Baba Yaga frowned, scuttled forward, and grabbed the pistol that Vaporlock had dropped. She returned to Franny’s side, and slapped the gun into his hand. She shoved him toward the door. It hurt because it was his wounded shoulder.

“Make them regret the effort.”

Franny duck-walked to the door. It pulled the stitches in his side and hurt like hell. He shook his head trying to concentrate. He risked a quick glance around the doorjamb. Big men in cheap suits with guns. A lot like Baba Yaga’s big men in cheap suits with guns.

Franny’s brief look had drawn another volley. He and Stache exchanged glances, then leaned out and shot down the hall, then jerked back into cover. The kick from the pistol hurt his wounds, and Franny had to take a few seconds to just breathe.

“Not sure I hit anything,” he said aloud. “Not sure I want to.” Killing the joker El Monstro was a fresh and horrifying memory. Stache gave him an amused look. “Okay, so you do speak English. Asshole,” he added, but he said that under his breath.

There was a quick conversation between Stache and Baba Yaga. Stache started blasting down the hall. Franny joined in. He had a brief glimpse of Vaporlock at the back of the pack. The slide ratcheted back; he was out of ammo. He crawled to the body of B.O., and patted at the pockets looking for a reload. The gunfire slowed. Baba Yaga swung open a panel in the wall.

She snapped out something in Russian and Stache fell back. He grabbed Baldy off the floor, threw Baldy over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and darted to the opening through which Baba Yaga had already vanished. Franny realized that whether he followed or not was going to be entirely up to him. He dropped the useless pistol, gritted his teeth against the pain, got to his feet, and sprinted after them.

His ears were ringing from the gunfire so he had no idea if their attackers were entering the room. Begrudging even the small second a glance behind might cost him, Franny leaned forward, and was through the panel. It was dark so he missed the steep staircase. He lost his footing and went tumbling headlong down the steps.

Playing hockey through grade school and high school had taught him how to fall, and Stache, acting more out of self-preservation than any kindness, grabbed him by the waistband and stopped the headlong plunge. Yanked to his feet Franny felt a warm trickle running down his side. Fortunately fear and adrenaline masked any pain from his torn stitches.

Through another door and he found himself back in the gladiator quarters where this nightmare had begun only the day before. He had a sudden memory of the handcuff swinging loose on his wrist, Mollie Steunenberg’s mocking smile and upthrust middle finger. The bitch had abandoned him. Maybe if he’d treated her better? Or scared her more? He pushed aside the regrets and second thoughts. He’d find some way to get home and when he did Ms. Steunenberg was going to face a judge.