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When I entered, Patrick took my arm in his hand and maneuvered me to the back, so that he stood in front of me. “Don’t say a word,” he said. “And please, Nina, no Artisan shit, all right?”

“I’m not an imbecile.”

“Promise me.”

Did anyone ever deny him? “I promise.”

I thought I heard him mutter something about fools.

Patrick and Otto operated the pulley, then blocked the lift in when it reached its peak, and we filed out.

Light spilled in, not from above, but ahead. The tunnel opened, and the ground turned to cement underfoot. The walls were spotted with snails. Through the blinding yellow light, I could make out a rocky shore, timber piers, a hundred docked sailboats. It seemed we were concealed in a culvert tapering to the sea.

We hadn’t taken five paces when Patrick said “Wait here,” and we stopped. Donny and Otto positioned themselves in front of Polly and me. Donny said “Smells like rottin’ fish in here,” and Otto shushed him.

Within moments, sunshine and sea were interrupted by three figures. All men. All armed.

“Hello, boys,” Patrick said, as though we weren’t convening secretly in the mouth of a giant drain. “What’ve you got for me?” From his mouth coiled small spirals of smoke. There was a lit cigarette in his hand, his body positioned in a way that blocked me out entirely. I strained to see.

One of the shadow men was taller than the others and stood at the spearhead of their formation. He hefted something over his shoulder and let it clatter to the ground—a sack. He said absolutely nothing. The other silhouettes lifted their pistols very slightly. Nervously so.

Danger seeped in from every corner, collected in my throat.

“That’s it?” Patrick asked coldly. If he had a weapon of his own, he did not raise it. I wished he would. I shuffled unwittingly toward him.

“Two rifles, three boxes of grenades, a pistol, two boxes of powder.” The voice was hoarse, dispassionate. A wracking cough followed. A sniff. “It’s all we could save, Patty. Take it or leave it.”

Patrick exhaled again, toed the sack on the ground, then turned to look over his shoulder at us. “Take it or leave it, the man says. What say you, Donny?”

“I say they can kiss my arse.”

“All right,” Patrick said, throwing down his cigarette. “Lionel, kiss Donny’s arse and we’ll call it even.”

The pistols inched upward. “We were fuckin’made, Pat. The coppers searched every dock. Every boat.”

“Then you didn’t hide my guns well enough,” Patrick said in a tone that was contrastingly conversational. They could have been discussing the weather. “There were fortycartonsof rifles. Two hundred boxes of grenades—”

“Inshippin’ containers, Patrick! Where the fuck am I gonna hide shippin’ containers?”

“In these very convenient tunnels we dug for you, Lionel. The same tunnels you’ve used on more than one occasion to run from all the razing and arrests.” Patrick waited, but the man named Lionel didn’t respond. Patrick checked his pocket watch. Clicked his tongue. “Did you sell me out, Lionel?”

The figure bulked. “I’m not a fuckin’traitor.” He spat onto the ground.

Patrick ignored him. “I paid very good money to have those containers sit in your particular yard, Lionel, on a very particular day, and my men arrived to find them already empty. And now, you give me some guns and a few bangers and tell me that’s all you saved?”

“It’s all I could get away, Patty. The coppers came early. We were caught by surprise.”

“And yet, you had time to open a container, fill a sack, then hide it away somewhere.”

The tunnel chorused the words. The sea rushed the pylons. Inside my chest, my heart thrashed against the walls.

“So, did you tip ’em off, Lionel? Or did you skim a few weapons away for yourself, long before the police showed up?”

Lionel, even in the dark, appeared cornered.

Patrick sighed. “Come on, man, which is it? Are you a traitor, or a thief?”

The guns twitched on either side of Lionel. My feet inched farther forward, but Otto’s arm barred further progress.