The crushing forearm was replaced by a thin knife, its cruel edge pressing against her throat. The blade was so sharp that she didn’t feel the shallow cut, but the sensation of warm liquid trickling down her neck told her one had been made, and she knew Tommy wouldn’t hesitate to slice her neck open and leave her to die in the back room of this tavern.
Tommy cut his eyes toward Clive, and with a quick shove she felt herself pushed into the chest of her former coworker, who pinned her arms behind her back. Struggling would only increase the pressure of the blade, which never left her vulnerable throat. Genevieve kept as still as she could, even breathing as shallowly as possible. Panic began to blur the edges of her vision.
“It may be a small consolation, Miss Stewart, but I’ve no doubt you’ll be mourned,” Tommy whispered again, almost tenderly. “Your family appears very loving. And for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen Danny boy so taken with a woman. I’m sure he would have married you eventually. If there’s one thing Danny is, it’s honorable.” He fairly spat the last word, increasing the force of the knife as Genevieve desperately shrank into Clive’s chest in an effort to avoid its deepening push.
A bellow of pure rage rang through the thin walls of the tavern.
The trio froze, the knife a hair’s edge away from ending Genevieve’s life. Over Tommy’s shoulder, she saw Ernest leap toward the door and open it.
Another bellow, and the noise in the tavern stopped abruptly. If it hadn’t been for the blade pressed against her throat, Genevieve would have sagged in relief.
Daniel.
Tommy cocked his head, listening. A sliver of a smile emerged on his thin, hard face.
“Danny boy,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t sure he’d get here in time. Frankly, I wasn’t sure he’d come at all. Thought he might have stayed drunk for a month after that article.” He turned the smile on Genevieve, who tried to shrink back farther, to no avail.
“That sister was always his weak spot. I knew it would come in handy someday,” Tommy remarked in a conversational tone. He pointed the knife at Genevieve’s face, a mere fraction of an inch from her left eye. She could suddenly, barely breath. “The secret to surviving, Miss Stewart, is to have no weak spots. To not care. Because if one cares, that can be exploited, don’t you see?”
Their eyes locked. Genevieve held her breath, not daring to speak. One couldn’t reason with a madman.
The knife moved away from her eye and pointed at Clive. “You, finish your job,” Tommy instructed. The knife then pointed at Ernest. “And you, take care of our new guest.”
“And what will you be taking care of?” she spat in Tommy’s direction.
Condescending amusement washed over Tommy’s face. “Matters more important than you, dearie. I’ve got a mayoral campaign to continue, and how would it look for a candidate to be found slumming at the Eagle Head Tavern?”
The knife disappeared somewhere in the folds of Tommy’s coat as he cast a significant look at both Ernest and Clive, and then he slipped out the door, Ernest following closely behind.
Clive’s hold on Genevieve’s arms tightened as he shoved her up against the wall again, this time turning her around so her cheek pushed into its rough surface. He used the force of his body to keep her pinned against the wall but said nothing. He was pressed so close into her that Genevieve could smell his rank body odor rising from underneath fading layers of cologne. She fought to keep from gagging but also remained quiet, mind working frantically. Their ragged breath mingled, and each stilled as they listened to what sounded like gathering commotion outside the tavern. After what seemed like an eternity but was likely less than a minute, all noise from the outside ceased, and an eerie silence settled.
They waited. The quiet swelled until it became almost oppressive. It was worse, far worse, than the cries and jeers Genevieve had faintly made out earlier through the thin tavern walls.
What on earth was going on?
Where was Daniel? Was he injured? She had to get out of there and help him. She thought of Tommy’s knife and Ernest’s cold eyes and shuddered. Daniel needed to be warned.
She eyed the half-empty bottle on the table behind Clive, then risked a glance at her captor. His face was still inches from hers, but his gaze was riveted toward the door to the outer room of the tavern. His jaw worked and sweat dripped from his brow, despite the steadily dropping temperature. He appeared completely focused on trying to decipher what was happening outside. Suddenly, a loud cheer rose from the street. Clive started slightly, straining toward the door instinctively and relaxing his hold a fraction. Genevieve didn’t waste a second. Using all of her considerable strength, she thrust herself backward into Clive’s chest, ignoring the waves of pain that exploded in her head. Her unexpected movement caught him off-balance, and he stumbled backward, mouth open in shock, falling into the small table behind him. The rickety piece of furniture couldn’t hold the force of his weight and collapsed underneath him, smashing the whiskey bottle as well. Clive gave his own bellow of surprise and pain; the bottle’s shards must have pierced his back.
Quick as a flash, Genevieve darted for the door and dashed into the outer room of the tavern. It was empty save for a crowd of men gathered at the front door, straining to see what was happening on the street. They were four or five deep, at
