The gun went up again, and as Daud watched, the man’s finger squeezed the trigger.
It was now, or never.
Daud gritted his teeth. The Mark of the Outsider flared, enveloping his whole hand in an inferno of pain.
He transversed the gap between himself and the gang leader, appearing behind the man just as he fired. He had been aiming low, trying to cripple Daud rather than mortally wound him, and with the target suddenly gone, the bullet pinged off the cobbles with a bright orange spark and ricocheted up at a shallow angle. The young man cried out and jerked back, blood erupting from his side as the stray round caught him. His companion, to her credit, didn’t even flinch—trained well, thought Daud—but quickly sidestepped to get a clear shot and lifted her gun.
She was fast, but not fast enough. Even before she could aim, Daud grabbed the leader around the neck with one arm, and, bracing his legs, he leaned back, lifting his opponent clean off the street while reaching around the other side and yanking the man’s gun arm down. The leader grunted with effort as he swung an elbow back, catching Daud in the side. Daud didn’t stumble, but the jab did make him shift his weight. Sensing this, the leader used it to his advantage, throwing his weight in reverse, causing Daud to lose his balance on the uneven street and topple backward.
They were good. Well trained in close-quarters hand-to-hand combat. There was only one thing they hadn’t taken into consideration.
Daud was better.
He let himself fall backward; as gravity took over, the leader, still held tightly in front of him, was suddenly weightless. With the pressure relieved, Daud twisted, swinging them both around so the leader’s face crunched into the cobbles. There was an audible crack and the man cried out, rolling to one side. Daud rolled the other way and stood. He was free, but his back was now presented to the other two.
There was a bang. Daud moved without thinking, hisnatural instincts guiding him as he pushed off the cobbles, the Mark of the Outsider allowing him to shift to the narrow window ledge of an overlooking building, then, with just enough purchase under the toe of his boot to spin himself around, Daud transversed back down to the alley. He rematerialized behind the young man, who was kneeling on the street with his hands clutching his wounded side. Daud slipped his arm under the young man, gripped the back of his neck and locked his shoulder. He swung the young man’s body in front of his and used him as a shield as his companion fired her gun three times before she even knew what was happening. The young man’s body shuddered as the bullets impacted. Daud felt hot blood spatter his beard and face and the body became a dead weight in his grip.
He let the man drop, then moved again to the other side of the alley as the last gangster standing swung her gun, searching for her target. Behind her, Daud saw Norcross’s agent crouched against the alley wall, holding something small and shiny to his lips, his cheeks ballooning out as he blew into it. Daud couldn’t hear anything, and neither, apparently, could the gangster. She was now standing in the middle of the alley, her back to the agent, her gun aimed squarely at Daud. Of their leader, there was no sign—he had fled while Daud skirmished with the others.
Daud braced himself, ready for another move across the Void, cursing the Outsider, silently screaming his rage.
And not just rage at the Outsider—rage at himself. Because the more he used his powers, and the more he fought, a part of him was actually enjoying the action—the thrill of combat, the pleasant, unexpected feeling of nostalgia, the surprised satisfaction that he could still do it. The years of keeping to himself melted away as his muscle memory was rekindled, his skills as sharp as they ever were.
But already he was tiring, his concentration slipping as his muscles began to sing out for rest.
The woman smirked and raised her gun.
All he needed was a couple of seconds to recover, and—
Then the woman’s expression vanished. Her eyes darted first to one side and then the other as a long, thin silver blade appeared at her neck, cutting the skin under her chin enough for a line of blood to appear, the liquid quickly running down her throat. She froze on the spot, her gun arm still raised.
Keeping the blade in place, Norcross’s agent reached around from where he was positioned behind the woman and pushed her arm down. Then he grabbed her pistol, which she relinquished with only a small struggle.
The agent met Daud’s eye, and he smiled.
That was when the others appeared. Six men, three from either end of the alleyway. They were dressed alike, all wearing a uniform of some kind consisting of a long dark-blue coat—the same color as the agent’s cloak—with a high square collar, belted, and the matching trousers tucked into high black boots. They were armed with pistols with strangely short barrels, the stocks molded out of metal to form a hollow, weight-saving frame. As the newcomers reached the group, the barrels of their powerful-looking weapons were all aimed at the female gangster.
Norcross’s agent lifted his blade away, sliding it back into its scabbard—the black cane. Then he gestured to the uniformed men. “Take her back to the house. We will join you presently.”
One of the men, apparently in charge—although Daud could see no insignia that identified him as somehow senior to the others—gave the man a nod. “Sir,” he said. “Do you need an escort?”
The agent looked at Daud. “I rather think I am in safeenough hands.” He walked over to the body of the young man and nudged it with his foot. “Take this one as well.
