"So..." Eyes narrowed, Lord Patrick Day stared at the large, dilapidated brick building ahead. The windows were dark, staring back at him like empty eyes. There was not a single person in sight, except for two suspicious figures skulking around the entrance. There was no doubt. This was it. "We've found it."

He had to give it to Amy. Her...fragrant plan had worked. Not that he was ever going to tell her that.

"Aye." Amy's face was pale in the night. Much paler than might be attributed to the cold, silver moonlight. "Dis it it. Or rather, we've found dem."

There was something in the way she said the words. A certainty that went beyond confidence in her investigative methods.

Lord Patrick's face darkened. "You know this place."

"Not da place, nah." She shook her head, her emerald eyes fixed intensely on one of the men guarding the entrance ahead. Or rather—on his arm. "Dose bastards!"

"Amy...is everything all right?"

"No, it ain't! See dat dere?"

Cautiously reaching out, she pointed where she had been looking. The thug's arm? No...not his arm. Something on his arm.

The tattoo was pitch black and slim. Squinting, he could just make out some kind of flower wrapped around a vicious, serrated knife.

"What the...?" He leaned further around the corner to try to see more clearly—until Amy dragged him back.

"Get back! Let's move! We've got to get out of sight!"

"Amy, what is going o—"

"Shh! Move!"

Her tone didn't bear arguing. And was that...fear he heard?

Surely not. This was Amy Weston. The hellion who would go toe-to-toe with any dirty thug or piece of scum, or even worse, his mother. What in the seven hells could frighten someone like her?

Before Lord Patrick could try and find an answer to that, he found an iron grip wrapped around his wrist, and was being dragged back, away from the dingy building. She didn't stop until they were out of sight and hearing range.

"Amy?" All arguments between them long forgotten, he reached out, gently touching her face. The look of terror in her eyes made some instinctive, protective urge rise up inside him. "Amy, what's wrong?"

"Dem!" she hissed. "I should 'ave known! Of course it would be dem!"

"Them? Who is them, Amy? What is that symbol?"

"Da blood rose," Amy said darkly. "Symbol of da Blackstreet Snakes. Da most vicious street gang in da whole city."

"But if they're the worst, they're the obvious suspects we have been investigating." He frowned. "So...why haven't we checked them out before?"

"'cause if it's really dem," Amy told him, "we're fucked."

There was a long moment of silence during which Lord Patrick truly let that sink in.

"Who are they?"

"No one really knows." She pulled a grimace. "No one's dared ta ask. Dey're bloody ruthless killers! And dat's comin' from a gal who lives in a place with a higher murder rate dan a slaughter'ouse! Da Blackstreet Snakes don't just kill. Dey make statements. Eyes gouged out. tongues cut off and bodies smashed. Dey started out around three years ago and spread like weeds all over London, slaughterin' or takin' over any gang dat was in deir way. And da weirdest thing was...dey weren't burglers. Dey weren't thieves. Dey weren't anything. Nobody knew where dey got deir money from." Amy's eyes stared off into the distance, beyond the wall they used as cover, to where the two men stood guard in front of the building. "I guess now we know."

"So...what do we do now?" Lord Patrick ground his teeth. He felt torn. On the one hand, he wanted nothing more than to rush into that place and tear it apart. On the other...that terror in her eyes...

It made him hesitate.

He didn't want her to be afraid. Not ever.

"Do we..." His fists clenched, "...retreat?"

Amy stared into the distance for a moment longer—before her eyes hardened, and her back straightened.

"Ha! As if!" Grabbing Patrick by the arm, she pulled him closer. "Listen 'ere, P! We're gonna 'ave ta be careful. Very, very careful. Follow every word I say, don't put a toe out of line! If ye can't do dat, we'll turn around right 'ere, right now! Understood?"

He nodded solemnly.

"All right." Breathing in deeply, Amy turned back towards the gang's HQ. "We can't get at 'em from da front. From be'ind is too bloody obvious, and besides, I don't like anal. Maybe....ah!" She snapped her fingers, and a devious grin spread across her face. "Got it! I've got a brilliant plan..."

***

Karim glanced over to the side. Not that he wanted to, considering his eyes were met with the offending sight of Titus Irving. But sometimes, you simply had to make sacrifices for the greater good of humanity. And in order to send someone a death glare.

"So...this is your brilliant alternative plan?"

"Why are you complaining?" Titus lifted an eyebrow. "You don't even know what it is exactly, yet."

Raising a finger, Karim pointed ahead. "I know you need her help. That's all I need to know."

Up ahead, a smirking Cora turned towards them and waved.

"You shouldn't be so judgmental, Mr Karim," Titus said reprovingly. "Just because of the lady's previous poor reputation, you can't automatically assume we'll be doing something nefarious."

Just then, they rounded the street corner and came to a stop in front of a building, above the door of which were painted the cheerful words Bertha's Jolly Bawdy House.

"On the other hand," Titus smirked, "you should totally assume so because of my reputation."

***

Slowly, Lord Patrick pushed open the large flap at the side of the house. A flap underneath which a massive, fragrant mountain of refuse was slowly piling up, ready for removal by your friendly neighbourhood night soil men.

"I hate your plans," Lord Patrick Day informed his female companion in a whispered hiss.

"Why, thank ye. Ye don't 'ave ta compliment me. I know I'm a genius."

Taking a deep breath, he fought his desire to wrap his hands around her throat—then put them to better use, clamping them over his mouth and nose.

Note to self: don't take a deep breath again! In fact, don't breathe again! Ever!

Pressing down harder, he slid through the horrific, slimy—don'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutit!—opening and rolled away as soon as he hit the floor. Amy followed moments later, and...

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Footsteps!

"Hide!" he hissed. "Someone's coming!"

Grabbing hold of Amy, he dragged her into the shadows, pressing her against the wall.

Pressing very tightly against her.

Goodness gracious! Patrick! You just crawled through..."that", and you are thinking about her in such a way? Have you lost your last shreds of honour and common sense?

Well, he had just crawled through a refuse disposal door into a secret gang hideout with the prostitute his mother wanted him to marry. So...probably a "yes" regarding that question.

"Move it, brats! Move it, or things'll get ugly!"

At the sound of that gruff voice, any random thoughts were immediately expunged from his mind. The footsteps were becoming louder and louder. Heck! Where were they coming from? Drawing deeper into the shadows, he looked around wildly—then stiffened. Slowly, his eyes moved upwards.

There was no ceiling. Or rather, the ceiling was a large, iron grate.

They were underground. In a...disposal room.

Which, in retrospect, made a whole lot of sense.

"In dere!" the same gruff voice commanded from above. Through the grate, Lord Patrick could just make out the dark silhouettes of several childlike figures shambling into the room. "And if I 'ear a single whimper or moan out of ye, I'll come back with da whip!"

A moment later, the door slammed shut.

Looking down, Lord Patrick saw dark, brackish water mixed with...things. He glanced up again, at the miserable figures behind the grate.

He was in a pen.

A pen for human beings.

Calm. Deep brea—

No. No deep breaths. At least not through the nose. But he needed to remain calm, now more than ever. He stood there, listening for a long moment, waiting for any sign of the thug returning.

None came.

Slowly, Amy moved out from behind him, her eyes flitting from right to left. "What kind of 'ouse 'as got a cellar like dis? What is dis place?"

Lord Patrick scanned the cavernous underground room. Columns, arches, ancient and crumbling stonework...

"Looks like some kind of Roman ruin," he whispered. "Seems like the house was built on top of it."

"So...if dis is what's left of some whopping big old Roman place...do ye think it's just underneath da one room, or under all da rooms?"

Lord Patrick grinned. From the start, what he'd liked most about Miss Amy Weston was her intelligence.

Not that there was anything else he liked about his pseudo-fiancée. No, definitely not.

"Let's find out, shall we?" he whispered, shaking off those thoughts that didn't belong in his head. Raising a hand, he pointed at a door just visible at the other end of what could, in the loosest sense of the word, be considered a room.

Amy grinned. "I suddenly find I'm developin' a big interest in Roman architecture. Care ta take a tour with me?"

"I would be delighted."

He extended his arm, and she took it. Together, they strode over to the door where Amy quickly squatted down and started fiddling with the lock. With her nimble fingers, it didn't take long until the lock began to shift. Nimble, soft, elegant fingers.

Yet another amazing thing about her. Yet another thing he probably should not like.

Click!

"'ere we go!"

Pushing open the door with a triumphant whisper, Amy leapt to her feet. Before Patrick could stop her, she had already slipped into the next underground room. It was even grimier than the last one and, again, the ceiling was nothing but a grate. Just how many rooms like this did this place have?

Patrick didn't know.

But he suspected the answer to be many. Far, far too many.

"Thrice blasted bloody sons of bitches!" Amy cursed under her breath after they'd passed through the seventh underground room. "I'm gonna kill dose bastards! Every single one of 'em! I'm gonna—"

"Shh!" Freezing, Patrick placed a finger over her lips.

He felt her freeze, just in time to hear what he already had: footsteps that were neither hers nor his. Both their eyes flicked up, to where a hulking figure was marching across the grate above. This one wasn't leading around any prisoners, but instead moved alone and with purpose. Lord Patrick had no experience whatsoever with the structure of criminal gangs—but then again, he had plenty with the House of Lords, which was practically the same thing. One look at the man sufficed. This man was no mere grunt. He was a lieutenant. Not at the top, but not at the bottom, either.

Which is just what we need.

"Let's follow at a distance," Amy whispered, echoing his thoughts. "Looks like 'e's rushin' ta somethin' important. Or someone."

"Agreed." Patrick nodded.

"And, err..."

"Yes?"

"Could ye remove yer finger?"

He blinked—and only then realized his finger still rested against her lips. Soft, luscious lips.

As if burned by hot irons, he pulled his hand away. "Ehem. Well..." Colour tinged his cheeks. Thank God it was dark and she could not see!

Only...then why was it he fancied he could see a similar blush mirrored on her face?

"Um, I..." Amy glanced sideways. "About time."

Somehow, she didn't sound very displeased.

"We...should probably get going."

"Yes. We probably should."

They continued to stare at each other.

Why can't I move? Why can't I look away or—

From up above, he heard a clink as the man stumbled and cursed over a chain lying on the ground. Instantly, he was back in the here and now. One look at Amy told him it was the same for her.

"Let's go."

Wordless, she nodded.

Chains. The word echoed through his icy mindscape as the two of them silently followed the thug. Chains. They have so many of them here that they simply lie around on the ground!

And the worst thing was: for now, he could not break them. Not a single one. The children in this place...they could not be rescued, no matter how much he wanted to. Oh, he could storm up there, could probably get most of them out—but then the gangsters would be on to them, and would move their headquarters in a blink.

If they rescued a dozen now, they risked a thousand later. These children could not be saved.

Unless...

He froze.

No. That would never work.

"Patrick?" He was torn from his thoughts when Amy nearly bumped into him from behind. "Patrick? What's da matter?"

"I just had an idea," he whispered.

"Well, keep it for later! 'e's gettin' away!"

Fiddlesticks! She was right. Hastening his steps, he didn't even bother having Amy picking the lock of the next door. Instead, he simply pushed, hard, until the half-rotted wood gave way. Up above, he could hear the footsteps slowly but surely vanishing into the distance. The son of a bachelor was getting a head start!

Trying to keep his feet from splashing in the dirty water, Lord Patrick hurried after the man, Amy hot on his heels. The thug headed farther and farther into the bowels of the building, until finally, he came to a stop in front of a large metal door.

This one, however, did not have a padlock on the outside. Neither did it have a grate as a floor.

So, they think of themselves as humans, and innocent children as animals? Patrick smiled grimly. Their deeds will be their downfall!

"Come," he whispered, pointing towards the wooden ceiling above, through which they could hear the murmur of rough voices. Voices of people which, thanks to the solid floor, could not see them. Holding out his hands, Patrick formed a stirrup. "Climb up."

The corners of Amy's mouth twitched up into a smile. "Ye want me ta mount ye? Naughty, naughty boy."

"Miss Amy. Do you really think this is the appropriate time to joke?"

"Who says I'm jokin'?"

"Amy!"

"All right, all right. I'm comin'." Stepping towards him, she winked. "No lookin' up me skirt, capiche? At least not till after da weddin'."

He sent her a meaningful glare and made a mental note to ask his mother to give her extra long lessons in manners and having her feet squashed. Also known as "dancing".

Amy approached and, raising her foot, let him lift her up towards the ceiling.

"And?" Lord Patrick whispered. "What are they saying?"

"Wait a minute! Dere's somethin' up 'ere...somethin'..."

"What?"

Before he got an answer, a boot slammed down onto his face.

"Bgl! Gmph!"

"Oy! I've found a ledge up 'ere!"

"How...pfft! Wonderful."

"'ere!" The weight vanished from his head and, a moment later, a hand appeared in front of his face. Glancing up, he saw Amy crouching on top of a stone ledge high up against the wall. "Climb up, big boy." She wiggled her fingers. "I can 'andle ye."

"Can you say anything that doesn't sound like a sexual innuendo?" His Lordship hissed.

"Why would I bother?"

Giving up, he allowed her to take hold of him and, grabbing a torch bracket in the wall with his free hand, hoisted himself up onto the ledge.

"Will ye look at dat?" Smiling, she slid closer towards him. Which, on a ledge approximately two feet wide, was not particularly hard. "Snuggling up ta me in an ancient Roman ruin? Getting' ever more adventurous, ain't we?"

He was about to open his mouth to give his "feiancee" a piece of his mind when the pounding of feet from above cut him off, signaling the arrival of the man they had been following. Judging by the way he was panting, he seemed to have been in quite a hurry for some reason.

"Out with it!" a gruff voice demanded. "What's da 'aul been like today?"

"Um...I dunno," someone else replied "Why're ye askin'?"

"Why am I askin'? Are ye kiddin'? 'ave ye got any idea who's outside right now?"

A moment passed in silence.

"Ye mean...?"

"Yes!"

"'oly shit! Garland, get da documents! Ross, Jones, get some grub and wine! Da good stuff!"

"But...why, boss?" came a new voice, that Patrick mentally named Mr Clueless. "Ye only drink dat stuff yersel—"

Slap!

"Shut up and do as I say!"

Slowly, Lord Patrick turned towards Amy, and found her emerald eyes focused on him.

"Let me guess," she whispered. "Someone important is comin'."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

His voice was dripping with sarcasm. Which, considering that water was dripping onto his head from the ceiling, wasn't all that hard.

Then, suddenly, another sound mixed with the dripping of the water. An altogether more menacing one.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Slow, measured, malevolent footsteps.

How could footsteps be malevolent?

Honestly, Lord Patrick had no idea. But these managed it!

And then they stopped. Directly above his head.

------------------------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

No time for an author's note today, I'm afraid. I am pursuing the wicked villain that is named "taxes" ;-) I hope you are all doing all right!

Yours Truly

Sir Rob