"Mr Ambrose, Sir?"

"Yes, Mr Linton?"

"I am not quite sure you understand the meaning of the word 'interrogation', Sir."

"Indeed?"

"Because, you know, it usually involves interrogating them, as in speaking to them, not just silently staring at them while letting water drop on their head and waiting for them to break."

"It worked, didn't it?"

I opened my mouth—then glanced down at the thick stack of notes in my hand that constituted the entire confession of a certain Frenchman and closed it again. He had a point. It is amazing how hard it is to resist when Mr Rikkard Ambrose is staring holes into your very soul.

I should know. I had tried more times than I could remember.

As for Lachance...

My eyes swivelled over to the Frenchman.

"Ha...ha...ha..." Panting, the man hung in his bindings, droplets of water running down his face. Only some of them were due to sweat.

"Mr Linton?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Recapitulate. What do we have so far?"

"Hm..." I started flicking through my notes. "Let's see...locations of all the goods robbed from your ships, secret stashes of supplies and a secondary camp. Then we have a long list of names of people involved in organizing the attacks on your ships, the numbers of various bank accounts where the proceeds from the sale of the plunder have been stashed and, ehem..." I cleared my throat. "...a long, long list of bank numbers of bank accounts full of money that have nothing whatsoever to do with the current situation."

I gave my dear husband a meaningful look, which he promptly ignored.

"I see. Can you think of anything else?"

"No, Sir."

"Then, only one final question remains..." Turning towards the captive once more, Mr Rikkard Ambrose pinned him to the mast with an icy stare. "Who. Is. Your. Employer?"

The Frenchman wheezed, then smiled ever so slightly. "There...there's no point in torturing me. I don't know! I never knew! Do you really think I'm in charge of this thing? I'm so low on the totem pole it's not even funny, mon ami! I only took this job because it came with a cushy life in a mansion and little in the way of work. Should have known it was too good to be true."

"Then who is above you? You must have gotten your instructions from somewhere!" Raising his cutlass, Mr Ambrose placed it at the man's neck. "Who gives you your orders?"

The Frenchman shrugged, or at least did the best approximation he could manage while tied to a mast with a blade at his throat. "Some straw man. Forgettable face, even more forgettable name."

Mr Ambrose stared at him for a moment, searching his face for any sign of deceit—something which I had no doubt he would be able to spot instantly. Finally, he seemed to spot what he was looking for, and nodded.

"Pity. Then we'll just have to rely on our own intelligence to hunt down this straw man and squeeze the information out of him." He turned away—until he froze abruptly at the burst of ragged laughter from Lachance. Slowly, Mr Rikkard Ambrose's head swivelled back to face the Frenchman

"Something amusing?"

"Too late!" Lachance rasped, his lips twitching spasmodically in a poor excuse for a smile. "You're too late!"

Mr Ambrose went very, very still. "You did not mention that earlier."

The smarmy French bastard smirked. "You didn't ask, mon ami."

"I am asking now!"

"As am I!" My patience was at an end. We were so close! So close to the bastard who wanted to hurt my baby! And this son of a bachelor wanted to play games with us? Not on my watch! "What do you mean, we're too late? What are you talking about?"

"The middle man...the one who knows my employer's name? I sent him a message the moment I found out about your betrayal. Told him to find a safe place and lay low. With luck, he's halfway across the Atlantic by now."

Exercise was good for pregnant women, right?

Well, time to exercise!

I hauled back and punched the smug bastard in the face as hard as I could. His head slammed back against the mast and lolled limply to the side.

"I think our questioning is over," I told my husband.

"Agreed."

"Shall we...?"

"Yes." Turning around, he strode to where the sailors were standing, waiting for commands. "Let's go hunt."

***

A man who had many names sat on the balcony of his hotel suite, sipping his coffee and enjoying the view of the Caribbean coastline below him. It was good to be a tourist. So relaxing. So enjoyable. And, most importantly, so harmless. Very beneficial for his real job. Maybe he should take a stroll through town today, eat at a café, talk to a few pretty ladies. Yes, that would be just right to—

A sudden knock from the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Yes?" he called. "Enter!"

The door opened and a maid entered the room, bearing something on a silver platter. "Pardon the interruption, Sir. A letter for you just arrived at the receptionist's desk, from a Mister Lachance."

"Very well. Leave it on the table, will you? I will see what my dear cousin wants later."

The man took another sip of coffee, waiting till the door was closed and the maid's footsteps had receded into the distance. He knew only one man named Lachance, and that man most certainly was not his cousin.

Once he was sure the maid was far away, he grabbed the letter and tore it open.

My dear cousin,

This is just to let you know that our jolly seafaring friend has decided to rather abruptly end our business relationship. I do not know why this is, but it may be due to the fact that he has developed a sudden interest in our shipments. He may also develop an interest in you.

Yours Truly

Joël Perrin Lachance

The man of many names snorted. As if he would be afraid of some jumped-up pirate! Thugs like that were easily recognizable. His agents would spot them the moment the rag-tag band entered town, and if they did not take care of the matter, the soldiers in the town would. It wasn't as if a pirate could suddenly learn to dress like a gentleman and stroll into town.

Snorting at the mental image, the man got up from his armchair and went to his bookcase to pick out something to read. It was about two hours later that he was again interrupted by a knock on the door.

"What is it this time?" he demanded, annoyed.

No answer. Instead, another knock.

"Oh, mon dieu!" Growling, he got to his feet and moved to the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming! Calm down, will y—"

He cut off as he heard something from beyond the door. A...metallic click?

It was an instinctual reaction. In a blink, he threw himself to the side and pressed himself against the wall. That was the only thing that saved his life when the bullet tore through the door where, a moment ago, his head had been.

"Sacre bleu! What—"

Another shot hit the door, this time blowing out the lock. The Frenchman decided now was not the time for questions. Hurling himself away from the doorway, he raced back into the drawing room. For a moment, he hesitated. Where to go? Bathroom? Dead end. The chimney? Blocked by a grate. The—

Bam!

Behind him, he heard the sound of the door slamming against the wall.

Merde! No more time!

Not daring to waste another second to glance back, he rushed towards the balcony and shoved open the French window. Who the heck was after him? An assassin? His recent missions hadn't involved anything that would warrant—

Bang!

Crack!

A third bullet whizzed past his head, shattering a pane of glass and showering the Frenchman in splinters.

"Merde! Merde! Merde!" Wiping drops of blood from his eyes, he stumbled forward towards the railing. Who? Who the hell was this?! Nobody should even know he was here, except that worthless excuse for a pira...

He froze.

It couldn't be, could it? That man was just a thug, a patsy that—

He felt a tingle at the back of his neck. Instincts built throughout years in the field made him throw himself down to the floor.

Bang!

Splinters of wood rained down on him as a section of the railing was blown to pieces. At that point, he threw all caution to the wind. Not even bothering to think about what storey he was living on, he leapt up and hurled himself towards what was left of the railing of the balcony.

Merde! He cursed in his mind as he sailed through the air. What kind of pirate captain is this? Blackbeard come back from hell? Who would—

That was when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the face. A face he'd seen only once before. A face he recognized instantly, from when, years ago, he had been sent on a mission to England, and had made sure to gather information on all the people in that country to never, ever cross.

Merde! Pirate Captain my sweet, fabulously French arse!

That was his last thought before he plunged down towards the ground.

***

"Blast!" Scowling, I leaned over the remnants of the railing and peered down into the bushes below. There was a depression in the greenery, but nobody in sight. "He's escaped!"

"Incorrect, Mr Linton," Mr Ambrose stated. Then he raised his hand and made a gesture. It was answered a moment later by an arm emerging from a window across the street giving a brief signal. Something metallic blinked in the sunlight, then...

Bam!

"Aagh!"

A slew of French curses came from somewhere down in the street beyond the trees.

"This whole place is surrounded." Mr Ambrose's voice was cold as ice and hard as granite. "That man went after my family. He won't escape."

"Mr Ambrose?"

"Yes?"

"Sometimes I really love you."

"Only sometimes?"

"Shut up and move!"

During the last few weeks, I had been waddling around at a snail's pace, cursing the weight that was tugging me down. But you know what? A pregnant lady can move amazingly fast when someone threatens her child. In a blink, we were down the stairs and out the door. From there, it wasn't particularly difficult to pick up the bastard's trail. Mostly due to the literal trail of blood spatters on the ground leading down the deserted street.

"Isn't that nice?" A wolfish grin spread across my face and, reaching under my tailcoat, I pulled out my pistol. "He's pointing the way for us. We should repay him."

"Indeed." Giving a curt nod, Mr Ambrose strode down the street, his long legs somehow eating up the distance faster than if another man were running. I hurried after him, taking three steps for every single one of his. The streets around us were completely empty, people having fled the moment the first gunshot sounded. It didn't take long for us to round the nearest street corner and spot the limping figure in the distance.

In a blink, my pistol was up and aimed.

"Don't! We need him alive, remember?"

"I was trying to forget. But you're right." Cracking my knuckles, I sped up my steps. "We should definitely take him alive."

The man ahead glanced back over his shoulder, terror flaring in his eyes.

"Stop!" he yelled. "Stay away!"

Mr Ambrose shook his head. "No."

"Stay away, I said!" the man shouted, suddenly pulling a derringer from his sleeve. "Stay back, or—"

"No." Faster than a flash, Mr Ambrose's hand came up, holding a gun.

Bam!

"Aagh!"

The derringer dropped from a bloodied hand, and the Frenchman stumbled back—right into the path of the coach that was coming around the corner.

"Oy!" With a shout, the coachman reined in the horses, bringing the coach to an abrupt stop. "What the hell do you think you're doing, mate? You can't just walk out in the middle of the road and—"

That was when he was grabbed by the lapels and jerked down from the box. Uttering a startled yell, he sailed through the air and slammed down onto the ground. The next moment, the Frenchman was up on the box, reins in hand.

"Yee-ha!"

In mixed rage and horror, I watched as the bastard threw us a grin over his shoulder and raced away down the street.

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

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

The big climax of the book is coming! And more importantly, a big surprise... ;-)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob