Still watching the street, Matthew yanked out both pistols from his leather belts. Setting his jaw, he edged back into the shadows beside Coleman before whispering in riled annoyance, “Where the hell is Royce?”
Coleman leaned toward him and whispered back, “You know damn well that bastard only follows his own orders.”
“Yes, well, we’re about to show that no-name marshal how to do his job. Again.”
“Now, now, don’t get ahead of yourself, Milton. We’ve got nothing yet. We’re all standing outside a brothel that appears to be out of business, and most of our informants are worth less than shite.”
“Thank you for always pointing out the obvious, Coleman.”
They fell into silence.
A blurred movement approached and a wooden cart with two barrels rolled up to the curb, pulled by a single ragged-looking horse. A large-boned man sat on the dilapidated seat of the cart, his head covered with a wool sack whose eyes had been crudely cut out. The man hopped down from the cart, adjusting the sack on his head. Glancing around, he pulled out a butcher knife and hurried toward the back of the cart.
Justice was about to pierce Five Points. Because if this didn’t look nefarious enough to jump on, Matthew didn’t know what nefarious was anymore. Pointing both pistols at the man’s head, Matthew strode out of the shadows and into the street toward him. “You. Drop the knife. Do it. Now.”
The man froze as Coleman, Andrews, Cassidy, Kerner, Bryson and Plunkett all stepped out of the shadows and also pointed pistols, surrounding him.
The wool-masked man swung toward Matthew, tossing his knife toward the pavement with a clatter and held up both ungloved hands. “I’m delivering oats. You can’t shoot me for that.” His clipped, gruff accent reeked of all things British.
Cassidy rounded the cart, his scarred face appearing in the glow from the gaslight before disappearing into the shadows again as his giant physique stalked toward the man. “Oats, my arse. You Brits seem to always think you’re above the law. Much like the Brit who had the gall to slit me face.” Cassidy paused before the man. He yanked the wool sack off that head and whipped it aside, revealing beady eyes and a balding head. Cassidy cocked his pistol with a metal click and growled out, “I say we kill this feck and send England a message.”
Matthew bit back the need to jump forward and backhand Cassidy. This was exactly what happened when an Irishman had too much justice boiling his blood. He fought against everyone. And woe to the man who also happened to be British. If it weren’t for the fact that Cassidy was dedicated to the cause and would fight with his own teeth to the end for it, Matthew would have booted him long ago.
Veering closer to Cassidy, Matthew hardened his voice. “This has nothing to do with England or your face. So calm the hell down. We don’t need dead bodies or the marshals on our arses.”
Cassidy hissed out a breath but otherwise said nothing.
“Check the barrels,” Matthew called out to Coleman.
Tucking away both pistols, Coleman jogged over to the cart and, with a swing of his long legs, jumped up onto the back of it. Angling toward the two wooden barrels, Coleman pried each one open, tossing aside both lids with a clatter. He glanced up, his chiseled grim face dimly lit by the gas lamp beyond. “They’re both here.”
A breath escaped Matthew.
Bending over each barrel, Coleman dug his hands in and hefted out a young girl of no more than eight, gagged and roped, along with another young girl of about equal age. He set each onto bare feet. Using a razor, Coleman sliced off the ropes and removed their gags.
Choked sobs escaped the girls as they jumped toward each other, clinging. The lopsided wool gowns they wore were crudely stitched and most likely not what they had been wearing when they had been taken from the orphanage.
Matthew’s throat tightened. He knew that if not for the interference of him and his men, these two girls, who had disappeared from the orphanage all but earlier that week, would have been sold to a brothel. Shoving his pistols into his leather belt, Matthew gestured toward the balding man. “Rope this prick up before I do.”
The man shoved past Kerner and Plunkett, and darted, running down the street.
Shite! All of Matthew’s muscles instinctively reacted as he sprinted after the man, leveling his limited vision.
“I told you we should have killed him!” Cassidy boomed after him. “What good are pistols if we never use them?”
“Everyone move!” Matthew yelled back, running faster. “Spread out! Coleman, stay with the girls!”
Matthew refocused on the shadowed figure who was already halfway down the street, those thick legs splashing through muddy puddles as his cloak flapped against the wind blowing in.
Matthew pumped his legs and arms faster and sped into the darkness. Through the sparse light of the moon and passing lampposts, Matthew could see the man repeatedly glancing back, his self-assured run turning into a jogging stagger as the balding man huffed and puffed in an effort to keep moving.
The man wasn’t used to running.
The man was used to the cart.
And this was where he, Matthew, who did nothing but run for a damn living, brought an end to the bastard’s grand delusions of escape. Closing the remaining distance between them, and just before a narrow alleyway between two buildings, Matthew reached out and grabbed the man hard by the collar of his cloak.
Gritting his teeth, Matthew flung his body against that hefty frame, knocking them both down and into the mud with a skidding halt, spraying water and thick sludge everywhere.
As they rolled, Matthew used his weight to stay on top, shoving the man back down. The bastard punched up at him, hurling frantic blows that rammed Matthew’s shoulders and chest.
Holding the man down with a rigid forearm that trembled against that resisting body, Matthew swung down a clenched fist, thwacking him in the head, sending his balding head bouncing against the mud beneath. “Stand down, you son of a bitch! Stand down before I—”
“We got him!” Bryson yelled, pushing in and setting a quick knee against the man’s throat.
In between ragged breaths, Matthew scrambled up to his booted feet. He staggered back, feeling mud sloughing off his arms and trouser-clad thighs.
Cassidy skidded in, spraying more mud and shoved aside Bryson’s knee. “I’ll bloody show you how things are done over in Ireland.”
Effortlessly jerking the man up and out of the mud, Cassidy swung a vicious arm around his throat, causing the man to gag and stagger. Bryson scrambled over with the rope.
Once the man’s arms were tightly roped against his sides, Kerner jumped forward and, with a growl, delivered a swinging fist into the man’s gut. “That’s for every girl you ever touched, you feck!” He swung back his arm and delivered another blow, causing the man to gasp and stagger against the ropes. “You think you can—” Kerner jumped forward again and punched that face, a pop resounding through the night air.
“Kerner!” Matthew boomed.
Kerner stumbled back and swung away, his chest heaving.
Matthew swallowed, trying to calm the chaotic beat of his own heart. Despite the reprimand, Matthew knew all too well that Kerner, who had lost his twelve-year-old daughter to a brutal rape and murder just down this very street six years earlier, was relatively calm given the situation.
Sadly, a deeply rooted need to right the wrongs that had been committed against them was what had brought each and every one of them together. Their grief had become his own grief. They all struggled with anger. “I know this isn’t easy for you. Breathe.”
Kerner swiped at his bearded face with a trembling