would that be making us?’
‘The hands of providence I’m guessing,’ Corinne stated, shooing the last dust haze with a hand.
‘Mmm,’ Kitty purred. ‘Ain’t that just the truth.’
Franco strode out to his freedom, kicking debris away as he found it. Alarms were yet to sound. They all had time yet to organize their getaway.
‘Where are the others?’
‘Jacques and Wyld are tying up loose ends. Gone to fetch Misu while they’re at it.’ Corinne handed Franco a revolver, of which he checked the spin of the cylinder and the accuracy of the sight before slipping it on his hip in endorsement.
‘Does that meet your approval?’ Kitty queried, watching her boss’s unmoved reaction.
Franco finally smiled, and cracked his fingers. ‘Absolutely. I’m starting to find Windberg a mite unsettling for fine, honest folks such as ourselves.’
‘That is pleasant to hear.’ Corinne produced a blunderbuss pistol, holstering the bag back onto her shoulder, the pack teeming with ammo. Franco assessed the situation. They were fugitives, and the lives of the showgirls would be unliveable as soon as the alarms sounded. They had risked their futures, their lives, all for him. If they were caught, they faced jail time at best, the noose at worst.
‘I’m sorry,’ Franco apologized, far meeker than any had seen him before. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did. You’re right, we are a family of sorts and –’
Kitty interrupted. She felt the weight of a revolver far too unsightly and unbalanced in her small hands, instead resorting to a crossbow pistol that she had used to kill predators back on the farm.
‘Can we save your sappy speech until after we’ve escaped? I can’t help feeling it would be for the best.’
‘And you accused me of hiring you just because of your prettiness. Perish the thought,’ Franco agreed, but before they moved, Corinne spied past the debris to the figure emerging from the dust plumes.
‘What about him?’
* * *
Indeed, what about Ketan? He staggered to the makeshift exit, eyeing up the girls in turn, who clearly watched with caution. With a limp he stepped over the first line of shattered bricks, securing his footing, looking at what Franco had made for himself. These individuals were willing to risk so much to rescue him, a family who would rather suffer together than let one of their own rot away to bones. Who would do that for him? Wilheim’s men would give him up in seconds if it would line their pockets. Only his father would do something so selfless, the doting fool. A doting fool his father may be, but very much his doting fool despite their regular disagreements.
‘Come with us,’ Franco said in unfathomable generosity. He owed this man nothing, but for all his faults, redemption seemed to be a possibility. Besides, promises were made. ‘Consider this to be your out. I can find you a job on the Den until you want to go your own way. No strings attached. It’ll keep you out of trouble, in a sense. Honest work, decent pay. I can set you up for a spell and when you’ve had enough of the legitimate life, you can go on your merry way. What do you say?’
‘I say –’ Ketan clambered over the debris ‘– that the noise your girls here have made will have the sheriff’s men on us very soon, so we should be running right about now.’
The group had broken into a sprint, sliding around each building side and peering around every corner for any sign of further trouble. Open spaces were passed quickly, small collections of morning traders used as camouflage. All seemed to be going so well, weaving through every street in a direct route back to Windberg central.
And then came the alarm.
* * *
The shrill call of a hand-powered klaxon blared across the city, soon joined by others as soon as its presence was acknowledged. The constabulary scrambled through street and alley, frantically hunting the escapees and their cohorts, whose movements were unpredictable and only detectable by hearing their shouts or catching sight of them.
Sheriff Juniper sprung from his desk at the first sound of klaxons. The paperwork would have to wait.
‘Sir!’ A captain burst inside, flushed and in a panic. ‘There’s a jailbreak happening!’
Juniper looked out over the city from his window and focused on a dreaded sight. Arches of grey steam were pouring from the split roof sheltering Platform 4 at Central Station. Its origin was obvious.
‘Damn you, Franco,’ he cursed, pulling on his holster and loading himself with a tin of bullets. His orders were short and precise. ‘Get as many men as you can to the station at once! I want him back in chains or there will be hell to pay! And get me my horse!’
* * *
Franco gestured everyone to lower themselves as he glanced quickly into the one of the main streets. The public buzzed with concern, watching Bluecoats scramble with speed, some uncomfortably close.
At the end of the line of people, Ketan lay flat against the brickwork, waiting for the gesture to move again, but before it was given a penetrating burst of a whistle from behind forced him to turn.
One of the constables had found them, blowing repeatedly into his whistle, a tone acknowledged by others all around them that began to converge. Before the silver instrument slipped from his lips, and the instruction to stop was given, Ketan was already upon him. He punched, pulled the constable by the hip, and forced him into the wall. When done, he reached for the constable’s weapon and put two shots into his back.
From the sound of gunfire, the adjacent people rippled away in alarm, calling for help from those listening. Ketan retained the weapon as the body slumped before them, each from the Gambler’s Den staring in astonishment. It wasn’t the first time he had put bullets into someone on the side of the law, and he treated the impact of his action like any other: with little concern.
‘Go!’ he called.
They did. Running now into full view, the constabulary began their chase, following them down every alley, every crevice, yard, and open space, cracks of gunpowder ejecting into the sky. Brickwork chipped and splintered as Franco attempted to maintain covering fire while they progressed, though Ketan kept back just enough to maintain space, yelling curses as he did so. As the law attempted to progress, his caplock revolver hammer fell back with a dead click, its chambers now bare. Another yank of the trigger. Another click of nothing.
‘I’m empty!’ Ketan called back. Franco skidded to his side, slapping a spare firearm into his palm. The call had encouraged the Bluecoats to advance on them, snaps of gunfire now filling the air. Franco ducked from an all too close sting across his ear.
They were just two streets from Windberg Central Station, some two hundred yards to their escape.
‘Get your girls to the station; you ain’t got far now. I’ll hold them off. Keep your head down, stay low, and I’ll do the rest. Pass me the noisemaker there.’
Franco called for Corinne to toss over her blunderbuss, which she did. He cocked back the hammer and signalled them to run and run they did.
The next two minutes were taken up with a
