Garrick spotted the twitch at the loft window, then utilized the beautiful and deadly laser to lay a few potshots into the room. The effectiveness of the sights made him quite emotional.

It is a perfect creation in its blend of form and function.

It was a simple matter for Garrick to take two paces eastward on the rooftop and thus have a clear view of the tenement’s front door.

Riley knows I could never enter that building, he realized. The boy had a cruel streak in him. He could have made a worthy assistant, had he not betrayed me.

The rookery had only one exit, and it was through this doorway that Riley and Chevie must emerge, unless they planned to drown in the sewage pit at the rear of the house or batter their way through the one-story shack sublets that stood propped against it.

And with my most excellent FBI weaponry, I will pick them off as they leave.

He smiled. The end is nigh, Chevron Savano.

There was a flurry of activity at the door, precipitated by some yappy fighting mutts who tumbled into the street barking.

Here they come, thought Garrick, activating his laser sight. Two shots only; save bullets for the gunsmith.

But instead of two frightened fugitives, no less than a dozen youths erupted from the hovel door, bursting through the refuse littering the front passage, all sporting broad-brimmed hats, scattering like criminals on the run. It was impossible to tell if Riley and Chevie were among them.

Garrick grinned tightly from his perch. A diversionary bunch. Clever.

The assassin supposed that he could drop half a dozen, but that would be a shocking waste of ammunition, and the bobbies would be attracted by mass murder, even in the Old Nichol.

Garrick pocketed his weapon and ran for the stairwell.

So now we race, my son. Only the swift shall survive. The future lies in Bedford Square for us all.

Chevie ran straight across the road, avoiding potholes as she went. Directly facing the tenement’s doorway was a forlorn alley barely the width of a man’s shoulders, which Chevie and Riley darted down, avoiding the turgid stream that trickled down the middle. The black passage was lined with an honor guard of Bob Winkle’s boys, all clapping and whooping with whatever enthusiasm their tarry lungs would permit.

Bob Winkle waited like an angel in the white fog at the alley’s end, holding open a crooked wooden door.

“Get in, Yer Highness,” called Winkle. “I fed the horse some peppers, and she is rearing for the off.”

Chevie dived into the hansom cab’s box while Riley clambered up to the driver’s seat and Winkle landed beside him with remarkable agility for one so malnourished.

“You move sprightly-like,” commented Riley.

“I threw down a few beers,” admitted Winkle. “Just to perk myself up.”

“This is your cab?” Chevie called to the boy from below.