Sawkins checked his pistol for the third time and returned it to his baldric. He paced the alleyway, careful to avoid the puddles of slop that had been heaved from the windows above as his nose curled at the stench of human waste and rotting food. Bawdy music and roaring laughter blared from the tavern next to him. He rubbed his sweaty fingers over the hilt of his cutlass.

A splash and the crunch of sand alerted him, and he squinted into the shadows. Captain John Morris ...