They walked a few feet apart, for two men bunched together made an easier target than one occupying his own space. No sunlight now penetrated any chinks in the woodwork or forced its way through grimy windows. The stairway was in almost complete darkness and the steps themselves groaned as if protesting about the men’s combined weight, but they weren’t attempting stealth. If the Trasks awaited below, and Flynt was convinced they did, then the idea was to draw them out. It was a risky strategy but they had faced such situations before and emerged relatively unscathed. They each bore scars, however, and some were not visible, for violent confrontations that result in death, like failed love affairs, can rob a man of little pieces of himself. Flynt felt the tension grow but it didn’t stiffen his muscles, which was welcome. He needed to be loose, to be fluid, to be able to move freely if he was to survive what was to come.
His eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light but he could still see only a little way ahead. He stared into the darkness at the foot of the stairs, alert for any shift within the shadows, any sound hanging in the air; the rustle of fabric, the scrape of a boot heel, the rasp of hot breath, the click of a hammer being cocked. The lack of light worked in favour of both sides, for if they could not see the Trasks, then the Trasks could not see them. They reached the second floor and as they turned along the passageway he looked over his shoulder. He didn’t need illumination to know that Cain would be smiling in anticipation of impending action. He had once told Flynt that the only time he felt truly alive was when facing the prospect of death; for the blood to course in his veins and his heart to beat faster he needed the thrill of violence. The rest was merely breathing, eating, shitting and tupping. Flynt understood the concept, for he felt his own blood quicken the further they descended.
They moved at a brisk pace, as though eager to face whatever lay ahead, then turned onto the final flight of steps, where as if by unspoken agreement they both became still. Cain waved one of his pistols ahead as if to say that if were to be done, it was best it be done quickly. Flynt silently agreed. It had to be now or never.
They had taken only three steps down when the first shot exploded from the shadows below. Thankfully it was poorly aimed but it buried itself in the wall less than a foot from Flynt’s head. He crouched and snapped his own shot in the direction of the orange muzzle flash and was gratified to hear a groan. He and Cain, two steps above him, both ducked down below the handrail as another two pistols discharged in their direction, one bullet splintering the bannister riser close to them, sending tiny shards of rotting wood flying, but the other jerking Cain to his right, causing him to lose possession of one weapon while he let loose with his other. Flynt shot him an anxious glance but he gritted his teeth and shook his head, giving the thin trickle of dark liquid on his shoulder little more than a cursory look. The aftershock of the gunfire reverberated through the air but when it died left an even deeper silence than before. That silence was brief, for it was broken almost immediately by the dog barking again and waking the baby. Flynt hoped nobody would emerge to remonstrate with them. But then, this was the Rookery and it was more than likely they would keep away when hearing gunfire in the dark.
He considered reloading but decided against it. He had one shot left, as did one of the brothers, and the routine with powder and ball, even though in his experienced hands taking mere seconds, would distract him. He had to be ready for whatever happened next. Gabriel stretched out his hand to find the weapon he had dropped but it had tumbled down the steps into the murk. Instead, he drew a short parrying dagger with his left hand and held it ready to ward off an attack. They waited, lying flat on their backs and immobile on the stairs, legs supporting them on the uneven surface. Flynt stretched his pistol before him, swivelling it left and right, ready to fire. He had hit one of them, he knew that, because in the flickering illumination of the muzzle flashes during the brief firefight he had seen a figure slumped against a wall, one arm seemingly lifeless at his side, while the other triggered his pistol, but whether the wound was mortal he could not tell.
Someone silenced the dog and the child’s cries stilled and the stairway was once again coated in a deep hush, as if the ageing timbers themselves steeled themselves for the next exchange of gunfire. The odour of burnt gunpowder floated around them. Flynt strained to hear any movement below them, perhaps a pistol being reloaded, but heard nothing. He thought he could detect harsh breathing, the wounded brother perhaps, but he was not certain. They hadn’t retreated, they would have heard their footfalls, so whichever one of the Trasks remained standing, if he did remain standing, lurked within that silence, hidden by the shadows, contemplating his next move. For the time being they could only lie still but alert for whatever occurred next.
When it came, it came suddenly. Remus Trask charged out of the darkness with a bellow, both weapons raised – he had obviously reloaded – so Flynt fired quickly, saw a puff of red blossom on the man’s right side but he kept pounding up the stairs, his face contorted with rage, holding his fire until he was certain of a kill shot. Flynt dropped his spent pistol, fumbled for the cane in his belt but knew in his heart that Trask could pull those triggers before he could clear the blade. Gabriel began to rise, dagger at the ready, but he would also know it was futile. One or both were going to die on this dank, dismal stairway this night.
The sound of the pistol shot above and behind them was surprisingly loud. At first it seemed that it had not hit its mark but then a look of extreme surprise filled Remus Trask’s face. His forward motion was brought to a sudden halt and for a moment he was rigid, but then his features sagged as if being melted by the hot blood that streamed from under his scalp, his pistols sliding from loose fingers as he tipped backwards to vanish back into the murk, his limp body slamming against the wall at the foot of the stairs.
Flynt twisted round to where Bess stood at the stairhead, the pistol still trained on where Trask had been standing, as if she had another ball to fire.
‘I did what you said, Flynt, aimed for the centre of his body.’ She nodded to the shadows at the foot of the stairs. ‘I still got the bastard in the head.’
He and Cain hauled themselves upright. Flynt slid his blade free and moved down to where Remus Trask lay on the floor, his head propped against the wall at an awkward angle, his eyes still bearing that look of astonishment at how death can come in a single moment. It was a look with which Flynt was familiar. Gabriel stooped to retrieve his unspent pistol and without a word, and little more than a disinterested glance at the corpse, merged with the shadows in search of Romulus.
Flynt climbed back up the stairs to Bess, who hadn’t moved. When he was close enough to see her face clearly, her eyes were as impenetrable as the darkness that now shrouded the man she had killed. He reached out to ease the pistol from her fingers.
‘Bess, go fetch Sally,’ Flynt said, his voice gentle. ‘We’ll leave immediately.’ With a final glance towards the foot of the stairs, she stepped away but was stopped by Flynt’s voice. ‘And Bess?’ She turned, waited. ‘Thank you for what you did.’
A curt retort must have sprung into her mind, for her mouth opened slightly, but closed as she thought better of it. Instead, she gave him a quick nod then walked along the upper corridor. Flynt listened to her footsteps as they ascended. Earlier in the tavern he had said he bore her no ill will and it was true, but neither did he have warm feelings for her. However, knowing that in a single moment, with a twitch of a finger, she had taken a man’s life and in so doing had perhaps changed her own, he felt sadness.
A low whistle reached out to him from the darkness below, then Cain said, ‘This one still lives.’
Flynt found him stooped over the prone figure of Romulus Trask. He was braced against the wall just as Flynt had seen in the brief flashes, his right arm resting on his lap, the hole in his shoulder oozing dark blood that trailed from the sleeve of his coat to pool on his upturned palm. Unlike his brother, however, he still breathed and his eyes raised to Flynt.
‘Remus?’
Flynt kept his voice gentle. ‘He’s gone.’
Trask’s body slumped a little and his chin dropped to his chest. Grief in one such as he was unexpected but then, Flynt reasoned, they were brothers and they had been close. Even the direst of villains can grieve a loved one’s loss. Romulus had fully intended to kill him, but Flynt felt some sympathy for the anguish he now felt.
Cain was not so forgiving. ‘We should finish him off, Jonas.’
Even though he knew this to be the wisest course of action, Flynt could not allow that. Killing in self-defence was one thing, but to do so when the man was no longer a threat was little more than cold-blooded murder. ‘No, let him live.’
‘He’ll come after us. He’ll come after the girl.’
Gabriel didn’t mean Sally, he meant Bess, and he was correct. Trask would have heard the words exchanged after Romulus died and would know what had occurred. Still, he could not bring himself to sanction his death, but he was aware that a forceful message had to be delivered. He placed his boot on the man’s right shoulder, over the wound. Trask knew what was about to happen and tried to shift away but Flynt eased his foot down, forcing blood to cascade from under his sole. Trask screamed and wriggled violently to free himself, but Flynt maintained the pressure.
‘Do you feel that, Romulus?’ He leaned closer, his boot grinding into the bullet hole. ‘That pain? If it as much as crosses your mind to seek redress for the death of your brother, it will be nothing compared to what I’ll inflict. Mourn him. Bury him. Then leave this city, go somewhere that I will not chance upon you, for I may not be so forgiving should we meet again.’ He removed his foot and leaned in closer to grip Romulus’s chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing him to see the truth in his eyes. ‘Do you understand me, Romulus? Do not test me on this, for you will not live to regret it.’
Romulus nodded fervently and Flynt relinquished his hold before turning away, swallowing back the bitter taste of his own bile, Trask’s whimpers like dagger thrusts to his conscience.
The women approached from above and he met them halfway to assist Sally, fleetingly glancing at Bess’s expression as she passed Remus’s body but her mouth was set firm and her eyes bore her customary flintiness.
Cain was impassive as he watched Trask weeping and writhing, his left hand pressed at the wound as if he could somehow ease the agony.
‘Let us away then, Gabriel,’ said Flynt, his own sense of guilt keeping his eyes averted from the man on the floor.
‘You go on, I’ll stand by our friend here until you’re safely away.’
Something in his tone brought Flynt to a standstill. ‘Leave him be, Gabriel.’
Even in the dimness of the hallway, he could see that Cain’s smile was broad and innocent. ‘Of course I will.’
Flynt studied his face. ‘I mean it. Give me your word.’
‘My word is given, Jonas. I intend only to ensure that Romulus here does not summon sufficient strength to pursue. After all, the poor man is injured and he shouldn’t be engaging in any further physical activity. We wouldn’t want him to suffer further discomfort, would we?’
Cain was adept at hiding his true feelings behind a smile and a quip. He could, as he said, be merely ensuring they made their escape without further action from Romulus, but he could also have something more permanent in mind. Gabriel Cain possessed a cold-blooded streak that belied his amiable demeanour. There was no time to argue the point, so Flynt gave him a final warning look before he led the women from the building and into the night air.
If the sound of the shooting had stirred any interest in the populace there was no sign. Indeed, the narrow street was unnaturally devoid of life. Even though daylight had long faded, there should still have been movement. But that was the way of it in the Rookery. Such occurrences were not necessarily commonplace, but those who populated these streets knew well that if a disturbance, no matter how bloody, did not involve them, they should be grateful and look to their own lives. There would be no watchman come to investigate, no authority would be summoned, not immediately. Eventually, perhaps, but not now. They had the leisure to make their escape unmolested but, even so, Flynt hurried the women away.
Cain caught up with them quickly and Flynt fell back a few steps to walk level with him. Cain did not look at him and did not smile. His gaze was fixed on the two women walking ahead, Bess supporting her friend. Flynt searched his profile for any hint of what might have occurred back in that dismal hallway but detected nothing. ‘Does Romulus live?’
‘Although I believe allowing him to live was folly, I did him no harm, Jonas,’ Cain assured him. ‘He may bleed out if that wound remains unattended but if he perishes it will not be by my hand.’ His attention remained on the women. ‘We must find somewhere safe for Bess.’
‘I have already thought of that,’ Flynt said, now scrutinising the wound on his friend’s shoulder. ‘We have to look to that, too.’
Cain fingered the hole in his coat and adopted a dismissive smile. ‘This is nothing, a nick, no more. The ball merely gave me a kiss as it passed me by. We’ve both had much worse and we’ll have worse in the future.’
He looked over his shoulder towards the door to the tenement, a fleeting frown creasing his forehead and shadowing his eyes, before he stared ahead once again. They continued in silence, Flynt wondering what, if anything, had occurred back in that tenement.