Enter the Raven, fiction by Teel James Glenn

The girl was clearly terrified and appeared lost by the way she looked around wildly. She was barefoot dressed only in a long T-shirt, her natural hair in a wild tangle.

The cobbled streets in that part of Murphytown were slick with the evening fog off Lake Champlain. It muffled all sound and gave everything the aspect of a dream. Or a nightmare.

The girl tried to flag several cars down but they sped up instead as she waved her arms. Fear was as thick in the streets as the chill mist.

Any cars that drove through that industrial area of Arling, New York after dark did so with windows up and doors locked. And they made a point not to stop for anything or anyone.

She kept looking over her shoulder as she stumbled along the sidewalk, trying any door she came to with visible desperation.

“Maman aide moi!” She prayed in frustration when no portal admitted her. She sagged against a shop window and sobbed in frustration.

“Problem’s little lady?” A voice like shattered glass cut through the fog.

She looked up to see two men whose faces were lit with sinister smiles. One was a wide shouldered black man with a shaven head wearing a long overcoat, the other a skinny white man with long blond hair and a mustache who was dressed in a bulky winter jacket that only served to emphasize his slenderness.

“Non!” she muttered, her dark eyes wide with horror. She backed against the closed metal grate of a pawnshop. She looked right and left for some hope but she found none.

“You made a lot of trouble for us,” the black man said in heavily accented English. “Didn’t she Hugo?”

“Yeah, and we don’t like trouble,” the blond, Hugo said. “Ain’t that right, Jean-Paul?”

The men bracketed the girl and loomed over her. When they reached for her arms she made a sound like a wounded animal.

“We’re gonna make you pay for causing us trouble,” Jean-Paul said. “Then you’re gonna be right back where you were.”

“I dinnae think so, laddie,” a new voice said.

All three turned to see a figure materialize out of the fog. He was not a big man, though stood ramrod upright like a ballet dancer and moved with a dancer’s grace.

“Back off,” Jean-Paul ordered as he clamped a left hand on the girl’s arm. The blond man produced a revolver and at a look from his partner stepped in front of the pair.

“Yeah, you didn’t see nothin’,” Hugo said. “Just move on.” It was the way most met life in Arling, see nothing and say alive.

“I see just fine in the dark, laddie,” the new arrival said in defiance. He was dressed in a black leather suit jacket and slacks that shone in the dampness of the fog and a deep blue turtle neck shirt that reflected the color of his eyes. He was just shy of forty with a thin, handsome face beneath short jet-black hair. His mouth was fixed in a wide grin. “And what I see is that young lady dinnae wanna to go with yee.”

The blond stepped forward brandishing the pistol with the clear intent but the intruder’s manner remained unruffled. “Leave or I shoot you, pal.”

“I do nae like guns and I’m not your pal. You’re the ones leaving.” The arrival’s right hand made a flicking motion and the blond screamed. He dropped the pistol as a black sliver appeared in the back of his hand.

The black man released the girl and started for the intruder but before he had taken two steps the Scotsman hopped forward on one leg and snapped out a savate chasse kick to the muscular man’s chest.

Jean-Paul grunted with the strike, staggering back but before he could regain his footing the intruder delivered a fouette, whip kick to the side of the man’s head that dropped him to his knees, dazed.

Hugo made a move for the revolver with his left hand but the Scotsman raised a hand with a second dark shape in it—a ceramic throwing knife shaped like a feather. “Don’t be a dobber; touch it and they’ll be putting two silver coins on your eyes. This lassie, is under the wing of Duncan Corbie now. Grab your mate and scamper off and don’t come back.”

He stayed poised with his upraised hand as the two attackers staggered off into the night muttering until they were out of sight. Then the man named Corbie turned to the stunned girl and his manner was as calm as if he was out for a stroll.

“Nae to worry, lassie,” he said in a soothing tone. “Let’s get you out of the wet and cold before you catch the sniffles.” He held out a hand.

She stared at the hand as if it was a dangerous bird but his smile won her over and she reached up to take it. “Merci bein,” she whispered.

“No need to thank me, lass,” he said. “What’s your name?”

She seemed to have a hard time finding her voice but managed to whisper, “Amira.”

“Bonne soiree, Amira,” he smiled. Then he seemed to notice her bare feet and made a tsking sound. “We can’t have you stubbing a toe out here or stepping on some broken glass.” Before she could object he swept her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing.

“Oh!” was all the girl said but she made no attempt to resist and once in his arms all tension went out of her. She rested her head against his chest and despite the attack she smiled.

The leather clad Corbie carried the girl two blocks into the warehouse district away from Murphytown, turning into a narrow alley and up to a metal exit door. Above the door hung a sign with a cut out of a chess piece. Corbie managed to produce a key and, after turning off an alarm, unlocked the door.

Inside he relocked the door and reengaged the alarm. He now stood in a short corridor where he carried her into a lavishly appointed office. There he set her on a daybed. He pulled a comforter over her without disturbing her doze. She murmured “maman” before she rolled over and was deeply asleep.

He ran a hand through the jet-black hair that swept back from his high forehead and sighed. “Humanity,” he said softly. “Aye ’tis true enough I despair.”

He walked to a mahogany sideboard and opened a cabinet to reveal a wet bar. He was pouring himself a short glass of single malt when the door to the office opened so that soft jazz music seeped into the room and a stunning woman entered.

The woman was well over six feet tall even without her high heels and with a tight natural hairstyle dyed red. Her deep maroon evening gown showed off her athletic form to best advantage.

When she saw Corbie she stopped then her eyes took in the young girl on the couch.

“Another stray, Duncan?” Her voice was like a muted coronet.

“I promise I didn’t go looking for her this time, Lenore.” He poured her a drink, adding ice to hers and handed it to her. She towered a head in height over him as she sipped the drink. Her smile went all the way to her golden eyes.

“You say that every time.”

“You know ravens and shiny objects,” he said softly. The two of them moved to the antique desk where she sat in a leather, upholstered chair and he perched on the edge. He leaned in close to look her in the eyes and whispered, “And she is such a wee thing.”

He went on to tell her the circumstances of his encounter with the girl. The woman took it all in then glanced over at the sleeping figure.

“You saw her wrist and ankles,” she said with anger. “Rope burns?”

“Aye,” he said. “Bad business. She spoke in a patois that could have been Haitian or Martinidadian, though not enough I could be sure which.”

“She could not have walked far like that, not on a night like this,” the woman rose and moved over to the stand above the sleeping girl. It made Amira look like an elf by comparison. “I wasn’t much younger than her when I made it to Florida from Port au’Prince on that raft.”

“I know.” He came up behind the stunning woman and put a delicate hand on her bare shoulder. The contrast of her dark skin with his pale fingers was stark. “Why I dinnae think you’d mind me bringing her here.”

She turned to focus her eyes down on him, the flecks of light within them dancing. “She will be hungry when she wakes, I will have Edgar, the chef, make something light for her.”

She started to head out of the room then looked back and smiled radiantly. “I suppose you’re hungry after your adventure?”

“Always, lass, always.”

#

“You’re both idiots,” the gravel voiced man hissed. He was seated behind a glass and chrome desk, wearing a smoking jacket and knit skullcap on his bald-head. In front of the desk Jean-Paul and Hugo stood with eyes downcast.

“One half naked girl and you can’t bring her back?” He stood and for a moment the men thought he would physically assault them. He was massive and muscular, moving with an athlete’s grace, his age anywhere from forty-to-sixty. He had thick brows and piercing black eyes that fixed the men so they felt frozen.

“It was that guy, Mister Zoe,” Hugo said, waving his bandaged right hand. “He came out of nowhere.” He pulled the ceramic throwing knife that had wounded him from a pocket and held it up like a talisman. The blade was clearly sculpted in the form of a feather.

“I want no excuses,” Zoe said. “I want that girl.”

“But this guy- the papers call The Raven—“ Jean-Paul said. Zoe moved so swiftly neither of his underlings had a chance to react before they both had a massive hand on their throats.

“If you can not do what I ask you have no use to me,” Zoe said. “And if something has no use I dispose of it.”

The two men choked for a moment then he released then and they staggered back.

“Now get that girl,” Zoe whispered. “I want her by dawn.”

He turned his back to his desk and both men backed out of the room as if they were leaving a royal chamber.

When he sat again Zoe picked up a cell phone and dialed. When it was answered he said, “I’m sorry to say, Monsieur, about that incident you witnessed,” he said, “There’s been a little hitch.”

#

“Well she has a healthy enough appetite, Ma chere,” a smiling Lenore said to Duncan Corbie when she came out of the office to find him sitting at the bar of The Rook Club. She’d brought a meal into the rescued girl when Amira had woken from an hour-long nap. The late night regulars were filtering in for the second wave that was the bread and butter of the after hours club.

The main room of the club was a vast space of a converted warehouse, made intimate with lush wooden décor, mirrors and excellent acoustics to support the bands that played on the stage in one corner.

There were tables and booths with the space arranged so each ‘set up’ felt as if it were in its own world, a world surrounded by rich jazz. It had a four star menu and a world-wide reputation for first class musical talent.

The fact that there was a secured, guarded parking lot beside the building encouraged middle class club goers from the Saint Marcus District or the very well heeled from Collin’s Hieghts to feel safe venturing to The Rook.

“Do ya think she is ready to chatter on about what happened to her?” Duncan asked as he sipped single malt with his eyes half-closed while he listened to the jazz singer doing a medley of standards.

“She was better,” the black woman said. “And, you were right—she’s definitely from Martinidad, though her English is better now that she has calmed down.”

He finished the drink before him and swiveled on the seat, “I think you should be in the room when I talk to her.” He rose and accompanied his partner in the club to the back of the room and the corridor that lead to the office.

“I quietly locked the door,” Lenore whispered, “hoping the girl would not notice.” She unlocked it and knocked.

“Amira, Petit fille,” Lenore called out. “May we come in?”

“Entrer,” the girl inside said softly.

When the two friends entered the office the young girl was dressed in a terry cloth robe and had her hair wrapped in a towel, having showered in the on-suite. She looked even younger and more vulnerable than before, but still managed a smile for the two.

“You look a wee bit better,” Corbie said.

“Merci, Monsuier le Corbeau,” the girl said. She rose and walked up to the man, her eyes watering and then dropped to her knee and grabbed his hand to kiss the back of it.

Corbie look startled then embarrassed while Lenore worked to suppress a snicker. The dark haired man pulled his hand back and grabbed the girl by her shoulders and had her stand.

“No, no, stand,” he said. “No need for that.”

“But you saved me,” she said.

“I suppose I did,” he agreed, “but I am just a man, not a bloody noble.”

“No you are le Corbeau,” Amira insisted, “Even on my island you are talked of.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear about me,” he said. “The press makes up so many stories.”

“Oh they are all true,” Lenore said which caused him to look at her with annoyance but she continued, “Everything they say about The Raven is true.”

“Regardless,” he added, “I’m just a man who was in the right place at the right time. But right now we need to find out why I was needed.”

The girl looked to the two friends and dropped her eyes suddenly afraid again.

“We are not the police,” Lenore assured her when she guessed the reason for the change. “We are not emigration, Amira. We only want to help.” The stunning club owner lowered her voice, “I came to this country on a leaky, over crowded boat when I was only twelve, ma chere, and it was many years until I was legal. And I did it because others helped me. I promised never to forget that. Let us help you.”

The girl cried silent tears and backed away to sit on the edge of the settee.

Corbie sat on the edge of desk and Lenore pulled a chair over.

“How did you end up in Arling?” Corbie asked.

“In my home, near Sainte Duval, the capital there was a man who said he could bring us to America.”

“Us?” Corbie asked.

“There were others like myself,” the girl said, “Perhaps ten other girls and some young boys who wanted a better life.”

The island of Martinidad had once been a jewel of first the Belgian and then the French Colonial Empires, floating barely a hundred and fifty miles off the United States coast in the Caribbean. The north side of the island had been a Portuguese colony called Porto Xalvador. They had been one of the first possessions to break away from their parent countries not long after Haiti’s 1791 revolution, but in a less violent birth.

“How did you get to the states?” Lenore asked.

“In a big ship, inside, hidden,” the girl said.

“A freighter?” Corbie offered. “In the hold of a freighter?”

“Yes, among big metal boxes.” She took a deep breath as if speaking was a physical effort. “Then after some time the boxes were loaded on another boat and we went up a river.”

“Probably containers loaded to barges on the St. Lawrence Seaway,” the dark haired man observed. “And then here to Arling.”

“Yes,” Amira said, “To l’ entrepot—you say- “

“Warehouse,” Lenore offered.

“Oui, warehouse.” The girl continued. “But they took our clothes and put us in little rooms, like cages.”

Corbie’s fists were balled tightly and he fought hard to keep his anger from showing on his face. Lenore put a gentle hand on his shoulder with her own concern for the girl visible in her eyes.

“Do you think you can find your way back there?” Corbie said as gently as he could.

When the girl visibly tensed Lenore rushed to add, “So we may free the others, and punish the men.” The girl shook her head, her expression full of fear.

“No one will know you are there, that you told us.” Corbie said. When the girl still pressed her lips in a tight line he added. “Tell us about how you got out, before I found you. Maybe we can find it that way.”

Amira worked to steady herself and recited her tale. “I was there two days, in that room with another girl, Clarisse, and then some men came—bad men—mean men. They took us from the room and showed us to this other man—and said many cruel things about us.”

Now Lenore was biting her lip with emotion while they listened to the girl’s story.

“Then what happened, lassie?” Corbie gently prodded her.

“The bad man—the fat man who smelled like country flowers—he pointed to Clarisse and said ‘Je veux que vous preniez sa virginité.” Her voice was strained and her own tears came freely. “Then she screamed and struggled with them. She fought very hard. While she did I am ashamed to say I was very afraid and ran and found a door down the stairs. They did not know I had gone until I was down the stairs. I am a fast runner, non?”

“Aye,” Corbie smiled in agreement. “You are a regular cheetah!. Tell me, did this man, this fat man, did he speak your language?”

“Oui.”

“Like he was a countryman?”

“Oui, most certainly.” The girl was clearly getting more upset and the weariness at her ordeal was showing so the two club owners agreed with a look to back off.

“You rest a while longer, Amira,” Lenore said as she stood. “I will get some clothing for you in the morning and we will see about starting the process of getting you legal here.”

The girl looked shocked and then when she realized what was being offered her cried tears of joy and launched herself at Lenore and hugged the much taller woman hard enough to take her breath away.

“There, there, Petit fille,” Lenore said. “You get some more sleep. We will talk when the club closes. You can lock the door after us, I’ll knock if I have need to enter.”

The two friends left the girl who did lock the door as stood in the hall.

“There can’t be that large a Martinidadian community up here,” Corbie said.

“It is larger than you think, Ma chere. My people followed the river up in the sixties and many have settled, though most do not openly proclaim their homeland.”

“Still, a fat pimp like she described?”

“Maybe,” the woman said, “Or a customer. Either way, when she is more settled we can get a better description.”

“And come daylight I’ll see if I can retrace her steps to the warehouse,” he said. “As you said, she could nae have gone far.”

The tall woman was quiet for a moment and then reached out a hand to touch his cheek. “I saw how her story—“

He held her hand to him. “Let’s not go into it.” He didn’t like to talk about how his own sister had been hooked on drugs and pimped out to pay for her addiction in his native Glasgow. Or how he found her dead of an overdose and had his revenge on her pimp. It was the reason he’d had to leave circus life and join the Royal Marines before qualifying for the Special Air Services.

“My le Corbeau,” she whispered. “More an avenging angel than a raven, I think.” When she saw he had shut his mind to further discussion she added, “Let us go and listen to Maura’s next set and put this behind us for now.”

He readily agreed and the two walked back up the corridor and out to the club proper.

Neither of them noticed that two new customers had seated themselves in a far cover of the room, and one of them had a bandaged right hand.

#

The evening at The Rook Club went on as usual with the jazz trio and Maura performing two sets with a short break between. Then, as was often the case, several local musicians, from other clubs that had finished their nights there came by to jam.

It was a magic time of night for Corbie who, for a little while just let the free form jazz wash over him and erase all care and worry, even about the young girl sleeping peacefully in the office.

He allowed himself to push it to the back of his mind because he knew that come the morning he would be singularly focused on finding the other girls, like Amira. And he knew that would take him to some very dark places.

By three in the morning the customers were mostly gone, with a only a half dozen diehards and an equal number of musicians finishing their last set. Andre, the bar tender was beginning to do last count on his stock in preparation for closing.

“I’m going to go back to the office, Duncan,” Lenore said. “I want to total up the night.”

“I’ll bring some coffee,” he said and went behind the bar to where Andre had already started a fresh pot for the closing staff. “I suppose we had better ask the girl for more details.”

“Let’s let her tell us on her own,” the woman said. “We may have to be a little circumspect about it.” He gave a soft chuckle.

“Telling me how to run an interrogation?”

She gave him a cross look, “See, my point; we’ll draw her out slowly.”

Duncan was pouring a cup for both of them when Lenore yelled.

“Duncan, now!”

He vaulted the bar and was down the hall in a moment to find Lenore standing at the open door to the office. Alone.

“She must have slipped out some time during the show.” The tall woman was clearly heartbroken. “I thought she understood we were here to help her.”

Corbie looked in the office to see if there was any sign of disruption, then went to the back door to the club that he’d brought the girl through.

“The alarm here was turned off,” he said.

“I didn’t turn the one in the office on in case she wanted to come out,” Lenore said. “But I left the back door alarm on.”

Corbie returned to stand with his partner. “I canae imagine a girl from Martinidad was sophisticated enough to realize we’d have an alarm on the back door, Lenore. Let’s pull the CCTV footage.”

And when they did the security tapes showed a different story.

After speeding through the early part of the night the fixed camera showed the back corridor where two men came in from the front of the club. They paused before the office door and one of them skillfully picked the lock. One had a rag that he poured a liquid on before the two of them rushed in. In a few moments the men came out carrying an unconscious Amira and went to the back door.

The two club owners stood stunned watching the kidnapping without speaking, then ran it back again to study the men closely. Though their faces were away from the camera lens Corbie recognized one.

“That one,” Corbie said through clenched teeth when he froze the footage. “He has a bandage on his right hand. I know him.” The Scotsman’s blue eyes were aflame with anger. He told Lenore what had happened.

“Why would they come for her here?” Lenore said with anger in her voice as well as puzzlement. “One girl, to risk coming in here? And how would they know?”

“That was me,” he said with such intensity that it startled her. “They knew who I was and where to find me. My hubris made sure of that.”

“Stop that,” she said, “There was no way you could realize—“

“No,” He interrupted, “I should have done them proper when they were manhandling the girl.”

“But why would they risk coming in here, knowing who you are?”

“That I will find out,” he said more as an oath than a statement. “And I will free that girl or die in the attempt.”

#

“Who did you talk to,” Jean-Paul screamed as he slapped Amira again.

The girl was tied to a chair in the same room she had escaped from in the warehouse, her lip bloody and one eye already swelling shut from the beating.

“Only le Corbeau and the lady,” Amira repeated. Her vision was blurred and her head swam but she knew the man who had kidnapped her was the one from earlier. “God will punish you,” she spat out. “Diu te punira! And le Corbeau will be his instrument!”

Jean-Paul hit her again, this time with a closed fist that snapped her head around and rendered her unconscious. He stepped away from her in disgust and turned to his boss.

“I think that’s it, Mister Zoe,” he said. “They didn’t call the cops as far as the girl knows.”

“Yeah,” the muscular Zoe said. “That figures with this Raven guy—he has a rep for getting things done on his own.” He was nervously tapping his fingers on his leg as he stood just outside the room at the doorway. “But did she mention—our guest.”

“Hard to say,” Jean-Paul said. “She could only have seen him for a moment and his name was never mentioned.”

The bald boss considered for a moment then nodded. “Yeah, but we have to consider this Raven a problem. And I don’t like problems.” He did not raise his voice but his underling shivered at the dark tone. “Solve it. Our boss cannot be compromised—he has a six million dollar deal with Don Perrone and we can’t have this guy poking around…”

“I got it, Mister Zoe,” Jean-Paul said. “I’ll get the boys and make sure this guy keeps his nose out of things permanently.”

“You do that or...” The boss said with implied threat hanging.

“What do I do about this fluff?” Jean-Paul asked.

“Still marketable after her face heals. Throw her back in a cell—she’s caused me a lot of agita and we need to get our money’s worth out of her.”

#

“You don’t have anything more than ‘country flowers’ and fat?” Detective Ann Claremont asked. She was a dark haired, pretty woman with eyes as blue as Corbie’s and a no nonsense attitude.

It was eight-thirty in the morning and Duncan Corbie had been able to reach the police woman on her cell phone before she went into work. The two met at a small coffeehouse near her precinct station.

“Only that vague description,” Corbie said. “My, um-source couldn’t give me more.” The Scotsman hadn’t told the woman the whole tale of Amira’s rescue and recapture. “But I also have a name—Hugo—ney last name.” He slipped a print of a frame capture from the hall security tape across the table.

“Not a great picture,” Claremont said. “What does he have to do with this pimp you’re interested in?”

“Ney sure,” Corbie said. “An underling of some sort—hired help.”

She considered the image that showed a side view of Hugo as he was breaking into the office. She sipped from the coffee Corbie’d bought for her and then slipped the picture into her suit jacket.

“I’ll run it by vice and see if there is anything they can scare up,” she said. “Listen, Duncan, I know why you’re interested in these kind of cases—“ When he looked grim at her statement she put a hand across the table to touch his forearm before she continued. “I know you and Lenore have helped put away a number of pimps and the work with the runaway shelter is pretty amazing, but you have to keep this on the right side the law. Even in Arling we have a line not to cross.”

“I just do what I can,” he said. “But this time—this one—is a little more urgent than most. I’d appreciate it if yee could press it today.”

When she realized there was something different from the other times she’d helped him she nodded. “Okay, I’ll call you later today.”

#

An hour after his meeting with Detective Claremont Corbie found himself standing in the spot where he had encountered Amira and her attackers. In the morning light the area was not much more populated or cheery than it had been in the dark.

He looked around, not at the street, but with his eyes up toward the second floors of the warehouse buildings and telephone and light poles. He was looking for any security cameras that might have recorded the event and give him a clue as to the direction the girl had come from.

“Maybe three blocks?” He said aloud after he found no cameras in view. “Her feet were not cut up, so perhaps I’ve got to do this like a red Indian.”

So saying he arbitrarily picked a direction and walked slowly with eyes on the ground. He planned to walk until he encountered the inevitable broken glass that littered such areas then reverse his path. He had little else he could do and it made him feel hopeless to find the girl.

Then his cell phone rang.

“Detective Claremont,” he said when he answered, “That was quick.”

#

Lenore Dupre normally slept until noon in her suite at the St. Ramos Hotel before heading about her day. The morning after Amira’s arrival and kidnapping she was up by nine and did a quick set of stretches, her habit since her days as a gymnast. She was determined to get her usual dance class in but first made some inquiries with the Martinidadian community to see if she could find any leads on the young girl.

When the calls brought no leads she decided to go for a dance class to give herself a treat before starting personal visits with old friends and perhaps begin to start things for Amira to gain an honest status.

“I have faith you will find her, Duncan,” she said aloud as if it was a prayer. “Don’t disappoint me.”

She was thinking it as she crossed the street from the hotel to cross Monmarte Boulevard for the dance studio when the car accelerated around the corner and came straight for her.

#

The parole office records said that Hugo Collins lived in a SRO hotel on Carey Street in the Paddy Beach District. He was on parole for aggravated battery on an ex-girlfriend.

Corbie slipped in a side door so the main desk of the hotel would not give a warning to Hugo and made his way to the fifth floor apartment. He paused outside the door to listen, grinning when he heard loud snores from within.

Oh no, laddie, he thought, you donae get to sleep late when I’m working.

Corbie made quick work of the cheap lock on the door but when he eased it open there was a chain on the inside. It was not a problem for the Scotsman, as he slipped a string with a loop in it into the crack of the open door, slipped it over the chain-slide. Then he ran the string over the top of the door, mostly closed the door and used the looped string to pull the chain out of its socket.

Then Corbie entered the room and relocked and chained the door.

It was as shabby a room as one would expect in that area, with puke green walls and old linoleum floor. The metal blinds to the window were closed but were so bent that morning light leaked through to illuminate the room well enough for Corbie’s purpose.

It had a pasteboard dresser cluttered with clothes piled on it, a small table with chair near a sink and hotplate that constituted a kitchen, a nightstand and metal bed on which the snoring blond man was sprawled.

Corbie took no pains to be quiet as he crossed the room, though when he neared the bed he slipped a hand quietly under the pillow of the sleeping man and was rewarded with a revolver. When he had the weapon he stepped back then kicked the sleeping man in the side.

“What!” Hugo started awake, reaching instinctively for the gun that wasn’t there.

“Don’t bother, Collins,” Corbie said displaying the gun.

The blond looked around like a trapped animal. “What are you doing here?” He started to sit up but Corbie shook his head and he stopped. “What do you want?”

“Names, a place,” the Scotsman said. “Where is Amira?”

“Who?”

Corbie sprang forward and slapped the blond. “The girl you attacked last night. Her name is Amira.”

Hugo whimpered and cringed away from the Scotsman.

Corbie held up the revolver and made a show of removing all the bullets and made a show of replacing one of them. He spun the cylinder.

“Tell me what I want to know or we play a game, laddie.”

“Game?”

Corbie spun the cylinder again. “You canae be that dumb.” He pointed the pistol at Hugo’s groin and pulled the trigger.

Hugo yelled. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

“You can’t do this,” Hugo protested.

Corbie spun the cylinder again.

Now he pointed the pistol at Hugo’s leg.

Click.

“You gotta turn me over to the cops.” Hugo cried. “You can’t do this.”

Spin.

Whimper.

Click.

Hugo was crying now.

“Yee oughta buy a lottery ticket if yee get out of this, Hugo,” Corbie said. “That is if your luck keeps up like this.”

“I don’t know nothing,” Hugo sobbed.

“Yee know an address.”

The blond seemed about to break when the cell phone on the night table rang. Both men jumped but Corbie recovered and pointed the pistol at Hugo’s head.

“Answer it,” Corbie ordered. “On speaker,”

Hugo hit the phone with a trembling hand.

“Lazy man,” Jean-Paul’s voice came through the phone. “Wake up.”

“I—I’m awake.”

“We gotta get on that Raven guy,” Jean-Paul said. “I already did the bitch.”

Hugo’s eyes went wide and Corbie hissed out a breath.

“The-uh- woman?” Hugo asked.

“Yeah, right in front of her own place.” The phone voice said. “Next we go for the Raven. Meet me at Zoe’s, and hurry up.” The line went dead.

Hugo looked at the dark haired man with new terror at Corbie’s expression. “I didn’t-“

“Shut up,” Corbie said. “Who is Zoe?” His tone left no room for equivocation.

“Boss,” Hugo said. “He relays us our orders from the big man.” He sat up, letting his legs hang over the edge of the bed.

“Where’s Zoe’s place?”

Hugo suddenly sprang from the bed and lunged at Corbie, grabbing the gun and twisting. The Scotsman was forced to release it and jump back.

Hugo laughed and pointed the revolver at Corbie. “Screw you, Raven.” He pulled the trigger again and again till it had clicked six times.

“No, laddie, you’re the one who’s fecked,” Corbie snapped the single bullet he had palmed with force and accuracy, directly into Hugo’s left eye. The blond yelled in pain and grabbed his face as he fell back on the bed.

“My eye,” Hugo yelled as blood gushed from between his fingers, “You’ve blinded me.”

“I’ll do more if you donnae give me Zoe’s address.” Corbie promised. “A lot more.”

#

“Yes, yes,” Lenore said through the phone when Corbie called her the moment got out of the hotel. “I was deliberately hit by a car.”

“But he said you were dead—“ Corbie said with great relief.

“I saw it at the last second and, took it and did a shoulder roll over the hood. Like I was back on stage,” she said with pride, “I’m not surprised he thought he’d done a thorough job, I did hit the ground hard and I was dazed.” Lenore was an Olympic gymnast despite her height, before turning to ballet.

“You scared the tar oughta me,” he said before bursting into laughter.

“Its not funny,” She said. “I’ve got a sprained shoulder for sure, besides some bruises that I’ll have to cover with make up.”

“Its not that,” he said. “There’s a thug named Hugo who’s a big sight worse.”

#

The office of Mister Zoe was on the third floor of the warehouse where Amira was being held. The muscular bald man was sitting at his desk when a commotion outside the room made him look up from some paperwork.

The door to the room opened and Jean-Paul flew into the room with a black sliver sticking out of his throat. He hit the ground hard and sobbed in pain.

Duncan Corbie followed him, his right hand raised with a throwing knife in it. He put a foot on the fallen man’s chest that elicited a moan of agony. “Don’t move, Zoe,” the Scotsman warned. “I only need you alive to speak—you donnae to be able to walk.”

The massively muscled Zoe stepped around his desk. “You’re insane to come in here, Raven. I have half a dozen men out there.”

“Had,” Corbie said. “And I‘ve more that number o’ policemen who will be here in a few minutes.”

Zoe laughed. “You don’t work that way, Raven, you’re a loner.” He slowly began to move toward the Scotsman.

“I’m a realist,” Corbie said, lowering his throwing knife. “I let the Bobbies know ‘bout this just before I came in. I allowed just enough time for them to get a warrant and get their SWAT team together. But I wanted my fun first.” He pocketed his knife just as Zoe launched himself at Corbie.

The Scotsman dodge a massive hand and drove his own fist into the sternum of the bigger man, his own speed combined with Zoe’s forward motion. There was an audible crack in the room but the big man only grunted, more in anger than pain.

Zoe tried to swing his other fist at Corbie’s head but again the Scotsman bobbed out of the way. He slipped to the side and drove a low kick into the side of the big man’s right knee.

The knee collapsed and Zoe screamed with pain as he went to the floor.

Corbie leapt to kneel on Zoe’s neck until the man’s eyes bugged out.

“I want a name,” Corbie whispered, “And I’ll you live. Lie to me and I’ll be back to make you beg for death.”

There was no bravado in the Scotsman’s tone, no mercy in his eyes and Zoe knew it.

“What name?” He asked through gritted teeth from the pain of his permanently shattered knee.

“The man who smells like flowers,” Corbie said. “And everything you know about him.”

“He’ll kill me.”

“Me now for certain, or maybe him later,” Corbie said. “You choose.”

#

Amira was huddled in the corner of a tiny room, naked, hugging her knees, beyond tears. When the door opened to her cell she made a whimpering sound but rose to her feet, fists balled and defiance written on her face.

Her expression changed to hope when Duncan Corbie stepped into the room. She flew to him and threw her arms around him. “Monsuier le Corbeau I knew you would come for me.”

“Of course, lassie,” he said. “But now we better get a scamper on.” He took off his jacket and draped it around the girl. “We have to be out of here with no trace when the constables arrive. It will be the survivor’s word against ours that we were ever here.”

“What about the other girls,” she asked as they rushed past the still form of guards in the hall, none of which she spared any sympathy for.

“The police will see to it that they are okay, even if it will more red tape,” he said. “I have to leave some reason for these fellows to go to jail.”

“What will happen now?” the girl asked as they rounded a corner down the street just as the SWAT team and ambulances led by Ann Claremont rolled up on the warehouse building. The police flowed into the building with weapons drawn.

“First we get you back to The Rook, lassie,” he said, “where we get you started on the process of becoming an American.”

“Then?” She asked.

“Then I visit the man behind all this, the reason they were so anxious to recapture you.”

#

Maximillian Gustave St Laurent, the Trade Counsel from the Island Country of Martinadad, entered his study for a late night work session with a handful of papers in his chubby paws. He was proceeded by the strong country flowers scent of his cologne.

His focus was on the papers so he didn’t realize he was not alone in the room until a gloved hand grabbed him from behind by the nose, yanked him back and then a liquid was poured down his open mouth.

The fat man sputtered and coughed as the attacker propelled him further into the study with a shove.

“What are you doing?” St. Laurent snarled as he spun to face his attacker. “Do you know who I am? This is sovereign territory.”

“I know who you are,” Duncan Corbie said. “And what you are.”

“I have diplomatic immunity,” St. Laurent protested. “You are in violation of international law.”

Corbie laughed. “And you are in violation of the laws of decency and humanity.”

The heavyset diplomat staggered back toward his desk, eyeing his phone on it where he as also noticed there were sheets of paper laid out. “What nonsense are you talking about?”

“Don’t think about reaching for the phone,” Corbie said. “And what I’m talking about is all typed out on that sheet of paper. Yee are going to hand copy it on the blank sheet beside it.”

“What?” St. Laurent moved to the desk, picked up the typed sheet and read it out loud, “I, Maximillian Gustave St Laurent of Martinadad have used my official position to arrange for human trafficking of young men and women to the United States with Mister Jackson Zoe. I have been a morally bankrupt monster and deserve what is to come. This is the only way to make up for my sins.”

“You are insane,” the diplomat hissed. “I will not write this!”

“Then yee won’t get the antidote.”

“Antidote?” The fat man said just as the first cramp grabbed his stomach. It was as if he had been punched in the gut. His eyes went wide with realization “that liquid!”

“Yes,” Corbie said, his voice as cold as Hades. “Copy that; now!”

The diplomat resisted a few moments more but as more cramps racked his body he lost all resistance and sat behind his desk. He began to copy the text with frantic pen strokes.

“Neatness counts, ya wee tagger,” Corbie chided. “It has to be readable.”

The fat man forced himself to slow his shaking hand and finished the document.

“Now sign it,” Corbie said. He took the typed sheet, folded it and slipped it into his jacket.

“There,” St. Laurent said. “I signed it. Now give it to me.” He rose and staggered toward the Scotsman who was backing toward the door.

“Give what?” Corbie smiled.

“I’m begging you,” He doubled over.

“Like all those kids begged?” Corbie spat.

St. Laurent groaned, “the antidote, you bastard, the antidote.”

Quoth the Raven, “What antidote?”

Teel James Glenn has killed hundreds and been killed more times--on stage and screen, as he has traveled the world  as a stuntman, swordmaster, storyteller, bodyguard, actor, and haunted house barker. 

He has published dozens of novels and had stories over  200 magazines including Weird Tales.

His novel A Cowboy in Carpathia: A Bob Howard Adventure won best novel 2021 in the Pulp Factory Award. His website is: TheUrbanSwashbuckler.com