Brogan lowered himself back into his chair. The Dread Master had sent him a note? Him? Brogan was good in a pinch; he’d give himself credit for that. And he made a good team member during missions. But nothing about him would’ve warranted the direct notice of someone as important and secretive and authoritative as the Dread Master.
He took the letter but didn’t open it immediately. “Do you know what this is about?”
Fletcher took a swallow of amber liquid. “I’ve an inkling.”
“Is he tossing me out?” Brogan had rather expected that from almost the moment he’d joined up. “I know I’m not the asset you are. Or Stone or Hollis or Doc. Dominique. Kumar. Martin.”
Fletcher shook his head in amused annoyance. “Just open the note and read it before you end up listing the entire membership.”
He could have. Brogan worked hard on behalf of the society and their mission, but he wasn’t the leader any of the others were.
No use putting off the inevitable.
Brogan broke the seal and unfolded the stiff parchment.
Donnelly,
Whispers are coming from the Russian embassy that Ambassador von Brunnow has been asking for additional security and protective measures. My source there does not know why.
What did this have to do with him? He looked to Fletcher, but the man was making quite a show of paying him not the least attention.
The ambassador has taken to watching the street and pacing about, anxious and restless. He was visited recently by someone whose business proved upsetting, though the identity of this visitor is not known.
This would be no concern of ours except the ambassador has been overheard muttering about a man with four fingers.
“Four-Finger Mike,” Brogan whispered. The Dread Penny Society had had a string of run-ins with that gutter dweller and the notorious criminal he worked for known as “The Mastiff,” but the slippery snake always managed to wriggle away. It seemed he was slithering after more exalted prey now.
We have failed to stop Four-Finger Mike and the Mastiff. If the ambassador is being targeted by them now, we need to know. But a mission involving someone of his standing is too great a risk. Should our efforts be discovered, it would destroy the DPS and endanger everyone connected to us.
“Why is he telling me all this?” Brogan looked to Fletcher, completely flummoxed.
“Dread Master don’t tell me everything, mate.”
We need information, and you are our best hope of managing it.
“Me? Is he mad?”
Fletcher wiped a drop of Guinness from the corner of his mouth. “I’m not actually reading the letter with you, Brog, I’m not certain which part has you so twisted up.”
My proposal to you is this: resign your membership from the Dread Penny Society under the pretense of being unwilling to continue the ruse for the sake of your sister.
Brogan looked at Fletcher. “He’s asking me to quit being a Dreadful.”
“Said he might,” Fletcher muttered.
Being distanced from the Dreadfuls will protect them. As I said, we need information, but you’ll have to work alone to get it.
Alone. Great jumpin’ toads. He’d never taken on a mission alone before. None of the Dreadfuls had, really. And he was the last one among them who ought to be given an assignment like that. Give him a task that’d help someone else’s efforts, and he was bang up. But some people were leaders and some people were . . . him.
The Sorokin Print Shop in Soho is run by a Russian immigrant who has been seen in the area of the ambassador’s home. Discover, without tipping your hand, if he was the one who called on von Brunnow. And learn whatever you can about the situation with the ambassador without giving away your aim.
Fletcher and I alone will know of your activities. Report to him only as absolutely necessary. Your secrecy in this matter is crucial.
Give your answer to this proposed assignment to him then destroy this letter.
DM
Brogan sat a moment, stunned, confused. Why would the Dread Master ask him to do this? Any of the others would’ve done a better job.
“What’s it to be?” Fletcher asked.
“Failure, probably.”
Fletcher did not look the least swayed. “You’re our best option, and if the ambassador is in danger on account of someone we’ve failed to bring in time and again, we can’t simply ignore it.”
“I’m the worst choice to send out on m’own—the rogue elephant, as it were, operating outside the herd.”
“Completely outside the herd?” Fletcher set his empty glass on the table.
“Unable to call on the Dreadfuls if I get myself in a fix.”
Fletcher shook his head slowly. “Likely not.”
Brogan pushed out a tense breath as he began tearing up the note. “You’d be a better choice for something like this. Or Stone. Or Hollis.”
“Don’t go listing the membership again,” Fletcher said. “The Dread Master picked you, on purpose.”
“Because I have an easy excuse to leave the group,” Brogan said.
“I’m certain that ain’t the only reason.”
Brogan wished he felt that confident.
“The lad’s dependable,” his first employer had said when Brogan was still very young. “Give him instructions, and he’ll see them through. Leave him to sort his own instructions . . .” The man had shrugged and laughed a little. “’Tisn’t a thing wrong with being a foot soldier.”
A foot soldier. That’s what he’d always been. But the Dread Master was asking him to be a general in this high-stakes battle.
“What happens if Four-Finger Mike really is causing trouble with the ambassador and we don’t stop him?” Brogan asked.
“Four-Finger Mike works for the Mastiff. If that brute gets hold of any part of the government, then all the good we’ve done for the poor and unfortunate these past years won’t matter a lick.”
“But no pressure on my shoulders, yeah?” A threat that big couldn’t be ignored, but neither could he help thinking the Dread Master had chosen the wrong person. “’Tis a high ask, Fletch.”
His tone as dry as a field in drought, Fletcher said, “So, don’t bungle it.”
Brogan pushed out a smile. Lightness, even if forced, helped cover a great deal of uncertainty. He only wished he could laugh this off entirely. “You’re assuming I’m going to accept the task.”
“Am I wrong?”