He placed the bullet on top of the cloth, then carefully removed the ramrod from where it was attached beneath the barrel of the pistol. He used the ramrod to push the bullet and the cloth into the barrel, all the way down to the powder. Because of the cloth, he could be sure that the barrel was properly plugged and airtight; when the firing mechanism went off, the bullet would only have one way to go.

He reaffixed the ramrod, then put the sack back in his pocket. Now the pistol was loaded and ready. All he needed was the proper target.

It only took a moment for his eyes to rise up the iron lamppost, to the rectangular glass fixture at the top, maybe ten feet above his head. The gas-fed fire flickered within the glass, its orange glow toying with his optical nerves.

Adrian took a deep breath, then extended his arm, aiming the pistol at the light.

“To you, Charles. And to you, Mr. Revere.”

He pulled the trigger.

The explosion ripped through the air, a cone of fire bursting out of the end of the pistol. Adrian was lifted off his feet by the recoil, his body flung backward until he landed on his haunches in the middle of the street. In the same instant, there was the sound of shattering glass as the light fixture burst into a thousand pieces, the flickering fire inside leaping upward.

Adrian sat dazed on the pavement, staring up at the destroyed gaslight, his head throbbing from the sound still reverberating through his ears. The pounding was joined by a cacophony of car alarms, set off by the report—and as he watched, the lights in the windows of the town houses on either side started to go on, one after another. And then, in the background, the sound of sirens, cutting through the night.

Adrian whistled low, staring down at his hands. They were covered in soot and smelled of gunpowder, but all his fingers were still there. It took him a moment longer to find the pistol, which had skidded almost to the curb. And then another moment to get back on his feet, and hurry over to his bike.

Next time, he’d use less powder. But even so, Nick’s plan seemed to be working perfectly. Distraction, misdirection, whatever the man had called it—Nick and Hailey would have their chance.

But for Adrian, there was no time to waste. He pulled the bike off the iron of the post, which was still reverberating from the gunshot, and slung his leg over the seat. He was going to ride like he’d never ridden before.

He believed it was Emerson who had once said: A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer. Adrian would have added; a minute more, and he’d cross that line, from hero to fool. And Adrian Jensen was nobody’s fool.