“You better get your asses in gear,” Becca says, a smarmy smile plastered on her face. “I have a feeling it’s going to take quite a bit of re-work on the mission strategy to fit all of these items into the schedule.” She cocks her head to the side. “What happened to that smug little smile, Arseneau? Your plans to eliminate me from this mission not working out the way you expected?”
“Why would you extend the mission timeline by adding more shit to the list? Do you know how much longer we’ll need to be here to finish this job, now?” An anxious pit forms in my belly; the thought of spending more time in England makes me want to hit something hard.
“The Benefactors knew you’d continue to be a problem. Redeeming yourself will require more than just stealing a trinket or two. I have full authority to modify the mission at any time to meet the Benefactors’ goals.” She pauses and gives me an ominous look that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “Which include not only obtaining the artefacts they desire, but to bring you to heel, dear girl.”
She sways on her feet and belches; a sour, foul-smelling odor so thick it’s almost visible hangs around her like a fog.
This gnat needs squashing. “You’re not just hungover, you seem hangry, too, Trevor. You know what’s good for a hangover? Food. Lots of food to soak up the greasy sick settled in your gut. Here,” I reach over to the table and slide my bowl of oatmeal closer to her. “Have my breakfast. Or I can cook bacon and eggs, if you like. Or maybe pancakes loaded with butter and syrup. How about some hardtack biscuits and gravy? That’s what the sailors I knew ate after drunken binges. Well, new sailors would vomit while the old-timers sat in the galley tucking into just about anything they wanted.”
Color drains from Trevor’s face, replaced by a look of queasy disgust at the mention of all that food. She bolts toward the narrow corridor leading to crew corridors, knocking Fagin into the wall as she races to her room.
“Happy now?” Fagin says, dryly. “You poked the bear, Dodger. We had her somewhat contained before, but now she’s going to scrutinize everything more closely. We won’t be able to take a piss without her permission.”
“We got around her before. We can do it again,” Nico says, leaning against the cockpit’s doorframe. “We just have to be more cunning than she is.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard.” I say, smiling at him. “We are pretty clever.”
In unison, the three of us turn to stare at the acquisition list glowing green on the Comm Panel screen.
“Merde,” Fagin says. “We better get busy. Trevor was right. We have to rework our entire plan.”
“I’ll make more coffee. It’s gonna be a long night,” Nico says.
It’s the wee hours of the morning before we finish cataloguing every item on the new acquisition list, sorting them by owner, last known location, the royal party’s residency at each location, and the risk factors for obtaining each item. Trevor has yet to reappear after fleeing the main cabin. I imagine she’s probably passed out again.
With a swipe of his fingers, Nico highlights several items on the list—low-hanging fruit, he calls them. “Smaller jewels—rings, pins and bracelets—are easier to pocket. I recommend starting with these first.” he says. “There are several gems the royal ladies-in-waiting seem to already have on this journey with them. Leeds Castle is the first stop on the road back to the king’s London palaces.”
Fagin positions her data pad in the middle of the conference table and taps the screen. “Remember the ruby necklace Mary Boleyn wore last night?” A three-dimensional hologram image of Mary Boleyn, wearing the necklace, springs up from the data pad. “I’m sure it caught Dodger’s eye.”
“What of it?” I ask, pretty sure the answer is going to piss me off.
“It’s now on the list,” she replies.
“Dammit, Fagin,” I say. “I could’ve acquired it last night.”
Fagin only shrugs. “Hindsight is a bitch sometimes.”
Nico zooms the image until the Boleyn girl’s neck and heaving cleavage is dead center. The necklace fits snugly in her décolletage. The hologram’s realism makes her skin look warm and inviting and physically present; even the blood coursing through her carotid artery is palpable enough that you could take her pulse.
His head tilts to one side and with a quick intake of breath, realizes the zoom perspective is too close. Noticing that Fagin and I are staring curiously at him, he zooms out again, blushing as he mumbles a quick, “Sorry.”
“The ruby wasn’t the only asset on display.” Fagin chuckles. “We could take advantage of the ship-board time to procure a few of the items we know are here in Calais if we can secure passage back to England on the King’s ship. You’re in pretty tight with Mary,” she says to me. “Pop in over at the Exchequer and take Mary a bit more wine for her personal use. That gorgeous French courtier she marked for conquest last night seemed to really enjoy it. Mary could use the wine to coax him into a liaison.”
“Too risky,” I say, rubbing my eyes which, from the feel of them, must be bloodshot from ten hours of bouncing back-and-forth between computer files and hologram videos. Blinking against the dryness, the insides of my eyelids feel like sandpaper scraping across my corneas. “The Swallow is too small to comfortably pilfer anything from the passengers without risking detection. If we’re caught, the whole mission would be over. We’d get shipped straight back to France as soon as we made port in Dover.”
“If you’re not thrown overboard on the way.” Nico says. “Agreed. It’s too risky.” he leans back in his chair and stretches, the fabric of his T-shirt straining against his taut biceps and pectorals. Warmth spreads up my neck and pricks my earlobes as the longing to
