Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(54)

A large, cold drop of water lands on the tip of my nose. When I look up, a few more patter on my face. Rain might make tonight’s task especially difficult and dangerous.

The rain does us one favor, which is bring an earlier end to the evening’s festivities. By the time the ships’ bells in the harbor are ringing midnight, the streets are already clearing, and some of the parlors close their doors. Jefferson and I find a bench and sit. It’s chilly, and I’d love to burrow into his chest, let his warm arm wrap me tight. Instead, we sit shoulder to shoulder, barely touching.

We’re in the dark, in the shade of an awning, unmoving, so I don’t think the guard can see us. But we can see him just fine in the light of his lantern. He sits alone for a long time, smoking, rolling one cigarette after another. I start to doze off.

“There he goes,” whispers Jefferson.

I snap to and sit up straight. The rain is still falling, a dismal curtain of cold droplets. The guard is standing, shaking out his empty tobacco pouch. He peers into the dark for a long minute. He paces to one end of the veranda and looks around, then heads back to the other. Having assured himself that no one is about, he runs across the street for the parlor of the hotel where Becky and I stood lookout a few days earlier.

“What time is it?” I ask Jefferson.

“The ships just rang five bells,” he says. “So, two thirty in the morning,”

I stand from the bench. “Then I had better get moving. I might not have much time.”

“He’ll probably want something hot to eat, something hard to drink, and take time to relieve himself. But if he comes back early, I’ll distract him.”

“All right. Here I go—”

A sharp whistle cuts through the night, slicing from one end of the square to another. A dark shadow slips around the far corner of the veranda, carrying a pry bar. The shadow sprints down the length of it, staying close to the wall, pausing only long enough to blow out the lantern.

The rain muffles the sound, but there’s a soft, woody snap. The pry bar forcing the door open.

“Whoa,” I whisper, my heart sinking. “I think the bank is getting robbed.”

“Seems like we’re not the only ones up to no good tonight,” Jefferson says.

“This is bad for us,” I say. “We can’t do this if they get there first.”

“They won’t be successful,” he says. “Not going through the front door like that. We’ll just come back tomorrow night.”

“Hardwick will double his security. We won’t be able to touch his gold.”

“Do you want to go across the street and tell the guard?”

I stand up and start moving toward the Custom House building. Jefferson follows me. Then I pause. “Won’t matter,” I say. “Whether the robbery is successful or not, Hardwick will double the guard. Let’s see how far they get.” I’m not sure it’s the right decision, but it’s my best guess.

A metallic clang rings through the rain. The cage lock is broken.

The clomp of hooves and the creak of wheels freeze me against the wall. A mule plods into view from a side street. Jefferson leans over, like he’s a drunkard and I’m helping him keep his feet, but both of us watch the mule cart.

The driver glances our way, but he chooses to ignore us. He pulls the cart up to the front of the bank.

Jefferson and I ease closer, all the way to the corner of the veranda.

The first man pushes Hardwick’s safe through the bank door.

“They put it on wheels,” Jefferson whispers.

“That’s one way to do it,” I whisper back. But now I’m worried the robbers will get away with their theft, which could make our task impossible. Hardwick needs to feel confident. Overconfident, even.

The driver stretches a plank from the back of the cart to the hard porch. The safe is heavy, but together the two of them muscle it up the ramp into the cart. The wheels sink several inches into the mud, and the mule snorts and fights against his traces.

No movement from the hotel. The guard shows no sign of returning.

They’re going to do it. The robbers are going to get away with Hardwick’s money.

“What do we do?” Jefferson whispers.

The thieves toss the plank on the back of the wagon and leap onto the seat. The driver lashes the mule, which lurches forward, straining against its harness. The traces rattle, and the shafts snap tight. The wagon doesn’t move, and for a second I think we might be saved by the mud.

The driver lashes the mule again, harder, and the other man jumps down to push from behind. With a huge sucking sound, the wheels break free of the mud, and the wagon begins to slowly roll forward.

“That poor mule,” I say.

Jefferson says, “I’ll follow them, see where they go.”

“Wait a second,” I say, grabbing his wrist.

I can sense the gold in the safe, and for once, we’ve had a bit of luck. Because inside that safe are several gold bars, which have as large and regular a shape as a military marching song. All I have to do is beckon it.

I concentrate hard, reaching with my mind.

The driver whips the mule again, and the wagon starts to surge forward. The thief jumps onto the bench seat.

I pull the gold harder than I’ve ever pulled.

The safe slides backward off the cart and lands in the mud. It’s so heavy it sinks half a foot deep, maybe more.