Two rooms closer to the Avenue, a monk-robed figure balanced in a window opening, bellowing what might have been a prayer into the street. A second bridge, rope this time, stretched away from the sill.

Daniel pointed to my knife, adding a sawing motion. Then he plunged through the doorway and shoved the teetering Rev off the ledge. The ropes went taut as the monk fell against the bridge, then slacked again as his hold failed and he toppled free.

My big knife sliced through the first two ropes with only moderate effort. By then, Daniel had the bolt cutters on the other two. When the bridge dropped into the water, a few glad cheers echoed along the buildings. Daniel stood back, grinning and dusting his palms. Someone down there—maybe Tom Doyle?—was barking battle instructions, broken by an occasional war yell. The voice kept shifting position, like from boat to raft to window ledge to boat again, a moving target. Doyle in his element, if it was him. I listened for Rousseau’s deeper bass but didn’t hear it. I drifted toward the opening for a peek.

Shots sang through the window and ploughed into the opposite wall.

“Stay the fuck DOWN!” Daniel hissed.

We ducked out into the hall, searching for bridge number three. Only a matter of time before the Revs and Stormies figured us out. One bridge failure could be an accident, but two? Definite sabotage. Daniel signaled me to hurry.

The third bridge was at the front of the building, spanning the Avenue. Cable again, for the wider reach. Another empty room. Part of the street wall had collapsed, exposing the empty bridge and giving a sidelong view of the intersection. The boats and most of the rafts were lined up along the window ledges where their occupants had taken shelter or were battling hand to hand inside.

Gunfire was sporadic now, and more than one sniper hung limp from an upper windowsill. Breakers claiming her toll from the roof.

A roar from behind, and a top-knotted Adder loomed in the doorway, huge and furious. He held a length of wood poised as a club. He was dripping wet from his loincloth to the ammo belt strung across his bare chest. I guessed he’d been on one of the first two bridges and lost his weapon in the drink.

Daniel flung the bolt cutters at him, shoved me in one direction, and dove in the other. The Adder rushed him, swinging hard. Daniel ducked, backing away, grabbing for his pistol just as the end of the timber caught his shoulder. The gun went flying, tumbling across the warped floorboards. The Adder didn’t seem to notice. Scrabbling on my knees along one wall, freaked and terrified, I fixed on the loose gun like a lifeline. It dampened the shrieks and wing-flaps in my head that were blocking all thought. It was an opening. A solution.