India Black (29 page)

“He needs to warm up by the stove, Ivanov,” French shouted. “Look, you plan to let us go after you’ve sent the telegram. You don’t want to ruin things now by letting an English boy die on your watch, do you?”

I heard the Russian equivalent of “Bloody hell,” then the key turned in the lock.

“Step to the other side of the cabin, French.”

French obeyed, making sure his boots clumped heavily across the floorboard.

The door cracked open and Ivanov peered in. “What’s wrong with the boy?”

“He’s frozen,” I said. “He can’t get warm in this cabin. He needs a fire.”

I nudged Vincent and he groaned piteously.

“I’m afraid he’ll die,” I said, doing my best to sound tearful and shaken.

Vincent let out another moan, this one more hideous than the last.

Ivanov edged through the doorway. He carried his pistol in one hand, taking care to aim it at French. He’d regret that, in a moment.

Beyond him I could see Oksana reclining on the lower berth, Bowser’s case tucked into the crook of her arm. She was watching us carefully, and her pistol lay near at hand.

“Stay against the wall, French,” Ivanov ordered. He stepped gingerly into the room, coming to stand over Vincent and me. Vincent looked up at him with the face of an angel dying slowly of the plague.

“I’m so cold,” he said, shivering for effect. “Please ’elp me, mister.”

Ivanov bent closer.

“Now, Vincent,” said French.

At French’s words, Ivanov whipped back his head and sprang to his feet. But Vincent was faster. He flung off the coat and cloak and the dirk was at Ivanov’s throat in an instant.

“Drop that barker,” hissed Vincent, “or so ’elp me, I’ll slit your gullet.”

After that, things began to happen at a rapid pace. Oksana was rising from the bunk, groping for her pistol. I stepped around Ivanov and made it to her side in three quick strides. Her mouth was already opening to sound the alarm. It was my turn to jam a revolver into her temple.

“Say anything and you’re a dead Russian bitch,” I whispered.

She closed her mouth, but the vicious little hellcat wasn’t ready to give in. (I console myself with the thought that she was warm and comfortable and her reaction time much quicker than mine, being as I had as much dexterity as a block of ice, which I closely resembled at this point in the narrative.) Oksana made a motion with her hand, as though she were going to toss her pistol onto the bunk on which she had been lying, but instead she flung up her arm and walloped me in the head with the gun. I had just enough time to raise my own arm in defense, but she still caught me a stinging blow across the head. I staggered back against the galley, dropping the Bulldog. Across the cabin from me, Oksana was lifting her gun, taking aim at my forehead. She did not look best pleased.

There wasn’t much time; I launched myself at her just as she fired. There’s nothing quite like the idea of being shot in the face to provide an extra burst of adrenaline to a person, especially if that person relies on her looks for her living, as I do. I ducked my head and felt a sharp blow to my shoulder, a split second before I buried it in her rib cage and upended her onto the lower bunk. The pain was excruciating and I let out a howl. The pistol flew from Oksana’s hand, striking the cabin wall and caroming onto the floor. Now the odds were even again, except for that searing pain in my shoulder. I presumed I’d been shot, but it didn’t bear thinking of at the moment, as the Russian she-spy had her arms around my throat and was doing her best to throttle me.

I heard footsteps pounding on the deck overhead, and French cursing a blue streak. He grabbed Vincent by the collar and yanked him upright, all the while training the Boxer on Ivanov’s head.

“Find a way to secure that hatchway,” French roared, and shoved Vincent into the main cabin. He rocketed past Oksana and me, sparing me a sympathetic glance as he passed by, but he was intent on following French’s order. Ungrateful little bugger. After all I’d done for him, I’d at least have expected he’d find a convenient length of wood and club Oksana on the head on his way to bar the door. But, I concede, it did make sense to bar the entry into the cabin of the three ruffians topside, until we’d subdued the Russians.

You wouldn’t think a diet of fish eggs and vodka would produce a race of Amazon women, but it felt like I was grappling with one now. Oksana was astride me on the bunk, fingers buried in the soft skin of my throat, her face just inches from mine and aflame with bloodlust. Her mood wasn’t improved by the fact that we were being flung from side to side by the action of the waves, and since her hands were occupied at the moment, she had no way to keep from periodically crashing into the wall of the cabin. Her teeth were gritted with the effort of trying to keep her balance and strangle me at the same time.

I could see Vincent from the corner of my eye, desperately searching the cabin for some way of preventing Ivanov’s hired thugs from opening the hatch and charging down the steps into the cabin.

French was shouting instructions from the forward cabin while he held Ivanov at gunpoint.

“Find a rope, Vincent. Tie it to the handle and then to that block there.”

Vincent dove under the berth beneath me and emerged in a moment with a coil of hemp under one arm. He scuttled across the cabin like a frantic crab and was reaching for the handle of the hatch when it burst open, sending him flying into the corner. He slammed into the wall and slid slowly to the cabin floor, still clutching the rope and scrabbling through his pockets for French’s dirk.

The first fellow through the door was Bob, the bloke who had carried me aboard. He took in the scene in the cabin in a glance. He obviously decided that Oksana had the upper hand at the moment (and how right he was) and that a filthy brat constituted no threat, for he turned a murderous gaze on French and launched himself directly at him. Bob’s lame foot was a bit of an impediment though, giving him the slow and lurching gate of a wounded rhino. French evaded him by merely stepping to one side like a Spanish bullfighter, clipping Bob at the base of the neck with the Boxer as he lumbered past, sending him crashing to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

But that moment’s distraction was enough for Ivanov. He unleashed a haymaker at French, which caught French just under the jaw and sent him reeling backward into Bob, who had scrambled to his feet and was anxious to extract some revenge on the poncy bastard who had thumped him smartly. He grabbed French’s arm and swung him around so that they were face-to-face. Bob drew back his fist, smiling hideously and intent upon delivering a knockout blow, but French dissuaded him by shoving the Boxer up one of his nostrils. These local hoodlums certainly aren’t up to London scratch: one of our bad boys from the metropolis would have noticed French still had his pistol in his hand before he tried to engage in fisticuffs.

Ivanov closed on French from behind like a panther closing on his prey. One arm encircled French’s neck, and the other grasped French’s wrist, just above the hand that held the Boxer. French twisted violently, trying to escape Ivanov’s grip, but the Russian’s clasp was like iron. It occurred to Bob (wonderfully bright, he was) that
now
would be an opportune time to strike the poncy bastard, since someone else had dealt with the issue of the Boxer. He advanced on French with that same idiotic grin, hand bunched into a fist the size of a ham.

As Bob cocked back his arm, French leaned backward into Ivanov, raised his booted feet and planted them squarely in the stomach of the oncoming villain. Using Bob as leverage he shoved off, sending the Englishman flying and Ivanov tumbling over onto his back followed shortly by the full weight of French smashing down on his sternum. Even with the screaming of the wind and the creaks and thumps of the ship under sail, I heard Ivanov’s breath gush out of his body like the sound of a blacksmith’s bellows. French staggered to his feet and withdrew to the doorway, where he leaned against the doorjamb, rubbing his jaw.

More footsteps clumped overhead. They paused at the open hatch.

Over the wind, a voice called out tentatively, “Oi, guv! Wot’s goin’ on down there?” Moss Mouth.

French looked at Ivanov and Bob and held his finger to his lips.

I had my own trouble at the moment. Oksana had momentarily slackened her attempt at shuffling me off this mortal coil while we both observed the battle between Ivanov and French, but with Ivanov now subdued she redoubled her efforts, gouging her thumbs into my trachea. I clawed at Oksana’s hair and got a good handful, heaving with all my strength. I felt the roots give away and Oksana shrieked. She glared down at me, and her biceps bunched beneath the fabric of her coat. Her grip on my throat tightened and suddenly the air felt colder and the light in the cabin began to fade. I needed to do something quickly, or I was dead.

I squirmed until my hands were between our bodies. I clasped them together and brought them up as forcefully as I could (given my limited air supply and the now sharp, insistent pain in my shoulder), driving the knuckles of my clenched hands into Oksana’s chin. I felt her teeth click together, and her head snapped back. Her grip on my throat loosened, and I took the opportunity to follow up with a fist to her jaw. It was still a bit feeble, given my condition, but she fell backward, moaning loudly. I shoved at her limp body, pulled my legs out from under her and fell off the bunk, rasping for air and searching for my revolver.

At the sound of Oksana’s shriek Moss Mouth decided he had better get below and join the fracas or potentially lose his thirty pieces of silver. He swung down through the open hatchway, a ship’s hook clenched in his fist. His eyes widened as he took in the strange little tableau we presented: French with a cocked pistol, Ivanov still flat on the floor, gasping for breath, a sheepish Bob clutching his stomach, an unconscious woman in the lower berth, and Vincent ... Vincent with a length of timber that connected with Moss Mouth’s forehead with the sound of a melon being dropped from a second-floor window. The ruffian crumpled limply to the floor without a sound.

“Presumably,” said French, “we won’t be disturbed again. Someone has to remain on deck to steer the boat.”

I took the opportunity to collect Oksana’s pistol, and then searched the floor for my Bulldog. I finally found it in the dark recesses under the lower berth, wedged between a pile of rope and a soft canvas bag. I heard nothing from the lower berth and I congratulated myself on putting Oksana out of commission. I stumbled to my feet, panting like a winded stag, and cautiously approached the bunk. Oksana lay in a crumpled heap, snuffling gently. Just to make sure she wasn’t playing doggo, I poked her warily with the barrel of the Bulldog. She didn’t move.

I let myself breathe then, feeling a stabbing pain cascade down my arm from my shoulder. I looked at my hand and noticed a thin line of blood snaking between my fingers and dripping onto the cabin floor. My throat felt raw when I swallowed, and my head throbbed where Oksana had clobbered me with her pistol.

Ivanov had managed to raise himself to a sitting position, though he was still gasping for air and his face had a distinctly greenish tinge. “Well done, India,” he said sardonically.

Vincent whooped and performed an Indian war dance, his eyes alight with the thrill of the fight. “Blimey, India! I couldn’t tell who was gonna come out on top. You two were goin’ at it like two cats in a bag. I thought she ’ad ya down fer sure and certain, but you got a punch like a prizefighter.” He looked proud enough to burst.

“We watched nearly the entire entertainment,” said Ivanov, looking dispassionately at Oksana. “I must say, I believe Count Yusopov would have enjoyed it immensely.”

“It’s right down his alley,” I agreed. I glared at my cohorts. “I suppose it was asking too much for either of you to lend me some assistance in subduing Oksana?”

“I’da shot her,” said Vincent, “but all I had was this ole dagger and I didn’t want to take the chance of gettin’ you instead of ’er.” He jerked his head in French’s direction. “’
E
coulda shot her, though, if ’e ’ad felt like it.”

French smiled. “I didn’t think there was any need, India. You seemed quite capable of handling this by yourself. Now,” he said briskly, ignoring my glacial stare, “let’s tie these four up and attend to that wound of yours.”

French handed me his Boxer and instructed me to keep an eye on our captives (an unnecessary instruction, but men can’t seem to resist pointing out the obvious to a woman).

One advantage to taking prisoners on a boat is that there is plenty of rope about. In a twinkling, French and Vincent had secured our prisoners, with Vincent looping the rope in place and French tightening all the knots. I was pleased to see Ivanov wince when French pulled his bindings into place. Bob and Moss Mouth had their turn next, with Moss Mouth glaring murderously at Vincent (still chafed about that blow to the head, I suppose), and Bob submitting with good grace. I think it had dawned on him that if he were bound, he needn’t be topside during this weather, and there was a neat little stove down here in the cabin, putting out a fair amount of heat.

When the prisoners were trussed tightly, French said, “I’m going up on deck to check our position and inform the last of this bunch that we’re turning around and heading back to England.” He gave me a concerned glance. “Will you be all right for a few minutes more?”

“Of course I will,” I said. No need for French to know that my body had just turned into blancmange and my knees were rattling like castanets.

“It’s bloody cold in here, Vincent,” I said. “Put some coal on that fire, will you?”

Vincent took one look at my face and hastened to comply with my request, adding coal and stoking the fire until a nice blaze began to burn. He dragged a heavy coil of rope to the stove, arranging it into a sort of nest for me, covering it with one of the blankets from the berth. I sank down gratefully, huddling as close to the stove as I could, but never taking my eyes from our Russian friends and their English accomplices, who were crammed together in a sitting position on the lower bunk.