Snappy & Dashing: A Yellow Hoods Companion Tale #1 (The Yellow Hoods) Page 2

  Her thoughts turned to the Red Hood. He was likely the one with the commanding voice, probably second-in-command of the operation. He had to have been experienced, and, moreover, extremely confident to bring so few men with him. So where is the one in charge of all this? They had to be nearby—if Richelle had been conducting this attack, she would have been on hand. Plus, she thought, Richelle Pieman would be too high profile a target to leave to an underling.

  “Richelle… there’s no point to this,” came a man’s resonating voice. It was the commander from earlier, but this time it had a distinctly familiar ring to it. She wondered again who he was.

  With the tubing wound tightly around her fist, she took a deep breath and steadied her thoughts. She rolled her shoulders and neck. Everything hinged on when and how she’d take the commander out.

  “Richelle, come out, please. Don’t run. We have men in the area who have been instructed to shoot on sight. I won’t be able to help you if you run.” The twig snapping came to a stop, signaling that the group was waiting for her to make a move.

  She glanced around, rummaging through her memories trying to identify the voice. She knew she hadn’t heard it in a long time, but couldn’t place the man. He’s got to be the one in the red hood, she thought to herself.

  Taking a moment to straighten her dark brown jacket, and glancing down to make sure her dark brown pants were presentable, she felt almost ready. Pulling her red hood up over her head, she took a breath to compose herself. She reminded herself of who she was, the victories she’d had, and the key lessons she’d learned along the way. She would get out of this—she just didn’t know how yet.

  Scanning the ground for some dry twigs, she placed her foot right upon them, alerting the enemy of her decision, and then walked around the golden oak. She kept her eyes low, and studied everyone’s feet as they came into view.

  The riflemen turned to face the Red Hood. Richelle noticed the shock-gloved man’s uncomfortable stance as he shifted his weight back and forth. He must be new to the weight of that equipment, she thought. Might not be strong enough to really use it properly, possibly more for show than power. That means he wasn’t wearing it to get here. They must have a way to transport him and the cannon. I need to find it.

  Richelle broke the tense silence. “Do I know you?” she asked the Red Hooded imposter. She lifted her head enough for the late afternoon light to make her eyes twinkle.

  “Of course you do,” he replied warmly, pulling back his hood.

  She stared in utter disbelief at her old weapons instructor, Mister Jenny. His face was decorated with wrinkles, and his long hair had scant remnants of black among the grey, but it was the same man. His sad eyes held years of layered pain and guilt. His flowing mustache still gave him the dashing look she remembered.

  Brushing the red cloak over his shoulders, he showed his dark red jerkin with his trademark crisscross straps. The two holsters on the front were empty, the pistols in hand. Richelle knew there would be two backup pistols in holsters on the backside of the straps. She expected his pistols to be pointed straight at her, but instead they were off to the side, as if he was there grudgingly.

  “I’m surprised you’re unarmed,” he said, the tone of a teacher still present in his voice. “You used to be ready for anything, and your reputation made it seem like it was impossible to catch you off guard, yet here we are. Too much paperwork of late?”

  Richelle pulled back her hood, and offered a raised-chin smile. “Well—to be honest, I wasn’t expecting to be ambushed. My fault, I suppose. I’m sure you’d tell me off for putting too much faith in my air-gun, were it working.”

  His frown indicated he didn’t know what she meant about an air-gun, which was a relief to her. There were few who knew of it, and it meant the spies didn’t know everything. “The little confrontation you had earlier today was messier than expected, I heard. You were probably momentarily distracted, that’s all.”

  “You know about that incident? Huh,” she replied, a half-smile slipping past her iron defenses. It was good to see him again, even under these circumstances. He’d been such an important part of her life, long ago, until the day he’d simply up and left.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Snappy and the Dashed

  Fifteen-year-old Richelle blocked Mister Jenny’s lunge. For three years, that small victory had always signaled the end of their sparring matches, but not this time.

  “Finally!” yelled Mister Jenny with pride. “This reminds me of the day that you graduated to sparring!”

  “I’ll get the best of you yet, Jenny!” she said, stepping up onto the red-stoned ledge of the raised garden.

  “Mister Jenny,” boomed Marcus from a third-floor balcony. He peered over his spectacles and put his book aside momentarily. “Never lose your manners or decorum, Richelle.”

  She glanced up at him. “Yes, Opa,” she replied flatly.

  “Using higher ground… someone’s been studious in my month’s absence,” said Jenny, blocking her attacks as he made his way to the stairs and joined her up on the ledge.

  “Uncle Abeland’s been having me practice every day—sometimes twice a day. Did you have a nice vacation in the north with your family?” she asked, studying his movements and remembering his rules about shoulders, feet, footing and striking.

  Laughing, he replied, “Nicely done—engaging with banter while waiting to see if your enemy will be distracted for a second.”

  Sensing a moment to finally get the better of her instructor of the past seven years, she leaped. A stone on the ledge gave way, and Richelle started to tumble.

  Mister Jenny, watching everything in slow motion, let go of his wooden sword and dove for her, knocking her into the flowers and sending himself over the edge instead.

  “Mister Jenny! Are you okay?” yelled Richelle, springing back up. She could hear Marcus dispatching people in the background. Sliding over the edge and onto the stairs below, she stared guiltily at her mentor, who was clutching his ankle. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry,” she said softly, stepping forward. Just then, he pounced on her, drawing a wooden knife from his boot and pinning her against the garden’s stone wall.

  “Remember, watch every movement of your enemy. Take any opening,” he said, with a mischievous but heavily pained expression.

  Richelle lowered her eyes and smiled. “Good advice,” she said, and then she kicked him in the ankle.

  He screamed and dropped his knife, which she quickly picked up. He laughed as he hopped around, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “See? I do listen,” she said, smiling. She could hear Marcus laughing in the background.

  The next two years flew by, and while her sessions with Mister Jenny reduced in frequency, they increased in intensity; sometimes he’d dispatch men to try and ambush her when she went elsewhere for a visit, sometimes he’d leave her guessing.

  Richelle walked up to the raised garden wall and tapped the stone that had once given way beneath her. She thought of yesterday’s birthday party for Emma, Mister Jenny’s four year old. She was a little gem, all cheeks and joy, and clearly the apple of her father’s eye. Despite the joyous event, Richelle had detected something lingering in his words and eyes. She’d planned to ask him about it today.

  She made sure the old stone was rock-solid, as she planned to replay the fight from that now famous day. It would be a fun way to show herself, as well as him, just how far she’d come.

  She could hear her Uncle Abeland’s voice in the back of her head, reminding her that no matter how much she’d planned for something to go one way, she’d need to be flexible and adapt to the actual situation. Studying the terrain and walking it several times, she was satisfied that she was as ready as she could be for her scheduled sparring session with Mister Jenny.

  When she arrived at the crack of dawn, her hair in a tight ponytail and her weapons on her back, she found Mister Jenny sitting on a bench in the middle of the courtyard garden. His head was down, an
d he seemed unarmed.

  Richelle approached slowly, unsure what to make of the situation. She wouldn’t put it past him to mess with her, but something seemed off. She surveyed the area, checking whether Mister Jenny had any hired henchmen lurking in the background, but the two of them appeared to be alone.

  His shoulders were rolled forward, his head down and slumped. Richelle frowned and asked, “Mister Jenny, is everything okay?”

  He looked up, startled, his eyes squinting at the morning light. An empty bottle fell from his lap and rolled around on the courtyard stones.

  “Mister Jenny?” she asked again, worried.

  With drunken exaggeration, he waved her off. “No! No. Go. Don’t see me like this, Snappy. Go,” he pleaded. “Please, go.”

  He hadn’t called her by that nickname in quite some time. Her frown intensified as she tried to deduce whether this was the test he’d been hinting at lately, or if somehow her mentor’s world had completely changed overnight. Mister Jenny tried to spring to his feet, but crumpled to the ground instead and threw up.

  Clenching her jaw in indecision for a moment, Richelle resisted the urge to pull out her weapons and tried to help him up.

  He waved her off. “I asked you to please leave, Snappy. Don’t see me like this—please. Remember me how I was yesterday,” he begged.

  “What’s going on?”

  His eyes seemed hollow, and his face was streaked with tears cried over many hours. His breath was foul, and his mustache was a mess.

  “They… killed them,” he said, his voice barely holding together.

  She stopped herself from asking who had been killed; she knew. There was no way anyone other than his family could have this effect on him. She watched his desperate, tear-filled eyes glance about the garden, searching for something to anchor his soul against. “Who did this? How?” she blurted out.

  Mister Jenny politely removed Richelle’s hand from his shoulder. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

  She watched him stagger out of the courtyard and out of her life, never knowing who had undone her dear friend’s world.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Thorn

  Richelle rubbed her thumb along the tubing that was still wound tightly around her hand. She glanced at everyone’s shoulders, and then at the red cloaked Mister Jenny. “Have you heard of the Yellow Hoods?” she asked him.

  He scratched his head with his pistol. “The kids from Mineau? Yes. They were involved in that little battle with you this morning, weren’t they?” As the last syllable left his lips, Richelle swept the legs of two of the soldiers and grabbed a third soldier, shoving him into the electrocuting clutches of the shock-gloved man.

  Jenny tried to train his pistols on his fluidly moving former student. As Richelle slipped out from behind the shock-gloved man, she wrapped Jenny’s hands in the tubing and kneed him in the chest, winding him. Kicking him over, she grabbed the pistols from the holsters on his back and then ran for the road.

  Richelle took a deep breath as she reached the forest’s edge. She had to know who was behind the ambush, and whether or not Abeland and Marcus were also in danger. Mister Jenny’s presence had immediately dispelled the deep-seated fear that perhaps her grandfather had been behind it. He’d been clearing the board, as he called it, and doing everything he could to accelerate the timeline before he passed.

  As she dashed, she thought about how cavalier she would’ve been about the entire situation only a few years ago. The older she got, the more wisdom she found creeping in.

  She wondered if knowing about Mister Jenny's involvement was all the intelligence information she needed. Then she caught sight of her collection of Tub decoder plugs and her encoding machine smashed to pieces, strewn across the road, another casualty of the chained cannon balls. Years of painstaking work gathering them, secretly deciphering encrypted messages, destroyed. Her family would now be blind to the communications of the Tub and the others that had adopted their secure way of sending messages. Simply knowing that Jenny was here wasn’t going to be enough; she needed to know who was in charge.

  Catching the glint of a cannon in the forested distance, she bolted across the road and found two sets of cannon tracks. “They're backtracking,” she said to herself. “What could you have in the forest for transporting a cannon? There’s no road back there.”

  Just then, a bullet zinged past her head. She glanced back to see Mister Jenny and his soldiers approaching. She took off, following the cannon tracks, stopping behind trees to check on those approaching, and to see if those ahead had spotted her.

  Arriving at the top of a hill, she encountered another Red Hood. He was standing in the open, the edge of his cloak embroidered with gold. The moment she noticed him, a dozen riflemen and two archers revealed themselves. Behind them, the cannon was being carefully wheeled down to a large wooden platform on long steel rails.

  “The railway—you know about it?!” she asked the new Red Hood, shocked.

  “We know about a great many things. I have to say, you and your family have an incredible ability for getting things done. It’s been marvelous to watch, and we greatly appreciate all of your efforts,” he replied.

  Richelle didn’t recognize the voice, but his pacing and confidence told her that he was used to being in royal courts and political arenas.

  “You can put those pistols down—they aren’t loaded,” he said dismissively, and then pulled back his hood. He was a bald man of average height, with a round nose and eyebrows that made no particular statement over unremarkable eyes. His wrinkles told her he was likely in his fifties or sixties. He was sporting a well-practiced smile.

  “I wouldn’t mind finding out,” she replied, reaffirming her grip on the pistols.

  He shook his head. “I’d be careful. Some of these men haven’t worked with me before, and they might get a little nervous at you doing such a thing.” He tapped his chin and offered a genuine smile. “Mister Jenny and I had a bet about you. I expected you’d die in the initial ambush, in the coach. But he was certain you’d live past that. In fact, he expected you’d somehow defeat him and his entourage. He bet me his weight in gold that you’d take the pistols off his back, and thus he made sure they weren’t loaded.” The man placed his hands on his hips. “Amazing for one person to know another so well, isn’t it?”

  Richelle pulled the triggers repeatedly and growled in bitter disappointment, throwing the pistols to the ground. Along with some wisdom, she’d felt a laziness of thought and action creep in over the past few years. Her younger self might have taken the repeating pistols out of Mister Jenny’s hands, knowing they were armed—though possibly a few rounds short—rather than taking the easier to retrieve pair from his back. She was going to have to get rid of her sense of comfort if she was going to live through the day.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  She raised her chin and took a moment to fix her ponytail. “Who are you?” she asked, annoyed. “You aren’t one of my Red Hoods. They certainly don’t have that gold embroidery on their cloaks.”

  “Ah, this?” said the man with pride, gesturing. “No, I suppose not. Though we do have a lot to be thankful to you for. You did create your little Order of the Red Hoods, which dovetailed into our plans perfectly. I’m familiar enough with you to know that you aren’t much of a student of history, so let’s just say that this embroidery is simply a new style and be done with it.”

  Studying the man’s expression and as much of the detail as she could from several yards away, she could tell there was something important about the man that she should be realizing. She twisted her lips to the side and narrowed her eyes in thought, but nothing came to her. “You sound like my uncle. He used to badger me to study more history.”

  “What’s that quote of his? ‘The answers of the future are locked in the past, and are a present to those who study them’, correct? I’ve never met him, but some of the things he’s said to royals here and there have made the rounds—well, the r
oyals that he hasn’t had killed, or overthrown.” The man’s face suddenly brightened. He gestured behind her and said, “Here they are.” He looked at Mister Jenny. “I owe you a tidy sum.”

  “You do,” Jenny replied, and then glanced at Richelle and gave her a chuckling smile as he rubbed his jaw. “Nice moves, Snappy. I hadn’t considered that you could use the tubing.”

  She watched intently as Mister Jenny bent down and picked up the discarded pistols. She noted the stiffness in his left leg and hand. Her affections and sentimental thoughts had already been locked away. She wasn’t going to lose focus so easily.

  “I told you never to bet against me, Silskin,” Jenny added gruffly. He continued past them and down the hill, toward the rail platform.

  A flash of frustration swept across the man’s face, his anonymity now stolen from him.

  Richelle’s face hardened as she realized who the Red Hood was. Lord Ron-Paul Silskin had been a thorn in Marcus’ side for years, though a relatively small one. Silskin had proven to be quite the mercurial figure, initially having presented himself as an ally only to be later outed as having his own agenda. Silskin was a devout believer in the traditions and rights of the royals. Marcus had found him too connected to simply discredit, and too smart to fall into any traps. Every time Richelle had offered to have Silskin assassinated, her grandfather had refused, claiming that the fallout wouldn’t be worth it. Instead, Silskin had remained on the edge of their concern, a tax on their efforts in areas of his influence.

  Richelle squinted at Silskin as she mentally went through the reports and notes from the past year. She couldn’t remember his name having come up a single time, which was odd, now that she thought about it. He’d always managed to pop up a couple of times a year, finding something to complicate. She suddenly noticed the silence. “Well—we finally get to meet. I am Lady Richelle Pieman.”