Chapter 163: Freedom’s Short Reply
There was no answer. James whispered the name again, putting his mouth near the bars so the cold iron could throw his own breath back at him.
A torch farther down the passage coughed in its socket, nearly went out, then thought better of it.
In that little patch of darkness, the figure came off the wall with a speed no woman had any business possessing after days spent curled up in a corner. Her hands seized James by the collar and slammed him into the bars hard enough to knock his teeth together.
"¿Quién...?"
It died there, and English replaced it just as sharply. "Who in God’s name sneaks up on a locked cell whispering the prisoner’s name in the dark? That’s exactly what some bastard with murder in his head would do, only he’d try to make it friendly."
"Christ, easy."
James could taste the blood where his lip met the bars. "No guard alive bothers learnin’ a prisoner’s name, lass, much less whisperin’ it soft enough not to wake the whole bloody wing. Your sister sent me."
Her hands eased, little by little, though she kept enough grip to make her meaning plain.
"You might’ve opened with that."
"I was gettin’ there before you tried knockin’ my jaw through the back of me skull."
There wasn’t a scrap of apology in her voice. "Every man who’s come sniffin’ round this door after dark has brought me trouble. How was I supposed to tell the difference, in the dark, between you and some stranger whisperin’ sweet?"
Behind him, Jim was already squatting at the lock, picks and wrenching bar moving through his fingers with stubbornness.
"Lass, I’ve known a man to kiss a hangman’s hand with more affection than this."
The lock clicked, soft as a mouse, and the door swung open on its own.
Milagros stepped into the thin passage light with ease.
Lean, with hard muscle strung along her arms and shoulders, she had the sort of strength a person earns hauling rope and climbing walls instead of talking about either. Her cotton shirt had turned grey beneath days of filth and was torn at one shoulder, leaving a sharp collarbone beneath sun-browned skin. Her dark hair hung loose and tangled past it.
Whatever the cell had taken from her, it had not managed to take the readiness out of the way she stood.
"Cap’n, this is it!"
Kit’s grin widened as Milagros stepped into the light. "We rescue the fair lady from a dungeon, carry her out under cover of darkness, and by sunrise we’ll have a tale fit for the knights of old!"
"Fair lady, is it? I’ll show you fair by making you kiss the floor." Milagros raised an eyebrow.
"Ooh, I know that one! Heard about it once." Kit flashed all his teeth.
James caught Milagros by the arm before she could set off and held her for a moment.
"You’re hurt? Can you run, and keep runnin’?"
She pulled her arm free, more annoyed than angry "I’m not made of porcelain, señor. I’ll manage a run, you worry about your own legs."
He grinned despite the bratty tone and waved the others on.
The crew retraced their steps, through the post with its overturned cards and its two dead men, then the communal cell where the drunk locals had not stirred, and finally the jail’s entrance.
There the turnkey sat folded over his table exactly as promised, with a bottle close enough to explain his condition and far enough away to prove he had not been reaching for it when he collapsed.
Kit’s boot came within a hair of a tin cup on the floor.
All of them froze together, holding their breath, while the turnkey gave one great snore and slept on as if escaping prisoners were the least interesting thing that had happened to him all night.
Outside, the night finally got hold of them.
The Plaza de Armas lay pale and empty beneath a thin moon, the Real Fuerza a blacker shadow against the black sky, its arcades and shuttered stalls hollow where the daytime crowd usually packed in close enough to rub elbows.
They headed for the place where Ox, Barnaby, and Esperanza were supposed to be waiting, fast enough to count as nearly a run, though James’s wounded shoulder complained at every step as if it had been personally insulted by the idea.
Milagros kept pace beside him without seeming to notice the effort. "Do you make a habit of getting yourself into trouble for other folk, señor?"
"Only on days that end in a y."
"Every day ends in a y."
"Aye, that’s the trouble with it."
They reached the meeting place sooner than James expected, and the people waiting there were not Ox, Barnaby, or Esperanza.
Ambrosio stood in the middle of the road as comfortable as a man waiting for dinner, and beside him stood a Spanish officer whose gorget caught what little moonlight there was.
The soldiers called him Ortega, and from the way they straightened at a single word from him, they feared him enough.
Thirty men, give or take, stood spread out behind them, muskets raised and trained on every member of the party.
Ambrosio talked to them in English a moment later, taking his time with it. "Hands where we may see them, señores, or the capitán’s men won’t trouble themselves asking twice."
James clicked his tongue.
"Well." He lifted both arms. "Reckon that’s checkmate."
Kit raised his hands beside him. "Cap’n, this is the finest bit yet! The hero’s caught at the last turn, the villain’s got thirty muskets on him, and we’re only missin’ the chains and a grand speech before the escape!"
Jim lifted his hands, cheerfully surveying the muskets around him. "Port Royal, Cartagena, Havana... at this rate, I’ll have to start keepin’ a little notebook. Could fill it with every prison in the Caribbean before I’m old enough to grow sensible."
Sam raised his hands last, slow and steady, without taking his eyes off the officer. "Well, bite me in the arse. I sure hope ye’ve got another contact ye can pull out of yer hat, Calloway."
Milagros raised her hands and stared around at the ring of muskets, looking considerably more furious than frightened.
"Madre de Dios, I get one night of freedom and spend it standin’ in front of soldiers again."
Ambrosio let the silence linger a while, clearly enjoying it, then laughed outright.
"Señor Azote."
He gave James a little bow, as though they had met by chance at a market stall instead of with thirty muskets pointed their way. "Esperanza let her heart run ahead of her good sense, exactly as I wagered she would when I realized she was the one that most likely rescued you."
Milagros stiffened beside James.
"Ehhh? Wait, you’re El Azote de las Antillas?"
She turned on him so sharply he half expected her neck to make a noise. "The one they say eats soldiers for breakfast, sails a bloody ghost ship beneath the sea, and has slain whole companies before supper? I was expecting two heads at least! So why are we standing there letting thirty muskets point at you?"
"Only one head, lass. And last I checked, a musket’ll still kill me, no matter how many bloody legends I’ve collected."
Ambrosio spread both ringed hands, enjoying his audience now. "I confess I stood to lose a fair sum on that bet, señor. But catching the very pirate with forty thousand reales on his head, walking straight into a trap meant only for her, pays the account twice over."
His smile grew wider.
"And then some."