His first attacker was still out cold, lying facedown wearing a cheap brown suit. Beside him was the bizarre weapon he had used to rain incendiary missiles down upon the hansom. It was a large brass cylinder with a padded shoulder harness and a crank on its side that was clearly the firing mechanism. There was a set of crosshairs on the side of the barrel and a second cylinder-a loading tube-fixed into the main body of the gun at a forty-five-degree angle. It was effectively a shoulder-mounted cannon, the ammunition propelled not by gunpowder but a hand-wound mechanism that flung the explosive devices through the air towards their target. It was a remarkable weapon, and Bainbridge hoped he’d never have to face one again. He considered trying to use it against the second man, now that his colleague was unconscious, but thought twice: He risked blowing himself up if he fired it incorrectly.
For now, he needed to move before the second assailant reached him. Bainbridge decided to round on him, hoping to gain the upper hand. He adopted his old boxing stance, which had served him well through so many years and so many brawls. He hoped it would serve him well now, too; he felt battered, bruised, and utterly exhausted, but he knew he couldn’t outrun his opponent, so his only chance was to stand his ground.
The other man was slowly regaining his composure, flexing his leg. He was a swarthy-looking fellow, a career criminal of the type Bainbridge had learned to spot a mile off. Well built, dressed in a stained suit at least a size too big for him-probably taken off the back of a corpse-he was hired muscle, paid to do a job without asking questions. This was a contract job.
Bainbridge circled around his attacker, looking for an opening. He saw it a moment later and rushed in, jabbing at the man’s face. The other man sidestepped neatly, wincing in pain as he transferred his weight to his damaged knee. “You’ll pay for that, old man,” he barked.
Bainbridge didn’t rise to the gibe. Instead, he came on again, three punches in quick succession, this time striking the man on the jaw. Bainbridge’s opponent reeled for a second, then rounded on him.
A sweeping roundhouse punch caught him fast and hard in the side of the head. He stumbled, nearly tottering into the flaming hansom just to his right.
Bainbridge tried to back away from the brute while he fought off his disorientation, but the other man was relentless, rushing forward to deliver another solid punch to the gut. Bainbridge tried to block him, but he was too slow. He doubled over, this time catching the man’s good knee in his face. Blood sprayed in a wide arc as his nose burst.
“With the compliments of Sir Enoch Graves,” the man said, chuckling.
Bainbridge slumped to the floor. Enoch Graves. So the Bastion Society was behind this.
Baubles of light were dancing before his eyes. He struggled against the encroaching unconsciousness that threatened to overwhelm him. Darkness limned the edges of his vision. No! Not like this. I won’t go like this.
Bainbridge felt around him, looking for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. Nothing. His fingers scraped against the wet cobbles. Where was his cane?
The man’s boot came down hard on Bainbridge’s hand, and he yowled in pain as it was ground into the stone. He looked up into the face of his attacker. The man was glaring down at him with a brutal sneer, his face lit by flames from the burning carriage. Rainwater ran in trickling rivulets down his cheeks.
Every fibre of Bainbridge’s body ached. He groaned as he tried to scramble away.
The man spat at him. A fat gobbet of spittle landed on Bainbridge’s face, and the chief inspector flinched involuntarily as it struck home. “That’s it, old-timer. You’ve caused me enough trouble already. It’ll be easier on us both if you just lay back and accept the inevitable.”
“Not likely,” Bainbridge managed to croak as his foot came up, striking the other man hard between the legs. The man creased, releasing Bainbridge’s crippled hand from beneath his boot.
Bainbridge rolled away, coughing and hacking. Casting around, he saw his cane lying on the ground just a few feet away. He scrambled for it, reaching it just as the man struck him hard across the back of the head with a balled fist, causing him to slump facedown upon the cold, wet ground.
Weak and in pain, Bainbridge fumbled with the cane beneath him. Holding the cane’s shaft in one hand and its crest in the other, he gave it a sharp twist. The man had grabbed him by the feet and was dragging him backwards, facedown, towards the shell of the burning cab.
Bainbridge allowed his body to go limp, to give his attacker the impression that he’d given up and stopped his struggling. Beneath him, however, he felt the shaft of his cane beginning to unpack itself. Long wooden strips clicked out of their housing and slid into position, forming a spinning cage around the upper shaft of the cane. Bainbridge felt it building up momentum, the shaft humming and fizzing as the chamber generated a fierce arc of electricity, a lightning cage of deadly blue light contained in the shaft of the now-deadly weapon.
He held it tightly beneath him, allowing the charge to build as he was dragged unceremoniously across the cobbles. The heat of the flames was close and ferocious, and he knew he would have to act soon.
Bainbridge heard his attacker grunt with the effort of hauling his dead weight. The man slowed.
Now was his chance.
Using the man’s grip on his ankles as a pivot, Bainbridge pushed himself up into the air, twisting his body around and thrusting down and out with the bladed tip of his cane, deep into the other man’s belly.
The man wailed in shock and surprise. He immediately released Bainbridge’s feet to pull at the embedded cane that now protruded like a spear from his guts.
But it was too late. The cane discharged its electrical payload and the man shook as the electricity coursed through his body, leaping and dancing with the sheer power of the charge. He opened his mouth to scream, and blue lightning arced between his teeth. His hair rose comically, maniacally from his scalp, crackling with static energy. The air around them filled with the grotesque scent of burning meat.
Seconds later, the charge in the cane finally spent, the corpse crumpled backwards to the ground, striking the cobbles with a wet thud.
Exhausted, Bainbridge clambered to his knees. Rain lashed at his face and caused the flames to spit and hiss beside him. He wobbled, near delirium, and issued a low moan. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. He glanced over at the first man to ensure that he was still unconscious, and realised too late that the flames had spread to the shop front, and that the strange projectile weapon the men had used to bring down the cab was now lying amongst a pile of burning crates. He staggered to his feet. He had to get the ammunition away from the flames. Had to-
There was a deafening explosion, and everything went black.
CHAPTER
18
Veronica peered over the lip of the building at the twenty-foot drop and pondered, not for the first time that day, whether Newbury was utterly insane.
They’d come from Chelsea an hour earlier, after collecting an array of equipment from Newbury’s home-lock picks, some small blades, an old revolver-to make a reconnaissance of Packworth House, the home of the Bastion Society. She’d never seen Newbury carry a gun, and she wondered what it was about the Bastion Society that had him spooked enough to arm himself with one now. She hoped he wouldn’t find cause to use it.
Scarbright, dressed in his immaculate suit, had been waiting at the house with a note from Bainbridge. Newbury had read it swiftly in the drawing room before showing it to her. Its contents were minimal, but spoke volumes: