Carefully, he dislodged the first pin at the top right corner.

That bastard in the bed had been planning it.Īll ten fingers itched to snatch the paper and run, but he forced himself to take a deep, silent breath. The map of the route planned for a dangerous man’s next escape. Helena, off the western coast of Africa, circled in bold scrawl. There was no time for an in-depth study of the map now, but a quick glance revealed the destination. A weapon of stealth.Īnother count to ten before taking the final step. The only weapon he carried was a knife, tucked in the back of his breeches. Pistols brought the crew, the wharf police, and anyone else interested in such activity. Ripping the paper would make too much noise.Īnother interminable wait as the captain turned away from him in his sleep. The map lay spread out, anchored by pins in the four corners. The moon shone through the window above the captain’s bed, shedding light on the man’s balding head. Out of the shadows now, he stood only one step away from the table bolted to the floor. Impatience was a roiling knot inside his belly. He waited until his heartbeats became steady again before taking the next step. He had long since mastered the art of keeping footing on a ship. The captain well knew the value of the treasure he carried. If the man awoke, he might shoot first at any noise. A pistol rested on two nails directly above the captain’s bunk. One leather-clad foot arrested on the wooden plank. The captain stirred slightly in his bunk and began to snore.

The calling cards of the best thief in London. The ball of his foot ground onto the plank. The blood pounding in his head became a distracting whirring noise. The sound of his breath echoed to a crescendo. One water droplet fell to the wooden plank floor like a hammer against steel. Managed to steal into the captain’s quarters as the man slept, and now, now only three steps remained between him and the priceless map. Wrung out his clothing to keep it from dripping so there wouldn’t be a trail. Climbed aboard, silent as a wraith, dressed all in black. Braved the murky, cold water, swum out to the ship moored at the London docks. The only sound in the cramped space was his own breathing. It was there, lying on the rickety wooden table in the captain’s stateroom aboard a ship aptly named Le Secret Francais. Only three steps separated him from the map.

Never Trust a Pirate by Valerie Bowman