The boy shied away. “No chance. I’m like a cat, me. I ’ates the water.”

Judging from the layers of grime on his face, that statement was probably true. The boy looked like he even avoided washing with the stuff.

“Can’t you swim?”

“No.”

Ben sighed. “Well, hide yourself somewhere, then, quickly.” He secured the rope to a metal cleat on the ramp and glanced up at Georgie. “You, get inside and stay down until we’ve dealt with Johnstone.”

Chapter 40.

Georgie’s heart was hammering in alarm, but she did as she was told. She dropped through the narrow opening and landed in the shallow puddle of water that had already seeped into the boat. Unable to bear not knowing what was happening, she peered out through the tiny circular porthole at the front of the funnel.

Alex took up position by the front window. Benedict and Jem hid behind a workbench, and Seb ducked behind a pile of lumber near the stack of barrels. Footsteps crunched outside and Seb tilted his head in silent warning. To Georgie’s shock, all three of the men withdrew pistols from their clothing and exchanged nods of anticipation. Her heart lodged in her throat.

After an agonizing wait, a key scraped in the lock and the door to the warehouse swung open. Four men stepped through the narrow doorway, one holding a lantern aloft to light the way. There was a moment of ominous silence as they registered that the submarine had been launched, then murmurs of outraged disbelief.

The foremost man, a hulking figure with bushy ginger sideburns—presumably the elusive Tom Johnstone—bellowed. “O’Meara? You in ’ere?”

All four of the men peered around suspiciously. As one, they reached into their clothing and produced weapons: two pistols, two knives.

“I’m afraid not,” Alex drawled. He stood, his pistol aimed at the nearest man. “You’ll just have to make do with us.”

All four swiveled toward him, and Georgie let out an involuntary cry as a cacophony of shots rang out, seemingly from every direction. Shouts and howls echoed around the walls as the flash of muzzle fire and puffs of smoke added to the general confusion.

She could barely see anything in the shadowy darkness, but caught a glimpse of Benedict throwing down his spent pistol and launching himself at Johnstone, just as Alex pounced on another man. The four of them started punching and wrestling viciously, like the sailors she’d seen once outside a tavern in Blackwall, brawling over a tart.

She gasped as a knife blade glinted in the moonlight. The awful scuffle of grunts and thuds, the sickening sound of fists hitting flesh, made her stomach churn.