when Pickering's frontal assault began, the sound of shots and shouts redoubled in the barroom up ahead. He saw a lantern tossed and tumbling to explode in leaping flames and knew the building wouldn't stand for long unless somebody doused the fire.

His sense of urgency increased, Ryder approached the doorway to the barroom, stepping past a wounded gunman who was writhing on the floor, clutching his stomach, dark blood pulsing from between his fingers. At the threshold, Ryder crouched and peered around the room, looking for Marley, glimpsing him just as he reached the second-story landing. It was thirty-some-odd feet from Ryder's present position to the stairs, with nothing close to decent cover on the way. He'd have to trust in speed, and as he braced himself to run for it, Ryder wasn't convinced that would be good enough.

Get on with it!

He bolted from the doorway, startling one of Marley's men who'd crouched behind an upturned table. Ryder recognized the face but couldn't put a name to it. The shooter gawked at him and cried, “You're dead!” but raised his pistol anyway, to make it true.

Not yet!
thought Ryder, as he fired his Colt point-blank into the smuggler's chest.

A bullet plucked at Ryder's left sleeve and kissed his biceps with a wasp's sting before flying on to strike the room's west wall. He didn't know which side had fired the shot and didn't care. A pirate's gun would cut him down the same as one of Marley's if he slowed his pace and made an easy target of himself. One saving grace was the confusion that surrounded him, men firing almost randomly around the barroom, Annie's girls squealing in counterpoint to the staccato gunfire. The bar's piano was consumed by fire, and now a second lamp had burst behind the bar, flames threatening the shelves of liquor there.

As Ryder reached the stairs, Annie herself came rushing down to meet him, cursing like a sailor as she witnessed the destruction of her livelihood. Brandishing a Colt Dragoon revolver, she passed Ryder on the staircase without glancing at him, charging into battle like a Norse berserker while her place went up in flames. More gunfire echoed from the staircase and beyond it as she reached the ground floor, screeching as she waded into battle.

Ryder focused on the stairs in front of him, keeping his head down, straining for a glimpse of Marley on the second-story landing. Wherever he'd been going, Marley was no longer visible from Ryder's limited perspective. Ducking another shot that came within an inch or so of furrowing his scalp, Ryder pressed on to reach the landing, where he stretched out on the floor.

Smoke from the barroom stung his eyes, obscuring his vision. Ryder knew that rising flames would reach the stairs and balcony before much longer, making his pursuit untenable. Whatever hope he had of finding Marley, taking him alive, was swiftly running out. It crossed his mind that he might already be trapped, retreat cut off by fire and well-armed enemies, but from his nights with little Nell he knew the brothel's upper floor had windows that could serve as exits in a pinch.

Assuming he survived that long.

Staying beneath the smoke, Ryder began to crawl along the balcony.

S
tede Pickering was having second thoughts about his plan to burn the brothel, but they came too late. His men were all inside there now, at least the ones who hadn't been shot down on the approach, and he could see flames racing all along the bar and wall behind it, where the shelves of bottled liquor served as extra fuel. He'd meant to use the stolen lamps only if Marley's men had kept them off the premises, but someone from his crew had lit the blaze after they got inside.

Idjits.

His problem now: should he attempt to call his people back before they fried, or leave them to it? What would a heroic captain do? And who in hell had ever labeled
him
a hero?

If they'd been at sea, storming another ship, he would have known exactly what to do. The captain goes down with his vessel—or, at least, does what he can to make sure everybody else is off before he goes over the rail himself. But this was dry land, in the middle of a city, probably with coppers on their way to find out what was happening.

So, stay and fight? Or cut and run?

Was it a matter of honor or self-preservation?

All alone so far, outside the whorehouse, Pickering paced back and forth, watching the fire and battle through the shattered street-side windows. He was looking right at Frankie Drake, one of his men, when someone shot him through the head and splashed the wall behind him with what looked like bloody oatmeal.

Drake had not been any kind of special friend, but Pickering felt something snap inside him. In another heartbeat, he was charging through the bat-wing doors, looking for targets through the smoky haze that filled the barroom. Smoky, and it was
hot
in there, like standing in the fierce draft from a blacksmith's forge. Pickering ducked after a bullet whistled past his ear and found that it was somewhat easier to breathe, once he was belly down against the floor.

It had been foolish to come in. He saw that now and was about to turn, wriggle beneath the bat-wing doors and back into the street, when someone clutched his arm.

“Captain! You came!”

Turning, he recognized the face of Jonas Walker, bruised where Pickering had slugged him earlier, yet strangely pleased to see him. All that Pickering could think to say was, “Where in hell is Marley?”

“Gone upstairs, I think,” said Walker. “Captain, this whole place is goin' up. We need to get out while we can!”

“Get out, then,” Pickering replied. “I've still got work to do.”

Foolish,
he thought, but how could he let Jonas Walker of all people make him quit the fight? Walker, who'd been assigned to guard the
Banshee
but had let her burn.

Pickering jerked his arm free of the frightened sailor's grasp and started crawling toward the stairs. He felt ridiculous, diminished, but it was the only way to reach his goal with bullets flying overhead and smoke fouling the air above knee-level. He was bent on killing Marley now, if it turned out to be the last thing that he ever did.

He reached the stairs at last, but didn't have a chance to start the climb before a slug splintered the newel post mere inches from his face. The angle of the shot told Pickering the shooter was above him, on the second-story landing, so he swung his Colt rifle in that direction, looking for a target. Spotting one of Marley's men, an empty muzzle-loading pistol dangling in his right hand, while he raised another in his left, Pickering found his mark and slammed a bullet through the smuggler's chest.

“Take that, you prick!” he snarled and started up the stairs.

*   *   *

T
he smoke upstairs was thicker now, and Ryder's plan to stay beneath it wasn't working out. A glance into the barroom, down below, showed him a little slice of Hell on Earth, with flames climbing the walls now, bodies scattered everywhere, and the survivors still doing their best to kill each other, some pairs grappling hand to hand. He saw one figure lurching toward the bar, the curved blade of a saber run completely through his abdomen, pitch headlong into crackling fire around the bar.

It was a nightmare scene, and Ryder tore his eyes away from it, returning to his quest for Bryan Marley. The cribs stretched on in front of him, most of their doors closed, but he didn't know if there'd be time for him to search them thoroughly. Burning to death for Marley's sake was definitely
not
a part of Ryder's plan.

He heard a shot behind him, from the general direction of the stairs, immediately followed by another. Turning back in that direction, Ryder thought he saw a body drop, but the pervasive smoke prevented him from seeing who it was.

An enemy, no doubt of that. He had no friends at Awful Annie's now.

Likely, not even little Nell.

Ryder approached the first crib's door, reached up and turned the knob, pushing the door open from his position near the floor. Smoke from the barroom slipped in ahead of him, providing cover, while he braced himself for gunfire from within. When nothing happened, Ryder ducked across the threshold, huddled with his back against a little chest of drawers, and scanned the room.

Empty, besides its well-used bed and single straight-backed chair.

Ryder retreated to the doorway, glanced both ways along the balcony, then darted toward the second crib in line. Again, the doorknob turned without resistance and he entered in a rush, half crouching in anticipation of a bullet that was not forthcoming. Yet another empty room yawned at him, its musty aroma soon banished by wood smoke and gun smoke. Ryder wasted no more time than necessary to make sure he was alone, then moved back toward the balcony.

Just as he got there, Nell emerged from the third crib in line, holding a handkerchief over her nose and mouth to filter out some of the rising smoke. She saw Ryder and stopped short on the threshold, gaping at him even as the smoke brought tears to her green eyes.

“George? You—”

Whatever she'd meant to say was cut off as an arm circled her throat, trapping the words inside her. Bryan Marley edged into the open, clutching Nell before him as a human shield, his six-gun's barrel visible over her shoulder.

“She was about to say you should be dead,” Marley declared.

“I'm hearing that a lot,” said Ryder, up on one knee now, his own eyes tearing from the smoke.

“Stede says you burned the
Banshee.
”

“Couldn't help myself,” Ryder acknowledged.

“And he thinks I put you up to it.” Which clarified the raid on Awful Annie's.

“That one never crossed my mind,” said Ryder, wondering if he should feel remorse for all the blood that had been spilled as a result.

“Otto swore there was something wrong with you. I still don't get it,” Marley said.

“I'm with the Secret Service,” Ryder answered back.

“The what?”

“It's new. A part of Treasury.” He felt vaguely ridiculous, delivering a lesson in the middle of a gunfight.

“So, you're like a copper?”

“Right.”

“And now you're planning what? To take me in?”

“That's it,” Ryder agreed.

“Like hell,” said Marley, as he raised his piece to fire.

*   *   *

M
arley was looking for a window to escape from when he'd blundered into Nell. The first crib he had tried, the window had been nailed shut for some reason that he didn't understand and didn't have the time to think about. Trying the second crib, he'd peered outside and found the drop intimidating, but a glance off to his right showed him a pile of garbage heaped roughly below the next window in line. That led him to the third crib, and he'd been about to exit when the closet door opened behind him, bringing him around, his Colt Navy leveled to deal with any threat that might confront him.

“Bryan?” Little Nell had seemed surprised to see him in her room. “What are you doing here?”

“Just leaving,” he'd replied and turned back toward the window, reaching for it with his free hand.

“Wait a second! Will you help me?”

“Help you how?”

She startled him by sobbing then. “To get away,” she said. “Don't leave me here to burn!”

“Come on, then,” he had said, impatiently, and raised the window's lower sash. A gust of cool, fresh air had chilled his face and made it easier to breathe.

“I can't!” she'd said.

“Why not?”

“It's just . . . I'll fall.”

“And that's the damn point, isn't it? A short drop to the ground, instead of cooking. Even if you snap an ankle—”

“God, don't say that!”

“—even if you
do
, it's better than the fire.”

“I can't jump out the window!”

“Fine,” he'd said. “I'm going. You do what you have to do.”

“Goddamn you, Bryan!”

She had bolted for the door, clutching a handkerchief over her face, then stopped dead in the open doorway, saying, “George?”

And that was how he'd come to find himself staring at George Revere, hearing the man he'd trusted—who had saved his life not once, but twice—saying he was some kind of copper for the federals, planning to clap Marley in jail.

“Like hell!” he spat, shoved Nell along the balcony in front of him, and blazed a shot toward where Revere was kneeling with his own pistol in hand.

He missed, of course, too hasty with it, but Revere held off on firing back since Nell was in his way. Marley gave her a shove, putting his weight behind it, snarling as he turned and dashed back through her crib to reach the window he had opened moments earlier. He'd seen that it would be a tight fit for a man his size, but what choice did he have, with George outside the door and Awful Annie's burning out from under him?

The awkward part, he found, was going out feet first, so that he wouldn't break his neck. One leg was fine, but when he tried to swing the other out across the windowsill, the sash jammed painfully against his chest. Cursing, hoping to buy another moment, Marley fired a second shot back toward the door and balcony beyond it. George still didn't try to shoot him, which seemed inexplicable, unless he'd tangled up with little Nell somehow.

Marley was halfway through the window now, sliding by slow degrees, the sash scraping his belly while the sill gouged furrows in his back. It hurt like hell, but he was almost there. If he could just—

The drop came suddenly, surprised him in a way, despite the fact that he'd been straining for it. Marley plummeted to land in stinking trash that slithered out from underneath his feet on impact, dumped him on his back, and knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt the Colt Navy slip from his fingers, wheezed a curse, and scrambled after it while he was struggling to breathe.

*   *   *

R
yder had ducked the shot that Marley fired in his direction, more or less, and rolled aside in case a second followed it. Instead, Nell stumbled toward him, nearly fell into his arms as Ryder tried to brace himself. She wasn't heavy, but momentum rocked them backward, Ryder nearly falling over, knowing he'd be vulnerable to a killing shot if Marley caught him on his back. Instead of using Nell to shield him, Ryder rolled her clear and struggled to his feet, mindful that he was in a cross fire now, between the door to Nell's room and the barroom battleground below.

When no one cut him down from either side, he took a cautious step in the direction of Nell's crib, where he'd enjoyed himself—and her—on several occasions. Now, it was a snake's den that he entered only at the risk of mortal danger.

Scrabbling noises and the sound of muffled cursing told him Marley must be trying for the window. Crawling out, he'd likely turn his back to Ryder and the doorway, judging distance for the leap, and during that time—

Ryder had been just about to look around the doorjamb when another pistol shot rang out. It smacked against the wall and made him jerk back in surprise, clutching his Colt Army. He tried to frame an argument that would encourage Marley to surrender, but he couldn't think of anything offhand. He had no deal to offer, no concessions for the leader of the gang he'd been assigned to crush. It would be prison or a rope for Marley at the judge's pleasure, if he got that far.

Ryder was braced to rush the doorway when Nell clutched his belt and drew him backward. “George,” she said, “don't risk it. Everyone's gone crazy!”

Looking at her, Ryder knew she wasn't trying to deceive him. She was in a panic from the shooting, Marley's handling of her, and the spreading fire below them.

“Let's get out of here!” she pleaded. “We can make it!”

Ryder disengaged her fingers. Told her, “You go, while you can. I've still got business here.”

“He'll kill you,” Nell said, reaching out for him again.

He shoved her back and snapped, “Go on!” Seeing the disappointment in Nell's eyes, mixed up with fear, he was disgusted with himself but had no time to think about it.

Charging through the door behind his Colt, he found an empty room. Ryder rushed over to the open window, peered outside, and was in time to see his quarry roll out of the alley trash heap, scooping up some object that could only be his pistol. Proving it, Marley spun back to face the second-story window, squeezing off another shot that struck the windowsill and splintered, stinging Ryder's chest with tiny bits of lead.

Too close for comfort.

Ryder raised his Colt as Marley bolted down the alley, but he held his fire, put off by shooting Marley in the back—and not at all convinced that he could make the shot, regardless. Muttering a string of curses, pistol holstered now, he gripped the window frame and wriggled into space, then plummeted through darkness and the stench of smoke.

*   *   *

S
tede Pickering crouched on the brothel's second-story balcony, peering through smoke that nearly blinded him, feeling the heat from roaring flames below. The place was groaning now, as fire devoured its underpinnings, and he wondered if the tremors he felt rising through his feet and legs came strictly from his own uneasiness or if the building was preparing to collapse. A gruff voice in his head warned Pickering to flee, but he crept forward, rifle probing at the smoke in front of him.