The cell key rattled.
They had a key?
Anthony’s heart slammed against his ribs. He could almost feel the cold metal of the Colt in the man’s hand beyond the bars.
The lock clicked. The door creaked open an inch.
That was all the warning he got.
Anthony lunged, slamming the door inward with all his weight. The edge caught the crouched man in the shoulder, knocking him sideways. The Colt went skittering across the floor.
“Ah, you bastard!” The rifleman swung his weapon toward Anthony.
Anthony dove low, the shot blasting overhead and splintering the doorframe. He came up hard under the rifleman’s arm, driving his shoulder into the man’s ribs. The rifle clattered to the floor.
The other man recovered fast, shoving the cell door wide. Anthony grabbed for the Colt, but a boot heel caught his wrist, pinning his hand.
A second later, a fist cracked against his jaw. It snapped his head to the side. He tasted blood.
“You should’ve stayed quiet, Hawk,” the rifleman growled.
Anthony spat red on the floorboards. “Not really my style.”
The man with the Colt leveled it at his chest.
Anthony kicked out, catching the man’s knee. The shot went wild, punching a hole in the plaster wall.
Shouts erupted outside. Someone in the street had heard. Boots pounded against the boardwalk.
The rifleman cursed and swung again. Anthony ducked and grabbed the edge of the desk before heaving it. Papers and ink scattered as the desk toppled toward them.
The Colt went tumbling again, sliding under the bars into the empty cell.
The front door burst open. Lamplight spilled in from the street along with two more men. Vanburgh’s colors were stitched into the lapels of their coats.
Anthony was trapped. No gun. Two armed men between him and the front door, two more in the cell block with him.
“End it,” one of the newcomers barked.
The rifleman yanked a knife from his belt and stepped forward.
Anthony’s gaze darted to the toppled desk. One of the legs had splintered into a jagged shard the length of his forearm. He snatched it up and threw himself sideways just as the knife came down.
Wood met steel with a dull crack. Anthony twisted, driving the splintered leg up into the rifleman’s throat. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to send him choking backward.
The man with the knife slashed again, catching Anthony’s sleeve. He didn’t feel the cut until the warm slick of blood ran down his arm.
Anthony’s heel caught the base of the iron stove. He used it, shoving off hard and barreling into the knife man, driving him back into the bars.
The two in the doorway moved forward, guns raised.
Anthony dropped and rolled into the cell before snatching up the Colt 1851 Navy revolver from the floor. He came up on one knee, thumbed back the hammer, and fired twice.
Both doorway men staggered back. One was clutching his shoulder, the other was spinning away with a shout.
Anthony pivoted, firing at the rifleman in the corner. The man collapsed against the wall.
The last one lunged at him. Anthony sidestepped and caught the man’s arm, using his own momentum to slam him headfirst into the bars. He crumpled without a sound.
