“Naturally. Keep sailing. Your daughter’s up ahead.”

I didn’t have to tell him what to look for. There was only one ship docked on the Westside. The gangway was down, and the cops unloaded cargo onto the dock. I motioned for Copeland to cut the throttle and let the easy drift of the Hudson carry us alongside the ship. We brushed silently against their hull, unseen by all. A tangle of rotten rope dangled off their port side. I tugged it and was reasonably certain it would hold my weight.

“Could you spare any gasoline?” I said.

“What for?”

“If I told, you’d say I was being stupid, and I’d hate for you to talk to me like that. Give it here.”

Copeland filled the gas can and screwed the lid tight. I ran a length of rope through its handle, tying it off to make a shoulder strap, and threw it over my shoulder. Quite a smart little purse.

I balanced on the yacht’s railing, grabbed hold of the dangling rope, and began to climb. There was no time to be afraid.

“And what shall I do?” he said.

“Nothing. I’ll handle it all.”

Such confidence. Such bravado. How good I had gotten at disguising the fact that I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do next.

I was halfway up the rope when I heard the music and cursed silently under my breath. “Benjy’s Bloody Stump.” The song came from the shore, where the ragged remains of the Westside armies marched toward the dock: two dozen warriors, joined together under the banner of Van Alen and the standard of the One-Eyed Cats. Those idiots. Those wonderful fools. They were too honest for an ambush, too stupid to fight dirty, too blind to see the thick, hungry shadows swirling at their backs.

They turned onto the dock and raised clubs, swords, knives, and chains, ready to charge.

“Surrender!” cried Van Alen, his proud, deep voice cutting through the sticky night air. “Or we’ll drive you into the river.”

I couldn’t see what was happening on the other side of the boat, but I knew it wasn’t surrender. I heard a voice, a woman’s voice, Juliette’s voice, make an offer of her own.

“Die,” she called, and her men opened fire. I could not see them fire the shots, but I saw a third of Van Alen’s men fall dead. The survivors charged. Van Alen, Cherub Stevens, Ugly La Rocca, and Ida Greene led the pack to the foot of the gangway and out of my sight.