Bounty Hunter

by Michelle E Lowe

  Pierce felt relieved, for he feared running into anyone out for his blood.

  Just then, a hasty Mexican, dressed in a black robe, entered.

  “Ah, Judge Castro,” the mayor greeted the man.

  Judge Castro didn’t appear to be in the mood for light chatter. Perhaps he was on recess during a trial. He hurried over to his desk and pulled a Bible from the desk drawer. Standing behind the desk, he held the Bible out and waited.

  Pierce approached, nodding to Jaxton as he passed him. “C’mon, lad. Let’s crack on with it, eh?”

  Jaxton sighed and placed his hand on the Good Book with Pierce. With their right hands raised, they listened to Judge Castro speak in Spanish.

  “Do you swear as deputized lawmen to uphold your duties and conduct your job as one?” Mayor Belén translated when the judge had stopped speaking.

  “Sí, lo haré,” Jaxton said.

  “Aye,” Pierce replied.

  Judge Castro gave him a sour look.

  Pierce cleared his throat. “Erm, sí.”

  The judge went on. After he concluded the swearing in, he removed the Bible and placed it back in the drawer. He then placed a pair of badges into Jaxton’s hand and rushed out the door.

  “Congratulations, gentlemen,” Mayor Belén said. “You are now both honorary lawmen of Guaymas.”

  Volker Jäger

  Chapter Eleven

  A Loss of Hope

  A deadly chance encounter and a slew of horrible events never to be forgotten. Everyone has a dark chapter. We keep it buried inside other chapters that make up the tome entitled Life. For our infamous outlaw, this is his.

  This is the story of Pierce Landcross and Volker Jäger.

  Plymouth, England,

  Autumn, 1838

  Pierce Landcross never thought he’d be so happy to step onto English soil once more. After his narrow escape in Berck, France, when he was arrested while returning the girl babe to her parents, he bid his friend, Robert Blackbird, goodbye and sailed aboard a ferry to his homeland.

  He hadn’t been to Plymouth since he was a child, traveling with his family. He didn’t reckon much had changed.

  As he relaxed in a pub with a pint, Pierce slipped a rolled-up newspaper out of a customer’s coat pocket as the man stood up from his table. Pierce read about current events, including an article about a local named Abbott Brice, also known as the Collector. The Collector used to be a world-traveling archeologist, collecting artifacts for the British Museum in London. Nowadays, he and his wife mainly purchased collectible artifacts. His latest purchase consisted of ten pieces out of the seventy-eight Lewis chessmen chess pieces that had been excavated off the Isle of Lewis. Or so the newspaper article read. Those medieval pieces could be worth a lot if Pierce found the right buyer for them.

  Pierce located the Collector’s residence, which was on a hillside overlooking the sea. He then spent a few days scouting it out. Using a spyglass he’d stolen from a store in town, he went to a hillside at the rear of the house and managed to spot the chess pieces through a window. They were sitting on the fireplace mantel. Pierce decided to make a try for it.

  It was dark by the time he returned to his hotel chamber to dress in darker clothing. When he opened the door to leave, someone was waiting for him.

  “Christ!” Pierce yelled.

  In a German accent, the unexpected visitor said, “It’s when you stop looking for something that it comes to you. Would you not say so, Pierce Landcross?”

  It was pitch-black within the hotel room, and only the glowing lamps out in the corridor highlighted the man’s pale face.

  Pierce started reaching for his pistol when the stranger raised the one he already held. With the barrel nearly touching his nose, Pierce had no choice but to raise his hands.

  “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, mate. My name is Carl Heathcliff.”

  The intruder advanced, forcing Pierce to retreat into his room.

  “Re-kindle the lamp,” the gunman demanded.

  Pierce thought about grabbing the lantern off the table and swinging it at him. The savvy tosser sensed his intention, however, and jabbed the pistol against his head.

  “Light it!” he growled.

  While Pierce relit the lantern, his flintlock pistol was seized from its holster.

  “Sit,” the German ordered, backing away toward the door that still hung open.

  Pierce sat down in the chair behind him while the stranger shut the door. The German approached the table and pulled another chair over so he could take a seat directly in front of him. The firearm stayed aimed at Pierce the entire time.

  Pierce believed it might be a trick of the light, but this cocker appeared to have red eyes. They also shifted from side to side.

  “Tell the truth. You are Pierce Landcross, ja?”

  “Afraid you got me mixed up with someone else, chum. I’m Carl Heathcliff.”

  The stranger lowered the gun between Pierce’s legs and pressed it against his manhood.

  “Fuckin’ hell!” Pierce shrieked, nearly jumping out of his seat.

  The sharp, twig-snapping click of the pistol hammer immediately stopped him.

  “Last chance,” the man warned.

  Protecting his cock was far more important than protecting his name.

  “Aye,” he answered as calmly as he could, yet he was unable to stop his hands from shaking. “I’m Pierce Landcross.”

  “And you intend to rob the Collector, ja?”

  Pierce was taken aback. “How the bloody hell did you find that out?”

  The German thankfully redirected the pistol. Having a loaded firearm aimed at his face suddenly wasn’t as horrifying anymore.

  “I, too, also plan to obtain a certain object from the Collector. My partner noticed a suspicious young man poking around in recent days and informed me. I spotted you this afternoon and followed you to the hotel.”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  The German raised his chin. The shadows of the lantern made him appear as deadly as a nightmarish folklore creature.

  “I have been hunting you for years, ever since Hamburg.”

  Pierce realized who the bloke was. He’d seen him in the main entry hall of the Imperial Theater on the night Pierce had dressed as a woman to escape the German soldiers. The man had stood out among the other troops like a tall ceramic statue in uniform because the man was an albino.

  “You’re not easy to find, Landcross. I’ve tracked you through France, where the trail turned cold.”

  That was when Pierce had fallen in with Juan Fan and began his short-lived career as a smuggler. It had literally and figuratively kept him underground.

  “I nearly had you in London,” his captor continued, “but you again fled.”

  He was referring to when Fan had opened her opium den. She and Pierce had parted ways, and Pierce returned to France. There, he traveled clear across to Italy, where he met Robert Blackbird. The entire time, he was unaware this albino was hunting him.

  “I gave up the search. I no longer cared to regain my status as a general.”

  “Erm, you were discharged?” Pierce guessed.

  He nodded. “I came after you so as to reclaim my position. As time passed, I came to terms with never being redeemed, especially after the lines I’ve crossed during my hunt.”

  Pierce swallowed thickly. “What sort of lines?”

  “I’ve become a criminal, and in doing so, I have found a new kind of freedom I have never known within the confinement of my military life.”

  Pierce cocked an eyebrow at him. “So, you’re a thief like me?”

  “Far worse, Landcross,” he admitted, making Pierce’s scalp prickle. “You shall learn this soon enough.”

  Pierce had no doubt about that. The lunatic did appear to be off his rocker, especially with those damn devious eyes of his.

  “Erm, listen,” Pierce began, “I honestly had no idea the Collector’s house was spoken for. Do accept my apologi
es, eh?”

  Pierce started to stand, but he didn’t get very far. The albino shot to his feet, pressing the end of the barrel against Pierce’s temple.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he snarled.

  “Aye,” he agreed mournfully, slowly sitting down again. “I didn’t reckon so.”

  “You are not just some fish to be thrown back, Landcross.” The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of manacles. “You’re coming with me.”

  The manacles were so tight they completely cut off the circulation to Pierce’s wrists and he half expected his hands to pop right off. His captor guided him out of the shabby hotel and down to the cold, windy beach. The kidnapper carried the lantern from the hotel, yet it didn’t assist with the difficultly of stepping around the broken pieces of driftwood, ship parts, seaweed, fishing nets, and other rubbish strewn about on the shoreline.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Where I shall have time to decide what I want to do with you,” the man answered.

  A silhouette of a tall building stood out in the distance. It took a few ticks for Pierce to register it as a lighthouse. The fact that no glowing beam circled the top told Pierce it was no longer in commission. He remembered the lighthouse on his last visit to Plymouth with his family. It was in use back then, but it appeared to have been abandoned since. And it was where the albino was bringing him.

  They entered and began climbing a caged spiral staircase. The lighthouse was a massive structure, with thick walls capable of withstanding the harsh weather, as well as deadening anyone’s screams from within. They reached a kitchen where another man was sitting at a table, eating soup.

  “Who the feck is this?” the man spat while standing. “Is this the one who was stalking about the house?”

  The bugger was in his early to mid-forties, with oily hair and pits for eyes. He spoke in a thick Welsh accent. He had a stony scowl that made him look mean.

  “It is,” the albino said, shoving Pierce in.

  “Why are you bringing him here? You were supposed to kill him, Volker.”

  Volker. Even the bleedin’ name sounded menacing.

  The German glared at the Welshman from the cast iron wood burning stove he and Pierce stood by.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the Welshman mocked him. “Volker Jäger, did I identify you? I suppose you’ll have to do the bugger in now.”

  “Nein,” he exclaimed, grabbing Pierce by the nape of his neck and shoving him down on the floor beside the stove.

  “Ouch!” Pierce complained, landing on his arse.

  “He remains alive until I wish otherwise,” Volker said, taking out keys from his pocket. “He and I have a history, and I want to deal with him specifically.”

  Pierce didn’t know how to read that, and it appeared that neither did the Welshman, who said with an uneasy look on his wretched face, “Uh, all right.”

  Volker uncuffed Pierce and then shackled his hands to the leg of the stove. Hot tingles washed over his briefly freed hand as the blood circulated once more. The sensation made it difficult to move his fingers.

  “I need to go upstairs a moment.” Then, in a tone that would make Genghis Khan cringe, Volker said to the Welshman, “If you kill him, I will unearth every nightmare you have and turn it into a reality.”

  The man gave no response, but the fear of the threat flickered in his sunken eyes.

  When Volker left, the atmosphere elevated as though he took all the world’s evils out with him.

  “Charming bloke, isn’t he?” Pierce remarked.

  “He’s definitely a dangerous bastard. I believe he was born in the wrong time. A brute like him would be better served living with barbarians.” He sat down and resumed eating his meal. “What’s the history between you two, eh?”

  “I got into a bit of trouble in Germany. He was supposed to bring me in, but I escaped. Apparently, he’s been looking for me since.”

  “Ah, back when he was a general,” the man recalled. “I remember now. You’re Pierce Landcross. He spoke about you once. He even carries with him a newspaper with your description in it. Funny, it was me who spotted you when I noticed you sniffing about. Jammy for me that I did. Otherwise, you might have hindered our plan. I’ve been posing as a butler for the past few weeks to steal what we’re after.”

  “Aye, lucky you,” Pierce grumbled.

  The wanker slurped at his soup like an annoying youngster. “So, you’re the thief who ruined Volker’s career? I would hate to be in your shoes.”

  Pierce decided to try a tactic that might or might not work in his favor.

  “You sound like you’re from South Wales. I’ve been there, near the Newport area.”

  “Have you now?”

  “Aye. It’s nice there. What’s your name?”

  The man gave him a level look. “Dwi, Saith Cardoe. And you’re a dodder if you try to get all chummy with me. You’re on your own.”

  Bugger.

  Volker returned, carrying blankets and a pillow. “I will stay in the kitchen and watch him.”

  Saith only shrugged. “Do what you want.”

  The men sat at the table and discussed their plan for the heist.

  “He keeps the chest in the bedroom,” Saith explained to Volker.

  “Where?”

  “Dwmbo. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “And there are footmen there every evening?”

  “Aye. At least a dozen of them. Most are younglings who spend most of the night in the kitchen, drinking after the old man and his wife go off to bed.”

  “How do we get in?”

  “I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Pierce knew a way in. He had discovered it earlier in the day when he found the chess pieces.

  Getting to sleep proved difficult. Aside from the cold hard floor and the clanking sound the chain made against the iron stove leg whenever he moved, there was the terror of what could happen to him in the dark with his captor so close by. He eventually got a bit of shut-eye but was abruptly awakened by a loud bang next to his ear.

  “Christ!” he shouted, about to jump to his feet but the manacles held him down.

  He tilted his chin up to Volker, who had kicked the side of the oven Pierce was resting against

  Volker glared down at him. “Guten Morgen.”

  “I need to go,” Saith announced from the doorway. He was dressed in a butler uniform. “Meet me at the park today at noon.”

  “Ja. Auf wiedersehen.”

  “Landcross,” the Welshman said with a salute. “Been a pleasure.”

  With that, he left, and a cold dread came over Pierce. He looked up again to see the albino staring down at him. He appeared paler in the sunlight.

  Aside from the abnormal pigment, his shifty, bright red irises, and long, cream-colored hair, Volker had high cheekbones and paper-thin lips that stretched clear across his face whenever he grinned. His teeth were as yellow as his beard and mustache. He stood tall, inches higher than Pierce, and was well built—a physique most likely earned during his days in the army. He wore his vest and no shirt, revealing muscular arms. He had dark circles under those glowing eyes as though the sod had never had a decent night’s sleep in his life.

  “You surprise me, Landcross,” the German confessed, walking back toward where he had slept on the floor. “For such a little hick, you have left quite an imprint on the places you’ve been.”

  “I tend to leave an impression,” he remarked.

  Volker snorted and crouched beside a bag by his pillow. He brought out a neatly folded shirt and took off his vest.

  “I have decided what is to be done with you,” he stated, slipping his arms through the sleeves.

  Pierce didn’t fancy the sound of that. Volker put his vest on again and began buttoning his shirt. “Have you ever experienced the complete loss of hope?”

  Pierce arched an eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”

  Volker buttoned his last button and brought out a
satin puff tie. “Say you are in distress—”

  “Right,” Pierce interrupted. “I can say that.”

  Volker glared at him as he tied his tie. His look made Pierce shut his trap tight.

  “You get out of it,” Volker continued. “And just when you believe all will be well, you fall back into your dire situation. Has such a thing ever happened to you?”

  Pierce gave him no answer.

  “No?” his captor said as he finished tying his tie. “How fortunate for you.”

  He grabbed his blood red dapper coat where he had draped it over a chair. He tied his hair back and donned his top hat.

  “I need something to eat. You will stay here, and when I return, we shall begin.” He slipped on dark, tinted spectacles and added, “I think I will start with your eye.”

  He refrained from elaborating and took his leave. Pierce sighed deeply. He listened carefully to Volker’s footsteps as he descended the spiral staircase. The way down was far, but he heard the old rusted hinges squeak as the door opened and then closed. Pierce tried lifting the stove up just enough to slip his chain under the leg but raising the cast iron stove proved impossible. The damn thing must’ve weighed more than three miniature horses. His every muscle strained, but in the end, he barely got it off the floor.

  “Dammit,” he cursed, slamming his forehead against the oven.

  Pierce could not believe what was happening. To fall into the hands of an ex-soldier and maniac who—to Pierce’s misfortune had a creative mind for torment—was one of the worst things to have happened to him. Worse than being pursued by authorities, or jailed, or even when Coira MacCrum had stabbed him. He needed to find a way out.

  Pierce turned his head and his eyes grew wide.

  The keys sat on the blanket. He estimated the length between himself and the keys as he shifted himself to the front of the oven. He lay on his side to stretch out his leg.

  “C’mon,” he grunted while extending his body to its limit.

  His calf muscle twisted and cramped, sending electrifying jolts up his entire leg and spine. It nearly caused him to give up until the toe of his boot snagged the edge of the blanket.