Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy. Christopher ByfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 frantic race through open streets to the wide-open courtyard where time seemed to fragment, slowing itself with every shot that buzzed between them. Ketan had emerged firing, every shot precise and hitting its mark. The cries fell silent. Bluecoats dotted the street either dead or dying. The group looked for cover, with Ketan struggling to keep pace with his leg injury.
‘I’m out!’ he called once more, prompting a small pouch of cartridges to be tossed his way. No sooner had he pulled them open, than a lucky shot skimmed his cheek, marking its trail with a dash of red.
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