than a rabid dog hungry for a piece of meat. Between them, a sixth man walked through, striding into the pub wearing an obvious, arrogant air like a badge of honor.
He would have been a strikingly handsome man, what some might call dashing with his strong jaw, thin build and long sandy-brown hair. His looks, however, were marred by a jagged scar that ran the length of his jaw from his left ear to his chin. Piercing gray eyes swept the room like a reptile watching for prey.
Abruptly, the scarred man’s hand dropped to his gun belt. In a blur, he jerked a Navy Colt from its holster. Snarling, he aimed at Anthony Hunter.
“You!” He shouted angrily. Patrons scrambled aside, chair slamming to the stained floor.
Hunter’s hand raced to his pistol. Across the room, the scarred man’s gun spat flame. The shot tore past Hunter, cutting a furrow into the wooden table next to him. Splinters erupted in a cloud, showering everyone at the table. Instinctively, Captain Hunter jerked to his left, ripping his gun free of its holster.
“Bollocks!” The newcomer snarled, then jumped as a bullet ripped past him with an angry whine.
He swung his pistol around, only to face O’Fallon’s drawn gun. Without hesitation or even a word, O’Fallon fired again, aiming for the thin man’s chest.
“Cap’n!” Shouted a gangly young man with tangled brown hair, standing near the door. He threw himself forward, shoving the thin man aside. The young man jerked as the bullet struck him, knocking him back into a nearby chair. He fell to the floor in a puddle of blood and broken wood, moaning in pain.
Immediately the room plunged briefly into chaos. Weapons ripped from their sheaths and holsters. Animosity painted with fear and surprise coated the pub as crews from various ships poised on the brink of a small, but very personal war. Then, as quickly as it started, the chaos died away, like a bright hot fire returning to a smoldering ember of raw tension.
No one spoke. No one dared move, save for the occasional furtive glance around the room. Only the faint hiss of warm steam was heard as it rhythmically hurried out the vents in the floor.
After four long heartbeats, the scarred man with the long, sandy blonde hair smiled. It was a dark, ugly little smile, more malicious than friendly. He cut his eyes sideways to look at Captain Hunter, tilting his head slightly like a snake watching its prey. He walked forward, pausing to kick the wounded sailor laying on the floor in the ribs.
“Oh, get up, ye arse,” the scarred captain snarled to the bleeding man, “an do somethin’ useful … like shoot someone.”
Slowly, deliberately, the speaker used the wounded man laying on the floor like a stepping stone in a brook. Stepping deliberately on the sailor’s chest – and by extension, the sailor’s bullet wound – the man crossed over, his cold gray eyes never leaving Hunter. On the floor, the sailor whimpered, then pulled himself away from the combatants.
“Well … ‘ello, ’ello … now that was a bit of all right, wasn’t it?” the newcomer captain said, his malicious little smile growing ever wider, “Tis not every day, ya get to get the drop on Anthony Hunter.” The man adjusted his stance, gesturing with his pistol wildly, like a pointer.” Anthony, I gotta say … thinkin’ it over … I’m just chuffed to bits over seein’ you here … it must be me birthday! Someone shoulda’ told me!”
Hunter, his pistol aimed square for the thin captain’s chest, narrowed his eyes with barely repressed anger and disgust. “And hello to you, Black Jack. Fancy seeing you here.”
Chapter 12
T he tension of the room was thick as smoke pouring from burning wet wood. Patrons around the pub were behind whatever cover was at hand, be it a chair, table or the bar itself, with pistols drawn and ready. From the back of the room, the deep voice of Captain Klaus Wilhelm roared.
“Halt!” The German captain ordered, his
He would have been a strikingly handsome man, what some might call dashing with his strong jaw, thin build and long sandy-brown hair. His looks, however, were marred by a jagged scar that ran the length of his jaw from his left ear to his chin. Piercing gray eyes swept the room like a reptile watching for prey.
Abruptly, the scarred man’s hand dropped to his gun belt. In a blur, he jerked a Navy Colt from its holster. Snarling, he aimed at Anthony Hunter.
“You!” He shouted angrily. Patrons scrambled aside, chair slamming to the stained floor.
Hunter’s hand raced to his pistol. Across the room, the scarred man’s gun spat flame. The shot tore past Hunter, cutting a furrow into the wooden table next to him. Splinters erupted in a cloud, showering everyone at the table. Instinctively, Captain Hunter jerked to his left, ripping his gun free of its holster.
“Bollocks!” The newcomer snarled, then jumped as a bullet ripped past him with an angry whine.
He swung his pistol around, only to face O’Fallon’s drawn gun. Without hesitation or even a word, O’Fallon fired again, aiming for the thin man’s chest.
“Cap’n!” Shouted a gangly young man with tangled brown hair, standing near the door. He threw himself forward, shoving the thin man aside. The young man jerked as the bullet struck him, knocking him back into a nearby chair. He fell to the floor in a puddle of blood and broken wood, moaning in pain.
Immediately the room plunged briefly into chaos. Weapons ripped from their sheaths and holsters. Animosity painted with fear and surprise coated the pub as crews from various ships poised on the brink of a small, but very personal war. Then, as quickly as it started, the chaos died away, like a bright hot fire returning to a smoldering ember of raw tension.
No one spoke. No one dared move, save for the occasional furtive glance around the room. Only the faint hiss of warm steam was heard as it rhythmically hurried out the vents in the floor.
After four long heartbeats, the scarred man with the long, sandy blonde hair smiled. It was a dark, ugly little smile, more malicious than friendly. He cut his eyes sideways to look at Captain Hunter, tilting his head slightly like a snake watching its prey. He walked forward, pausing to kick the wounded sailor laying on the floor in the ribs.
“Oh, get up, ye arse,” the scarred captain snarled to the bleeding man, “an do somethin’ useful … like shoot someone.”
Slowly, deliberately, the speaker used the wounded man laying on the floor like a stepping stone in a brook. Stepping deliberately on the sailor’s chest – and by extension, the sailor’s bullet wound – the man crossed over, his cold gray eyes never leaving Hunter. On the floor, the sailor whimpered, then pulled himself away from the combatants.
“Well … ‘ello, ’ello … now that was a bit of all right, wasn’t it?” the newcomer captain said, his malicious little smile growing ever wider, “Tis not every day, ya get to get the drop on Anthony Hunter.” The man adjusted his stance, gesturing with his pistol wildly, like a pointer.” Anthony, I gotta say … thinkin’ it over … I’m just chuffed to bits over seein’ you here … it must be me birthday! Someone shoulda’ told me!”
Hunter, his pistol aimed square for the thin captain’s chest, narrowed his eyes with barely repressed anger and disgust. “And hello to you, Black Jack. Fancy seeing you here.”
Chapter 12
T he tension of the room was thick as smoke pouring from burning wet wood. Patrons around the pub were behind whatever cover was at hand, be it a chair, table or the bar itself, with pistols drawn and ready. From the back of the room, the deep voice of Captain Klaus Wilhelm roared.
“Halt!” The German captain ordered, his
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