Lord Day and Lady Night

19. Numbers and Names

"Move!" It took Amy a moment to realize the command had come from her own throat. "Karim, grab da girls! Get dem somewhere safe!"

The Mohammedan stared at her, his mouth opening and closing—and then, wonder of wonders, did what she said.

"What about us?" she heard Patrick's voice from behind her.

Us. Amy's heart made a leap. He said us. Not me.

Shrugging off those stupid, childish, yet incredibly stubborn thoughts, she turned towards the man who had spoken. A grin spread over her face. "We're gonna go upstairs and 'ave a chat with Mr Whitlock!"

***

Gordy Whitlock was not in a good mood. He had returned to the "storehouse" to get the latest batch of brats from Jenkins—only to discover that Jenkins was nowhere to be found, and the patrols he'd established had apparently found better things to do.

"Playin' cards and 'itting da sauce again, I bet!" he growled. "Oh, when I get me 'ands on dem...!"

"'ello dere, 'andsome."

At the sound of the alluring female voice, Whitlock turned around. That most definitely was not Jenkins talking!

There was a twat standing at the entrance to the right corridor. Oh, and what a twat she was...! Eyes like emeralds he wanted to steal, and a body that made him want to grab hold and—

Dis ain't da time!

"Who are ye?" he demanded. "Where are me men?"

"Dose drunkards? Dey're all downstairs, nearly passed out on da floor." The woman smiled seductively as she sidled closer. Whitlock felt heat build up inside him, his eyes fixed on her cleavage. If he'd been a smarter man and looked at her face, he might have noticed the cold look in her eyes. "Dey sent me up ta say 'ello to ye."

"Smart bastards!" He chuckled. "But if dey think dat'll make me let dem off, dey've got another thing comin'!"

"Well, well..." Her smile widening, the woman sidled closer. "A strong, confident man. Just my type."

Damn! I wish I didn't 'ave business to take care of...

Sighing, Whitlock shoved thoughts of doing the dog's rig with her from his mind. He could get a whore anytime he wanted, but if the boss caught him slacking off...

"Perhaps we'll 'ave some fun later, little girl." His eyes narrowed. "But right now, I'm lookin' for a bunch of girls even smaller dan ye. Where's Jenkins? He's supposed to be up 'ere with da latest batch! Is 'e down dere drunk, too?"

"Oh, no. 'e just got a little bored of waitin' for ye." The wench winked. "'e's amusing 'imself with one of me friends over 'ere."

"Bloody bugger! Oh, well, show me da way, will ye?"

"It's me pleasure, Sir. Follow me, will ye?"

She led him along the corridor to a door in the wall. Whitlock frowned. This door...where did it lead to again? He didn't come here often. It was just a warehouse among many, and he very much preferred his "private collection" to the trash usually gathered off the streets at this place. But this door...something seemed familiar about it.

"In 'ere, Sir." The wench gestured towards the door, and stepped forward to pull it open.

"Wait a minute..." Whitlock frowned, only now realizing what had been bothering him all this time. "Dis ain't no door to a room! Dis is a—"

When the door to the broom cupboard swung open and he saw the two unconscious, tied-up men lying there, his eyes went wide and his whole body stiffened. He was so shocked he didn't even notice the heavy footsteps rushing up from behind. A moment later, something heavy struck him in the back of the neck.