"I wish you hadn't asked that," he muttered. Then, more loudly as if to reassure her, he added: "I've got an idea."
A voice from behind them commanded that they halt. The order was punctuated by the crack of a gunshot. The bullet, perhaps intentionally aimed high as a warning, smacked into the wall overhead, spraying chips of brick and mortar. Kismet steered toward the front porch of the burned out building and bounded onto it in a single leap. Irene slipped as she tried to keep up, landing painfully on her knee, but nothing more than a grunt of discomfort escaped her lips. Through what must have been a monumental display of self-restraint, she did not ply him for the details of his obviously desperate bid for survival.
Four slats of wood blockaded the doorway — a poor substitute for the heavy wooden door that had been hacked apart with a fire-axe and now lay in fragments on the front porch of the building. Kismet did not even slow down as he crossed beneath the lintel, smashing the thin boards apart as if they were strips of paper. The first floor landing was slick with water and debris. He navigated toward the stairs, slowing down just enough to keep Irene half a step behind him.
"Hold on to the rail!" he shouted.
She slipped, landing again on the same knee, but nodded in agreement even as she muttered frustrated curses. The stairs, at least two-dozen steps to the next landing, were structurally sound, but bore the irreversible side effects of the tragedy that had befallen the whole building. The carpet adorning them was swollen and mildewed from the deluge of water that had been used to battle the flames, and the bare wooden banister was coated with slimy, wet ash. As they reached the top of the staircase, their gun-toting adversaries were exactly one flight behind them.
Kismet did not hesitate or look back. He used the railing to launch himself around the turn onto the second floor landing, and held on to it as he ran along the flat balcony to the next flight of stairs. Bullets erupted through the floor, splintering the landing. The shots had no lethal effect, but did trigger a surge of adrenaline in both Kismet and Irene, and subsequently a burst of speed. They gained the third floor before the first of their foes had rounded the bend of the second. Kismet could hear more gunshots, loud in the confines of the stairway, but saw no evidence that the shots had penetrated the walls or steps to endanger them.
The third story appeared to have been the birthplace of the fire that had devastated the building. The walls, which had partitioned several different small residences were gone; only a few blackened and fragile upright posts remained. Beyond those charred timbers was a scene of total destruction; nothing recognizable remained. For the first time since entering the building, Kismet wondered if anyone had perished in the fire. It was a passing thought, and one he did not dwell on as he charged ahead; he was focused intently upon reaching the base of the next staircase. His single-mindedness nearly proved fatal.
Six feet from the end of the landing, his left foot came down, and then went right on through the floor. His weight crumbled the burned wood, and after his leg broke through, the rest of him quickly followed. As his torso went forward, smashing the hole even wider, he flung his hand out to the balustrade. His right leg slipped through the opening, and he found himself dangling over the second story balcony.
Irene knelt at his side, eager to render him whatever assistance she could. The boards beneath seemed soft, almost insubstantial, and suddenly she realized that they had run from one danger, namely the pursuing gunmen, headlong into a potentially greater threat. Now, as Kismet had earlier realized, even a single mistake might prove disastrous.
In his tightening grip, Kismet realized that the fiery kiss of the conflagration had touched the wood of the banister railing to which he clung. Though not completely destroying its integrity, the flames had severely compromised it, and he was certain that it would break apart at any second, delivering him to the waiting arms of the gunmen below. A downward glance revealed that two of the men, realizing that their quarry had run into a dead end, were waiting beneath him. The rest of the gang was doubtless close on their heels.
Irene waved her hand in front of his face. "Take it," she urged.
Kismet pushed it away with his free hand, and winked at her. "Be right back."
He let go of the railing and dropped to the second story landing. The two men standing there had been anticipating his fall, but he landed purposefully, swinging his fist at the nearer of the two. The man was caught totally by surprise, raising neither hand nor sidearm in his own defense. Kismet's blow knocked him back against the wall, stunning him.
The second man tried to aim his pistol, but hesitated for a moment, concerned about accidentally shooting his friend. Kismet moved in quickly, knocking the gun hand aside, and then delivered a quick one-two punch that laid the man out. The first man however had rapidly recovered his breath and wits, and hurled himself at Kismet, wrapping both arms around him from behind. Kismet struggled in the hold, trying alternately to break the man's grip and throw him off balance. The second man, still gasping to catch his breath, rose to his knees, then stood. Kismet noted with satisfaction the trickle of red that leaked from the corner of his foe's mouth. The man wiped at it disdainfully as he balled his fists and stalked toward him.
As the man drew back to strike, Kismet stopped struggling against his captor. He sagged in the man's arms, dropping his full weight against the hold. Even as the man's knees locked to keep his burden upright, Kismet lifted both feet into the air and planted them squarely in the chest of the man in front of him. The force of the kick launched the man backward, his arms windmilling in a futile effort to find a handhold. He slammed into the hip-high railing, and then both he and a long section of the banister went over the side, crashing onto the flight of stairs just below.
The attack worked in the other direction as well. The force of the impact caused the man holding him to stumble backwards and ultimately to fall with Kismet's full weight landing upon his torso. Kismet heard his opponent's wind driven from his lungs in a single wheezing cough. He rolled off of the man just as Irene appeared at the base of the stairs.
"No!" he shouted. "Back up—"
The words were cut off as a pair of hands wrapped around his throat.
Although winded, the man that had held him was not giving up. Kismet drove his right elbow back, striking the man in the sternum, but to no avail. The fingers squeezed tighter. Kismet began to panic. Instead of trying to deal with source of the problem, he found he was able only to focus upon the immediate threat. He reached up to his neck, fumbling to pry loose the choke-hold. Bright spots of light began migrating across his field of view, a warning that his efforts were failing.
There was a muffled crack, like the sound of a hammer striking a tree trunk, and instantly the fingers fell away. Kismet rolled free, coughing and gasping, but ready to fight should the man try again; he would not, for several hours at least. Another figure stood over the sprawled form of the unconscious man, holding a pistol by the barrel.
“I thought you could use some help," remarked Irene, tossing the impromptu cudgel aside. Kismet nodded, unable to thank her because of what felt like a pound of gravel in his throat. He got to his feet and gestured toward the ascending stairs.
"No good," Irene supplied. "The floor up there is a death trap."
"We can't go back down," Kismet wheezed. "Trust—"
"I know, trust you." She grimaced as a fit of coughing overtook him.
Kismet shook off the spasm and mounted the steps once more. At the third floor balcony he slowed, testing each step as he went. Irene's appraisal was correct; the entire floor seemed on the verge of collapse. Floorboards that had held them up moments before now seemed unable to bear their weight. Nevertheless, he trod across the ruined surface, cautiously making his way toward the next staircase.