Steve Savage, Bounty Hunter: Bounty From Bristol

Chapter One

Lightning arced through the sky, chasing the booming rolls of thunder across the heavens in an eternal game of hide and seek. It was like a scene from a nightmare thought Robert "Bob" Styles as he slipped and slid across the wooden deck of the Pantomime.

Pantomime was a sloop, running across the Atlantic Ocean towards the United States of America. She had left Bristol, England, two weeks ago and was making good time on the transatlantic journey.

Robert clutched a letter in his right hand, like a treasure, as he battled across the heaving deck. It was held beneath his thick oilskin coat for protection from the incessant rain and the spray of the waves that crashed against the sides of the large sloop.

The roll and pitch of the deck was becoming too much for even his experienced sea legs to handle so he slipped the letter into an inner pocket, freeing both hands to grab at handholds on the deck and haul himself forward.

A particularly large wave tipped towards the ship, its white crest foaming and frothing angrily. With a crash it struck the side of the Pantomime, causing the ship to list crazily to starboard as water surged across the deck. Even over the noise of the storm, Robert could hear the cries of surprise from the crew and the terrified screams of some of the female passengers.

The sounds were there for a second or two before the wild wind whipped them angrily away into the darkness. The deck was awash after the wave and Robert twisted his arms around a deck line, worried that he'd be swept off his feet and smashed into the side of the boat; or worse yet, overboard.

Thankfully, the moment of panic passed. The Pantomime righted herself and her two-cylinder steam engine and barque-rigged sails drove her onward, toward the distant shores of the United States of America.

Robert smiled to himself, amused at the screams of the passengers. He gave the ship's rail an affectionate pat. Nothing to worry about. The Pantomime was a tough old girl and she'd handled worse than this little squall.

Of the one hundred and eighty crew onboard, there were only a handful on the deck at this hour, including Robert. The rest were safely below deck, along with the passengers, enjoying their evening meal; or rather trying to in the wild pitching and heaving of the storm. He knew from experience that most of the passengers would have begun to feel seasick when the squall-driven waves started heaving the boat up and down and side to side.

Determinedly, he ran a hand over his face, pushing his long, brown hair out of his eyes, and resumed his journey to the stern of the ship. He wanted a quiet, dry spot to inspect his prize. Only five minutes earlier, Robert had finally got the chance to sneak into the cabin of one of the passengers and search around for any incriminating evidence.

He'd been keeping a watchful eye on the passenger ever since they'd set off from England, doing his best to keep his viewing discreet as he knew the danger of being caught. He had been paid well to observe his quarry, but his sympathies also lay with his paymaster and he wanted to play a part in bringing a villain to justice. Hopefully, the letter he now had concealed on his person would confirm who the passenger was.

Robert finally reached the relative shelter of the leeward side of the stern companionway that led to the lower deck. He hunkered down here and removed the letter from his inner pocket. The screaming wind threatened to tear it from his grasp and he hunched forward to protect the precious letter, using his body and the sturdy wooden structure of the companionway to block out the screaming wind and driving rain.

It was too dark to make out the writing easily and he cast his eyes around for a lantern. There were two lighting the entrance to the companionway and he grabbed one down and held it close to the letter.

Leaning close to the page, he could now make out the words more easily. He began to read through them quickly, giving little exclamations of surprise every now and then, and then a small cry of jubilation as his suspicions regarding the suspicious passenger were confirmed.

Robert was so engrossed in the letter, and the wind and rain were so deafening, that he failed to hear the stealthy footsteps approaching him from behind.

A dark shape loomed up behind him and the pepperbox barrel of a Sharps Derringer was placed against the back of Robert's head. He froze instantly and gave a nervous gulp. He opened his mouth to beg for his life, but, deep down, he knew it was no use.

There was a soft crack and a .22 bullet exploded from one of the chambers of the small weapon. It buried itself into the head of Robert Styles, extinguishing the life from his eyes in an instant. His head jerked forward sharply under the impact and he dropped to the wooden deck, lifeless.

The unknown assailant snatched up the letter and shoved it into a pants pocket. The lamp was returned to the hook of the companionway and then cold eyes turned to Robert and strong hands scooped him up by the arms.

A quick glance was cast around the deck to make sure that there were no witnesses, and then Robert's lifeless body was dragged to the side of the ship, manhandled onto the railing, and then tipped overboard into the frigid, churning waters of the Atlantic.

It landed headfirst, with a splash, the sound of which was lost in the screaming wind and the crash of waves against the ship's wooden sides. Robert's dead eyes stared unseeingly at the sky for an instant before the weight of his clothes dragged him under the surface; down to the cold depths forever.