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The Convoy (May 7th)


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The sun had retreated over the horizon and darkness came down like a curtain outside the mansion. Candles were lit in anticipation as the large man looked nervously out the window from his study.


"Excellency, do not worry. All of London is awaiting word of its new Queen. So too should the French, in their belief that it will be Chartres chosen. Under the cover of darkness, the package delivery should go unnoticed." It was a young man that tried to calm the older one.


"I hope you are right Alfonso. My best men are there," came the reply from the dark-haired Ambassador.


"Oh, one other thing Excellency, we caught the boy trying to contact the Lady Valencia again ... ."


When Pedro turned back from the window, his face bore a sour expression. "He was told he would be beaten if he attempted it again." The Ambassador's hand clenched and unclenched in annoyance. "Find him and put him on the next ship to the colonies. We do not need distractions."

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  • 5 weeks later...

The coach arrived at last, but minus six men. Pedro was horrified with the news. How had the French learned about the shipment?


* * * * *


Back in the clearing lay over a dozen dead bodies. The French agents were swift in collecting their dead and placing the bodies over the horses. They even took the stray horses of the dead Spaniards. There needed to be no sign of any conflict for the English to investigate, other than the work of highwaymen. As such, the dead bodies were looted and their weapons collected. Then, the French agents rode away, back into the woods, with a sour taste of failure in their mouths.


* * * * *


Further from the clearing on horseback sat a man dressed as an English officer. Three men around him had also reclaimed their fallen. Beside him was another man dressed as a English Captain.


"Fool," the elder officer swore. "We had them. The plan was brilliant." There was no foreign accent.


Yes, it should have worked nicely. Money had been paid by the Spanish, the French, and the Crown agents, all for the same information. It would have been a coup had his men been able to arrest the decimated victors and relieved them of the strongbox.


Signaling the men to withdraw, and to have the cart return, the leader stared up at the moon. Tonight he wore no dark glasses. The white irises of an albino needed no protection from bright light during the night time. With a smirk of a gambler that noted a bad roll of the dice, the leader wheeled his horse towards the shadows. Once again, darkness enveloped the form of the notorious Mister Flint.

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