“More than you might think.” In one fluid movement, Móirín snatched up her knife and stood. In that same instant, the door flew open and a large man with an inarguably angry expression stormed inside.
Surprise touched the ruffian’s face when he spotted Móirín.
“Oh, dear.” Móirín shook her head in a dramatic show of pity. “You were planning on attacking a woman entirely on her own, weren’t you? It’s right sorry I am to upend your odds.”
The man gave the smallest of smug shrugs. “Odds still ain’t bad.”
Three men stepped inside. Three large, sinister-looking men. Three equally sinister weapons.
“I ain’t personally pleased with those odds,” Vera said out the side of her mouth.
Móirín was unshaken. “We can hold our own.”
Vera grasped the shillelagh in as firm a grip as possible, eyeing the arrivals with growing uncertainty. She hadn’t Móirín’s confidence. Or apparent ability.
“Finesse, Vera,” Móirín said. “The shillelagh isn’t your enemy. Throttling it won’t help. Throttling them, however”—she pointed her knife at the huffs—“would help tremendously.”
Móirín’s calm tenacity was boosting Vera’s.
“I’ll do my best.” Vera adjusted her grip.
“Why is it women can’t stop chattering, even long enough to die with some dignity?” the leader of the group grumbled. “Cain’t even follow simple instructions in a note.”
Ah. “I suspect you’re the one who calls himself ‘the Protector,’” Vera said.
A satisfied smile slid over the man’s hardened features.
Móirín tossed back, “Some protector, coming after a woman thought to be alone but needing to have your wee friends along to protect you?”
His eyes darted to the dark-whiskered ruffian at his left, who shook his head.
“We ain’t here for jawing,” the Protector said. “We’re here to do what we came to do.”
All eyes turned to Vera.
She borrowed a page from Móirín and made a show of being entirely unconcerned while her racing heart desperately clawed at her frozen lungs. She held the shillelagh firm but not white-knuckled. She’d fight back, however imperfectly.
“Our goal,” Móirín whispered out the side of her mouth, “is escape.” Three men stepped closer. “Hold ’em off. Turn ’em ’round.” Three weapons flashed ominously. “Then, by all that’s holy, get out the door.”
“I can manage a bit of walloping until we’ve a clear path.”
“On with us, then.” Móirín brandished her knife and took a single step closer to their assailants.
Vera followed her lead.
One of the brigands sliced at Móirín. Vera beat back his arm with her shillelagh. The near miss lit a fire under the Irishwoman. The fierceness with which she fought spoke of a lifetime of struggle. Vera took strength from Móirín’s determination.
Large-armed men were coming from all directions. Clubs and knives flew and landed and dealt glancing blows. The desperation of the moment, the pulse of survival numbed her to the pain she knew she’d feel later, but only if they escaped.
Get out the door. That was their goal.
She matched Móirín’s maneuvering. Fighting off the onslaught just enough in the right direction to switch spots with their would-be assassins. One blow, one step, one moment at a time, they danced this sinister dance. The door was now behind Vera and her partner in struggle, the roughers in front of them.
“Out we go, mate.” Móirín tugged her through the door and into the street.
The night was dark. Though the lamplighters had been by, Vera’s eyes would need time to adjust. That would make defending herself more difficult. She could only hope the brutes had the same difficulty.
She and Móirín had only just turned to face the shop front when four shadows passed through the door.
“What do we do now?” Vera asked. “I don’t have experience with this sort of thing.”
“On the surface, ’twould seem best to run.”
“But we ain’t meaning to?” Vera guessed.
“We aren’t needing to.”
From the street behind, two men stepped to their side. Vera recognized one of them as Stone. The other, Vera didn’t know.
“Bang-up timing,” Móirín said.
“What of my timing?” That question was tossed out by Brogan. He’d only just stepped up on Móirín’s other side.
Next to him, Fletcher brandished a cudgel. He pointed the short, thick fighting stick at the Protector. “This is getting to be a habit with you lot.”
The Protector snapped a wire cord, the sort used for efficient and gruesome strangling. “That habit ends here. As do you.”
“Leadership at its most cowardly,” Brogan said, eyeing the man.
“He ain’t the leader,” Vera said. “He looks to Whiskers for direction.”
The true head of the gang slipped back, allowing his flunkies to tackle the task.
“We’ve more weapons than you,” the Protector said. “It’d be wise to hand over the woman we want and be on your way.”
“We won’t be doing anything of the sort,” Brogan said. “Even if we were as feckless as you, they wouldn’t hear of it.”
He motioned to a crowd Vera hadn’t noticed gathering around them.
Peter stood at the head of the group. “It’s time we end this.” He motioned the crowd forward.
In a rush of angry people, the roughs were forced from the shop front and out into the street. Others, apparently on the side of the Protector and his partners, took up the cause.
A melee took over the street. Utter chaos.
Vera tried directing away any children wandering into the fray. She couldn’t bear for Burnt Ricky or Bob’s Your Knuckle to be hurt.
Then someone she didn’t know, who sounded far finer than anyone from this corner of London, said something that stopped her in her tracks.
“That’s the Mastiff.”
Brogan turned. “Who is?”
The man motioned toward the shop overhang. The one Vera had named “Whiskers” stood there.