Chapter 47 - The Parlor of Vipers
Clara slipped through the undercarriage and swung herself up the brass ladder of the command car. She picked the carriage lock with a hairpin she kept hidden in her sleeve, slipping inside like a shadow.
The interior was decadent—velvet drapes, polished mahogany, and crystal decanters that clinked softly with the vibration of the idling steam line.
At the far desk, illuminated by green glass lamps, sat the black leather ledger containing the private agreements of the Chicago syndicate. Beside it lay the original territorial deed to the Black Ridge mineral basin.
Clara crossed the Persian rug, her hand reaching for the documents.
"You always had a habit of taking things from my study without asking."
The voice came from the darkened corner of the parlor.
Clara froze, then slowly turned.
Arthur Thornton sat in a high-backed leather armchair, a snifter of brandy in one hand and a short-barreled shotgun resting across his knees. Standing behind him, towering like a mountain of scarred meat, was Cole—the syndicate's chief executioner, his brass knuckles gleaming under the lamp.
"You really thought a diversion in the yard would outwit me?" Arthur asked, taking a slow sip. "I wrote the tactical manual Sterling used in the Indian wars, Clara. I knew you were coming through the flume before you even cleared the water gate."
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Cole took a step forward, cracking his knuckles with a sound like snapping branches. "Want me to break her hands first, Mr. Thornton?"
"Not yet," Arthur said, eyes narrowing. "First, I want to know where Blackwood hid the duplicate maps of the mother lode."
