The door opened to a much larger room than anyone expected. It stretched out hundreds of feet in all directions, and felt down right cavernous.

Rip noted that it was so large, gas lamps were needed to illuminate the middle portions.

Tables and workbenches lay scattered about the room like fallen dominoes, placed seemingly haphazardly. Around each one, groups of two or three men dressed in tattered business suits leaned over the tables diligently working on items. They seemed to be covering things in a type of paint, dabbing them with brushes dipped in some sort of clear liquid.

As the team slipped through the door, one by one the men stopped working and stared at them. Rip took this time to try and figure out what they were doing.

The nearest table was piled high with tools. He saw hammers, pliers and wrenches. Another table nearby held what Rip could only think of as bicycle parts. Gears and pedals and metal chains lay scattered about.

Rip looked at each table, his eyes bouncing around the room. They all seemed to have metal parts of some kind.

A door opened on the far side of the room and another man in a tattered suit, old and hunched over, rolled in a wheelbarrow filled with metal junk.

The older fellow proceeded to the nearest table and dropped off what looked like a hubcap at this distance to Rip, before proceeding to another table and dropping off something else. He seemed oblivious to the work stoppage as everyone stared at the uninvited guests.

Silence reigned for a moment longer as the wheelbarrow squeaked on its way to yet another table.

The old man reached down and pulled out what looked to be a large cog from a street clock. He slung it onto a table filled with other cogs, making a loud clanging sound as metal struck metal.

That broke the spell. As one, the men reached inside their suit coats and pulled out Webley revolvers. A good three-dozen barrels pointed toward the Bandits at the door.

“Down!”

Bixby and Blair, already wounded, grunted as they hit the floor.

Chance and Rip went down shooting, their guns holding fresh drum magazines and spitting out bullets.

Fortunately, going down to the floor put them below the sight level of most guns aimed back at them in the large room.

Rip felt a bullet plunk into his arm and lodge in his humerus. He grunted and aimed to his right, spraying a cloud of bullets toward the nearest table.

“Stop! Stop!”

The far door opened again and King Rat ran out, still wearing a tuxedo and waving his arms.

“Hold your fire!”

As one, the men at the tables lifted their guns up, pointing them at the ceiling.

On the floor the four Bandits paused, unable to quite see that far into the room.

Cautiously, Bixby went up on one knee, then stood, aiming his FN semi-auto in the direction of King Rat, heading his way.

The King Rat stopped about halfway into the room, looking at the carnage on the floor. A good six men near the front appeared to be dead, lying spread-eagle on the floor, their guns nearby. Another dozen or so sat dazed and wounded, blood splattered over tables and chairs and scrap metal.

King Rat turned from the carnage to the four people at the door. His expression turned from shock to anger to puzzlement.

“How did you . . .”

“I believe you owe us an explanation, King Rat. Be a good fellow and tell us what you’re doing here, under the streets. Surely you’re not reselling all these items?”

Bixby kept his voice level, and the semi-auto lined up casually with King Rat’s chest.

Emotions seemed to war across the other man’s face.

“You will leave. Take your things and go. The portcullises will be opened. Do not return.”

He glared at Bixby, then at Rip as the others stood up.

When they hesitated, the men in tattered suits brought down their Webleys and aimed at the group again. Although smaller in number now, the threat remained palpable.

Bixby said, “Right. Everyone out the door. Careful, keep them in your sights and return fire if needed.”

Bixby said the last part louder, so everyone in the large room could hear them. Chance backed out first, followed by Blair, then Rip.

Bixby went last. He stared across the room at the man in the tuxedo.

“Don’t bother sending anyone after the Sergeant again, King Rat, or I’ll bring every Venture Society member I can muster to shut down your little operation here. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

Before the other man could respond, Bixby stepped out into the tunnel and slammed the door. It locked into place.

They heard a clanking sound as the portcullises retracted back into the ceiling.

“I suppose we should depart,” Bixby said. “Hold tight to your guns in case they have another magnet somewhere.”

They cautiously returned to the alcove where they had been trapped. The metal bars Rip had bent prevented the first portcullis from fully lifting. They had to stoop to crawl under it.

The electromagnet in the ceiling still smoked. Nothing else stood in their way as they turned and headed back up the long flight of stairs.

They all grunted in pain from their gunshot wounds.

“Fortunately these small caliber weapons are rather easy to recover from,” Bixby said to Rip as they climbed up the steps. “I don’t know how many times I’ve been shot, personally. One of the many benefits of being enhanced, I suppose.”

“Same for the bad guys. That’s why we have to use dynamite on elites,” Chance said.

Rip said, “Like I said, though, if you shoot them in the eye, that seems to be a vulnerable spot. I’m sure the same holds true for us.”

“That’s true,” Bixby said. “I knew a French viscount who died that way in a raid on the steam vault near Marseilles. Poor chap was shot in the face.”

This comment set the wheels in Rip’s head to turning.

“A French viscount? Did you not have the French Revolution?”

“Hm? Oh, I suppose there was some kerfuffle or other back in the day. The monarchy quickly squelched it. That was around the time we stifled that unrest in the American colonies, I suppose.”

Slowly, painfully, they made their way to the top of the stairs and back to the marble gazebo.

Out on the street, the same hansom cab waited, the driver dozing in his seat up on top.

“There’s a good man,” Bixby said as they approached, holding up a coin.

The driver woke up and smiled at them while taking the money.

“You’re back! Glad to see you! Where to, guvnor?”

Bixby looked at his bleeding team members.

“I think, if we could trouble you to make separate stops, we’ll all be going home now.”

“Say no more. Pile on in and we’ll get on it.”

He activated the door with his foot switch, and the team wearily crawled inside.