by P. N. Elrod
She glanced uneasily at the tops of the surrounding buildings. That’s where she should be, on the high ground—
What the devil?
Floating and silent, a vast rounded shape drifted over them, blotting out the gray sky. It was so unexpected a sight that she did not immediately take it in. Her first instinct was to duck, for anything that huge could not possibly remain aloft.
An airship?
Those were not permitted over the city; they caused too great a disturbance when people ran into crowded streets to stare. Sometimes one saw a ship in the high distance or moored in empty fields set aside for that purpose, but not over London and never so low.
Brook likewise noticed and to his credit remained quiet, though he was clearly just as startled.
Their driver quit his perch, reached into the wagon, and brought out the dark lantern. This one doubled its use as a signal lamp by means of an attached mirror. He lifted its gate, and the light flashed upward toward the ship. He blinked it in a set pattern until another light answered from above.
As the bulky ship maneuvered against the wind, the rumble of engines could now just be heard. This was a much larger, more improved craft than the one that had carried her over the hostile lands of the American territories; the lines were smoother, more graceful. With power for propellers it was not dependent on the prevailing winds for push. It was, just possibly, big enough for an Atlantic crossing.
Activity was afoot in the gondola; lights flickered and moved about. Alex strained to hear orders being called, but the wind and engine noise prevented that. The ship was soon parallel to their street in an excellent show of deft piloting.
Then lines were thrown over the side and, most unexpectedly, men began sliding down them, as swift as circus acrobats. They had control over their rate of descent, some quicker than others, and shortly after a group of fifteen disembarked. They detached from the lines, which were rapidly pulled back up.
The driver signaled again. The airship continued south toward the river until intervening structures blocked it from view.
The men wore thick rugby pullovers, knitted balaclava helmets, leather gloves, and riding boots, every stitch and scrap in unrelieved black. Leather-and-glass goggles protected their eyes against the vicious cold and wind of the higher altitudes. They were armed with Webleys on lanyards, truncheons, and what looked like—if one could judge by the length and shape of the scabbard—throwbacks to a Roman gladius, also on lanyards.
Though hard to see against the black and in the dark, they were partially armored, too, with formfitting plates strapped to their chests and arms. Metal that was strong enough to stop a bullet tended to be too heavy to wear, but evidently this well-built lot had no difficulty with the burden.
The last man down, noticeably bigger and taller than the others, carried a captured air rifle, along with its crank, which hung from his belt. How he’d managed that and lowered himself one-handed on a hundred-foot line was a mystery.
One man alone was formidable enough. Collectively, they were terrifying.
“I would hazard to deduce,” whispered Alex, “that that is a flying squad.”
Colonel Mourne’s lean figure emerged from the dark. The men snapped to attention.
“That was sharp work, lads. Finally got to use that training, what? Ready for a rat hunt?”
They murmured an affirmative.
“Right, then. I had a look, and there’s an ambush ahead.” He cast a cold eye on Alex and Brook. “Anyone fool enough to try the front bell will get a warm reception, so we won’t touch it. Whoever they are, they’re set up to defend themselves.”
“How many, sir?” asked someone in the back.
“I don’t know, could be two or twenty. I’m going in to flush ’em out. Your objective is to capture if possible. We need prisoners to question, but if it’s your life or theirs, don’t hesitate. You’re more valuable, choose yourself every time. If they have those special air rifles, it’s twenty shots to your one. You won’t hear their fire. Keep your eyes open.”
He then gave a concise description of the building. The front wall, twelve feet high, made of stout brick, had a wooden gate wide enough to admit wagons, locked of course. Inside were a delivery yard and the building itself, which was three floors, also brick with barred windows.
“There are only two openings in that wall for escape. You six cover the mews in back. There’s four of ours there already. Tell them what to expect. You eight post up and down this side to watch the gate. You”—Mourne nodded to the man carrying the rifle—“are with me.”
They slipped away. The ones remaining found concealment in doorways and shadows and seemed to magically vanish in the darkness.
“We’ll come along,” said Alex. “We can watch their back while they watch yours.”
“You trained for fighting?”
“I’ve seen my share. Practical experience, sir.”
“That’s jolly for you, then, but I trained these lads myself and we all know what to do and when. You stick to Reading. Let them do the heavy work.”
“Yes, sir.”
Her easy reply stopped him in midturn and he snarled a curse. The man with him muttered into his ear. Mourne nodded and faced her. “I don’t appreciate being lied to, missy, however keen you are to help. That ends or I’ll toss you in the wagon and lock the door. If you want to watch, you may do so, but keep clear and take cover if it turns hot. Brook?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll see to it, sir.”
“There’s a man who knows the value of discipline.” Mourne and his tall companion hurried on.
The snapping remark stung. Alex full well understood discipline; her life and sanity depended on maintaining it. She looked at Brook, frowning.
He shrugged. “You were going to rush in regardless, weren’t you?”
“Not rushed. I’d have been careful. This excursion was not my idea. I was going to report and let the Service handle it, but we were abducted. Since I’m here, I want to be useful.”
“So do they. And it will be better for all if we stay out of their way. The last thing they want is us in the middle, distracting them. You’ve practical experience, but they’ve drilled for it, weeks on end, in all weathers.”
“How do you know?”
“One hears about special companies getting advanced instruction. Having an airship at one’s disposal to deliver men, though, that’s new. They’re part of the Service?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Which was disturbing. She thought she knew all the gossip and rumors. This was an altogether different level of secrecy.
“It’s one thing to have the police at hand, but this smacks of being a private army,” he said. “I wonder if the queen knows.”
Their driver wanted to turn the wagon to face away from things. “Don’t need the horses in the line of fire if it comes to that,” he added.
She and Brook aided in the operation, each taking charge of a horse, leading them around, backing and bringing forward. They made a good deal of noise. It occurred to Alex that they might be an intentional distraction, and she worried about snipers looking their way.
“If I might suggest,” said Brook when the operation was completed, “we should take cover inside the wagon.”
“I’d rather not.” She did not care for enclosed dark places, even if they were armored.
“It’s defensible.”
“And a potential trap. I’d rather be a moving target.”
He grunted agreement and they waited in its shadow, the bulk of the wagon between them and the south end of the street.
The driver stood in front of the big draft animals, hands on their noses to calm them. They kept trying to toss their heads, anxious about something.
“Did you notice if the colonel was armed?” Brook still had the borrowed pistol.
“Not that I could see.”
“Doesn’t strike me as a man who leads from behind.”
“Indeed. How did he know so much about what
’s on the other side of that wall? He couldn’t have climbed it.”
“Probably found a ladder somewhere.”
“Hardly the sort of thing one leaves abou—”
From the mews behind the buildings, a horse shrilled, alarmed over something. Had it been shot? Alex anticipated gunfire, but the nearly silent air rifles changed everything. What damnable weapons they were.
A dog started up, barking, then another dog and another. Some howled, angry and afraid at once.
The row was in the next road over. What was going on over there? Alex kept watch on the shadows where the flying squad men hid. If anything happened on this side, they’d confront it. She could see little of the building where Mourne had gone, just a slice of the wall and gate.
Then the voice of another animal added to the din. For all her ingrained self-control, she gave a start and so did Brook.
“What the devil was that?” he asked, then hurried to help the driver keep the horses from bolting.
The sound repeated, louder and closer, and Alex fought her instinctive urge to run.
It had come from their target building and was an impossibility. It could not, simply could not be.
But it came again and was unmistakable: the full-throated angry roar of a big game cat.
Hollifield said the Polish engineer was mad; was he mad enough to keep a pet lion?
The Black Maria rocked as the horses reacted. The driver and Brook had their hands full; they missed when the front gate burst wide open and dozen men ran out, some shrieking in what seemed to be blind panic.
The flying squad emerged like black phantoms to stop them.
This was difficult, for the fleeing men were hell-bent on getting away. They dodged, fists swinging. Whatever had routed them was a greater threat than the squad, and they were too terrified to organize much resistance. A swift attack with truncheons took out most. The one exception was on horseback; his mount was just as eager to escape. He rode low over its neck, clinging to the saddle and mane like a cocklebur.
They slammed through the squad and came tearing up the street toward Alex. Webley in hand, she stepped forward. There would be an instant to shoot the rider when they passed, but at point-blank range she’d surely kill him or hit the horse, neither an option she liked. Jumping in front of the charging animal to grab the reins was lunacy, though.
The decision was taken from her.
She glimpsed it, a flash of something large and lithe topping, then leaping down from the wall, landing heavily and surging forward in pursuit of the horse. It was a matter of seconds, not enough for her mind to accept what her eyes saw, but she brought her gun up in a futile attempt to stop a far worse danger. She got one shot off and certainly missed, for the tiger kept bounding forward.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In Which Wild Beasts Run Amok
“Bloody hell!” shouted Brook behind her. He abandoned struggling with his horse, fired, and also missed.
The driver bellowed at them to stop.
Alex ignored him; there was time for one more aimed shot, but she didn’t get the chance. Something blurred at her hand like a striking snake. She cried out as the driver’s whip lashed the Webley from her grasp. The same action upset Brook’s aim and in that instant the tiger leaped at the fleeing rider.
She knew it would be efficient and brutal. Tigers bit down on the neck, strangling their thrashing prey to death.
But that did not happen. In midair, the great cat gracefully swatted the man clean from the saddle with one huge paw, then dropped onto all fours. The horse staggered at the buffeting from the attack, but kept going, ears flat, eyes bulging.
Brook got in front of Alex, sighting down his arm like a duelist, then flinched and cursed when the driver struck again with the whip, accurately plucking the gun away.
“Stand down!” he shouted. “Help with the damned horses!”
He had one by the bit, but the other reared and squealed, trying to break free. The tiger was not twenty feet away, looming over the fallen rider.
Alex’s pistol had fallen under the wagon. She started to retrieve it when the cat roared again. Her knees turned to water, she couldn’t help herself. No one could hear that and not be paralyzed by sheer primitive terror. She gulped it back, bitter and cold, and clawed for the weapon.
She shifted to face the tiger. Brook was next to her, staring in the same direction and feeling about for his dropped gun.
“Stand down, damn you!” The driver’s anger stirred the horses even more; despite the brake being engaged, they began dragging the wagon forward.
The man had to be mad—or knew something they didn’t.
She hesitated. The tiger looked right at her, down at the rider, who lay prone on the muddy cobbles, and back to her again.
It was purring. The sound was not soothing.
Alex put her hand on Brook’s shoulder. “Hold a moment … I … I think it’s on our side.”
Brook forgot himself and cursed softly and urgently.
“It might be”—she struggled for a sane explanation—“trained—as for a circus.”
“Trained?”
“A raja I knew in India kept several as pets. Perhaps—”
Two of the flying squad hurried up, going straight toward the tiger, which obligingly moved out of their way. They checked the stunned rider over, then went to aid the struggling driver. The great cat trotted down the street where others of the squad, unconcerned by its approach, were lining the conscious survivors against the wall.
One of the squad cried out and fell. No sound of a shot, but he looked to have taken a bullet. His prisoner broke free and ran, then unexpectedly dropped as well.
Already chary of snipers, Alex called a sharp warning, pointing toward the rooftop opposite. She saw the movement of something black against a slightly less black background.
Two more men were shot, along with their charges, before the others reacted. One shouted a command and they rushed across the street to press against the building’s front. The sniper would have to lean out and down to get to them.
But he did not do that, and instead fired on the remaining prisoners. Those lying insensible jerked as they were struck, others attempting escape did not succeed. It was a bitter reprise of Colonel Mourne’s defense of the Service offices, but he’d cut down armed men, not helpless captives.
Alex centered her aim on the darkest patch on that roof, fired, and made herself a new target. She heard the smack of a bullet hitting the road almost at her feet, and dashed for cover in a doorway on the same side. If she could pick the lock and get in and up to the roof—damnation, her reticule and tools were in the wagon, which was being led away. The displaced rider had been thrown into the back and the two squad men ran to join their comrades, Brook at their heels.
“Stay there!” he shouted as they passed.
Not likely, she thought, having spied a better vantage across the street. The sharpshooter continued to kill prisoners.
The big squad man who had accompanied Mourne raised the air rifle high and got off a silent shot. There was no way to tell if it struck. He attempted a second shot and failed. The gravity-fed ammunition must have jammed. He swiftly took cover behind the open gate.
She used the moment, hurried to the inset doorway and peered out. The range was bad for a revolver, but she could keep the sniper distracted. She used the building’s corner as a muzzle rest. The resulting flash and recoil prevented her from seeing if she struck anything important.
The tiger roared, seizing everyone’s attention for a few seconds, veered to the right, and leaped up. It gained the top of a protruding entry under the shooter’s vantage, but could go no farther. Even its formidable claws could find no purchase to clamber up a bare wall.
The tall man emerged and ran across with startling speed, gave a jump, and grasped the top edge of the entry. Two of the squad each grabbed a booted foot and boosted him the rest of the way until he stood next to the tiger.
Alex s
aw movement above again and aimed for it, buying the squad man time for whatever his purpose. When her eyes cleared from the flash, she wasn’t quite ready to believe them. He was flat against the wall, his feet on the tiger’s massive head. Back legs braced, front legs on the building, the animal pushed upward until the man was in reach of a windowsill. One forearm taking his weight, he smashed the glass with his truncheon, knocking enough clear to allow him to climb in.
She stopped gaping and fired again. The tiger quit its perch and stood with the squad under the cover of the entry. They all looked up, as though listening to their friend’s progress through the building.
Dogs continued howling, the only sound she could hear above the blood pounding in her ears. She breathed shallowly through her mouth, straining her eyes, hoping for telltale movement. She had one bullet left.
A blurring of shadows on top of the building, a strangled grunt turning from surprise to rage, she glimpsed two men so caught in their fight that they had no mind for their high surroundings.
The larger one seemed to be trying desperately to fling himself from the height, while the other was just as determined to drag him back.
She emerged from cover, checking the other roofs for more shooters.
The fighters bobbed from view. Alex ran to one of the fallen men, a prisoner. He was stone dead and she pulled back to avoid accidentally Reading him. The next man was one of the squad; he bled from his upper side under one arm, caught in an area not covered by the metal breastplate. The bullet might have gouged against his ribs; she couldn’t tell, but he was stunned and in pain.
“See to the wounded!” she shouted.
The squad members remained diverted by the progress of their man on the roof. Only the tiger looked her way, twitching its ears. Blast the beast, men were dying.
This time putting more force into her voice, her language and tone lashed like a master sergeant. She surprised herself at the vehemence. It had the advantage of gaining their notice. Even the damned tiger reacted. The beast gave a strange coughing growl, almost sounding disgusted, then sped from cover, loping across and through the gate.
The others spread out and pulled comrades to cover. So far as she could tell, given the circumstances, the armoring had accomplished its good purpose, sparing its wearers from fatal wounds. But there was plenty of blood and she worried about the tiger’s reaction to it. Just how well trained was it—and how the devil had it come to be here?
