The Daredevil Snared (The Adventurers Quartet Book 3) Read Free Page B

whom would, without a doubt, prove to be vicious fighters. Vicious and desperate, for they would quickly realize that they were outnumbered. Caleb shrugged. “I just want us all to walk out of this and, given this climate, with as few cuts as possible.”
    They’d brought various salves and ointments in their supplies, but in tropical climes, infection was always a danger.
    “We’d better get into position.” In such close quarters, pistols would be useless—as likely to hit a friend as an enemy. The fight would be all bladework. Both Caleb and Phillipe reached for their sword hilts and loosened the blades in the scabbards, then they checked the various knives strapped about their persons.
    Satisfied they were as prepared as possible, Caleb indicated the spot from which they’d earlier studied the camp. He and Phillipe had, of course, taken the most dangerous positions. They would lead the charge—as they usually did—by storming into the camp from the open end of the horseshoe-shaped space, making as much immediate impact as they could.
    Two other men would attack from positions to their right and left. Others would come in from the paths flanking the main barracks and also from between the smaller huts.
    Meanwhile, their bosuns, Caleb’s Carter and Phillipe’s Reynaud—both hefty men too slow on their feet to be good in a sword fight on open ground, yet as strong as any wrestlers—would prevent Kale and the three closeted with him in the main hut from immediately joining in the fight.
    “So helpful of Kale to take three of them with him,” Phillipe murmured as they scuttled into position behind the large-leafed palms.
    “All he needs to do is stay there for just a few minutes longer...” Caleb peered across the camp, then grinned. “Carter’s in position.”
    “Reynaud, as well.” Phillipe met Caleb’s eyes. “Whenever you’re ready.”
    Caleb felt his grin take on a familiar unholy edge. “Now.”
    They sprang to their feet and rushed into the camp. They fell on the nearest pair of men lolling on the logs and dispatched both before they’d even struggled to their feet. No quarter, no fighting fair—not with cutthroats like this.
    By then the other slavers had leapt to their feet, but before they could move to engage Caleb and Phillipe, they were distracted by, and then forced to turn and defend against, the rest of Caleb and Phillipe’s company.
    Straightening, Caleb glanced over the heads and confirmed all was on track.
    Long before the first shout had sounded—before Kale was alerted to the disruption—Carter and Reynaud had clambered onto the barracks’ porch and spilled their burdens of cleaned logs made from branches three and four inches thick before the door. Then they’d leapt back and put their spines to the barracks’ front wall. Two others had joined them, waiting to pounce when Kale and company emerged at a run—and pitched every which way on the rolling logs.
    Caleb swore as a loose slaver made a run for him, cutlass swinging; he had to look away and miss the action on the porch.
    Clang!
    Caleb’s sword met the slaver’s cutlass. He threw the man back, then advanced, sword whirling.
    The slaver was shorter than Caleb’s six-plus feet and scrawny to boot. Caleb’s longer reach and greater strength soon put paid to the villain. He fell, eyes rolling up. Caleb yanked his sword free of the man’s chest and turned.
    Chaos filled the camp. The fighting was ferocious, every bit as desperate as Caleb had foreseen. There were more men down, but as far as Caleb could tell, all were slavers. The fighting in front of the barracks was intense, but his and Phillipe’s men now held the porch itself, an advantage in the circumstances.
    But he couldn’t see Kale.
    Another slaver rushed him, and he had to turn and deal with the man. That took longer than he would have liked—the man had had some training somewhere and was taller and stronger than most of his fellows. He actually managed