The Gatling gun spewed out bullets, spraying a deadly cloud out over the street. Bullets thunked into things indiscriminately. Horses, people, carts. Nothing was safe from the shower of hot lead.

Rip rolled, bullets flying over him. He stood and pressed his shoulder against a metal lamppost, gunshots making it ring repeatedly like an alarm bell.

He waited patiently, knowing at some point the ammo belt would run out. The giant gun’s disadvantage was a lack of mobility, he thought.

Finally, after what seemed to Rip like several minutes but was actually more like thirty seconds, the gun stopped firing.

“He’s right there, mate! I can see his bloomin’ sleeves behind that post.”

“We can’t move the gun. Maybe if we pull the horses up a little, we can get a better angle.”

“He’ll just move and keep the post between us, you imbecile.”

While they were arguing, Rip pulled out one of his heavy Webleys, loaded with his limited supply of enhanced ammunition. He lined up his shot carefully while the gunner and the loader continued bickering, waiting for a perfect moment.

At last, the loader shifted slightly to the left, and Rip squeezed the trigger. His enhanced bullet shot through the man, into the back of the Gatling gun, and plopped into the chest of the gunner.

Both men keeled over, dead or soon to be dead. The giant weapon on the wagon smoked with a fresh hole through its firing mechanism, ruined.

“That makes up for the lack of surprise,” Rip said, holstering the Webley.

He approached the wagon cautiously. The street remained eerily quiet now that the gunfire had stopped. The two draft horses he had released from the other wagon before it went airborne lay in pools of blood. He noticed with regret that his own horse had been shot, too, along with half a dozen other animals in the line of fire. People, too, were strewn about in the street and on sidewalks. Some were still alive and calling for help. Others lay still.

As he neared the wagon, the driver scrambled off his perch and ran away, leaving the horses unattended. Rip decided not to fire at him, since he had no clear shot, and let the man escape. The two horses whinnied nervously when he came closer. One of them stamped a hooved foot. Rip decided the brake must be on.

A quick glance inside the wagon told him no gold was stored there. Only the big machinegun and a few cases of ammo.

Ahead, the first and now last wagon in the train pulled forward. Rip’s eyes narrowed. This was the one with Chance inside. He couldn’t just start shooting at it without running the risk of hitting the infiltrator.

On the other hand, Bobby’s enhanced, he thought. No, I might him in the eye or something.

While Rip mulled over his options for stopping them, the flap on the rear of the wagon flew open and Wallace Biggin popped out. He had a bandage around his forehead, reaching around to the back of his skull.

At first, the giant man looked around the devastated street with cloudy eyes, not seeming to fully understand everything he looked at. Then his eyes locked with Rip’s and they came into sharp focus. Days of enhanced healing after the bridge knocked him off their train finally kicked in. He snarled and jumped out, the soles of his shoes slapping against the cobblestones.

“You! We have unfinished business.”

“Is that what you want to call it?” Rip said, reaching for his Webley again, safely tucked away in a shoulder holster.

Before he could pull it out, Biggins put on a sudden burst of enhanced speed and closed the gap between them, slugging Rip hard in the face. He flew backward, feet leaving the ground, and he sprawled on his back.

Rip lifted his head up and rubbed his chin, where a bruise quickly formed.

“Nice skill. I’ve got one just like it.”

In a rush of [Vampiric Speed], he jumped off the ground and raced toward Biggin, fists blurring in a flurry of blows when he came closer.

Biggin held his own though, blocking and throwing out haymakers just as fast as Rip.

Rip’s skill ended abruptly. He put his fists up in front of his face and hunched over while Biggin continued to blur, hitting him repeatedly.

As Biggin’s skill faded, at the last possible moment he struck low before Rip could block him, slamming into Rip’s stomach and again sending him flying backward.

This time, Rip landed on his butt, sliding over the bumpy street.

“Oof.”

Rip struggled not to throw up, swallowing bile. Biggin approached, taking his time. He smiled down at Rip.

“I am bigger. I better. My enhancement was superior to yours. I am the strongest. You will not survive this, little man.”

Rip raised an eyebrow, still rubbing his stomach.

“Now that’s something I haven’t been called before.”

He glanced up at the airship, still hovering above, as both their skill timers reset.

Biggin raced forward, fist pulled back as he blurred.

Rip stood . . . and jumped, reaching up for a rope ladder dangling several feet above the street. He grabbed the bottom rung and held on for dear life.

Biggin slid to a stop from his enhanced momentum. He glanced around in confusion, looking for Rip. Then he looked up.

Rip held on with one hand as the winch high above kicked into gear, pulling him up toward the airship’s cabin. With his other hand, he pulled out the Webley loaded with enhanced ammunition. He squeezed off a shot, narrowly missing Biggin and putting a hole through the cobblestones.

Biggin glared at him and tried activating his skill again, but he had already reset the counter. He ran at normal speed, back toward the wagon as Rip’s second shot whizzed over his head.

Rip fired again, and again, missing him both times. Then he aimed more carefully, pulling back the hammer and lining up his sights.

His final shot slammed into Biggin’s back, and the big man went down, falling on his face.