"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.
Chapter Ten
She heard his voice, felt a fleeting touch on her aching face, but only through a swirling fog of half-consciousness. Whatever had soaked the filthy rag they'd clapped over her face, it had stolen her will and clouded her mind. She could still smell the familiar odor, but could not put a name to it.
Gabe! Help me!
But the words stayed in her mind and the half-circle of light disappeared with a sharp crack. She wept. And drifted into a nowhere land where all sounds were mysterious and far away and time had no meaning.
She woke when the world turned topsy
-turvey, and found herself in a lightless, cramped space that tumbled her over and over. Her gorge rose, but there was nothing in her stomach but bile. Is the ship sinking?
Ship? What ship? We landed at Liverpool didn't we? No, it was Boulogne. Paris? Notre Dame? Or a dream?
A crescent of light opened above her and a dangerous looking man peered in. "We'll have you out of there in a trice, miss," he said in strong British accent. "Hang on."
Out of where? The fog had thinned, but her mind still drifted from one half-formed thought to the next.
In a moment--or an hour--she heard a screech of tortured wood and suddenly the whole roof of her world was torn away. She blinked at the light, dim though it was, and saw that it came from a lantern hanging from a hook overhead.
"Here now, let's get you up." Strong hands caught her under the arms and lifted.
She cried out as her knees exploded in pain.
"Hold it, Dom. Let me give you a hand." Another man stepped up. He looked even more dangerous than the first, but at least his words had a familiar ring to them. An American!
"I'm all right," Regina gasped. "Asleep. Legs...asleep." Experimentally she flexed one ankle than the other. Sharp needles of pain shot up her legs, but with each flex they lost their power. All the while the one called Dom held her with strong and gentle hands.
The dangerous man approached, holding a cup, which he offered. "Water?"
Regina reached for it, but her fingers would not obey and she nearly dropped it.
Gently he put it to her lips. "Slowly now. A sip at a time. And don't bite your tongue. They gave you chloroform, and it's going to make you clumsy for a while."
After several mouthfuls, she felt her stomach roil. "No more. For now." She pushed his hands away.
"Let's get you out of there, then." Dom lifted her as if she were half his size instead of half a head taller. He carried her easily into the darkness to one side and laid her on a hard but yielding surface. "Stay there," he said. "We've got to get the others out."
Regina hadn't the strength or the will to argue, let alone resist. She sank back and let herself relax. Was she still a captive, or were these men her rescuers?
Captive? Oh, my God. Where are Minerva and Pamela? And the little English maid. Marcy? She attempted to rise, but her arms and legs were useless. If only she could see what was happening, but the vision in her one open eye was still too blurry for her to see the men's activities clearly. Willing her arms to move, she attempted to feel around the eye that wouldn't open, but her fingers refused to obey.
With every breath of fresh air, her thoughts became more clear. She'd been in a barrel. A big one, at least a hogshead, but probably even bigger. Her long legs had been doubled up against her body, so it was no wonder they'd been asleep when she was pulled out. Cautiously she flexed her right leg and felt the reassuring weight of her knife in place on her thigh. There's still a chance I can escape, then.
Of course. And when she did, she'd take three terrified young women with her. Easy as pie.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up. Only by clamping her mouth tightly shut was she able to hold it in. Their chances of escaping without help were infinitesimal. On the close order of impossible.
"...wasn't any place to go but on..." Her mother's words echoed in her mind. Maybe they didn't have much of a chance to free themselves, but she owed it to herself and to the three girls to try.
The dangerous man reappeared, carrying Marcy. "She's been sick," he said. "See if you can get her to take water. It'll help settle her tum." He laid the girl beside Regina.
Now that her vision was clearing, she could make out some details in the dim light. Her seat was a fat burlap bag in a line of half a dozen, laid close against a rough brick wall. Straw was strewn across the floor between her and a big wagon, beside which sat four enormous barrels.
"Who...?"
"We'll explain later. After we get you all taken care of and in a place where you'll be safe." He handed her the cup, and this time her fingers did what she commanded. "I'll get the jug."
Her right eye still refused to open. He hit me. The big, ugly Frenchman. That's why.
In between coaxing Marcy to sip from the cup and trying to watch the men extricate Minerva and Pamela from their barrels, Regina found herself calming. These men were a far cry from the ones who'd captured them. Perhaps they'd also be less vigilant.
She would keep her good eye open, watching for the first opportunity to escape.
* * * *
Some half a dozen turns and several long blocks from the rendezvous, Peter slowed the wagon long enough for Gabe to step down. He had to keep in character, which meant going back to his hotel and pretending to sleep. In reality, he would change clothes, sneak out the back way, and meet Peter and the others at the house in St. Cloud.
The rain had intensified, darkening an already dark street. He walked slowly in the direction of his hotel, whistling.
There was no answering whistle. He looked casually around, as if getting his bearings, but really hoping to see Alain taking shelter in a doorway. If he wasn't here, something had gone wrong. Gabe gripped the head of his cane more tightly.
Two men appeared out of the curtain of rains, moving swiftly. Before Gabe could get the sword half out of its cane-sheath, they were on him. "M'aidez," he shouted, hoping more to slow them than for rescue in a place where life was cheap. Using the cane like a sword, he attempted to hold them off, but one swung a heavy club and knocked it flying. Fingers numb, he switched hands, but the derringer was in his left pocket. The club came at him again, and he jumped back.
His knee collapsed. He sprawled on the cobbles, cursing the uselessness of his hand. As the second man leapt toward him, he kicked with his good leg. The brute swore, but kept coming. He landed atop Gabe, knocking the wind from him.
The other hoodlum grinned as he lifted his club. "Bonne nuit, monsieur," he said, and swung it.
He never lost consciousness entirely, but for a long time he was only dimly aware of his surroundings. Lifted, tossed into a cramped space, and a sense of being inside a fast moving vehicle. After a while dragged out, and tossed again, this time onto a cold floor. That was the sum total of his awareness.
Rough hands searched his pockets, pulled his shirt free to get at his money belt. He hadn't the strength to resist. After another eternity, he groaned, rolled over. Looked up.
His vision was blurred, and the light was dim, but he recognized the stableyard where they had taken custody of the women. The man looming over him was equally familiar. Gabe knew exactly who his captor was.
"Welcome, M. King. I have been waiting for you."
"King?" he grunted, but keeping his wits enough to use Italian-accented English. "Who is King? I'm Basilio. Guglielmo Basilio."
"Oui. And I am the king of Prussia." Heureaux nudged him with a toe. "I think not. Your papers say you are Basilio, but I know better."
The damned Frenchman sounded far too sure of himself. Gabe tried once more. "I am Guglielmo Basilio. My home is in Rome and I am employed by Mercury Exports. We deal in...ah...exotic merchandise."
"Of course you wish me to believe your lies. I am, however, certain of your identity. We have been following others like you for these three years, and recently your identity was revealed to us. We set such a clever trap for you, no?
"You have cost me money, M. King, very much money. You have also caused my organization considerable inconvenience, which was worse. And no one inconveniences Fabrice Heureaux without regretting it."
Again that nudge of his toe, but this time Gabe was ready. He grabbed it and twisted. Before Heureaux could roll away, Gabe had his knife at the Frenchman's throat. "Call off your men," he ordered, "or I'll slice you open."
Heureaux waved a hand. "Back," he gasped. His two thugs stepped away.
"Stand up." Gabe kept the knife in place as the other man struggled to his feet. "Now, we're going to walk slowly across the yard and out that gate. If anyone some much as
shuffles his feet, I will cut you." He put a little extra pressure on the knife, not enough to cut, but he'd bet it stung. "Tell them."
"Rester en arrière. Ne pas l'arrêter." The words came out a hoarse whisper, but they sufficed.
No one stopped Gabe as he forced Heureaux ahead of him across the stableyard. They had almost reached the exit when he sensed motion behind him.
In his last instant of consciousness, all he could think was, Buff was right. I'm getting too old for this life.
* * * *
At least this wagon smelled better than the last. Regina tested her new bonds for perhaps the hundredth time, but they were as tight as ever. Worse, there was a rope between her ankles and her wrists, making it impossible for her to roll over, to reach her knife, to scratch the nose that itched something awful.
How insane. Worry about sneezing, when my very life could be in danger.
The gag was the worst. Minerva had stirred, so she was at least alive. She wasn't making a sound though, unlike Pamela and Marcy, who both gave hopeless little sobs whenever the wagon went over a bump.
She had tried counting off the seconds and the minutes, but had lost track around seventeen minutes, when the American had climbed in across the tailgate and said, "We'll be another two hours or so, and then you'll be set free. Sorry for the gags, but we can't risk you crying out."
Regina supposed Americans could be white slavers too. Not that she expected them to be any nicer people, but being addressed in one's native language was just not as threatening as being sworn at in French.
Eventually the wagon came to a halt and stayed stopped. Regina heard voices outside, and finally, someone came to loosen the canvas at the tailgate.
One of the girls tried to scream around her gag.
"Quiet, if you value your lives." This one spoke with a French accent. "We will soon pass through a place where, if you are discovered, you will be in great danger. Soon we will release you, but until then you must be completely silent. As you value your lives," he repeated. He let the canvas drop.
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