They heard, ducked. Another shot. The robe jerked and fell back into the water, struggled a moment, then sank.

“That one’s clean.” Daniel pulled alongside the taxi and slid open a side window to yell across at the driver. “What’s happened?”

“Friggin’ ambush!” An older man from Empire, cheeks flushed with outrage.

“Who?”

“Everyone who isn’t us! Will said get to open water!”

“He’s right! Keep going!”

The man glanced inland. “The rafts are taking it bad!”

“We’ll do what we can! Go!”

The driver nodded and swerved off. As they passed, I saw Rivera in the passenger seats, white-faced and clutching her flock of Macys.

Daniel shut the window. For a moment, he let us drift, staring into the rain-swept distance. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do.” But he left it at that, shoved the stick forward, and headed inland.

At 16th and Avenue A, two more water taxis fled past us, the first charred but no longer burning, the second with Will Dubowski at the helm and a pair of Tommys tossing bodies off the roof. He flung us a tight-jawed look as he sped by.

“That’s all of them, free and clear.” Daniel had been counting taxis.

So had I. “But for one.”

“But that’ll be Rousseau’s, in there mopping up.”

“Only if it’s over . . .”

But it wasn’t. We could see through to the intersection of First and 16th: a collision of boats and rafts and bodies moving through wind-whipped smoke and rain.

“That’s how it went.” Daniel pointed. “Bastards strung rope bridges over the streets, window to window. Just dropped down on any boat passing under.”

It would have been a total surprise. You’re sailing up First, clear water ahead, and suddenly the air is full of fire-wielding Revs and Stormies.

“No point just barreling in there. We’ll go round the back. Go put out the bumpers.”

He meant to land us. The idea terrified me, but I did what he said. We slipped west on 15th, just shy of First, and tied up in a sheltered alley, under an ancient fire escape. Back in the cabin, Daniel got brusque and edgy. He pressed his thumb to a sensor on a bottom drawer. It slid open silently.

“Ever fired a gun?”

I put up both palms. “You know I haven’t!”

“Take this, then.” He dug in the drawer, then handed over a sheathed knife, like the one Spunk carried, that I’d coveted for slinking around the streets at night. Now the chill weight of it in my hands was less than welcome.

“What’ll I do with it?”

“Use it,” he growled. “If you have to. Where’s my fucking sister when I need her!”

“Daniel, I can’t . . .”

“You might have to.” He loomed over me. “I’m not leaving you here unarmed!”

“Leaving me?”

“I can fire a gun,” said Jenn from the com station.