Page 93 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

Brandon could feel the men surrounding them move into position like a very well-oiled machine. Brandon had been watching Johnny’s gang for long enough to know that they were a bunch of lowlives, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be prepared to form an organized attack. His trained ears could hear weapons readied.

“I rarely make a deal with those that seek to destroy me,” Johnny said in a tone that seemed final.

Brandon clenched his hands into fists. Somehow, Johnny knew. Either he found out just now, or he knew beforehand that this was just a ruse and that he and Owen were not smugglers. What he didn’t know was if their cover was blown.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he decided to stall too and maybe gain some information. “Word on the street is that you are paranoid, but it’s different to get to see it with your own eyes.”

“Of course, I am paranoid. No one survives long enough out on the streets without being a little bit paranoid.” Johnny chuckled. “Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”

Brandon bit down his own jaw and let out deep breaths through his nostrils. Cold sweat ran down his spine. The cover was blown. Everything was at stake. And yet there was no time and no way to regroup and reassess the situation. It would be full-out war. Frankly, Brandon didn’t mind so much.

He took a more rigid stand, abandoning the slouched pretense of the smuggler and rising to his whole gentlemanly height. He was ready to open his mouth, drag this out a little bit more till it was time, but he didn’t get the chance.

A scream echoed through the warehouse. A chilling, blood-curdling scream. Brandon stood absolutely still, his mind racing to register what he had just heard. Because that was not a man’s scream. It was a woman’s. Terrified, piercing, and cut off too soon.

Brandon looked at the door leading to the back of the warehouse. Then his eyes fell on Johnny, who looked at him with a sly smile on his face. A terrible realization came over him.

Brandon did not stop to think. He did not allow logic to dictate his decisions. He unleashed all of his instincts and simply moved. And the room erupted into chaos. Men shouted, and weapons clashed.

Before anyone had a chance to react, Brandon took down two men. They fell without even drawing their weapons. A third lunged at him, but with ease, Brandon sidestepped, raised his elbow, and smashed it into the other man’s face. Bones crunched, and the man fell unconscious.

Whatever logic Brandon had commanded the same thing again and again. He had to reach that door. That was the goal. There was no mission anymore, no vengeance, no higher calling. It was just this scream and that door.

“I am with you!” Owen’s voice cut through the chaos.

He turned just one moment and glanced at his friend as he was fighting. Owen’s movements were fluid, almost like a dance. And yet every blow, every single strike, was precise and devastating.

“Back room!” Brandon growled and kept cutting through Johnny’s men.

Behind him, he heard the main doors burst open. He glanced over his shoulder and sneered. The Dark Hand was here. The first one to enter was Victor. He had his face covered, but there was no mistaking that behemoth of a man. In the whole of London, there was not another beast of a man like him. And like a mythological monster, he fell upon the gangsters. After him, Duncan made his entrance, two pistols in hand, wrapped and covered, his body straight and calm, every strike surgical.

Brandon was relieved that someone had his back, so he moved. Victor was soon close to him, and Brandon thanked his luck that this force of nature was on their side. The Middle of the Dark Hand grabbed one of Johnny’s men by the throat and lifted him off the ground with one hand. The man’s eyes bulged, and he clawed at Victor’s grip with no effect. Victor then threw him into two more men, sending all three crashing to the ground.

“Move!” Victor demanded and fell back into battle.

Brandon obeyed as he heard bones crack and bodies falling, but he did not look back.

“More are coming from the back room,” Owen said right next to him.

He had abandoned his pistols and relied on his trusty sword cane. He moved through the men with elegance, and yet each strike was at vital points of a man.

“I was expecting something far harder. These men are slow,” Owen taunted, dodging a blow.

A gangster with a blade in his hand charged at him, but Owen embarrassingly tripped him and then incapacitated him with one single blow.

“See?” Owen said. “Slow.”

“Stop wasting energy,” Duncan’s voice cut through the roar of battle. “Back room. Quickly.”

Brandon glanced at their leader. He barely moved, not wasting one ounce of energy. He did not take unnecessary risks, and he didn’t allow any openings to his opponents. He waited for them to make mistakes and punished them for it.

A man came at him from behind, and without flinching Duncan dropped to one knee as the blade flew over his head. And then, without even turning, he delivered a single devastating blow to the man’s stomach.

Brandon met Duncan’s eyes.

“Fire,” Duncan called out.

Brandon turned his attention to the back room. The door was open, but he could not see inside. There was only darkness. He could see something flickering, but the unmistakable smell of something burning made his blood run cold.