The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(88)

All five obeyed. The leader snarled as Harry edged toward the stairs, jerking his head at Doolittle, who clambered up the steps first. Harry followed, going backward, the flame wavering too close to the fuse when he stumbled on one of the steps.

He made it to the top, and Doolittle slammed the crate panel shut behind him, shoving a heavy sack in place, grunting, “It’s not going to hold ’em.”

The ringleader’s voice boomed, “E’s bluffing. No cove’s stupid eno’ to play with this fire. After ’em!”

Harry blew out the candle, shoved the explosive into his jacket. “Run!”

He and Doolittle raced through the maze of cargo, the sound of splintering wood behind them. Footsteps thumped, and Harry knew they weren’t going to make it out without combat. Ducking behind a hill of coffee sacks, he grabbed one, threw it across the path to trip his closest pursuer, who flew headfirst into a crate.

The next brute rounded the corner with fists flying. Harry dodged and returned with an upper cut, bone cracking against his fist. The man groaned, stumbling aside, but three more were on his heels. One man faced Harry, one tackling Doolittle, the third running past.

“Take care of ’em, lads,” the leader shouted. “I’ll make the delivery!”

Harry had an instant to glimpse the sack of explosives in the departing Goliath’s grip before his opponent attacked. Staying light on his feet, he dodged the wild swings. He feigned right, moved left, landing a series of swift blows to his foe’s gut, finishing with a left hook. The blighter groaned, toppling like a tree, but the first man Harry had fought came charging like a bull. He wrestled Harry’s arms behind his back.

“Got a live one ’ere,” he shouted.

The ruffian who’d crashed into the crate rose, a blade gleaming in his hand. “’Old the bugger still while I gut ’im like a fish.”

Harry struggled, his captor yanking harder. Swiftly, he changed tactics. He pushed backward with all his might. Went with his captor’s momentum rather than against it. Caught off-balance, the blackguard shouted as he lost purchase, falling backward. His skull cracked loudly against the ground, Harry landing on top of him.

In the next breath, Harry rolled onto his feet and dove at the blade-wielding ruffian.

They hit the ground, the steel clattering out of reach. Both scrambled for the knife. Harry got to it first, his fingers closing around the hilt, and he twisted around just as he was tackled. He saw his opponent’s eyes widen, felt the sickening thrust of metal into flesh, the warm trickle over his knuckles.

He rolled the man off of him and staggered to his feet. Chest surging, he saw that his foe was beyond saving. He surveyed the wreckage: two other men lay insensate, and Doolittle had the last one beneath his boot, his bloodstained neddy held at the ready.

Harry sprinted over. “You all right?”

Scowling, his button nose bleeding, Doolittle looked like an angry Cupid. “I’m fine,” he spat.

“Where is your leader taking the explosives?” Harry demanded to the subdued villain.

“Too late.” The ruffian’s battered face worked into a sneer. “You won’t reach ’im in time.”

“I’ll repeat this once.” Harry took out his pistol, jerked the man up by the scruff. “Where. Is. He. Going?”

“My friend’s got a temper,” Doolittle warned. “Look what ’appened to your associate.”

Looking over at his dead comrade, the man visibly swallowed.

Doolittle flicked him on the shoulder. “I’d spill the beans, if I was you.”

Sweat trickled down the brute’s forehead. “If I say anything, he’ll kill me.”

“Who is he?” For effect, Harry pressed the barrel of the gun to the ruffian’s temple.

“If I tell you, you didn’t ’ear it from me.”

Harry cocked the weapon.

“O’Toole,” the brute blurted. “’E was the one wot ’ired us. ’E’s working wiv a nob named De Witt. De Witt is the brains behind the ’ellfire, showed us ’ow to make the bloody stuff.”

“Where did your leader go?” Harry bit out. “Where’s he taking the hellfire?”

The ruffian swallowed. “To the Seven Dials. A place called Nightingale’s.”





31





Harry arrived in hell.

Smoke everywhere, fingers of flame reaching into the night sky. Shouts and screams as people dug through the rubble that had been Nightingale’s.

“Holy Mother of God,” Doolittle breathed beside him.

Could I have prevented this? If I had acted faster, caught De Witt sooner…

No time to think now, only to act. Harry ran toward the building, intending to help when he heard his name being shouted. He turned, and relief pounded through him to see Tessa’s grandfather looking unharmed. Behind him, Malcolm Todd was barking out orders to men hauling buckets of water toward the fire.

Accompanied by Ming and a coterie of guards, Black approached Harry. The soldiers formed a protective rank around the two of them.

“Sir—” Harry began.

“Aven’t got time.” Black had lost his wig, his eyes glittering in his soot-streaked face. “You remember your promise to me?”