“Well, Mr. Malarkey,” said Chevie sweetly. “What I do is I slap the hell out of Battering Rams, then wash my silken locks in their tears of shame.”

Taken at face value, these comments would seem unprofessional at best and psychotically foolhardy at worst, but as Cord Vallicose at Quantico had informed his young students in the Negotiating Tactics class, In certain confrontational situations, for example when dealing with a narcissist or psychopath, an aggressive tack can sometimes prove useful, as it will pique your captor’s interest and prompt him to keep you alive a little longer. Chevie had never forgotten this quote and used it to justify her regular outbursts. Riley, of course, had not been to this lecture and could not understand why Chevie repeatedly antagonized their captors.

“She’s a simpleton,” he blurted. “There was an accident with a high wall... and some laudanum. Her marbles rolled clean out her earholes.”

Malarkey was nonplussed. He stood and paced awhile, uncertain how to react.

“Well, I never,” he said, rather quaintly. “I ain’t accustomed to vinegar from gents. Now I meet my first Injun lady, and she’s spouting all this color at me. What’s a gang leader to do?”

Malarkey slapped the riding crop against his massive thigh. “Here’s the scoop, folks. My predecessor took a job in good faith to keep eyes on that house in Half Moon Street and slit the neck of anyone who arrived in it. So I find myself in a dilemma. Mine is not to wonder why the man who contracted us would want you two snuffed, but Otto Malarkey don’t like to kill without reason, especially a cove like you, boy, who could be of service. But the brotherhood accepted coin for a job of work, and the Rams be nothing if not reliable.”

Riley had a thought. “But you couldn’t kill another Ram.”

“Quick thinking again, boy. But you ain’t a Ram. A cove’s gotta be born into the brotherhood, or fight his way in. And, with respect, you might be able to climb a drainpipe, but you couldn’t bend one.”

“I might surprise you,” said Riley, and to prove his point, leaped high in the air and smashed the empty chair with a blow from his forearm.

“Not too shabby,” admitted Malarkey, flicking a splinter from his trouser leg. “But I got a dozen better. I need something with a little theater about it. The men are bored watching dullards pound on each other.”

Riley held out his wrists. “Put manacles on me, and I’ll still whip whoever you nominate.”

“I don’t know. We’ve been paid already.”

“Don’t you want to know why this man needs us dead? Knowledge is power, ain’t that so? And a king can’t have enough of either.”