Richard glared back at him, his composure slipping, and for a second she thought he’d rip Jason’s arm off and beat him with it.
She leaned closer to Richard, and murmured, “If you decide to throw him to the ground, I promise to kick him. Vigorously.”
“Thank you,” Richard said. “I may take you up on it.” He sounded sincere.
A green flare went up at the dock to the left.
“They want us to dock,” one of the older men said to Jason.
“Then dock us. Gently. We’ll need this ship in one piece to get the hell out of here.”
The man barked some orders. The ship slowed, approaching the dock in a graceful arc.
“One fort,” Jason murmured, his face thoughtful.
“It has five long-range, flash-load cannons,” Richard said.
The slaves formed up in two lines on the deck. Jack moved to the front.
“Who the fuck put the kid on point?” Jason took a step toward the lines.
“Leave him where he is,” Richard said. “He sat in the hold for two hours, holding himself in check. He needs to vent, and none of us needs to be in front of him.”
The crime lord looked at Richard. “He’s a kid.”
“He’s a changeling,” Richard answered. “You’ve never seen one fight. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”
The faint hum of the cloaking device stopped abruptly. The fog dispersed. Charlotte hugged her shoulders, feeling suddenly exposed.
A metal chain clanged—they’d dropped the anchor. The ship slowed further, approaching the dock carefully, almost gently.
“Once we disembark and take the fort, take her out a few hundred yards,” Jason said to one of his men. “I don’t want to strip this island and come back to a sunken ship.”
Three dockhands waited on the wooden pier. Behind them, a crew of slavers waited, no doubt ready to receive the merchandise. Some of the slavers were female. Women were no less capable of cruelty than men.
Lines flew from the ship to the pier. The dockhands secured them.
“Lower the gangplank,” Jason said.
Two men cranked a large wheel. A metal ramp slid from the ship’s side toward the dock.
The moment it touched the stone, Jack started down the gangplank. The women followed him in two lines, still keeping their hands bound.
“You’re eager for the slave pens, sweetheart?” one of the slaver women asked.
Jack swayed. A psychotic grin stretched his lips. His face jerked, his expression feral.
A tall slaver stepped forward. “Come her—”
Jack spun, leaping so fast, Charlotte barely saw the knife in his hand slice through the slaver’s neck. Jack landed, catching the man’s severed head by the hair, and hurled it at the slavers.
“Holy shit,” Jason said.
Her mind reeled at the amount of force it must’ve taken to slice through the muscle and bone of a thick human neck with a knife.
The slavers froze, shocked, and Jack ripped into them like a pike into a school of minnows. Blood sprayed, people screamed in pain. The slaves abandoned their fake shackles and charged down to join the slaughter. The dog shot down the gangplank and into the thick of the fighting. She tried to keep up with Jack, but he darted in and out of the bloodbath. She caught a flash of his face—he was smiling.
In two minutes, it was all over. Eight bodies lay on the ground. Jack shook himself and dashed down the dark street, melting into the gloom. The dog chased him. The women started moving after the two of them.
“Stop!” Jason roared.
The pretend slaves halted.
“Fall in! Find your squad captain. Now.”
The criminals separated with almost military discipline, forming four groups.
“Squad one, slave pens,” Jason barked. “Let everyone out, set it on fire, kill whoever comes to put it out. The slaves will run wild, let them. Don’t follow them. Squad two, hit the barracks and burn that shit to the ground. Kill as many as you can. Squad three, with me. I want these cannons, and I want them yesterday. Once we have the fort, a double green flare will go up. Squad four, hold the line here. Cut this port off from the city. Everyone, you see a red flare, we abort, and you get the hell out. Blue flare, haul ass to where it came from. Don’t loot until I give the all clear. You stop to stuff your pockets before I tell you to, and I’ll kill you myself. You get me?”
The criminals howled in agreement.
“Go!” Jason yanked a large sword from under his cloak. “Good luck, old man. Try not to get in my way.”
He strode down the gangplank, his monk’s habit flaring.
The criminals dispersed.
Richard held out a ragged gray cloak to her. “I’m wearing a disguise, but you aren’t. Someone might recognize you.”
It was unlikely, but there was no need to tempt fate. She put on the cloak, hiding her face in its deep hood, and adjusted her bag of first-aid supplies under the folds.
Richard unsheathed his sword. The slight curve of the long, slender blade caught the light from the lanterns.
“Our turn,” Richard said. “We must find the bookkeeper. Stay close to me.”
*
RICHARD marched down the gangplank, keenly aware of Charlotte following him. The Broken was forever closed to him, but its books were not, and he’d read extensively about the Broken’s military traditions. As a Marine, Jason was trained in the art of small wars. His particular branch of the military evolved to respond to an enemy employing asymmetric warfare, the tactic that involved striking against the vulnerabilities of the opponent rather than seeking to eliminate the bulk of its force. Jason would take a page out of that playbook: he would deliver brutal precision strikes against the vital points of the island, he would drown the island city in chaos and confusion, demoralizing the enemy and severing communication, then he would eliminate the fractured opposition. He would be ruthless and impossible to rein in, but he couldn’t blockade the entire island.