Greengrass’s laugh was low. “That I will, if you don’t hand over that bag.”
Damn, in this restricted space, he couldn’t get a clear shot at Greengrass without risking hitting Brown. “Give me the diary.”
“Oh, no, my hearty. You cheated. That means no prize.”
“The inn is surrounded. You’ll never get away,” the coachman said.
“Shut up, blockhead,” Leath snarled.
Greengrass’s eyes narrowed until they were pinpricks in his massive face. He hauled Brown closer, making the man a shield. “You don’t play fair, your lordship. Now hand over my money and I’ll be off.”
“What about the diary?”
Greengrass smiled, clearly convinced that he retained the advantage. “The price has gone up another ten thousand. And I’ll thank you to be a bit straighter in your dealings, my fine fellow.”
“Leath!”
At last. The shout from the end of the alley came from Harmsworth.
Greengrass turned, hatred contorting his face. “What the hell is that bugger doing here?”
“Give up, Greengrass,” Leath said, voice still hoarse. “There’s nowhere to go.”
Greengrass cocked the pistol. “I’m not done yet.”
“My lord, watch out!” The coachman twisted and launched himself at Greengrass.
“Be careful, man!” Leath shouted to Brown as Harmsworth sprinted toward them.
There was a shot and a scream, then Brown reeled against the wall, one hand lifting to a patch of bright red on his shirt. “Blimey.”
Leath surged forward and clipped Greengrass hard on the chin. The man staggered back, then snatched for the loaded pistol. After a short, vicious struggle, the gun fired, missing Greengrass and striking chips off the brickwork.
Greengrass slammed forward and grabbed the satchel. Leath struggled to hold it and draw his knife at the same time. Then he realized that Greengrass’s hands were too occupied to protect the diary. Leath ripped at the green coat for the book. He shouted in triumph as he dragged it free.
“No, you bloody don’t,” the man grunted.
“Yes, I bloody do,” Leath responded, dodging another punch. “Harmsworth!”
Sir Richard, thank God, was nowhere near as stupid as Sedgemoor’s coachman. Despite Leath’s clumsy toss, Harmsworth caught the book. “Good throw, old man.”
“Leath! Harmsworth!”
Leath couldn’t see past Greengrass, but he heard Sedgemoor’s shout. “Here!”
“You really did play me false, you lying swine,” Greengrass said, grabbing Leath’s shoulder in a bruising grip and swiveling him around so fast that his head swam. “So much for being a man of honor.”
“You’re a rat in a trap,” he grunted, splaying his hands against the bricks to keep himself upright.
“Not bloody likely,” the man growled and with a violent push, shoved Leath into the wall. When his head met the bricks, everything went black.
A shot exploded as he opened his eyes. Greengrass’s elephantine form disappeared inside the inn. Sedgemoor rushed in pursuit. Leath told himself to follow, but the command came from far, far away.
“Leath?”
Blearily he saw Hillbrook’s concerned face above him. He’d collapsed onto the filthy cobbles. He raised a hand to his throbbing skull and struggled to think. Someone groaned beside him. “How is Brown?”
“He’ll live.” Hillbrook glanced at the coachman. “Looks like the bullet missed his vitals. Not that I’m any expert.”