Everyone braced as the truck lurched, first to the left, then the right.

Gunfire sounded on the driver’s side, and the truck veered left. They felt it crash, wood snapping and women screaming as their momentum stopped abruptly, tossing everybody off their seats.

Sharp quickly recovered and jumped up to pull the panel back between the passenger and driver areas.

“Dash it all, he’s been shot!”

“Will he make it?” Finley said.

“I’m afraid not. Lots of blood. Looks like a head shot. Oh, dear. We seem to have hit a newsstand.”

Pop pop pop!

Everyone instinctively ducked as a gunman on horseback trotted past, firing into the truck.

“Confound it! The shooter is still out there!”

Blair said, “This is all a distraction to keep us from getting to Chelsea.”

They heard the sounds of clip-clops approaching as the gunman turned around in a wide circle to shoot at the truck again.

Rip said, “Well, let’s not let them delay us by much.”

He pulled out the little Walther semi-auto he bought his first time visiting the RVS marketplace and opened the back door. In one smooth motion he walked around the side of the truck and fired at the gunman as he circled back, striking him in the upper chest.

The man grunted as a red flower blossomed on his chest. He turned the horse around and trotted down the street in the opposite direction.

Rip said, “Everyone stay put. I’ll drive us the rest of the way.”

“I’m coming with you,” Blair said, stepping out the back door.

He smiled and shrugged, heading to the front of the truck. In the distance he heard a police whistle, steadily approaching.

He opened the door and pulled out the dead driver, propping him up against the wooden planks of the damaged stand.

The proprietor stood nearby, having narrowly missed being run over. He wore a white cotton shirt and dark pants, openly staring at Rip with his mouth agape.

“Uh, sorry about this. I guess you’re part of the news instead of selling it today. Please contact the Venture Society and tell them Colonel Bixby and Colonel Sharp’s teams were attacked. We think it’s the Hobnobbers. The RVS will make things right with you here. They’ll probably take it out of our accounts, I suppose . . .”

The whistle sounded closer as the running police officer quickly approached.

“And, uh, please deal with the cop. I mean, the peeler.”

He jumped into the truck. Blair waited in the passenger seat with a Tommy gun she pulled out of her wallet.

“You drive,” she said. “I’ll keep the blighters off of us.”

“There are more?”

As if in answer, the sound of gunfire and more horses clattered down the street behind them.

She gave him a look that said, “Of course there are more,” then leaned out the passenger window with her Tommy gun and sprayed a short burst at the horsemen.

Rip checked the gauges on the dash to make sure they had enough pressure. He shifted the stick into reverse and pulled off the curb and out of the destroyed newsstand.

He struggled with the clutch, grinding the gears as he slammed it into first. The truck lurched forward on the street just as the officer ran around a corner, still whistling.

The policeman ran toward the truck waving his arms for Rip to stop, a command Rip promptly ignored. He threw the truck into second and kept going.

At that point the horsemen regrouped from Blair’s attack and took up pursuit again, clattering down the street and drawing the officer’s attention.

He waved and whistled at them, too, his head swiveling back and forth between the escaping truck and the oncoming horses.

One of the gunmen shot at him when he turned, narrowly missing his head. The bullet struck the whistle, though, knocking it out of the policeman’s mouth.

The officer stared wide-eyed at everyone’s blatant lack of respect for authority as the Hobnobbers raced past him, jeering.

“Get that truck, boys!” one of the gunmen yelled. “Aim for the tires!”

Rip picked up speed. He grunted and pulled hard on the wheel, zigging around a slow horse-drawn wagon.

“Somebody needs to invent power steering.”

Blair gave him a quizzical look before sticking her gun back out the window.

A few shots went off, bullets whizzing by, and she quickly pulled it in.

In the back of the truck, Chance slid open the window panel on the rear door and retrieved his interspatial wallet. He reached in and pulled out a handful of pointy metal items.

“What are those?” Twig said, standing next to him and swaying with the motion of the truck.

“Caltrops.”

“Are y’daft? You can’t use caltrops on the street, mate! Think of the horses!”

“I am thinking of the horses, and I’m thinking of the men with guns riding on them.”

They ducked as another gunshot rang out and a bullet flew inside, pinging off the walls.

“I’ve got something better!” Twig said, reaching into his own wallet. “Grapeshot!”

“Grapeshot?”

“Aye, they’re like metal marbles.”

“How is that going to help the horses? If they fall, and that’s a big if, mate, they’ll be just as hurt as stepping on one of my caltrops. Maybe worse.”

“Grapeshot is safer on the horses!”

“If they fall, they could still break a leg! Save it for the tunnels and enclosed spaces with smooth metal floors and whatnot.”

“Do not throw those caltrops out the window!”

Another shot rang out and everyone ducked.

“Oh, for the love of Pete,” Finley said, walking up to the door. She pulled out a Webley revolver and aimed at the closest rider, killing him with a single shot to the head.

The dead man fell out of the saddle and the horse slowed to a walk. It stopped with a look of confusion on its face as the truck trundled away.

“There, the horse is perfectly—”

She ducked as a string of automatic gunfire peppered the back door with bullets.

Another gunman spurred his horse forward, and it galloped up alongside the truck. He pulled up to the driver’s side window holding a broomhandle submachine gun with one hand, reins in the other.

Rip watched him approach in the side mirror. When he came up even with the window, the sergeant pulled the steering wheel and lunged out, slugging the gunman in the face and knocking him off the horse.

Rip pulled back in quickly and grabbed the wheel, swerving around a Hansom cab just before they rammed it.

The cabbie yelled a curse and shook his fist while trying to calm his draft horse at the same time.

Rip said, “How many more are there?”

“I’m not sure,” Blair said. “Let me look.”

She slid out the window again, holding the Tommy gun and looking back.

“Two more are closing in! Wait, one’s staying back.”

Rip glanced in his mirrors as he sped through the streets, grinding through gears. A rider stood in the stirrups, urging his horse forward.

He yanked hard to the left when Lady Finley fired at him, making her miss. Then he urged the horse forward, on Blair’s side and in Finley’s blind spot.

As he pulled up beside the speeding truck, Blair watched him in her side mirror. She pulled out the window again just as the man put the pistol in his mouth and dropped the reins, freeing both hands. He brought his feet up to the saddle and jumped to the roof of the truck, pulling himself up and laying flat.

“He’s on top of us!” Bixby yelled.

Rip swerved to the right and left, trying to throw the man off. He slid around, but held on. Pedestrians scattered as Rip jumped a curb and raced down part of a sidewalk before bouncing back to the street.

The man let go with one hand and took the gun out of his mouth. He aimed straight down and pulled the trigger, shooting a hole into the middle of the truck.

Liza screamed as the bullet took off an ear and sank deep into her shoulder.