Point had no idea how long he had been out for.
When he was finally able to pry his eyes open, the first thing he registered was the wet stone smell—mildew and old suffering baked into the walls. The second thing was that he had roommates.
A dark-skinned man hung a few feet to his left, his clothes surprisingly clean for someone strung up in a dungeon like this—no blood, no dirt, like he'd been plucked straight from a Sunday service and dropped into hell. His face had some old wounds but outside of that pretty as picture. To the right dangled an even darker, far more beautiful woman. Her skin caught what little torchlight filtered down from somewhere above, and thick ropes of hair grew from her head in massive coiled knots that looked like burnt ship rope—dark, twisted, and swinging slightly with her breathing.
Point's toes scraped against the granite floor as he tried to redistribute his weight, his shoulders screaming in their sockets.
He looked at Jupiter and said, his voice raspy from the dry air, "I am sorry but I think they double booked this suite? To be honest this wasn't even my destination. I was… forcibly rerouted. ...You?"
Jupiter looked over at Point as they both struggled to keep their toes on the ground, their bodies swaying slightly with each breath and shift of weight. "Right location, wrong floor."
Point kept the verbal distraction going. It was far better than dwelling on the situation they found themselves in—the rope burn at his wrists, the way his arms had gone half-numb, the creeping certainty that this might be where his story ended.
"Maybe fate is telling us that we should start up a competing business. Long as we didn't shoot all our guests I'd say we have a corner on the market." He paused, trying to find a more comfortable position that didn't exist. "My name is Point. Normally I like to have a little fun with people when I introduce myself but, considering our situation I forgo the theatrics."
Jupiter says, "I appreciate that. I'm Jupiter, this here is Whisper."
Whisper looked at Jupiter with raised brows and started to pump her feet, testing her range of motion.
"She's short on the English vocabulary but she makes herself easy to read."
Whisper started to get some speed and height going with her swing, her body moving like a pendulum, the rope creaking against the pipe above with each arc. Her movements were precise, calculated.
Point says, watching her build momentum, "Do you know exactly what it is she's doing right now?"
Jupiter watched Whisper swing back and forth, her focus intense—that of a middle schooler who thought they might kick the sun if they got high enough. Her eyes were locked on the pipe above, measuring angles.
Jupiter said, "I ...haven't ...got ...a clue."
Just as Whisper was about to spin around the pipe, she pulled hard on the rope and launched herself upward, landing stomach-first on the pipe itself with a muted thud that echoed in the stone chamber. She curled her head under the pipe and forced her right leg up by her face with the flexibility of someone who'd spent their entire life without chairs or beds.
She began to dig into one of the braided knots on her head with her toes, pushing and prodding until she worked it into her bound hands. A moment later she pulled out a small blade from inside one of her knots—the metal catching the dim light—and freed herself with three quick sawing motions.
She walked along the pipe as if it were flat ground, her bare feet gripping the metal, arms out slightly for balance, and began to saw at the rope that held Jupiter up.
Point asked, genuinely impressed despite their circumstances, "Did you find her at the circus?"
Jupiter whipped his head in Point's direction, a grin breaking through despite everything. "P.T. Barnum! You ever see that?"
Point looked back at Jupiter and said, "Never caught the actual show but I did shoot someone backstage once. It was almost as much fun."
Jupiter smiled—and then hit the floor hard as Whisper severed his rope without warning. The impact sent a cloud of dust up from the granite, and Jupiter let out a grunt as his knees buckled.
The nimble girl walked across to Point's rope and began to saw, her movements efficient, practiced. Point watched her work and braced himself, determined to stay focused so as not to crash down as Jupiter had just done.
Point was dropped to his feet a moment later, landing in a crouch that sent shooting pain through his bruised legs and hips. Jupiter finished cleaning himself off as best he could, brushing dust and grime from his clothes with rough swipes of his palms.
Whisper dropped down from the pipe, grabbing it with both hands to slow her descent, then let go and landed as soft as a whisper—barely a sound, her knees bent to absorb the impact.
Jupiter said, already moving toward the back of the dungeon, "We should walk to the back and see if there is a way out. We already know what's waiting upstairs."
Point responds, rubbing his wrists where the rope had cut deep, "Yeah, gratuity staff."
Jupiter looked puzzled as Point shook off his own comment.
Jupiter picked up an old torch from a rusted wall sconce and wrapped some cloth around it—strips torn from what looked like someone's shirt, long abandoned down here. "You got a match or something to light this thing?"
Point remembered the match and cigar that he kept stashed in his boot for celebration or a final death smoke. This qualified as neither.
"N… No, they got everything I had." Point said, his voice flat.
Whisper rolled her eyes—a universal expression of exasperation—and pulled a piece of flint that she used to tie off the end of one of her knots. She sparked it against the hilt of her knife a few times, each strike sending orange sparks into the darkness, until the torch caught and flared to life. The sudden light pushed back the shadows, revealing stone walls slick with moisture and decades of neglect.
They walked back to the end of the dungeon cells, their footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. The air grew colder the deeper they went, the smell of standing water and rust getting stronger. They all looked the same—iron bars, stone floors, darkness—until they came to the last one.
It was half the size of the rest of the cells, barely four feet high, the ceiling so low a grown man would have to crouch.
Point said, staring at it, "This must be for children."
Jupiter looked at Point and frowned at him as he shook his head, his expression saying everything his mouth didn't.
Point tried again, shrugging his shoulders as he said it, "Midgets, I don't know."
Jupiter shook his head again, slower this time, his jaw loose, as if he were embarased of his little brother. Then his jaw became tight from the shame of feeling that for anyone other than Finn. The torch crackled and spit in the silence between them.
All three of them looked for something they could use as a weapon or diversion, their eyes scanning the dim dungeon floor and corners. Whisper had her small knife. Jupiter had the torch, flames still licking at the cloth wrapping. Point found a femur bone wedged between two stones—must have belonged to some innocent bastard if it was rotting in the basement of Cyrus's estate.
Jupiter asked, his voice low in the close stone space, "So why'd they lock you down here anyway?"
Point answered, turning the bone over in his hands to test its weight, "I saw the mayor do something most unbecoming of a mayor and he didn't like that much. What are you in for?"
Jupiter said, "A man that killed my brother. I followed him here. He left with just a handful of men. Somehow he got a small army on the way. There were too many for the two of us so, that's when we saw you."
Point responded, his tone softer, "Brother, hey? That's rough. My condolences."
"Thank you. I really appreciate that. You are the first person to say anything since it happened."
"Ooh, you really need to start partnering up with a better class of people," Point said.
Jupiter responded, a bitter smile crossing his face, "Don't I know it."
They made their way back to where they'd started, finding nothing special they could use—just more stone, more rust, more darkness. They knew that someone would be down to check on them sooner or later. The estate was too well-run for three prisoners to be forgotten for long.
They got into comfortable defensive positions by the door and waited, backs pressed against the cold stone walls. Whisper handed her knife to Jupiter and sat down under the spot she had been tied up, her movements deliberate. They had already witnessed that she was capable and she must have had an idea of her own. The boys let her be as they waited for someone to bludgeon or stab.
One of the mentally slow men from upstairs was sent down to look in on the three that had been tied up in the basement. His footsteps echoed in the stairwell before they heard him—heavy, uneven, taking his time.
Once they heard him getting close, Whisper jumped and grabbed onto the pipe overhead, pulling herself up silently.
The idiot rounded the aged brick corner, squinting into the torchlight—and Point broke the femur he was holding over the head of the man with a sharp crack that echoed off the stone. It only stunned him, his eyes going glassy and unfocused. Before he could remember what he was doing through the delay, Jupiter stepped in close and stuck the blade he had between the 3rd and 4th rib. Perfect spot to slide a blade in. The position makes it impossible to scream or make a vocal sound of any kind at all—just a wet gasp and the slow deflation of a punctured lung.
They dragged his body into a cell, his boots scraping lines in the dirt and grime, and took three guns that he had on him. Two revolvers and a small derringer that he had tucked in his boot. Jupiter threw the knife back to Whisper and she caught it smoothly, sheathing the blade and sliding it back into her hair. They also tossed her the small gun as each of the men took one of the revolvers.
She was a little insulted by this—she had done everything so far to get them where they are. Her eyes narrowed and she started to curse Jupiter out, her voice rising in sharp, clipped Navajo that needed no translation for tone.
Point said, his head snapping toward her, "Wait a minute! Is she Navajo?"
Jupiter, "That's right, yeah. Why?"
Point said, "I know a little."
Jupiter said, "No shit. Can we worry about this after we don't die?"
"Right!" Point said.
The three of them began the climb up the stairs, moving slowly, testing each step for creaks. Once they had gotten to the top of the stairs they realized that nobody was talking. Nobody near the doorway anyhow. The silence pressed down on them like a physical weight—too quiet, too still.
They slowly stepped into the room, weapons drawn—and were instantly drawn down on by fifteen or twenty men with enough firepower to supply an army. The hammers clicked back in unison, a sound like dominoes falling. The room was a half-circle of muzzles, all pointing at their chests.
Cyrus stepped past the men as two more walked up behind them and disarmed them all, rough hands yanking the guns away before any of them could think to fire.
Cyrus said, his voice smooth and pleased, "It was nice of you to climb all the way up here. Saved us the trouble of dragging your bodies up one at a time."
Point and Jupiter looked at each other—a shared moment of resignation and dark humor passing between them—as all three of them found themselves unconscious again. The last thing Point saw was the butt of a rifle swinging toward his temple, and then everything went black.