The Payment

by Michelle E Lowe

  Ethan crashed into him and the men began to struggle. Cash spied the Queen standing near the railing. He raised his gun, ready to fire, when Ethan slammed into her, knocking her against the wall. Cash’s gun went off.

  * * *

  Frederica’s performance enchanted Pierce. She really was a gifted thespian. He’d known that ever since he rehearsed with her many years ago. She simply brimmed with talent. This woman, this wonderful actress . . .

  . . . the mother of his firstborn child.

  Christ, he couldn’t believe it. Kolt was his son. Their son. He’d been a father since he was eighteen and he never even knew it. The really bizarre thing was that Frederica had no idea, either. How would he break the news to her? Should he say anything at all? He thought it might be best not to say a word, for who knows who might try harming her or Kolt just to get at him. Freya wanted Kolt in order to create her djinn. Pierce needed to make certain she didn’t get her hands on him. He took solace in knowing Kolt was somewhere in the theater. Perhaps he’d try tracking him down after the show. Then again, he was sitting front and center in the trap Freya had set for him.

  Watching Frederica performing her character gave him peace from his troubles—until the gunshots stole his tranquility away.

  The play stopped and people below screamed. There was brief confusion as to where exactly the shots had come from. Then more shots split the air, and a cry came from the next box seat over.

  “Good God!” yelled the older man beside Pierce. “It’s the Queen! They’re attacking the Queen!”

  The Queen? Pierce thought grimly.

  Of course it was the bloody Queen. She was the real target, not Robert or his wife. Sneaky Freya.

  Robert jumped into action and darted out of the box. Pierce unholstered his gun and dashed after him.

  “Rob!” Pierce called. “Wait!”

  Hearing his name, Robert stopped and looked over.

  “Don’t be an idiot, mate,” Pierce said, sprinting past him. “You have no gun.”

  Robert gawked. “Pierce?”

  Pierce ran toward the dead guards lying on the floor. If the Queen weren’t inside, he wouldn’t have even considered charging in. The woman, though, had spared his life, allowing him to carry on for another seven years, and that time had been filled with adventures, marriage, and the chance to produce youngsters of his own. She could have taken all that away—and rightfully so. He owed it to her to try to save her life, at the very least. If the Fates were kind, that is.

  Pierce entered in time to watch none other than Darius struggling with that arse, Ethan, while Finley raised his gun on Queen Victoria. The two men fighting quickly got in the way of his shot, knocking the Queen hard against the wall and banging her head. Finley opened fire, striking Ethan in the spine. He and Darius toppled over the railing and fell from sight.

  “Bloody hell!” Pierce exclaimed, drawing Finley’s attention as he was getting ready to open fire on the Queen.

  Pierce gave him no time to act. He fired into the attacker’s chest twice. With him dead, Pierce went to the railing, where people below were either scattering or standing about, unsure of what to do.

  Hanging off the bottom of the balcony was ol’ Darius. Below him lay Ethan, who wasn’t moving.

  “Help me,” Darius called up to Pierce.

  Even with his disguise, Pierce recognized that as an unwise move. Besides, the drop wasn’t far. If Darius fell, the worse that would happen is he would break an ankle or leg.

  “Sorry, monsieur,” he apologized, reverting to his French character. “I must see to the Queen.”

  He turned and kneeled to Queen Victoria. The hard impact had dazed her. Her head bled from the side. Pierce pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently pressed it against the wound. She stared at him as if she recognized him by eyes alone.

  She pulled his cravat down past his scar. “You,” she uttered weakly.

  He didn’t know what to do other than take her hand in his free one and hold it. “Majesty,” he whispered.

  Robert, Penelope, and the older couple entered.

  “See to her,” Pierce ordered Penelope.

  She took his place and held the handkerchief.

  “Help me!” Darius cried out.

  Robert and the older gent looked over and reached for the dangling man.

  Pierce saw this as the perfect chance to vacate.

  As he turned to do so, someone called out his name. “Laaaaandcross! Piiiiierce Landcross!”

  He knew that voice, and when he again glanced over the railing, his heart lurched into his throat. Volker stood in the crowd now eyeing him. He looked right up at Pierce.

  “Landcross?” said Darius, tilting his chin up. The Persian began clawing his way up. “Quick! Pull me up!” he ordered Robert and the other man.

  Pierce thought about running when Volker raised his gun at Frederica, still standing at center stage.

  “Don’t!” Pierce screamed a second before the blast.

  Volker had been in the second row, granting him a clean shot. Frederica’s chest exploded with blood. She fell backward and just as she did, a lamp dropped from the ceiling and crashed where she had been standing.

  “No!” Pierce cried out at the top of his lungs.

  He bolted out of the box seat, burst through a door at the end of the hallway next to the box seat entrance, and thundered down the stairs that led directly beside the stage. There, Pierce clambered up and rushed to Frederica. The broken glass of the lamp crunched under his boots before he fell to his knees beside her.

  He lifted her a bit, allowing her head to rest in the crook of his arm. “Freddie.”

  “Pierce,” she said, instantly recognizing him through the disguise she had given him.

  Blood poured from her gunshot wound. Her stony eyes were already glazing over, and yet they expressed a sudden clarity.

  “Kolt,” she choked through the blood pooling in her mouth. “He is our son?”

  As the moment of her passing approached, the cruel hex that had shielded the truth from her all these years fell away.

  “Aye,” Pierce confirmed. “That he is, darling.”

  “I . . . I always suspected he could be,” she admitted in a whisper. “It just made more . . . sense.”

  Her eyes rolled back as she breathed her last breath. Pierce could do nothing but watch her go.

  Volker called to him from the rear of the stage where he was apparently waiting. “Landcross.”

  When Pierce saw him, his vision went completely red.

  “Come get me,” Volker dared him.

  Pierce wanted nothing more. He jumped to his feet as the German darted off backstage. Pierce laid chase with his gun in hand. Volker had a head start on him, and so, Pierce only saw him going out through an exit and vanishing.

  * * *

  Robert stopped putting everything he had into helping Darius up the balcony when he realized the man wanted his friend. Instead, he merely hung on, leaving the older gentleman to do the heavy lifting on his own. Darius’s determination did the rest. He managed to drag himself up to where he grabbed the edge and climbed over.

  Robert feared Darius might recognize him—although he had worn a mask the last time they met inside the ballroom of his château in France. Darius didn’t seem too interested in him anyway and was about to take his leave when his attention turned to the Queen, who was being cared for by Penelope and another woman with red hair. Robert surmised the red-haired woman had arrived while he was helping Darius up.

  “My Queen,” he said with grave concern.

  “She will be fine,” stated the mysterious lady. “Go catch that man who attacked her!”

  That put a fire up the Persian’s ass. He raced out, failing to notice the Queen raising her arm as though to stop him. Darius grabbed a rifle from a dead guard and left.

  “Shush, Your Highness,” ordered the red-haired woman, placing a hand on the Queen’s head. “Sleep now.”

 
“What did you say to her?” Penelope demanded of the woman who stood to leave.

  The older woman moved aside as though sensing a threat from the redhead. Penelope seemed poised to go after her, except she was holding the handkerchief to the Queen’s bleeding wound.

  Penelope turned to her. “Your Highness?”

  Queen Victoria had fallen unconscious.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Blame

  Pierce burst through the exit door just in time to see Volker riding a horse down the alleyway. Another horse stood by, blatantly left there for him. Volker wanted him to chase him, and in his rage, Pierce couldn’t give a toss about the man’s premeditated gesture. He aimed to murder the fucker that had caused so much destruction in his life. He mounted and kicked the animal. As he charged out of the dark alleyway, Darius shouted after him to halt. Pierce ignored the order and rode swiftly away in the direction that Volker had gone.

  * * *

  Lord Javan had no clean shot at Landcross and so dashed out to the road and ran in front of a rider on his horse.

  “Whoa!” Javan said, throwing his hands up. “I need your mount.”

  “You’re pissed, mate,” the horseman retorted. “Fuck off!”

  Javan had no choice but to act aggressively. He grabbed the man and yanked him off the saddle. He mounted and took off down the street while the rider shouted for help.

  * * *

  Pierce followed Volker through the city, losing his hat and wig along the way, until he reached a building situated next to the River Thames. Volker had gone inside by the time Pierce arrived.

  “Get back here, you bastard!” Pierce yelled, dismounting and running in after him through the unlocked front door.

  Pierce stopped short. He’d entered a very long building. Locomotive parts were scattered everywhere. Unfinished locomotives rested on an assembly line.

  The factory was not only unlocked but also partially lit, despite there being no workers in sight. Volker hadn’t chosen this place at random.

  Pierce checked the chamber of his pistol. He had four bullets and no additional ammo. He realized he might need more than firepower for this fight.

  “Volker!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the vast building.

  He peeled off the itchy fake facial hair and walked over the railroad tracks running in between the assembly lines. He was fully aware Volker was armed and had the element of surprise. That did little to cool Pierce’s anger, which he knew he needed to control in order to have a clear mind.

  An incomplete locomotive hung overhead on a pair of large iron hooks attached to pulleys. Pierce avoided stepping under it, even though he had spied the tall release lever nearby sticking out of the floor.

  He didn’t expect Volker would try to kill him—not yet, anyhow, for he wanted to inflict as much pain and suffering on him as he could. Pierce just wanted Volker dead. At some point, Volker would do something to draw him closer before springing his trap. Pierce had to allow himself to be baited in order to draw the bastard out of his hiding place.

  He came across tools on a worktable, took a wrench and tucked it under his belt behind him. He looked down at the many footprints on the dirty floor, wishing he could determine which were new and which were old.

  A loud clang rang out as something metal fell nearby. It caught Pierce’s attention. He tracked where the sound had come from with his gun outstretched, creeping slowly between a pair of steam engines. He was ready for whatever awaited him.

  He never thought to look up, which proved to be a severe error. He only caught the flash of a body falling from the steam engine before the person tackled him to the ground. Pierce immediately began to fire, but his assailant struck him across the face. The blow was hard enough to loosen teeth. Volker snatched his weapon away and tossed it aside. Then he seized Pierce by the throat. The pain was sadly familiar.

  “There you are,” Volker said, squeezing a little harder with his mechanical fingers. He was wearing a black shirt with a sleeve cut off, showing off his deadly artificial arm.

  Pierce honestly believed his eyes were going to pop out from the pressure. His legs weakened beneath him.

  “I need you unconscious,” the German explained, “to take you to a special place I found nearby where you and I can continue where we left off in the forest.”

  It would only take a little more pressure to strangle him into a comatose state. He reached behind him, pulled the wrench from under his belt, and whacked Volker across the temple with it. The strike was hard enough to force him to let go, but not hard enough to knock him out. Pierce dropped to his knees, gasping. Volker hit the steam engine beside him, struggling to stay on his feet as he shook away his daze.

  Pierce scanned the area for his gun, but it lay hidden in the shadows. He had no time to search for it before Volker charged him. Pierce got up only to have Volker plow into him, pushing him against the other steam engine behind him. His back slammed against the iron wall, stunning him for a moment. He raised the wrench to bring it down upon Volker’s head when Volker seized his wrist in a mechanical grip. The hold didn’t break any bones, but it came damn well close. Volker slammed Pierce’s hand against the steam engine until the impact to his bones caused him to let go of the wrench. It didn’t stop Pierce from fighting. He threw a left-handed punch across Volker’s face, knocking the pale sod a couple of steps back.

  Pierce only had one good fist to fight with. Volker’s mechanical hand had dug into his tendons, wounding his wrist so badly, he could no longer move his fingers properly. Before Volker could regain his balance, Pierce punched him again and kicked him in the stomach before pushing him into a worktable. As Pierce moved in for another attack, Volker reached around and grabbed a metal rod. He swung it hard, clocking Pierce on the arm. His bicep burned with agony and then quickly went numb. He screamed when he turned just enough to be struck across the middle of his spine. That strike knocked him into a ladder, leaning against the steam engine. Not only did the ladder keep Pierce from falling over, but it also became his best weapon when he pushed it over to the side, forcing Volker to leap away. That granted Pierce the time he needed to run.

  Going against Volker and his mechanical limb would eventually do Pierce in. He needed a weapon. As he hurried down between the steam engines, he spotted his pistol. He stopped, scooped it up, and turned to fire when Volker tackled him. A shot went off and the bullet bounced against an engine. Pierce landed on his back with Volker on top of him. The tosspot was strong, and his artificial arm only added to his strength.

  Pierce had to even the odds. Instead of trying to reclaim the pistol, caught between his left hand and Volker’s right, Pierce punched at his mechanical arm, which was holding him down at his chest. He remembered how easily the elbow gear had come loose last time. His wrist throbbed, but he kept hitting the arm and then clawing at it.

  Volker cried out when Pierce pried the gear off and ripped away the wire connected to his nervous system, which sent messages from his brain, as Anci had explained to him.

  In retaliation, Volker slammed his other fist into Pierce’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. It certainly made his heart skip a few beats. As he gasped, Volker took control of the gun. The moment Pierce felt it leave his grasp, he seized Volker by the sides of his head and head-butted him. Volker fell sideways, squeezing off two shots. Pierce rolled over onto his feet and kicked the pistol out of his hand. He then started kicking him repeatedly. Volker seized his ankle and stole his footing out from under him. Pierce fell down on his back again and it felt like his spine had snapped. It didn’t keep him down for long, though.

  Before Volker could clamber on top of him again, Pierce was on his feet. Volker did the same and then screamed as he charged him. They both punched each other like wounded boxers in a ring. Volker managed to get in more shots to the face, and just when Pierce thought he couldn’t take one more hit, Volker grabbed him by the coat lapel and threw him near the end of the steam engines. He landed hard on his
stomach. Pierce breathed deeply, then spat blood from his battered mouth. The skin over his knuckles was split to the bone and covered with a mixture of his and Volker’s blood. His entire head throbbed, and his body felt completely broken from the inside out. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. He stood on wobbly legs as Volker worked to catch his own breath.

  “Come for me, you twat!” Pierce exclaimed, running for the railway tracks.

  “Landcross!” Volker shouted as he chased after him.

  Pierce ran under the hovering locomotive and toward the release lever. He positioned himself behind it as Volker came charging at him with a face that was battered and bleeding, one red eye swollen shut, and his mechanical arm hanging limp beside him with oil dripping heavily from it. Pierce waited for the right moment before grabbing the lever and yanking it down. The chains scraped loudly over the iron pulleys as they released the train they held. Volker had no time to move out of the way before the locomotive dropped down upon him. His scream was cut short by the impact. The deafening sound of the crash could probably be heard throughout the city of London. It certainly left Pierce’s ears ringing.

  A dust cloud from the dirty floor plumed up. The crash had done a fair amount of damage to the unfinished machine, bending and cracking parts of it. Yet the real damage lay beneath the wreck.

  Pierce retrieved his empty gun and headed out. At the head of the steam engine, he paused to give himself time to recover. His entire body was as much of a wreck as the train lying on top of the late Volker Jäger.

  He leaned against the front nose of the steam engine, rubbing his aching back, which was making it difficult for him to stand up straight. Pierce chalked this up as being one of the worst nights of his life—and it was only about to get worse.

  “Don’t move, Landcross,” came a dreadfully familiar voice.

  Pierce looked over. The ringing in his ears had prevented him from hearing Darius’s approach. Darius stepped out of the hazy dust cloud with a rifle trained on him.