Page 80 of Bargaining with the Devil

“Do we know which day?” Pereira asked. “Night, rather?”

“One of the next three, depending on weather. Near dawn, accounting for tide and having made the pickup of those goods elsewhere earlier in the night.”

He’d voice what all three of them were still wondering. “Could it be a trap?” The lure of Lymington being there, so close to Blackmore’s home . . . It was a bit too good to be true. Too neat.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Blackmore said. “But I think we must make use of the situation anyway.”

“Aye, I agree.” He looked to Pereira, who nodded. “We’ve worked together a long time now, the three of us. Our odds are better than Lymington will give us credit for, likely, even if ’tis a trap.”

“Aye,” Blackmore concurred. “So we’ll make the best plan we can, given the unknowns, and trust ourselves for the rest.”

’Twas not a bad philosophy in general, that.

They’d find out soon if they’d erred in judgment trusting the Scots smugglers. If ’twas true, what they surmised and what Blackmore was told in Barnbarroch, then Lymington might be walking into a trap he didn’t know to look for.

Himself, he wasn’t convinced yet the trap wasn’t for them.

If they were lucky, they’d catch Lymington unawares before the sun even rose. ’Twas cleaner when matters involving death were conducted in the darkness, for even should there be witnesses—and witnesses inclined to go against them—there was little they would see. Of course, voices could be overheard, and ’twas likely any one of their accents would give them away, none of the three of them being from Kirkcudbrightshire.

There was also the risk that an honest exciseman or two might happen along by sheer chance. Supposedly this landing, farther up the Solway than this crew usually worked—seeing as ’twas set up by Lymington and Lees—would be unexpected.

He was on edge. Uneasy. Usually going into a job, ’twas nothing but calm and focus—if he stopped to think about it at all, which usually he didn’t, just moved through his assigned tasks.

’Twas the current state of his nerves, had his attention. In his line of work, ’twas generally better to run on logic than gut feeling because humans were infallible creatures, every one of them. All the same, he never ignored unease when it crept in. He mistrusted a lot about this situation.

When the boat was rowed in, the men at the oars were so silent as to be undetectable over the water’s gentle shush. ’Twas evident these men were well accustomed to clandestine landings.

The sky was just turning a shade paler, the sun thinking about rising. ’Twould be a cloudy day, the light thin. He counted four men at the oars and one in the stern.

The two men nearest the bow jumped out and worked together to pull the boat up onto the sand. Once the remaining men were engaged in hauling the boat out higher, he and Blackmore came out of hiding.

The man nearest them straightened, hand immediately on a pistol. If ’twas loaded, might spell trouble. Then again, the sea spray could have dampened the powder.

“I know who yer are, the two o’ yer,” the man said. Cockney accent. That made him Lymington’s man. “Lymington warned us there’d likely be some rabble here, wiv yer nosin’ about. We was ter be on guard.”

He spoke of Lymington in a way that suggested Lymington wasn’t with them. So where was he?

The hum in his blood increased. This felt off. Seemed just as likely Lymington had set a trap for them as they had for him. No one got good at a job requiring surreptitious action without a trick or two up his sleeve and the ability to think several moves ahead of his opponent. That went for Lymington on the side of ill with himself and Blackmore and Pereira on the side of good.

Still, regardless of where Lymington was or why he wasn’t on this boat, they had to first deal with the situation at hand.

Over the rush of water, two pistols cocked, slightly offset.

Not his. Not Blackmore’s.

“There’s five o’ us and only two o’ you,” Cockney sneered. “Not very good odds.”

Even if the locals weren’t on their side, even if it truly was only just Blackmore and himself, he gauged them about equally matched. But of course ’twasn’t only the two of them, with Pereira just out of sight. And the loyalty of the locals remained to be seen.

“Yer numbers are wrong.” A thick Gallovidian accent. One of the Solway men this time.

Cockney scoffed. “I would think even yer could count ter five, but yorn’t the brightest.”

“Nay, ye aren’t, thinkin’ it really five agin two. Ye’ve got th’ balance wrong, see.” A pistol barked, and Lymington’s man crumbled from the knees. “Like so,” the Solway man said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “This, it wis for my Annie.”

In a flurry of motion, two of the others grabbed up the last of the men, one hooking an arm tight around his throat so he couldn’t call out.

He had his own pistol out, ready to use depending on how the rest played out. Didn’t have to look over to Blackmore to know he’d done the same.