“Kidnapping an innocent child—that’s your version of motivation?” Beneath his lashes, Rhys glanced at Kent, who gave a barely perceptible nod.
Rhys readied himself for whatever would happen next.
“It worked, didn’t it?” With a smug smile, Sweeney said, “Now enough talking—”
At that moment, Kent moved. He lobbed something in the air—the flask, a lit fuse trailing from its opening. An instant later, a blast sounded, thick black smoke billowing through the room.
Rhys launched himself at Sweeney. He tackled the cutthroat to the ground, heard the other’s weapon skitter across the floor. The smoke obscured his vision, but he managed to land a punch in the other’s face. Sweeney howled in pain. Rhys drew his arm back, readying to pummel the bastard, but he was knocked aside, landing on his back.
Victor had jumped on him. Rhys grappled blindly with the brute, rolling across the ground. Victor’s hands closed around his throat, choking off his air. Desperately, Rhys swept the ground with his hand, his fingers brushing against…Sweeney’s gun.
He grabbed the handle, jerked the gun up, and fired.
A strangled cry…and a dead weight slumped onto him.
Coughing, he pushed off the guard’s body and jumped to his feet. Remembering the handkerchief, he tore it out of his pocket and tied it over his mouth; it helped to filter out the choking smoke. Through the fumes, he glimpsed Kent taking on two guards and sprinted over to help. Between the two of them, they defeated the bastards, grabbing their weapons and holding them at bay.
Chest heaving, Rhys tried to see through the smoke. “Where’s Sweeney?”
“Over by the revolving wall!” Kent’s voice was muffled by his own handkerchief. “He and one of the guards are making a run for it!”
At that instant, the front door slammed open. Through the swirling smoke, Rhys saw more of Sweeney’s guards pouring in.
“Get Glory,” Kent shouted. “I’ll keep them at bay.”
Torn, Rhys hesitated. “There are too many—”
At that instant, a battle cry went up. It didn’t come from Sweeney’s army—but that of the Kents. Ming led the charge through the entrance, he and his men swarming inside, closing ranks around the enemy.
“We have this in hand.” Kent cocked his pistol.
Not wasting another second, Rhys raced to the far wall. He shoved his hand into the cabinet like he’d seen the guard do earlier. His fingers closed around a lever, and he pulled down on it. He heard the creak of the wall separating. Pushing through the widening crack, he found himself in a dimly lit space, surrounded by…himself.
He was in a room where looking glasses were fabricated. Freshly silvered mirrors covered the walls and hung on tall drying racks that turned the space into a disorienting maze. He advanced, pistol in hand, muscles tensing as movement skated across the mirrors. He heard a scuffling sound and spun around—only to be confronted by his own image.
His heart beating a rapid tattoo, he continued on. About to round a drying rack, he caught a metallic glint in one of the mirrors—a firearm. He dodged, a bullet whizzing by his ear. Shards of glass rained around him as he whipped around, returning fire.
With a moan, the brute crashed to the ground.
Rhys stepped over the fallen body, tossing aside the empty pistol. He saw himself in endless reflections, stripes of blood on his cheek where the glass had hit him. The images were designed to distract and disguise—to lure him away from his path.
All of a sudden, he knew what to do.
Placing his hands on the closest rack, he shoved with all his might. The heavy frame teetered before falling, knocking into the one behind it, the pattern continuing like a line of dominoes. Images exploded, shattering as he went to the next rack and the next, sweat dripping down his face as he toppled the maze. As he smashed the false reflections into dust.
Surrounded by glittering ash, he saw his enemy at last. At the far end of the room, Sweeney was bent over, struggling to open a heavy trapdoor. Beside him, Glory lay awkwardly on the ground. She was crying, trying to reach the ferret who was sprawled a few feet away, unmoving. She writhed helplessly—and that was when Rhys saw that Sweeney had her trapped, his boot pinning her plaits to the ground.
He had Rhys’s daughter pinned by herhair.
He’s a dead man.
Rhys stormed over, his boots crunching over debris. Sweeney had an instant to look up before Rhys barreled into him. They crashed into the ground, rolling, wrestling for the upper hand. Rage surged through Rhys as he held down the other man.
“You want to fight? Pick on someone your own size,” he roared.
He plowed his fist into the bastard’s face.
Then he did it again and again.
