Chapter 63
Three nights after their meeting at the gaming house, Draven’s men had stationed themselves in a lodging house overlooking the eastern road that led toward the docks.
The two rooms they had rented were not particularly comfortable, nor were they meant to be. They were for observing the target and for that they served their purpose well enough.
From the windows, the men could see the warehouse across the street without drawing attention to themselves, provided they took care not to linger too obviously at the windows. The curtains remained mostly drawn, leaving only narrow openings through which they could watch the comings and goings below.
They had been waiting long before dusk. For several hours, very little happened.
The warehouse remained exactly as it was when they first arrived: an unremarkable brick building with broad wooden doors and a narrow frontage crowded by neighbouring properties.
The street itself remained busy enough to make the men’s presence seem insignificant. Carts rumbled past as dock workers walked home and the occasional carriage passed beneath the glow of the street lamps.
Then, shortly after midnight, they finally saw what they had been waiting for.
The warehouse doors swung open. The first group of workers immediately set to work. Before long, another loaded wagon arrived, followed by a third, and the operation quickly gathered momentum.
What surprised them most was the precision with which everything was carried out. The men worked like had performed the same task countless times before. Every crate appeared to have been assigned a destination before it was even lifted from the wagon.
From their vantage point in the lodging house, Draven’s men had expected something far less orderly. They had pictured smugglers slipping through the darkness with crates of contraband, perhaps a small band of desperate men attempting to move their cargo before the authorities discovered them.
What they witnessed instead could have fooled anyone.
Some men were responsible for unloading the wagons, while others inspected the crates and recorded their contents. Several carried the goods into the warehouse, while others remained outside, keeping watch over the street.
Whenever a problem arose, the workers did not waste time arguing over it. They simply sought out the man overseeing the work.
Unlike the others, he did little of the physical work. His purpose seemed to be overseeing the men who did. He moved constantly from one end of the operation to the other, stopping whenever something demanded his attention.
There was little doubt that he was in charge there
One of Draven’s men recognized it first, and the others soon reached the same conclusion.
For over an hour, they watched him closely, committing his movements to memory and taking note of every man who approached him. The longer they observed, the more convinced they became that they had found the person they were after.
He was unlikely to be the mastermind behind the entire operation. More probably, he was a senior operative, someone entrusted with overseeing this particular shipment. But his position placed him considerably higher than the workers carrying the crates, which meant he was likely to know far more about the smuggling.
The work continued well into the night.
By the time the final wagon rolled away, the hour had grown late. The workers gradually dispersed until only a few men remained inside the warehouse.
Eventually, the overseer emerged, a small leather case tucked firmly in one hand. He secured the warehouse, checked the lock, and then set off down the street alone.
The two men assigned to follow the overseer waited until he had disappeared beyond the next turning before leaving the lodging house.
They did not hurry after him. There was no reason to. The man had no idea he was being watched, and the last thing they needed was to make him suspicious. They kept well behind him, using the darkness to conceal their movements.
The other two remained behind.
Their instructions were simpler. Wait until there was no soul in sight, then search the warehouse.
The overseer walked for nearly twenty minutes along the silent street without noticing a thing, buoyed by the night’s success. His strides were relaxed as he turned a corner, perhaps believing himself safely beyond prying eyes.
He was wrong.
The two men hastened their steps and closed in on him before he could make a sound of alarm. One seized him from behind while the other caught his wrist just as his hand disappeared beneath his coat.
The overseer twisted violently, attempting to wrench himself free, but the struggle lasted only seconds. His pistol was taken from him, his mouth was covered, and before he could shout, he was already being dragged away. His boots scraped briefly against the pavement before the men pulled him into the darkness between two buildings.
It was over almost as quickly as it had begun.
By the time anyone had the good sense to come searching for him, he would have already vanished without a trace.
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The overseer only grew more frantic to escape once the door closed behind him. He was in the custody of men who had no qualms about manhandling.
So far, he had already taken two blows—one across the face and another to the abdomen when he struggled to break free.
He fought back viciously, biting, scratching and kicking at his assailants, but there were two of them against him, and both were armed. It was hardly a fair fight. Even so, he refused to surrender easily.
He fought with everything he had until they finally overpowered him, wrestled him into a wooden chair and bound him tightly so he could not get up.
He had spent the first hour at their mercy, refusing to answer the questions thrown at him and the only thing they had been able to get out of him was his name.
Silas Deane.
His refusal to concede stemmed from more than simple loyalty to his employer. He was also afraid.
They could see it in the way his fingers trembled when they volleyed another question, in the glint in his eyes, in the beads of perspiration gathering along his brow despite the chill of the room they dragged him into.
Silas’ breathing had become shallow, and every so often his eyes darted toward the door as though he might somehow find an opportunity to escape.
Yet the fear did not make him talk. If anything, it seemed to make him more determined to keep his mouth shut.
"Where did the shipment come from?"
Nothing.
"Who arranged it?"
He stared mutely at his captors. That alone earned him a hard slap across the face.
"Who gave you your orders?"
Still nothing, despite the stinging pain in his cheeks.
The questions kept coming, each one more pointed than the last. His captors were determined to force the information from him, and whenever he refused to answer, they struck him for his insolence.
Silas endured it with grim determination. He knew that revealing anything might be far more dangerous than whatever these men intended to do to him. At least they were unlikely to kill him. He was too valuable to them alive.
But if he gave them enough information to compromise the operation, his employer would have no such reservations. He would be dead in a heartbeat.
He swallowed nervously, his entire body trembling beneath the pain and fear. God, what had he gotten himself into?
Who were these men, and why were they so interested in the smuggling operation? Watch officers, perhaps? No. That made little sense. If they were truly officers, they would have arrested him and taken him to a prison cell for questioning. They would not have dragged him to some unknown place and subjected him to this.
Frustrated by Silas’ refusal to cooperate, one of Draven’s men pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the man’s head, already at his wit’s end.
Perhaps the threat of death would loosen his tongue.
When the barrel touched his forehead, all the colour drained from Silas’ face.
The gun-wielding brute watched him like a hawk, studying every flicker of emotion that crossed his face. He tilted his head, a grim satisfaction settling over his features. "Good. Now we are getting somewhere. And to think I wasted precious time trying to be civil with you."