Storm over the Caribbean

46. The Interrogation

Never had I seen anyone push a wheelbarrow with such grim determination as Mr Rikkard Ambrose did at this very moment. As we descended down the ramp into the subterranean levels of Empire House, both of us remained utterly silent and completely ignored the ongoing muffled protests coming from within the crate on the wheelbarrow. I clearly remembered, years ago, walking down this very same ramp, trying to convince the stubborn son of a bachelor called Rikkard Ambrose that, no, kidnapping a man and delivering death-threats was not an appropriate response to dealing with someone who crossed you.

This time, I had no such reservations.

It was then I realised how very much I had changed over the years. How very much I had grown. Back then, I had been a young and idealistic girl, determined to find my own way in the world. Now, I was a (still young!) woman, who had found her way in the world, and someone to walk beside her.

Reaching out, I offered a hand to Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Without a word, he took it, and gently squeezed.

And together, we'll make sure tomorrow's world will be a better one. For our children. My eyes flicked back to the rattling crate. No matter what it takes.

My children would get their chances to be young and idealistic. After all, I would have to find some way to drive Mr Ambrose up the wall when I was too busy with other things.

For now, though, I had work to do.

"Look."

I pointed ahead to where, out of the shadows, a set of reinforced double doors had appeared.

Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod. "Almost there."

Without another word, he swept through the double doors and around a corner. He finally halted in front of a door made out of solid steel.

Yep, this was totally a normal cellar. Not a dungeon at all, not in the least.

"Let's show our guest his new home for the foreseeable future, shall we?"

I smiled. Mr Rikkard Ambrose never spoke superfluous words. The look in his eyes told me quite clearly those words were not meant for me.

"Yes," I agreed, making sure to speak loud enough for our confined friend to hear. "Let's. It should prove...entertaining."

The muffled protests from inside the crate abruptly ceased.

Ignoring our dear guest, Mr Ambrose pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. It opened with an ominous creak that was either an ingenious ploy to scare prisoners, or evidence of Mr Ambrose's unwillingness to spend money on oil. Probably both.

Not wasting another moment, Mr Ambrose once more took hold of the wheelbarrow and strode into the room. I followed on his heels and found myself in a low, dingy chamber without any windows in the bare stone walls. All that was missing were flickering torches on the walls and some rusty manacles.

Well...that can be arranged.

With anticipation, I turned towards the wheelbarrow and cracked my knuckles.

"May I, Mr Ambrose, Sir?"

My dear husband inclined his head. "Ladies first."

What a nice man I had married.

In two steps, I was beside the wheelbarrow and, grabbing the edge of the crate, I gave it a hearty shove. The thing toppled over onto the floor with a crash, and a rather scruffy-looking Frenchman rolled out onto the stone floor.

"Why, hello there!" I beamed down at him. "Welcome to your new home. How do you like it?"

"Mmmh!" the Frenchman oh-so-eloquently replied. "Crétnnn! Flll dd ptt!"