The Daredevil Snared. Stephanie Laurens
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what of that sticky wicket called leadership? How he dealt with this situation would inevitably impinge on his standing with his men, and with Phillipe’s, too.
More, Kale had questioned—had maligned—justice. Not Caleb but the concept of justice they were there to serve.
Didn’t that demand some answer? Not just on his part but on behalf of their whole company?
Didn’t Kale’s challenge speak to and question the validity of why they were there, and more, the justification for what they had done—the lives they’d already taken that day?
Beside him, Phillipe shifted, darting a glance at his face. “Caleb...we are judge and jury here. Curs such as he have no claim to the honor of a fair fight in lieu of sentence.”
Who said I intend to fight fairly? Kale certainly won’t.
Kale’s pale gaze hadn’t left Caleb’s face. Phillipe might as well not have spoken for all the reaction Kale gave.
But Caleb’s steady regard was something Kale found more difficult to tolerate. His lip curled in a sneer. “What, son—cat got your tongue?”
Caleb smiled. “No. I’m merely debating the irony of engaging with vermin such as you over the value of justice.”
Kale blinked—then he exploded into action. Blades swinging, he launched himself at Caleb.
Phillipe cursed and stepped back, smoothly bringing the pistol to bear. Startled, all the other men leapt back.
But Caleb had seen Kale’s muscles tense. Without a blink, he’d whipped up his sword and a shorter blade and slapped Kale’s slashing swords aside.
Then it was on. Caleb could not—dared not—take his eyes from Kale’s. He tracked the man’s whirling blades by the infinitesimal shifts in Kale’s attention; Caleb didn’t fall into the trap of trying to keep both blades in view.
In less than a minute, Caleb was wishing he’d let Phillipe shoot the bastard; Kale was beyond lethal—and he was a better swordsman than Caleb. He was no slouch, but Kale was in a class of his own.
Unfortunately, the time for justice via pistol had passed. He and Kale were moving too quickly for even a marksman like Phillipe to attempt a shot.
Although Kale knew that, he also knew that with Phillipe standing just out of reach with the pistol in his hand, Kale wasn’t leaving the circle alive.
That realization was etched in Kale’s face; it infused his fighting with a snarling, animalistic fury and a nothing-to-lose strength, which, combined with his precise fluidity, made his strikes difficult to predict, much less counter.
Playing defense wasn’t Caleb’s strong suit, but he forced himself to do it—to concentrate on keeping Kale’s blades at bay and letting the man batter at him, trying to break through.
He was justice—he represented justice—and Kale could try as hard as he wished to break through his guard and triumph. But he wouldn’t. Caleb wouldn’t let him.
Caleb was taller, stronger, had a greater reach—and most telling of all, he was younger than Kale.
If Kale couldn’t break through his defense...eventually, justice would triumph.
He was watching for the moment that realization worked its way into Kale’s conscious mind. It did, and Kale blinked.
Then he lashed out with one foot, aiming for Caleb’s groin.
But Caleb had already danced aside.
He had far longer legs. Before Kale could recover, Caleb stepped in and smashed his boot into the side of Kale’s knee.
Kale screamed and teetered.
Moving like a dancer, Caleb pivoted behind Kale and ruthlessly slashed down on first one, then the other of the man’s wrists. Kale screamed again as he dropped both swords.
Caleb reached for Kale’s shoulders, intending to push the man to his knees—
“Aside!”
Caleb flung himself to the left as Phillipe’s pistol barked.
Kale crumpled, then fell.
Caleb had landed on his side; as he pushed to his feet, he saw the stiletto that had tumbled from Kale’s now-lifeless hand.
Caleb snorted. “I believe,” he said, resheathing his sword and long knife, “that justice has been served.”
Phillipe shook his head at him, then handed the pistol back to Reynaud. Then Phillipe bent, picked up Kale’s twin blades, and ceremonially presented them, hilt first across his sleeve, to Caleb. “And to the victor, the spoils.”
Caleb grinned. He reached out and closed his hand around one hilt and with his chin gestured for Phillipe to take the other. “I believe that’s the pair of us. Thank you for intervening.”
Gripping the second blade, slashing it through the air to test its balance, Phillipe lifted one shoulder. “It seemed time. You’d played with him long enough.”
Caleb laughed, then, smile fading, he looked around at their men. “Injuries?”
Unsurprisingly, there were more than a few cuts and slashes, of which Caleb and Phillipe had their share. Only three gashes were serious enough to warrant binding. They had lost no one, and for that Caleb gave mute thanks. The fire had gone out. Working together, they lifted the dead aside, then they restoked the blaze, boiled water, and tended every wound.
Once that was done, Caleb climbed to the barracks’ porch and, his hands on his hips, surveyed the camp. He grimaced. “I hate to break it to you all, but we need to clear this up.”
Phillipe had climbed to stand beside him. On the voyage to Freetown, Phillipe had read Robert’s journals and so understood Caleb’s direction. He sighed. “Sadly, I agree. We need to make Kale and his men disappear.” Phillipe gestured. “Poof—vanished without a trace.”
“With no evidence of any fight left, either.” Caleb looked at their men. They would feel the effects of the battle later, but for now, they were still keyed up with energy to spare. “Right, then. We need to leave this camp looking as if Kale and his men have just walked out and away. Here’s what we’ll do.”
It took them four hours of hard work, but finally, the camp lay neat and tidy, silent, and oddly serene, as if waiting for occupants to arrive. They’d carted the bodies into the jungle along the unused track to the east, then found a clearing a little way off the track and buried all the bodies in one large grave. Caleb had fetched Robert’s journal from his pack, along with the sketches Aileen Hopkins, who had joined Robert on his leg of the mission, had made of certain slavers; by comparing those with the dead men, Caleb felt certain that, as well as Kale, they’d removed not only the large leader of the slavers in the settlement—Rogers—but also the one Aileen had dubbed “the pied piper,” the slaver with the melodious voice who was key to luring children from their homes with promises of gainful employment. As the last body was tipped into the grave, Caleb had shut the journal. “With any luck, we’ve completely exterminated this particular nest of vermin.”
Once all was done, Phillipe paused beside Caleb at the edge of the now-peaceful clearing and scanned the area; they’d even groomed the dust with palm fronds, and not a hint of the fight remained. “All in all, a good day’s work.”
Caleb agreed. “So Kale has mysteriously vanished, and no one is likely to guess to where, much less why.”
After one last glance around the clearing, he turned and fell in beside Phillipe. They made their way into the jungle. No one had even suggested spending the night in the slavers’ camp. Instead, they’d set up a makeshift camp in the clearing where they’d left their packs and supplies.
Caleb walked into the clearing to find crude tents already erected and a fire burning brightly beneath the cook pot. Aromas much more enticing than the charnel scent of death rose on the