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Tristan lunged toward the door.
“Stop! If I thought we could get to him in time, I would have gone through the window myself. It’s chaos out there, Tristan, and he’s tranqed anyway.”
Another burning log stuck the floor. This time it was too close to the wall. Dice sprinted forward and kicked it back.
But he wasn’t fast enough.
A corner of the wooden structure caught fire.
“We have to get out of here,” Dice shouted, backing away, as the flames spread. He
sprinted back to one of the black-clad bodyguards, tossed him over his shoulder, and carried him toward the back door, ripping it open before he even peeked outside.
There was no time for precautions. Whatever lurked outside couldn’t be worse than what would happen to them inside.
Frank holstered his gun and grabbed the other bodyguard.
Tristan stole Lila’s scarf off her neck and approached Reaper. “If you utter one peep, I’ll put my knife through your heart.”
“You can’t do that. You don’t know what your friend has pumping through his veins. If you shoot me, you won’t have me around to help you anymore. If I don’t get out of here safely, he dies.”
Tristan shoved Reaper against the wall and grabbed his hands, tying them tightly behind his back with the scarf. “If my brother dies tonight, I’m going to find out what it feels like to torture a man. You better pray I don’t enjoy it. If I were you, I’d get to work on remembering the name of that poison, and don’t you dare open your mouth until I say you can.”
Lila pulled out another shard of glass from her hands, heart thudding when she saw how much blood poured from the wound.
She needed stitches.
Fry threw Reaper over his back. “I’ll get him,” he said, eyeing Lila’s hands. “Stop pulling out the glass. Let Doc do it back at the shop.”
Tristan picked up Reaper’s gun and rolled Dixon onto his shoulder. The group dashed through the back of the factory just in time, for the flames had spread to the ceiling with a furious whoosh, licking the timber beams.
It wasn’t much better outside. The smell of gasoline had gotten much stronger. Smoke hovered in the air like a thick fog, rising toward the sky in thin wisps, choking her throat.
She coughed and struggled to breathe, her lungs crying out for fresh air.
It was like Slack & Roberts all over again, but worse, for she was inside it in this time.
Fires raged around them with small lanes between the buildings, filled with the mob, slumped bodies, and the occasional blackcoat.
Another shot. An abbreviated scream.
Frank and Dice abandoned their charges in a clearing behind the factories, near some tranqed members of the Wilson family, stumbling over limbs.
There were a few sharp cracks as Dice stepped on a man’s fingers.
“You got the weasel?” Tristan called out.
“Yeah, boss,” Fry replied. “Weasels aren’t heavy, didn’t you know?”
“Let’s get back over the wall.”
The Wilson family must have also known the easiest place to cross, for the thickest part of the crowd had gathered there. Half of them had given up on the idea of burning down the estate. Instead, they fought in a grand arena against Bullstow, swinging their makeshift weapons at the blackcoats, heedless of the darts that flew through the air. Guns had been abandoned all over the field of battle, tossed away when they had run out of darts.
Many still clung to their revolvers.
Some still had bullets.
Tristan and his men faced the crowd, bracing themselves, ready to charge through.
