Chapter 2
Jack looked behind him, panting. It had only been an hour since the robbery, and his escape carriage had somehow disappeared. So, unlike his original plan, he was still in London with over two hundred thousand pounds in his pockets. By now, the police had probably identified him as the thief, therefore making it impossible for him to return to his apartment.
If only he was already in Cardiff! Jack swore and walked slightly faster, his feet stomping in inner rage. He should have known better than to trust a sailor; Always drunk, sly, and vicious. No matter how charismatic Mark had seemed, he was exactly the same. Never trust a sailor... Then, with a grim smile, Jack realized that you shouldn't trust a thief either. How hypocritical of him.
Putting that aside, Jack wondered how those oafs Mr. Aranson and Mr. Terranson were reacting to the robbery. Probably pulling their greasy hair out in frustration, thought Jack, Not to mention embarrassment. Another smile flew across his face, staying for only a second, then vanished as he remembered the seriousness of the situation.
Suddenly, he stopped, looking to his right and left cautiously. After a few seconds of glancing around, he turned and walked towards a small door, nearly invisible in the dark alleyway. Squinting, Jack looked up and read, with some difficulty, "The Drunken Sailor." How coincidental, thought Jack, I wonder if I'll find that idiot here. After brushing himself off, adjusting his clothes and smoothing out his trousers, he pushed the door open, the end of his tailcoat swishing behind him. The door creaked shut after him, leaving the alleyway in silence.
Inside, Jack wove in between small circular tables and broken chairs. His feet crushed broken glass littering the floor, describing his position without attempt. When mysterious splotches of red appeared on the floor, he leaped over, creating an even louder crunch as he landed. Though the litter obviously proved someone had been here, there wasn't even a bartender at the back of the room.
That's when he heard the click of a revolver being cocked.
He ducked behind a wooden table just as a gunshot pierced the air. Quickly, he pulled out his own revolver, a standard six-shot Webley Revolver. Quietly, he looked around the edge of the table, only to be greeted with another shot, sending pieces of wood everywhere. Jack cocked his revolver, then peeked out again, firing one shot. Then a second. Then a third.
Silence filled the empty tavern.
After a few seconds, Jack jumped onto his feet, his revolver held in front of him. He stood for a moment, looking for the person responsible for the conflict, then saw him. Running over, he rifled through the man's pockets, eventually pulling out a wallet. He opened it out, took the spare change, then noticed something.
A miniature Union Jack lay next to his I.D., which stated he was Robert Brown. But there was an odd insignia in the center of the Union Jack, which what had attracted Jack's eyes. He squinted in the half-light, studying the emblem, and, after almost a minute, realized what it was.
A gold medallion. A picture of a coin in the Union Jack's center. Odd, thought Jack, A secret police? Returning the wallet to the man's pocket, he began to study the actual body of his enemy. After another minute of study, he wondered why he had gone to the trouble. It was almost classic; the muscular body, the handlebar mustache, short brown hair. The man resembled an intimidating bodyguard in every way. But who was he guarding...
Jack stood up, then jogged over to a flight of stairs. He stepped on one, then pulled back as a creak answered. Finally picking up his courage, he walked up the staircase, holding his pistol out in front of him in case another guard was placed at the top of the stairs. Reaching the top, he kicked open the thin door protecting the second floor, then ran in.
Suddenly, a hand reached out and wrenched the gun away, throwing Jack to the ground in the process. Jack cried out in pain, struggling to escape, but the same hands pulled his arm up behind his back, causing him to scream in pain again. Sitting on his knees, he took in heavy breaths, looking down at the carpet. After a few seconds, a voice shattered his painful respite.
"Good afternoon, Jack Sublime," said the voice, "We've been waiting for you."
