He darted to the edge of the tree line and watched the black carriage trundle along the lane. Surveying it quickly, he saw just the driver and no guards. However, experience taught him if something was too good to be true, it usually was. He kissed his hand and then touched it to his pistols for good luck, and crouched to the ground. Scanning around him, he decided to drop to the floor amongst the shrubbery. His brown leather garments and clothes would hide him unless a man stood straight above him.
It was obvious that with no guards walking alongside the carriage there would be a few scouting ahead and a couple scouring the nearby countryside for potential risks. This was a dangerous area and doubtless the passengers had made suitable precautions. He sighed. In the old days it was so much easier to make your fortune robbing the ill-prepared and surprised gentleman, moving around carelessly with large amounts of wealth just asking to be raided. But now they had wised up and nobody left home without at least armed guards. Most had even trained themselves to fend off highwaymen single-handedly.
He drew back his breathing to a minimum. His right hand strayed back and lightly gripped the handle of his knife, while his left hand stayed in front ready to propel him upwards. In his mind there was no doubt a man would search this forested area, full of dense vegetation that sometimes reached knee-height. It was a prime suspect for an ambush. He knew he had an advantage though – any men would certainly be looking for a group of robbers. He had always worked alone. The Lone Marauder they call him. 50,000 silver pieces, dead or alive.
He pushed any thoughts of capture out of his mind and focused his keen ears, eyes and nose on any intruders to his adopted territory. Just the slight crackle of a fallen leaf and he would be on top of them before they had moved another muscle. Knife out, slash across throat, hard but quick, hold body and let it hit floor slowly, move on. He’d done it a hundred times before and he’d do it a hundred times more. No emotion. No regret.
And then it came – a hardly audible sound of boot hitting the ground, but he felt the tremble against his pressed-down ear. Just over ten yards to his left. Maybe a little more. Too little time to think. Closing in. He jumps up; knife unsheathed, and sprints behind his man, slicing his throat in one swift motion. Blood is spilt. Five seconds later the man is dead on the floor, still clutching his musket, eyes wide in surprise or fear.
Fresh from another murder, he wipes blood from his blade using his sleeve. He doesn’t even take another glance at the young man that he has just killed. Back to the edge of the tree line. The carriage has moved on some distance and if he waits too much longer it will be lost in the vast empty meadows that filled the next few miles. No place for an ambush. No robbery.
He decided to risk it. His eyesight was good and he could see no scouts ahead, and any other roaming guards would be too far away to save their employers and would die if they tried. He sighed again. A year ago he wouldn’t have attempted something so risky. But times were hard and you took what you got. And this was as if gold was dangling in front on his face, tempting him to grab it.
Speed was key. If he could run to the front of the carriage and overpower the driver he doubted it’s passengers would be too much trouble. If they were, his brace of pistols would make them change their mind. He would prefer not to use them, for the discharge would echo far in this empty place, but if the situation demanded, he would oblige.
He kept low and ran as fast as he could in that position, using odd outcrops of rocks and small bumps in the ground for cover. Pausing just behind the carriage, whose wheels bounced and rolled along the worn path, he flexed his hands and took a deep breath. This one could make him rich again. He drew his pistols, and looked at them.
“Do me proud, my babies,” he whispered, and walked casually forward, overtaking the slow pace of the carriage and appearing beside the driver, who lazily held the horse’s reins. “Nice morning, is it not?”
The driver appeared startled and looked incredulously at the man walking next to him who was holding two flintlock pistols and engaging him at the same time in small talk. “Who the bloody hell are you?” he spluttered out.
The highwayman smiled a little. “I’m the Lone Marauder,” he replied, and cocked both his guns and aimed them at the driver’s head.
It only had my full attention in some parts, but I like the cold, malicious way he does everything. Next bit please! Lol 
Gender:
Points: 18178
Reviews: 1259