The heavy wooden door was smashed open by their combined assault, the crash deafening in the confined space.
With the barrier gone, the basement laid itself bare before them.
Under the yellowish glow of a kerosene lamp, Pilsen sat on a battered sofa, a lit cigar still clamped between his teeth, shock and confusion frozen on his face.
Beside him, Emily Collins shot up from the far end of the sofa like a startled rabbit and let out a scream.
She wore a dress that was hardly lavish, but clean and neat all the same — utterly out of place in this dust-choked basement.
After a brief, frozen silence, Pilsen was the first to recover.
His hand went to his waist almost on instinct, drawing the gleaming revolver, the black mouth of the barrel leveled straight at the pair in the doorway.
"Don't move!"
Pilsen's voice was hoarse and savage, like a beast driven into a corner.
Russell's eyes flicked between Pilsen and the two of them, and then he moved.
Before Charlotte could react, he broke away and sprinted off to one side.
The instant he moved, Pilsen — nerves strung to their limit — swung the barrel around to track him.
That was exactly what Russell wanted.
He was confident he could evade the shot, so all he had to do was keep Pilsen's attention fixed on himself.
And in doing so, hand Charlotte an opening.
Events unfolded as smoothly as he had predicted.
"Bang!"
The crack of the gunshot rang through the basement, sparks spitting from the muzzle.
The bullet screamed out of the barrel, carving a lethal arc through the gloom.
But that flesh-tearing round never found its mark.
Russell reacted faster than Pilsen had thought possible — faster, frankly, than any man had a right to be.
A full second before the trigger came back, as though he had already seen it happen, Russell threw himself into a roll to one side.
The bullet grazed the hem of his coat and buried itself in the wall behind him.
The moment he cleared the shot, Russell planted a hand on the floor to steady himself, sprang up off it, and shot toward Pilsen like an arrow off the string, without a moment's hesitation.
Charlotte's gaze snapped to Russell first. Only after confirming he was unharmed did she tear her eyes away, her expression turning razor-sharp.
With Pilsen's attention still locked on Russell, she closed the distance, covering the ground to him in the space of a few breaths.
The gap between them collapsed in an instant.
Pilsen's face changed. Clearly he hadn't expected the two young intruders to be anything but easy prey.
He gave ground a step and raised his arm, trying to bring the weapon to bear on Charlotte.
"Who the hell are you two?" he demanded, brows knitting.
"Just a detective passing through," Charlotte said, and raised the cane in her hand.
But before the trigger could fall, Russell was already on him.
He kicked off the sofa, launched himself into the air, and drove his right fist straight into the side of Pilsen's face.
"Crack!"
The dull impact sent Pilsen staggering sideways, the weapon tearing loose from his grip.
He reeled off to one side and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor.
Breathing hard, riding out the pain, he looked at Russell as though he meant to swallow him whole.
"You brought this on yourself."
He growled it low, then pulled a short knife from his belt, its edge glinting cold, and set it in a reverse grip.
Charlotte's brows drew together at the sight.
"Military Fighting technique," she said, her voice echoing off the basement walls. "Be careful, Russell."
"Got it," Russell answered, settling into a Fighting stance of his own.
Pilsen said nothing more. Knife in hand, he charged straight at Russell.
The blade cut a cold arc through the lamplight, aimed at something vital.
Russell twisted aside and drove his elbow hard into Pilsen's ribs.
Pilsen grunted at the pain, but the attack didn't stop.
He clenched his teeth, used the momentum of his turn, and swept the knife upward from below along a vicious, awkward line — straight for Russell's stomach.
At that razor's edge of a moment, a black shadow of a cane came whistling in from the side and struck Pilsen's wrist with perfect precision.
Another solid thud. The knife nearly flew from his hand.
His fingers clamped shut. Years in the army, and years more spent living on the edge of death, kicked his instincts into gear, and he had his footing back almost at once.
He slipped under Charlotte's follow-up sweep, seized the cane, and — with the sheer difference in raw strength — hauled her toward him while his other hand drove the knife forward.
Charlotte let go without a second's hesitation, surrendering her weapon, and threw her whole body backward, out of the path of a strike that would have killed her.
The cold point of the blade skimmed past her jaw, taking a lock of severed hair with it.
Her pupils contracted a fraction, but not a trace of fear touched her face.
Pilsen saw the miss and moved to press the attack — and Russell came in from the flank, cutting him off.
The three of them tangled into a brawl in the cramped basement, Pilsen with a weapon in each hand, swinging wide and heavy, giving neither of them an opening.
He was better than he looked. With steel in both hands, even two against one, he held on — and landed effective counters besides.
But two fists can only hold off four for so long.
In one exchange, while Pilsen's attention was on Charlotte, Russell drove a kick into the back of his knee.
The blow tore his balance out from under him. He dropped to one knee, his attack broken, his whole body listing to the side.
Russell didn't stop. He pressed in and clamped his left hand around the wrist holding the knife.
But just as he was about to bring a strike down on the back of Pilsen's neck and put him out of the fight, hurried footsteps sounded behind him.
Along with Charlotte's urgent shout:
"Russell, get clear!"
Russell's head turned on reflex. A slight figure was rushing at him from the side.
Emily Collins.
The woman they had both overlooked from the moment they came through the door, as good as scenery.
Emily Collins now had a wine bottle gripped in her hand, her face a mess of terror and madness.
Her eyes were wide, the rims red, her body shaking.
Not with rage. With fear and despair.
She knew what she was doing. She knew what it meant. And she was past caring.
If Pilsen was taken, there was only one ending waiting for her.
She had sheltered a wanted man. That made her his accomplice.
Whether or not Hannigan's death had anything to do with her, she would never wash her hands of it.
That — that could not be allowed to happen!
So she screamed, and with every ounce of strength in her, brought the bottle smashing down toward the back of Russell's head.
"Let him go!"
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