Whitechapel Gods by S. M. Peters Page A

and Hews squashed and bent themselves into poses that became downright painful. It was also getting uncomfortably hot. Oliver bent low, further craning his neck, to whisper into Hews’ ear.
    “Bailey and Sims on the left, possibly another—I saw a hand. The chief canary’s just out front, beyond a set of boxes. Two more at the door with Enfields. Can’t see right or left wall.”
    Hews nodded. “I can’t believe you don’t have a gun, lad,” he whispered.
    “I’ve had enough of them,” Oliver shot back. “What now?”
    “Sit tight. Ready when I say.”
    Oliver nodded.
    Outside the cabinet, tempers were flaring.
    “I call you coward!” Bailey roared. “Pass me a pistol. I challenge you, sir.”
    The gold cloak emitted a noise like a sputtering engine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you filthy renegade? You’d play me for a simpleton.”
    “You doubt my honour, sir, only because you have none of your own. Tell me, when they cut out your heart, did they relieve you of your manhood as well?”
    Hews held up one finger and gestured at the door. Oliver readied his knife.
    “You fucking rotter,” the gold cloak bellowed. “I’ll kill you right here, Ironmen or no.”
    “Praise England!” Bailey cried. “Long live the queen!”
    Hews jabbed his finger forward. Oliver’s heart leapt into his throat as they crashed pell-mell out of the cabinet. Hews fired two shots the instant the doors swung clear, then hurled himself down hard behind the two crates. Oliver stood dumbly for a moment, watching the chief canary topple backwards, then plopped down flat to the floor as the gold cloak on the right brought his rifle to bear. The cabinet door splintered an instant later.
    Sims dove in next to Hews. Bailey followed, rolling on his shoulder and coming to one knee suddenly armed with a derringer in his right hand. The third man—Kerry—produced a .38 from his coat and fired several times as he moved to join them. Then his back exploded and he dropped to the floor like an abandoned marionette.
    Things became quiet for an instant.
    Groans and noises like the breaking of violin strings sounded from beyond the boxes. To Oliver’s left, Bailey rose to an apelike crouch, muscles and tendons rigid under his sun-worn skin. The expression in his eyes denied the age that showed in the spots at his hairline, the grey in his moustache. Silently, he tossed Oliver the derringer and reached to the back of the second crate. He jammed his fingernail between two slats and levered it open, revealing a set of pistols. He passed one to Sims and clasped the other in both hands.
    Bailey and Hews shared a silent look. Oliver scrambled to right the derringer and fit his long fingers around the handle. Muttered curses accompanied sounds of movement over the crates.
    Bailey counted down on his fingers. Oliver turned himself over into a squat and got ready. Three. Two. One.
    They all leapt up at once, and the room filled with light and noise. Oliver’s first shot went into the ceiling. Then he took aim on the gold cloak who’d shot at him and let fly with the second. The cloak went down, tumbling backwards. The chief cloak, his fine coat a mess of blood, brown grease, and black oil, staggered to the door despite the bullets slamming home in his broad back. The cloak on the left spun and fell, his rifle tumbling from his hands.
    Suddenly all firing ceased. Oliver brandished his empty derringer as fiercely as the others now held aim on their last quarry.
    “Buggers, all of you,” the man said. He grasped the door frame to stay upright, and shot a snarl over his shoulder at them. Streams of oil streaked his face. “The noble Grandfather will bring me back, and I’ll execute you all.”
    The two cloaks from outside appeared in the doorway, eyes wide in alarm. Bailey and Hews, who, Oliver realised, had been saving their last rounds, shot the two men through their foreheads.
    “You don’t even die like a man,” Bailey scoffed,