The Red Crow

Chapter One

Chapter One

I sit crouched in a bush awaiting my target: a stagecoach carrying passengers, mail, and most importantly, gold. They should know better than to travel through the hills, but then again we did force them to come this way. It was surprisingly simple, with just a "closed" road here and a couple of fake officials there.

I shift to keep my muscles from cramping up in the growing cold. Soon the trees will be covered in frost, and the ground will be blanketed in snow as well as the silent atmosphere of winter. But for now the scenery was quite beautiful what with vibrantly colored leaves covering the ground against the background of the setting sun. The bush I'm hiding in has barely enough leaves to cover my profile from watchful eyes. Days like these make me want to stop doing what I do, but I know I can't. It's the only way to keep food on the table for both my sister and I. And with winter approaching, the opposite is something I can't afford.

I check my gear one last time. My amber hair is masterfully swept into my cap. A red bandana, my own personal insignia, is tied around my mouth and nose, leaving my caramel eyes exposed. I'm dressed in all black from head to toe as part of my gang's uniform. Lastly, I check my weaponry. I'm armed to the teeth and I hate it. Two revolvers hang holstered on both sides of my waist, digging into my sides. A single rifle is slung across my back. Additionally, a Bowie knife is stashed in each boot, also digging in nicely to my ankles. Lastly, a dozen throwing knives, my personal weapon of choice, are sheathed across my chest.    

I'm repulsed by being so armed when others can't afford the means to protect themselves from the Fae that oppress our land. But, it follows rule number one of Butch's gang: never be caught unarmed. Additionally, it ups publicity and fear, to see that we're armed so well. So naturally, nobody pokes their noses into our business.

I steal a glance behind me to where Lee, my only friend besides my sister, crouches at the bottom of the hill with ten other members of the gang. Next to Lee is his older brother John, ready to lead the charge once I complete my part of the mission. Lee and John are the sons of Butch, the notorious gang leader, who also happens to be my boss. Naturally, John will eventually take over once Butch's mitts are pried from the leadership position. And even though I will always hate Butch for a certain mid-summer's night 10 years ago (which I'm not even supposed to know about), he is the lesser of two evils. I loathe the day when John takes over.

My thoughts are interrupted rather abruptly when Lee notices me watching them, and gives me a thumbs up as well as his trademark smile, slightly crooked. The corners of my mouth turn skyward ever so slightly as I wave in response. His wavy, dirty-blond hair shines in the light of the setting sun. The rest of the gang ignores me, and why wouldn't they? I'm bad news, and they all know it.

The thunder of wagon wheels shoves me out of my reverie. I snap my head forward and pay attention. I can't see the stagecoach yet, but the bickering horses surely gives it away. The stagecoach has reached the base of the hill that I reside at the top of. I have only thirty seconds at most before my window of opportunity is gone. Deep breaths of frigid air fill my lungs as I control my breathing.   

The mud-colored stagecoach comes into view as my heart pounds. The only living souls besides the horses and passengers are the driver and a guard that looked like he was about to pass out. It's too easy. No passengers sat on the roof like during more crowded times of the day. But it was night, and only few brave souls ventured out at night. I give myself two heartbeats to plan out my first move like I was taught: the guard will have to go first, with him being definitely armed. The horses slow as they grow weary at the top of the hill. Now's my chance.

I emerge from my hiding spot and unsheathe a dagger. I fling it perfectly into the guard's shoulder . He'll live, even though he slides from his seat and onto the ground with loud thump. Before the driver even has a chance to yell for help does another dagger ends up in the wood next to his side. He stares at me wide-eyed, notices my red bandana, and starts to whimper. I put a finger to my lips to shush him. He quiets. Movement catches my eye: it's the guard wriggling on the ground trying to reach for something around his waist. It can only be a gun. I give the driver a look that could freeze even ice and then hurry over to the guard. He was, indeed, reaching for his gun holstered at the waist. The arm reaching for the gun stills as the bone snaps under my boot. I crouch down, stifle his cry with my hand,  take one of the knives from my boot, and slice it across his throat, all in one swift movement. His eyes roll back, and blood spurts from his mouth. Within minutes, his body lies still. I tamper down the emotion rising within me, channeling it into the job with precise movements.