Harper Albright, rushing down the tunnel towards them, had drawn her sword. She brought it upward even as she ran, upward in a whistling backhanded slice. With a single echoless ring of collision, it caught the smaller blade in the center of its curve. The knife was flung from Iago’s hand. It flew upward, spinning, sparking as the candle’s gleam swung crazily over it, over the walls, over the startled faces.

And all Storm could think was, Thank God I wrote a hero into this picture.

And then there was no more time to think at all. He felt the giant being ripped away from him. He fell forward and saw the muzzle of the .38 drop across his eye-line as the pudgy thug swung around to take aim at Harper. Storm lunged back at the gun, grabbed the thug’s wrist with both hands, wrenched his arm upward. There was a spurt of flame, a crash of thunder, the high whine of a ricochet as the weapon discharged.

Now there were curses and crashes and deep shouts all around him. Storm threw the whole weight of his big body against the pudgy thug, forced him against the wall of the tunnel as he kept the gun hand pinned high in the air. The thug tried to get his free fist up but couldn’t, tried to knee Storm in the groin but had no room. Storm tried to pull the gun out of the thug’s grasp. The violent lurch pulled them both off balance. They toppled down together to the floor, rolling over and over each other.

The shouts around him continued. Storm felt a blow to his ribs, but held fast to the thug’s wrist, wrestling the gun muzzle high. He saw the pistol against a rising glow, then against a sudden sheet of light. He felt a searing wind blow over his face. For a second, he was blinded.

Fire! he thought.

The thug hit him again, then clawed at his face. Storm gasped as the flames rose over him, as the thug tried to shove his head down into them. The heat on his face grew. The smoke choked him. The flames seemed to lap at his cheeks.

Then Bernard was standing above them. He stooped beside them where they fought. He reached out silently with his long, delicate fingers and pinched the pudgy thug at the base of the neck.

The thug collapsed, unconscious, under Storm and Storm nearly fell off him into the crackling blaze.

Coughing, drawing his face away from the smoke, Storm held on to the thug’s hand until he had pried the gun out of it.

Then he leapt up, away from the flames. Tumbled to the opposite wall and fell against it. He leaned there, with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.

He looked up at the young factotum, whose shaven head flickered orange with reflected firelight.

“Bernie. Babe. Nice move,” he said, panting.