Summerset wrinkled his nose. “We’re going to clean up?”
“Put your plate in the sink.” Max planted his fists on his hips. “It won’t kill you to help out.”
All the men cleared their places at the table.
“What are you going to do with me?” Pinkerton asked. “My wife and son will starve if I go to prison.”
“That isn’t our problem,” Dunkeld said. But Max and his friends eyed each other uneasily. Twisting a towel between two meaty hands, Dunkeld grumbled, the sound trapped deep in his throat. “But you’ve tried to help us. And the prisons here are full enough with our own criminals. We don’t need Americans taking up all the spots. I can give you some blunt to start over.”
Pinkerton widened his eyes, looking hopeful.
A shadow moved, and Max peered out the window to the small yard behind the club. Something glinted in the moonlight.
“Down!” Max kicked out at Pinkerton’s thigh, knocking the man sideways just as the window above the sink exploded in a hundred shards of glass. The men dove to the ground. Pinkerton clutched his arm to his side and groaned. A starburst of torn fabric erupted from the shoulder of his coat, a darkening stain spreading from the hole.
Rothchild flipped the large table, bowls and bird remains flying. Max dragged Pinkerton behind the barrier, joining Rothchild and Summerset. Montague holed up in a nook beside the pantry and Dunkeld pressed his back flat against the cupboard underneath the sink. All men save Pinkerton had pulled out their pistols. They hadn’t trusted the American with a weapon.
The pane of glass in the door that led outside shattered, and they all ducked. They were easy pickings in the well-lit kitchen, yet Max could see nothing outside in the pitch of night. Narrowing his eyes, he took aim at the oil lamp on the wall and shot it out. The spilled oil ignited on the floor, and a slow blaze crept across the wood planks towards Summerset.
His friend whipped off his coat and smothered the flame. “Careful what you’re doing! I think I’d rather be shot than burn to death.”
Max let his eyes adjust to the dark, ignoring Summerset. That small amount of oil would have burned itself out before putting anyone in danger. The moonlight limned the edges of the windows, casting a faint glow.
Dunkeld edged up from his squat and peered through the bottom of the window. “I see two men.” The pane next to his head took a shot and splintered in two. He ducked back down. “At least three men.”
Perfect. While they’d been eating like gluttons, Zed had chosen that moment to spring an attack. Max could have kicked himself for letting his guard down, even for a moment. He glanced to the hallway entrance and prayed Colleen didn’t step through it, into the line of fire.
A tall figure melted from the shadows behind Summerset.
“John!” Max shouted. He swung his gun towards the attacker, his movements seeming too sluggish.
Summerset rolled, his hand slicing out. The form screamed, hopping on one foot before toppling over. Summerset was waiting, knife in hand, and slit his throat with the same ruthless efficiency as he had the man’s Achilles tendon.
Max released a deep breath. That had been too close. The attackers had infiltrated the club. His hand froze. There was an entrance to the cellars from the yard. It was kept locked from the inside, but Max didn’t want to give the bastards any time to break it open. Not with Colleen down there.
Summerset wiped the blade of his small dagger on his sleeve and shifted back behind the table. “One down.”
“Fucking hell,” Pinkerton whispered.
“What?” Summerset shrugged. “I didn’t want to waste a bullet.”
Montague pointed at Dunkeld and made a swirling motion with his hand. The Scotsman nodded. “Give us some cover,” Montague said, and without waiting to see if they complied, he and Dunkeld slithered to the doors and disappeared outside.
Max, Summerset, and Rothchild each took a turn leveling a shot out the broken windows, hoping it was enough of a distraction.
“You have a two-shot?” Rothchild asked Summerset.
John held up a pearl-handled pocket pistol. “Three barrels. I have two shots remaining.”
“I have to reload,” Rothchild said. “Watch my back.”
Rolling to his feet, Max crouched behind the table. “I’m going to check the rest of the building. Watch—”
A scream tore through the night air. Coming from the basement.
Max popped to his feet and ran like the devil himself was on his heels. He pounded through the doorway to the hall, jerking his head as a chip of wood frame exploded from a bullet strike, scratching his cheek. The door to the cellar was five feet away and stood open. Max plunged inside and took the stairs three at a time, stumbling at the bottom and hitting his knee to the stone floor.
A candlestick rested on a large barrel, the small flame of its taper bouncing in the draft. He heard a grunt, a low curse, before Colleen’s sturdy frame hurtled around a row of casks.
