I hear the scuffing of footsteps in the dirt, the clanking of gun-belts from the front of the saloon. Without a word I run into the dark building, until I can see the street outside.

The flickering light of the solar lamp above Esterházy’s door illuminates a posse of a dozen figures, vigilante Peacekeepers, heavily armed and armoured. And at their head, his face swathed in stained bandages, eyes blazing with hatred, is Marshal Joliffe.

* * *

‘Esterházy!’ the Marshal bellows. Blood oozes from the bandage, down onto his lips and teeth. ‘Esterházy, give the bitches up or this place burns.’

‘You cannot touch us, Joliffe,’ Esterházy calls through the door. ‘Every crew from here to Delos will seek retribution upon you.’

‘Let them!’ The Marshal is crazed. ‘Let them come! I’ll kill them all.’

Flames, breaking glass, Bebe’s bloodied face, the bartender screaming… I stagger and Esterházy catches me, gripping my hand tight.

‘I saw—’ I gasp.

‘I know.’

In the front of the saloon, the Marshal continues to bellow. Around him, the Peacekeepers are arming their weapons. I see one woman pull out a smoke flare from her belt, ready to light it.

‘Go,’ Esterházy says. ‘Take the others and run.’

‘We can’t leave you.’

‘You must.’ For a moment, she presses her palm against my chest. ‘Now go!’

I run for the stairs. At the top I look back and see Esterházy, her back against the bar, the long rifle loaded and trained on the door.

‘Out!’ I bellow into the corridor, as the shouts from the street grow louder. ‘Everyone, out!’

Bebe stumbles from her room, eyes puffy with sleep, the gun holster slung over her nightgown.

‘The Marshal, he’s back,’ I gasp, and she goes running, screaming for Thrip to arm himself, for Franzi to hide.

‘Ten?’ Silas is there, naked and dishevelled. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Get dressed, we have to get out.’

I burst into Falco’s room. She’s already standing, buckling on her guns. I realise she has not slept.

‘Trouble?’

‘The Marshal. With a posse. We have to run.’

Her face hardens. ‘Esterházy?’

‘She told us to go.’

Peg stirs groggily in the bed, the bloodied bandage wound around their upper chest.

There’s a cry from downstairs, an explosion of gunfire and shattering plastic.

‘General!’ I yell, and run.

Together, half-dressed and rattled from sleep, we tumble onto the landing, Silas and Falco holding Pegeen between them. Rapidly, I give Peg a shot – a cocktail of amphetamine and analgesic – so they can run and not feel pain.

‘Now me.’ The General holds out her arm.

No time to argue. I shoot a dose into her as well.

‘Falco, how many guns do we have?’ I ask.

‘Four. Flyboy, you got that peashooter?’

Hurriedly, Silas scrambles for the pistol he wears at his ankle.

‘Five then.’