Shin was waiting for him in the next room. The man was difficult to read as always, but he seemed to have calmed himself quickly.

They hastened from the cursed place. There may have been valuable loot hidden in that hoarder’s den, but it would take a city of gold for Mugs to stay, and now it was merely a tomb, the center of an awful memory he couldn’t wait to put behind him.

*  *  *  *  *

Thomas was shaking rivulets of blood from his axe, mixing with the rain and flowing in muddied tendrils down the boggy road. Three men against a dozen more smartly equipped was a suicidal venture but through the rain, the muck, and a guerilla’s ambush they all managed to come away with not a scratch. Well, Thomas thought, Kate appeared to be slathered in crimson and screaming something bloody awful in Jap-speak while he kicked the corpses with a violent passion, but something told him that not a drop of it was from his own veins.

“Jim, you good?”

The man with the absurd metal breastplate pounded on it with a dull clank, grinning widely. “O’ course, mate! Now there was a right satisfying fight, eh?”

“Not over yet.” His gaze fell on the center carriage, which remained untouched amidst the commotion of battle. “They weren’t the job, remember?”

“That’s right! That’s right, the girl!” Jim exclaimed, chuckling. “How could I ferget?”

Thomas rolled his eyes, swinging his axe back and forth, splitting the raindrops as they fell. “Just back me up, ya?”

“What about Kate?”

Thomas smirked. “He’s as likely to cut off her pretty lil’ head as he is to jump in and violate her where she sits, what with the bossman gone. She’s to be unharmed.”

“Ain’t that a shame,” Jim sighed, before hawking a glob of snot into the mud.

They crossed to the center carriage together. It sat still, quiet, thick iron armor wrapped all around and fastened under reinforced corner plates. It was a wonder the damn thing even made it this far and sat high as it did in the muck with all that weight. It was obviously designed for city travel. The banner flying above it was still; the wind had died.

“Locked!” Jim snorted, pounding on the door with both fists. “Open up in there! Yer men are dead, little lass, but we promise you no harm!”

No response, as Thomas expected. He rummaged in the satchel at his waist and pulled out a small, puck-shaped object. “Thank Christ the bossman didn’t take this with ‘im and Leggy, eh?”

“Oi!” Jim’s eyes gleamed. “Now that’s a shiny Plan B if I ever saw one.” He banged on the carriage door again. “Look alive, lass! We aim to blow the door should ye insist on bein’ stubborn!”

Thomas fiddled with the device. He swore. “How does this bloody thing work again?”

Jim twisted around and hollered at his partner in crime, grabbing him by the wrists, the deranged fear of Thomas’s tomfoolery to be the end of them. Thomas struggled against the man, yelling a few choice insults, and the two flopped into the mud, throwing the device away from them. He slapped Jim in the face and sprung to his feet, the other man yelping and throwing out a bewildered glare.

“D’ya plan on killing us all?” Jim squeaked, his voice cracking. “Don’t play with it like that!”