Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(13)

Who stared at it, and then him.

“You’re going to need it,” the old man said, almost apologetically, and then disappeared into the darkness of the unlit doorway.

Michael Jr. stared after him and then back down at the gun.

Hugh put a hand on his shoulder. “Michael, are you hurt?”

Michael waved the concerns away with his free hand. “Nah. Hell, I’ve caught worse when a wrench slipped off the hood of a car I was working on. But what about you? Are you okay?”

Hugh paused, as he often did when Americans used that strange word, “o-kay.” It had too many meanings, and each had its own maddeningly distinct contextual rules. “I was not injured—this time.”

“‘This time?’ What do you mean?”

“I mean that I must assume that there will soon be another attempt on my life.”

“Whoa—an attempt on your life?” Mike rubbed his head. “If this growing bump and my short-term memory don’t lie, it was me they were trying to kill.”

Hugh smiled, reached up, put a gentle index finger on the cloak Michael was wearing. It was the ornately distinctive one he had borrowed from Hugh just minutes before. “You took a blow that was meant for me, Michael.”

He stared for a moment before asserting, “Well, then let’s get over to the police station right away and—”

“It is not necessary that we involve your nation’s public militia, Michael.”

“The hell it isn’t, Hugh. Look, you are a foreign dignitary, and someone just tried to assassinate you on our turf. And worse yet, they obviously had you under observation in my home.”

“Michael, I am no longer a foreign dignitary. I have resigned my rank and titles in Spanish service, and my earldom is attainted. I am, as some of your novels would put it, ‘just a regular guy,’ now.”

“Bullshit. Regular guys don’t attract assassins. I’m taking you to the Army—”

“Michael, your kindness is a great honor, but I must refuse. I am not here in any official capacity. I am but a man visiting my friends.”

“Then—as your friend—I insist that you come back into the house until we can figure out—” Michael ceased speaking as soon as Hugh began to shake his head.

“Michael, would you have me repay your kindness and friendship by bringing death over your doorstep? These two blackguards showed unexpected—indeed, inexplicable—restraint in their first attempt on my life. They are unlikely to do so next time. So, no, my friend, I will not further endanger you and your good father by accepting the hospitality of your hearth again. I must leave. Now.”

Mike stared up at Hugh for three full seconds. Then he looked at the .45 in his own hand and nodded. “Okay. Then I’m coming with you.”

Before Hugh could utter a negation through the surprise and secret gratitude that washed over him, Mike had pounded back up the stairs, across the porch, and through the front door that had changed Hugh’s life. And if the fates were as kind as they were strange, perhaps he and the younger McCarthy would not merely share the road to Amiens, but share professional fortunes as well. After all, any business with Turenne would ultimately be concerned with military matters—and Hugh had a long and varied acquaintance with those. Of course, it was too early to broach the topic of any kind of joint enterprise with Michael just yet, but the journey ahead would afford ample opportunities to casually learn more about the American’s business in France, and if there was any way a displaced Irish earl might help with it . . .

Mike wasn’t gone long—five minutes at most—before he reemerged, backpack in one hand, his other tucking the .45 under his belt. “I’m just about ready to go.”

“But—doesn’t your family have only one horse?”

“Yeah, but she’s my horse. Besides, my stepmother is doing her nursing in another city and Dad ain’t riding again any time soon.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“You mean, because you’re someone’s target?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that. Actually, if I come along, it still might put you in danger. I could be the guy those assassins were trying to kill.”

“Michael, admittedly you are a most important person. As a senior instructor at the technical college, I’m sure any number of foreign powers have a pointed interest in you. But you were wearing my cloak when you were attacked. And if anyone wished to assassinate you, they could have chosen a hundred other moments that would be both less complicated and more subtle. I am forced to conclude that I was the intended target.”