Author’s Note: Doing a little research on tvtropes, I realize that Hickey can be categorized as Chaotic Neutral. Likely, a combination of Type 1 and Type 4. More info here: http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ChaoticNeutral. Anyway, chaotic neutrals are hard to write, so I did a little revising. Hope you enjoy.
-----00000-----
Connor silently strangled a redcoat with one of her snares to ensure no blood would sully his uniform. Hence, Thomas quickly changed into it, allowing them to pass beyond the gates of the citadel unhindered. The redcoats barely spared them a glance, save to jeer at the supposed prisoner.
She had to admit she appeared very much the part of the perturbed captive. She’d rubbed dirt along her face and bared her teeth any redcoat who dared attempt looking too closely beneath her hood. Her hands were supposedly bound behind her back. While Hickey’s musket wasn’t loaded, the bayonet was fixed and he prodded her forward along her back. A couple of times, so roughly that it caused her to stumble. He also contained a plethora of colorful insults, which he liberally used whenever a redcoat came within range. It helped with the pretense that he absolutely couldn’t wait to get her down to the dungeons to do with her as he pleased. A disturbing thought, uandoubtedly. But they had a mission to compete.
Unfortunately, Hickey promptly learned through the chatter of the fort that General Davenport was out on the Frontier. At least it made their mission potentially easier. Especially as they wandered towards the center of the stronghold. A large, two-story, white bricked building with blue shutters and a red shingled roof housed the officer’s quarters. Pressed up against the parapets, it granted the ranking troops a 360 degree view of the entire citadel. It also allowed them to immediately jump to the ramparts where the cannons pointed out and across the forest, in case of an incursion by the Patriots.
Untying Connor, Thomas haphazardly shoved her into a hay chart sitting along the wall of the officer’s quarters. Ignoring her murderously exasperated look over her shoulder when his hand “accidently” smacked her behind as he cheekily wished her luck, he sauntered off. Of course, he promptly started up a game of dice with a group of soldiers some feet from the cart. They loitered closest to the back entrance of the building.
Peeking out from the hay, Connor took in the group of gambling redcoats. Hickey certainly threw himself into keeping up the momentum of the game. Hooting, hollering and tossing out insults to get the men to make larger bets, within minutes he had their attention fully directed away from her line of sight. Well, that certainly lent a solid bit of assistance. Lithely jumping out of the cart, she snuck over to the door. Using her lock pick, she jimmied it open in a matter of seconds. Seeing no one, she ducked inside. Second floor, last door on the right and at the end of the hall, she mused on Thomas’ instructions. Arriving at her destination, she listened for anyone inside. Hearing nothing, she picked the lock and darted inside.
The General’s lodgings included two large rooms, one set aside for his study, the other for sleeping. The vaulted, sloped ceiling was mostly unfinished, its thick, wooden beams clearly visible. Braced up against the window sat his bulky, cherry wood desk. Outside of a few scattered pieces of parchment, a quill sitting next to them and a couple of glass jars of ink, it was bare. In fact the entire room was absent of any personal effects. Connor found it rather eerie.
She wasn’t surprised that the desk was locked. No matter, for she had her lock picks. Breaking into first two drawers revealed nothing, save the personal files of the fort’s personnel. In fact, none of the drawers held anything of importance. Spinning around and examining the bookshelf, she found nothing. Not even after shaking out the books to find anything in between their pages.
Biting her lip, she retreated to the bedroom. The walls painted a soft, light green, their crown molding was brilliant white, the floor of dark hardwood. The far corner of the room contained a vanity and changing screen. Next to it sat a four-poster bed. Large, solid and comfortable, it was piled with a handful of feather-stuffed pillows. The dark blue curtains strung between the bed posts matched the light blue sheets. Thankfully, the curtains were flung open, revealing no one within. Above the fireplace at its foot was mounted a large oil painting of the General himself. Dressed in full military regalia, he clutched a rod of rule in one hand and a golden globe in the other. His dark eyes stared out at her, proud and vain. Save the window, covering the rest of the wall were framed maps from various parts of the world. She recognized a few of them from her own travels aboard the Aquila.
Next to where she stood was a tall bookshelf that reached the ceiling. Filled with books and scrolls, its bookends were an array of knickknacks: large, pale colored seashells, bits of pretty crystals, a small clock, a heavy mug upon a saucer and a model ship within a bottle.
Frowning all she would have to search, Connor began her deed in earnest. Ten minutes later, all she’d stumbled upon was footlocker under the bed.
Without warning, the door in the other room unexpectedly creaked open. Not a good sign, she furiously mused, slamming the footlocker closed and kicking it back under the bed. Great, now she had to find a good hiding spot…
-----00000-----
Thomas frowned as he silently stepped into the general’s quarters. The place looked as though a hurricane hit it. The desk drawers were yanked out, a handful of quills lay broken on the floor, the books in the shelves haphazardly tossed everywhere and opened. “Bloomin’ moron,” he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He thought the daft chit would at least have the wherewithal to know how to properly search a room. The first rule? Always leave everything looking exactly as it was before. Otherwise, why alert the target that you knew precisely what you’re up to?
Crossing the threshold into the bedroom, he let out a litany of curses. This area looked even worse. The blankets and sheets were yanked from the bed, the bookshelf in utter disarray. The general’s portrait was mounted backwards and crooked on the wall, its back slashed through. The wardrobe next to the bed was open, the clothes tossed to the floor and bottom drawers completely removed. He could even make out the scrape marks in the dust along the floor where something had obviously been quickly dragged from under the bed.
“Connor, ya daft bugger!” he muttered to himself.
“Yes?” she murmured behind him, noiselessly dropping down to the floorboards.
Completely caught off guard, he swung his musket around and cocked back the hammer, only to have her lash out smack him across the face hard enough for his grip to loosen on his weapon. While he effortlessly blocked her foot to his stomach with his forearm, he didn’t expect her to duck to the floor and send a spin kick to his thigh. Lurching, he dropped the musket with holler of reproach. However it never hit the ground, for she snatched it out of the air and spun about it in her hands in order to use its stock as a modified club.
“Oh!” she exclaimed mid-strike, purposely adjusting her swing so it went wide and didn’t connect, “It is you! I-”
“Do ya EVER fuckin’ THINK ‘AFORE YA BE FUCKIN’ HITTIN’?!” he bellowed, slapping away her hand of assistance as he clutched at his thigh. “Ya balmy bitch!”
“I did not realize it was you!” she huffed, dropping the musket and sending it clattering to the floor.
“Yeah?! ‘Cause all the other mangy gits up in this ‘ere fort know yer name?!”
“That…is a valid point-”
“No shit!” he hissed. “Christ!” he brought a hand to his face, “Ya almost broke me fuckin’ nose…again!”
Cocking her head to the side, she quickly declared, “Forgive me. I never meant any harm-”
“Which be why ya was ‘bout to go knockin’ me block off, ya blighter?!” he straightened up, furiously pointing at the musket. “Mother-fuckin’ Connor be strikin’ again!”
She shrugged, “You should have identified yourself-”
“How could I if you were nowhere to be fuckin’ found?!” he barked. Straightening out his crimson coat, he gingerly poked at his cheek. Thankfully, it was only blooming into a bruise rather than a fractured bone. The little wretch hit nearly as hard as a man, after all. “And where in the bloody hell was ya hidin’ anyways?” he snapped.
He looked above him as she mutely pointed upwards. Apparently, she had plenty of time to scramble up the walls and conceal herself in the rafters before he came in. “I dropped down when you asked for me.”
“For the love ‘o fuckin’ God!” he balled his fists together at his sides, “Just…ugh. Just learn to think ‘afore ya strike, woman!”
“I will take your concerns into account,” she sniffed.
Turning her back to him as he rolled his eyes and slurred more curses, she dropped to her knees and pulled out the footlocker again. Crossing his arms and leaning against a bedpost, he watched with increasing annoyance as she scanned the various letters and scrolls only to throw them over her shoulder. “Ya know,” he sneered, snatching up his musket from the floor, “Ya could at a bare fuckin’ minimum go attemptin’ to make it look like ya ain’t tossin’ a room.”
“Tossing?” she questioned, barely paying attention to him as she continued.
“Burglarin’. Stealin’. Combin’ through someone else’s shit,” his mouth twisted in derision. “I mean, god-damn, could you be any more obvious that this tosser’s room just got searched? I thought the whole point of ya silly-arse Assassins be to go workin’ in the shadows ‘n whatnot. You be as bloody obvious as a dolled up whore in the middle ‘o a cockfight!”
Letting out a long sigh of impatience, Connor paused and looked over her shoulder. “What exactly should I have done better, considering your supposed expertise?” she sarcastically asked.
“How ‘bout bein’ a bit more meticulous?” he waved about. “Mayhaps, I don’t know, not fuckin’ wreckin’ the place?”
“There is no time,” she retorted, tossing another letter away.
“It be better than leavin’ traces of ya stench all ov’er the place-”
“I would prefer not to get caught,” she interrupted, “Especially since we do not have any idea when Davenport will return…and what is this?” Finishing her scan of a letter bound together in a packet with a red ribbon, she grinned. Quickly reading the remaining ones, she jumped to her feet and stuffed then in the inner pocket of her coat.
“Hey now, wot’s this then?” Thomas’ eyebrows shot up. Shoving himself off the bedpost, he said, “We be partners for now, so ya better get to tellin’ me wot’s goin’ on.”
“Are you familiar with an Eleanor Mallow?” Connor questioned, shoving the footlocker under the bed. Wiping her gloved hands on her pants to clear the dust, she began heading towards the door.
Smirking, Thomas drawled, “Fuck yeah, I be. She be a Templar. And the General’s notoriously pretty-ass daughter. Got quite the mouth on ‘er too-”
“Different surname?”
“It be confusin’ folks so they don’t be knowing she ‘n her daddy’s ties to each other,” he threw up his hands in surrender, “Wot of it?”
“Per a letter received from her roughly a month ago, she is the one who passed on the General’s orders to the Hessian,” Connor solemnly replied.
“Really now?” Thomas doubtfully replied. “That be a real fuckin’ laugh, considerin’ that she never be actin’ as a mere courier no more. Not since she be a kid.”
Connor curled her lip, snorting, “You people use children as couriers?”
“Hey now, not me,” Thomas waved away her disdain, “Just ‘ole Davenport. He be…a strict sort with the girl. Me understandin’ be she be quite the ‘lil brat growin’ up. With ‘ole pop being all military, he decided to go teachin’ her some discipline.”
“Typical,” Connor spat with a scowl.
“Anyways, Ellie’s daddy be trustin’ ‘er ‘nough to go givin’ her missions to complete on her on for years now.”
“Hmm,” Connor pondered. “It seems, judging by their correspondence,” she patted her jacket where she’d put the letters, “Their last communication was a fortnight ago. He speaks of a new target, in Boston.”
“Who?”
“That is the problem,” Connor worried her lower lip with her teeth, “He does not explicitly state it. We should go,” she quickly said.
“Gimme a second,” he demanded. He wanted to get one last look at the room. Mostly to steal anything worth a few pounds.
“Make it swift,” she ordered, already at the front door.
Wandering towards the fireplace, Thomas suddenly stopped in front of the metal grate intended to shield the hottest part of the flames from the room. The bloody hell? he thought to himself.
“What?” Connor asked, poking her head in the doorway, “Why are you just standing there? It is imperative that we leave-”
“Shut-up,” he rejoined, waving a dismissive hand at her. Ignoring her expression of censure and backtracking, he couldn’t help the satisfied grin that came to his face. For one of the long floorboards sprung back a bit too easily.
Dropping to his knees, he didn’t bother hold back a smirk at her rather ingenious ploy. For most, the loose plank would be undetectable to a casual observer. And even then, that was assuming that they’d ever see it, a near impossibility since the bucket holding the fire poker and other tools sat over it. Forced to use his dagger, it took some minutes to pry the loose wooden plank from the hardwood floor. Removing it revealed a small space only about six by six inches and four inches deep.
“Jackpot!” he crowed, pulling out a stack of parchments.
Not only did they contain a list of names with their lines crossed out, it also included the McCreadys’ name and address. Two more names below theirs were crossed out. The next one on the list had a circle drawn around it. Beneath those were a couple of scrolls containing additional names and locations. Within the margins were dates extending back roughly a year or so. Thomas found he recognized none of them, which was a feat and of itself considering his extensive network of smugglers throughout the colonies.
Shoving it into Connor’s face with smug aplomb, he watched with mild interest as her eyes widened at one of the names that shared the list with the McCreadys. “This…this is William de Saint-Prix,” she cried. Well, for her, it was the equivalent of an exclamation. To anyone else, it sounded more akin to distant aggravation combined with a healthy dose of indifference.
“Wot the hell do that mean?” Thomas enquired.
“I know him,” Connor swallowed.
“One of ya precious Brotherhood’s?” he cleared his throat.
“This is highy useful information,” Connor declared, completely ignoring his question and rapidly changing the subject. Squaring her shoulders, she handed him back the pile, adding, “You appear to have some use after all.”
“A flippin’ ‘thank ya Tommy,’ is too bloody much to ask now?” he snit.
She apparently didn’t hear him, already out the front door and sneaking her way down the corridor.
Hauling ass after her, he intentionally made plenty of noise on his feet, whispering behind her, “Now can we go get the fuck out of here?”
“Of course,” she distractedly said. Flicking out one of her hidden blades, she unsheathed her tomahawk at the same time. Neither action made a sound.
“Good ‘en,” he flashed a cocky smile, “Now, ya can go do your murderin’ and whatever the hell else ya do when ya take over one of these things for the Continentals.”
He had to admit that her bright grin at such a prospect made him a bit uneasy. Probably because her grisly business resulted in her looking the happiest he’d seen her in well, ever.
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 13/?
-----00000-----
Connor silently strangled a redcoat with one of her snares to ensure no blood would sully his uniform. Hence, Thomas quickly changed into it, allowing them to pass beyond the gates of the citadel unhindered. The redcoats barely spared them a glance, save to jeer at the supposed prisoner.
She had to admit she appeared very much the part of the perturbed captive. She’d rubbed dirt along her face and bared her teeth any redcoat who dared attempt looking too closely beneath her hood. Her hands were supposedly bound behind her back. While Hickey’s musket wasn’t loaded, the bayonet was fixed and he prodded her forward along her back. A couple of times, so roughly that it caused her to stumble. He also contained a plethora of colorful insults, which he liberally used whenever a redcoat came within range. It helped with the pretense that he absolutely couldn’t wait to get her down to the dungeons to do with her as he pleased. A disturbing thought, uandoubtedly. But they had a mission to compete.
Unfortunately, Hickey promptly learned through the chatter of the fort that General Davenport was out on the Frontier. At least it made their mission potentially easier. Especially as they wandered towards the center of the stronghold. A large, two-story, white bricked building with blue shutters and a red shingled roof housed the officer’s quarters. Pressed up against the parapets, it granted the ranking troops a 360 degree view of the entire citadel. It also allowed them to immediately jump to the ramparts where the cannons pointed out and across the forest, in case of an incursion by the Patriots.
Untying Connor, Thomas haphazardly shoved her into a hay chart sitting along the wall of the officer’s quarters. Ignoring her murderously exasperated look over her shoulder when his hand “accidently” smacked her behind as he cheekily wished her luck, he sauntered off. Of course, he promptly started up a game of dice with a group of soldiers some feet from the cart. They loitered closest to the back entrance of the building.
Peeking out from the hay, Connor took in the group of gambling redcoats. Hickey certainly threw himself into keeping up the momentum of the game. Hooting, hollering and tossing out insults to get the men to make larger bets, within minutes he had their attention fully directed away from her line of sight. Well, that certainly lent a solid bit of assistance. Lithely jumping out of the cart, she snuck over to the door. Using her lock pick, she jimmied it open in a matter of seconds. Seeing no one, she ducked inside. Second floor, last door on the right and at the end of the hall, she mused on Thomas’ instructions. Arriving at her destination, she listened for anyone inside. Hearing nothing, she picked the lock and darted inside.
The General’s lodgings included two large rooms, one set aside for his study, the other for sleeping. The vaulted, sloped ceiling was mostly unfinished, its thick, wooden beams clearly visible. Braced up against the window sat his bulky, cherry wood desk. Outside of a few scattered pieces of parchment, a quill sitting next to them and a couple of glass jars of ink, it was bare. In fact the entire room was absent of any personal effects. Connor found it rather eerie.
She wasn’t surprised that the desk was locked. No matter, for she had her lock picks. Breaking into first two drawers revealed nothing, save the personal files of the fort’s personnel. In fact, none of the drawers held anything of importance. Spinning around and examining the bookshelf, she found nothing. Not even after shaking out the books to find anything in between their pages.
Biting her lip, she retreated to the bedroom. The walls painted a soft, light green, their crown molding was brilliant white, the floor of dark hardwood. The far corner of the room contained a vanity and changing screen. Next to it sat a four-poster bed. Large, solid and comfortable, it was piled with a handful of feather-stuffed pillows. The dark blue curtains strung between the bed posts matched the light blue sheets. Thankfully, the curtains were flung open, revealing no one within. Above the fireplace at its foot was mounted a large oil painting of the General himself. Dressed in full military regalia, he clutched a rod of rule in one hand and a golden globe in the other. His dark eyes stared out at her, proud and vain. Save the window, covering the rest of the wall were framed maps from various parts of the world. She recognized a few of them from her own travels aboard the Aquila.
Next to where she stood was a tall bookshelf that reached the ceiling. Filled with books and scrolls, its bookends were an array of knickknacks: large, pale colored seashells, bits of pretty crystals, a small clock, a heavy mug upon a saucer and a model ship within a bottle.
Frowning all she would have to search, Connor began her deed in earnest. Ten minutes later, all she’d stumbled upon was footlocker under the bed.
Without warning, the door in the other room unexpectedly creaked open. Not a good sign, she furiously mused, slamming the footlocker closed and kicking it back under the bed. Great, now she had to find a good hiding spot…
-----00000-----
Thomas frowned as he silently stepped into the general’s quarters. The place looked as though a hurricane hit it. The desk drawers were yanked out, a handful of quills lay broken on the floor, the books in the shelves haphazardly tossed everywhere and opened. “Bloomin’ moron,” he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He thought the daft chit would at least have the wherewithal to know how to properly search a room. The first rule? Always leave everything looking exactly as it was before. Otherwise, why alert the target that you knew precisely what you’re up to?
Crossing the threshold into the bedroom, he let out a litany of curses. This area looked even worse. The blankets and sheets were yanked from the bed, the bookshelf in utter disarray. The general’s portrait was mounted backwards and crooked on the wall, its back slashed through. The wardrobe next to the bed was open, the clothes tossed to the floor and bottom drawers completely removed. He could even make out the scrape marks in the dust along the floor where something had obviously been quickly dragged from under the bed.
“Connor, ya daft bugger!” he muttered to himself.
“Yes?” she murmured behind him, noiselessly dropping down to the floorboards.
Completely caught off guard, he swung his musket around and cocked back the hammer, only to have her lash out smack him across the face hard enough for his grip to loosen on his weapon. While he effortlessly blocked her foot to his stomach with his forearm, he didn’t expect her to duck to the floor and send a spin kick to his thigh. Lurching, he dropped the musket with holler of reproach. However it never hit the ground, for she snatched it out of the air and spun about it in her hands in order to use its stock as a modified club.
“Oh!” she exclaimed mid-strike, purposely adjusting her swing so it went wide and didn’t connect, “It is you! I-”
“Do ya EVER fuckin’ THINK ‘AFORE YA BE FUCKIN’ HITTIN’?!” he bellowed, slapping away her hand of assistance as he clutched at his thigh. “Ya balmy bitch!”
“I did not realize it was you!” she huffed, dropping the musket and sending it clattering to the floor.
“Yeah?! ‘Cause all the other mangy gits up in this ‘ere fort know yer name?!”
“That…is a valid point-”
“No shit!” he hissed. “Christ!” he brought a hand to his face, “Ya almost broke me fuckin’ nose…again!”
Cocking her head to the side, she quickly declared, “Forgive me. I never meant any harm-”
“Which be why ya was ‘bout to go knockin’ me block off, ya blighter?!” he straightened up, furiously pointing at the musket. “Mother-fuckin’ Connor be strikin’ again!”
She shrugged, “You should have identified yourself-”
“How could I if you were nowhere to be fuckin’ found?!” he barked. Straightening out his crimson coat, he gingerly poked at his cheek. Thankfully, it was only blooming into a bruise rather than a fractured bone. The little wretch hit nearly as hard as a man, after all. “And where in the bloody hell was ya hidin’ anyways?” he snapped.
He looked above him as she mutely pointed upwards. Apparently, she had plenty of time to scramble up the walls and conceal herself in the rafters before he came in. “I dropped down when you asked for me.”
“For the love ‘o fuckin’ God!” he balled his fists together at his sides, “Just…ugh. Just learn to think ‘afore ya strike, woman!”
“I will take your concerns into account,” she sniffed.
Turning her back to him as he rolled his eyes and slurred more curses, she dropped to her knees and pulled out the footlocker again. Crossing his arms and leaning against a bedpost, he watched with increasing annoyance as she scanned the various letters and scrolls only to throw them over her shoulder. “Ya know,” he sneered, snatching up his musket from the floor, “Ya could at a bare fuckin’ minimum go attemptin’ to make it look like ya ain’t tossin’ a room.”
“Tossing?” she questioned, barely paying attention to him as she continued.
“Burglarin’. Stealin’. Combin’ through someone else’s shit,” his mouth twisted in derision. “I mean, god-damn, could you be any more obvious that this tosser’s room just got searched? I thought the whole point of ya silly-arse Assassins be to go workin’ in the shadows ‘n whatnot. You be as bloody obvious as a dolled up whore in the middle ‘o a cockfight!”
Letting out a long sigh of impatience, Connor paused and looked over her shoulder. “What exactly should I have done better, considering your supposed expertise?” she sarcastically asked.
“How ‘bout bein’ a bit more meticulous?” he waved about. “Mayhaps, I don’t know, not fuckin’ wreckin’ the place?”
“There is no time,” she retorted, tossing another letter away.
“It be better than leavin’ traces of ya stench all ov’er the place-”
“I would prefer not to get caught,” she interrupted, “Especially since we do not have any idea when Davenport will return…and what is this?” Finishing her scan of a letter bound together in a packet with a red ribbon, she grinned. Quickly reading the remaining ones, she jumped to her feet and stuffed then in the inner pocket of her coat.
“Hey now, wot’s this then?” Thomas’ eyebrows shot up. Shoving himself off the bedpost, he said, “We be partners for now, so ya better get to tellin’ me wot’s goin’ on.”
“Are you familiar with an Eleanor Mallow?” Connor questioned, shoving the footlocker under the bed. Wiping her gloved hands on her pants to clear the dust, she began heading towards the door.
Smirking, Thomas drawled, “Fuck yeah, I be. She be a Templar. And the General’s notoriously pretty-ass daughter. Got quite the mouth on ‘er too-”
“Different surname?”
“It be confusin’ folks so they don’t be knowing she ‘n her daddy’s ties to each other,” he threw up his hands in surrender, “Wot of it?”
“Per a letter received from her roughly a month ago, she is the one who passed on the General’s orders to the Hessian,” Connor solemnly replied.
“Really now?” Thomas doubtfully replied. “That be a real fuckin’ laugh, considerin’ that she never be actin’ as a mere courier no more. Not since she be a kid.”
Connor curled her lip, snorting, “You people use children as couriers?”
“Hey now, not me,” Thomas waved away her disdain, “Just ‘ole Davenport. He be…a strict sort with the girl. Me understandin’ be she be quite the ‘lil brat growin’ up. With ‘ole pop being all military, he decided to go teachin’ her some discipline.”
“Typical,” Connor spat with a scowl.
“Anyways, Ellie’s daddy be trustin’ ‘er ‘nough to go givin’ her missions to complete on her on for years now.”
“Hmm,” Connor pondered. “It seems, judging by their correspondence,” she patted her jacket where she’d put the letters, “Their last communication was a fortnight ago. He speaks of a new target, in Boston.”
“Who?”
“That is the problem,” Connor worried her lower lip with her teeth, “He does not explicitly state it. We should go,” she quickly said.
“Gimme a second,” he demanded. He wanted to get one last look at the room. Mostly to steal anything worth a few pounds.
“Make it swift,” she ordered, already at the front door.
Wandering towards the fireplace, Thomas suddenly stopped in front of the metal grate intended to shield the hottest part of the flames from the room. The bloody hell? he thought to himself.
“What?” Connor asked, poking her head in the doorway, “Why are you just standing there? It is imperative that we leave-”
“Shut-up,” he rejoined, waving a dismissive hand at her. Ignoring her expression of censure and backtracking, he couldn’t help the satisfied grin that came to his face. For one of the long floorboards sprung back a bit too easily.
Dropping to his knees, he didn’t bother hold back a smirk at her rather ingenious ploy. For most, the loose plank would be undetectable to a casual observer. And even then, that was assuming that they’d ever see it, a near impossibility since the bucket holding the fire poker and other tools sat over it. Forced to use his dagger, it took some minutes to pry the loose wooden plank from the hardwood floor. Removing it revealed a small space only about six by six inches and four inches deep.
“Jackpot!” he crowed, pulling out a stack of parchments.
Not only did they contain a list of names with their lines crossed out, it also included the McCreadys’ name and address. Two more names below theirs were crossed out. The next one on the list had a circle drawn around it. Beneath those were a couple of scrolls containing additional names and locations. Within the margins were dates extending back roughly a year or so. Thomas found he recognized none of them, which was a feat and of itself considering his extensive network of smugglers throughout the colonies.
Shoving it into Connor’s face with smug aplomb, he watched with mild interest as her eyes widened at one of the names that shared the list with the McCreadys. “This…this is William de Saint-Prix,” she cried. Well, for her, it was the equivalent of an exclamation. To anyone else, it sounded more akin to distant aggravation combined with a healthy dose of indifference.
“Wot the hell do that mean?” Thomas enquired.
“I know him,” Connor swallowed.
“One of ya precious Brotherhood’s?” he cleared his throat.
“This is highy useful information,” Connor declared, completely ignoring his question and rapidly changing the subject. Squaring her shoulders, she handed him back the pile, adding, “You appear to have some use after all.”
“A flippin’ ‘thank ya Tommy,’ is too bloody much to ask now?” he snit.
She apparently didn’t hear him, already out the front door and sneaking her way down the corridor.
Hauling ass after her, he intentionally made plenty of noise on his feet, whispering behind her, “Now can we go get the fuck out of here?”
“Of course,” she distractedly said. Flicking out one of her hidden blades, she unsheathed her tomahawk at the same time. Neither action made a sound.
“Good ‘en,” he flashed a cocky smile, “Now, ya can go do your murderin’ and whatever the hell else ya do when ya take over one of these things for the Continentals.”
He had to admit that her bright grin at such a prospect made him a bit uneasy. Probably because her grisly business resulted in her looking the happiest he’d seen her in well, ever.
What a homicidal little fiend.