Page 6 of The Agent and the Outlaw
November 1, 1767
Somewhere outside Versailles
I watchedin horrified fascination as the young man attempted to fight off all five of the soldiers at once, with his hands bound, no less. Granted, he didn’t seem to be doing well, but that fact didn’t appear to stop him or diminish his resolve. I had to hand it to the lad—he had spirit. What he didn’t have, however, was the faintest idea who or what he was dealing with.
I cursed and leveled twin pistols at the two nearest soldiers. I knew it wouldn’t stop them, but it could slow them down. I aimed and fired.
The two took bullets to their legs and went down. Jumping from the oak bough, I barreled toward the fray, tossing my pistols aside in favor of my short swords. In this chaos, I didn’t want to risk hitting the young man—irritating though he was.
The other three turned in surprise when they heard the shots, which gave the lad the opportunity to deliver a devastating knee to one’s groin, then duck and roll behind the other two. I managed to slash one across his arm, causing him to drop his sword. The lad caught it, cut the ropes binding his hands, and picked up one of the soldiers’ dropped pistols. Holding it aloft, he aimed steadily at the last soldier’s head.
“Who are you?” The boy snarled. I could’ve sworn his voice rose an octave.
The soldier smiled. I knew he would tell the lad nothing.
“Leave it,” I said. I approached the lad and tried to wrest the gun from him, but he aimed it at me instead.
“Don’t,” he warned, echoing my instruction from earlier.
The soldier sensed his opportunity and reached for his sword, but without batting an eye, the lad turned the gun back to him and fired, hitting him in the stomach. The soldier crumpled to the dirt, black blood spreading across the frost-speckled leaves. The lad pocketed the pistol—the lethal barrel sticking absurdly out of his toga—and turned back toward the road at a rapid clip.
I stayed to tie the wounded soldiers together. My stomach soured at the notion that I’d have to use my short swords to dispatch the lot of them.Grim, bloody business,but it needs to be done.As I began to reconcile myself to the task at hand, the wet slap of hoofbeats in mud gave me pause.
He didn’t. Dieu, tell me he didn’t.
I made it to the road just in time to see the lad race past me onmyhorse.
Putain!
I ground my teeth together and started after him—my horse, Tartuffe, was more important to me than anything. I ran behind him for a while, eventually losing sight of him on the road toward the town. I’d passed through it on my way into the city and knew there was only one inn, which was the most likely place the young man would go. The sun was rising, and I was certain he was as exhausted as I was, so I didn’t think he would try and head back toward Versailles yet. It would mean chancing upon the soldiers again, and I didn’t think he was that foolish.
When I get my hands on him, I’m going to—
I heaved an exhausted sigh.You’re going to what, Antoine?I had no idea what I was going to do with him. I’d been so stupid, so rash. I should have waited for a better moment to kill Sade. I’d been biding my time for the last year, what difference would a few more hours have made? But I hadn’t been able to stay my hand—I couldn’t have—and now there was another young man involved. A young man who likely cared for the rotten marquis and was probably riding to the nearest town to summon thegendarmerieand have them cart me off to the Bastille for the killer that I was.
No longer just a killer.
A murderer.
The word seemed to hang about me like a slack noose. Would the lad turn me in? I quickened my pace. Either way, he was dangerous,andhe was in danger. If this had all happened but a couple short years ago, I probably would have killed him and been done with the whole thing. Killing was what I’d been trained to do and had spent my life perfecting, all to impress a man I’d never accepted was impossible to impress.
Even now, I could hear his criticism in my ears.Foolish boy! How could you be so stupid? All my influence, all that training, all your years of experience, and still you languish away as a mere lieutenant. Purchase your company command? Don’t be an imbecile. You are an embarrassment to me and to our family name.
I cringed, forcing my thoughts back to the present and the lad I should probably kill.
But I didn’t want to kill him. I didn’t even want to leave him to the mercy of the soldiers who’d surely hunt him down. I’d had far too much death for one lifetime. Sade had deserved it—had deserved much more than the swift death I’d delivered—but the lad didn’t. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was probably the victim of a deviant predator, just like Louis had been.
My stomach churned as I hurried on and tried to figure out what to do with the lad when I reached him. Killing him, certainly, was the last resort. Could he be reasoned with? If he knew what kind of a man Sade was, would he find himself lucky to have only just escaped his clutches? I frowned at that thought—likely not. I didn’t think he’d be grateful to me for saving him from the marquisorthe soldiers, especially since it was my fault he’d been endangered in the first place.
Merde.
Perhaps he could be bribed. I certainly didn’t think he could be terrorized into silence. I’d seen the look in his eyes when he shot the soldier in the stomach.Oh, yes.I’d seen it many times, usually on the faces of men who’d left the battlefield bodily but who remained there in their minds. The lad had known suffering in his life, of that I was sure. I was also sure of the fact that he wasn’t the effeminate, garrulous fop I’d originally believed he was. Something darker lurked inside him.Like recognizes like.I would not underestimate him.
By the time I finally,blessedly, reached the edge of the town, my lungs burned, my feet ached, and despite the chill, I dripped with sweat. The sight of the inn made my knees nearly buckle with relief. Exhaustion, cold, and hunger clawed at me, fighting for dominance over my senses.
I staggered through the door into the tavern and sat hard on a wooden bench. The innkeeper—a corpulent, red-faced fellow—approached me warily. Most men did. The scar across my face seemed to suggest I was the troublesome sort.
“I’m looking for a young man,” I said. “Slip of a thing—dressed in a toga. He took off with my horse a bit ago. I’d very much like to see him returned.”
