Samantha (Barrett 2)

No, Rem was willing to bet the culprit was still in London.

And damn him to hell, he'd be found.

Flexing his muscles, Rem began the return trek to Barrett Shipping, scrutinizing all the shrouded corners of the docks that, as experience had taught him, were meeting points for scum.

He was just rounding Anders Shipping, when a shadowy figure slipped through the narrow alley leading to the warehouse. Quickly scrutinizing the area, Rem ascertained that he was undetected, then walked soundlessly in pursuit. Flattening himself against the warehouse wall, he inched along, praying he wasn't wasting his time stalking a street urchin whose intentions were merely to steal a shilling for food.

"That's the last payment for now. You'll get more after you've completed your next task."

The muffled words obliterated Rem's doubts. The voice belonged to Arthur Summerson. Heart pounding in anticipation, Rem waited. "A pleasure t' do business with ye." The answer was uttered in a low, harsh rasp: Towers's exact description of the privateer's voice.

"I'll say farewell now, Fuller. You'll be taking to sea by week's end."

Fuller.

Rem slid his hand into his pocket until it closed around his pistol's cool handle. Gripping it tightly, he silently maneuvered back to his original path, nonchalantly resuming his watchman's rounds.

A moment later Summerson emerged from the path beside the warehouse, walking right by Rem and disappearing into the night. In the aftermath of his fading footsteps, a husky form followed suit, striding into the open and moving directly past the innocuous-looking watchman.

In the blink of an eye Rem's arm was around the privateer's throat. "What the—"

"Listen to me, Fuller," Rem instructed in a cold-blooded whisper. "You have two choices. You can either come quietly with me to a private place where we can talk, or I can break your neck here and now and throw your body into the Thames as food for the gulls. It's up to you."

"I'll ... come ..." Fuller wheezed.

"Good." Rem extracted his pistol, shoving it in Fuller's ribs. "Now turn around and start walking. If any passerby should spot us, let's just pretend we're having the friendliest of strolls together. If you choose to elaborate on that explanation, I'll have no compunction about putting a bullet in your back. Is that also clear?"

"Who th' hell are ye?"

"I asked if that was clear, Fuller?" Rem dug the pistol deeper into the pirate's back.

"Damn." Fuller winced. "All right. Ye win."

"Fine. Let's go."

Ten minutes later Rem thrust Fuller into Barrett Shipping's darkened warehouse and locked the door behind them.

"We have a great deal to discuss." Rem's fingers tightened on his pistol. "Sit down ... where I can see you."

"Ye can't see anything in 'ere."

"You'd be surprised. For example, I can see your hand creeping toward your boot. Continue," Rem ordered, when Fuller halted. "Then toss your knife onto the floor ... along with any other weapons you have." Rem lowered his gun a tad. "Let me give you some advice, Fuller. Even if I were unarmed, you'd be dead less than a minute after coming at me. Therefore, why not spare your life and my energy? Forego any idea you have of slitting my throat. It's not going to happen. And maybe, just maybe, if you tell me what I want to know, I might let you live."

Hearing the chilling resolve in Rem's tone, Fuller swallowed audibly and complied, sending two ugly knives clattering to the warehouse floor. He didn't sit, but stood warily against the wall.

"Good." Rem scooped up the weapons, tucking them, and his pistol, into his pocket, keeping his hand securely beside them. "Now, I want to know everything about the assignments you've been receiving from Mr. Summerson."

Fuller blanched. "Who are ye?" he whispered again. "What do ye want?"

"Fortunately for you, you're a very small part of what I want, else I would have shot you down days ago. Now, tell me about Summerson, his partners, and your role in sinking their ships."

"I don't know what yer talkin' about."

"I'm not certain you understand me, Fuller." Rem drew out one of the pirate's knives, fingering the blade thoughtfully. "I'm not a patient man. In fact, my patience is rapidly ebbing. If you continue to avoid my question, I'll cease being a gentleman and resort to other methods of persuasion." The blade glinted ominously.

"All right! I do work fer Summerson now and again. And I do 'elp myself to a bit of 'is cargo."

"His cargo? Don't you mean his men?"