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Maybe she had been right, back on the train. Maybe all they’d ever had was the moment in front of them. Harte had used that moment on the dance floor well, and now he would deal with the one they currently faced. Somehow.

When they reached the bar, the bartender gave them a small nod, and the guys led them around a corner into what looked like a storeroom. There was a heavy metal door in the back wall and, beyond it, a staircase. The guy who had ahold of Esta was already dragging her down the steps, while the one with the gun kept watch on Harte up top.

Harte had barely started descending the steps himself, when a commotion erupted in the room behind them. Men were shouting, and then came a series of loud crashes that sounded like bottles breaking. The bouncer who had Esta glanced back, but he seemed barely concerned as he dragged her.

The one who had Harte nudged him forward with the butt of the gun. “Let’s go, unless you want to deal with the Feds.”

At the bottom of the steps, the hall stretched into a dark tunnel that ran the length of the building. Esta had already been shoved through a narrow door as the other bouncer pushed Harte forward until he could see that they were being placed in a closet-size cell, with a dirt floor and damp brick walls. The door was heavy and looked to be made out of metal rather than wood. With the gun pressed close to his spine, Harte didn’t have any choice but to join Esta inside.

He eyed the lock as he went and was relieved to see it wasn’t anything complicated enough to keep them for long. Still, the sound of the heavy door closing shuddered through him as the two bouncers locked him and Esta into the dark, windowless prison.

Harte felt Esta slide closer, her hand finding his in the pitch-darkness.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine. You?”

“I’ll be better when we get out of here,” Esta told him. She released his hand, and then he heard her begin to rustle through her beaded evening bag.

“You don’t happen to have a hairpin or something in there, do you?” he asked. “For the lock?”

“I have something better.” A second later the skritch of a match sounded, and Esta held the flame up to show Harte the slim bronze pick they’d used in the bank vault. “Do you want to do the honors, or should I?”

“You’re a wonder, you know that?” he mused, taking the pick from her as the flame of the match reached her fingertips.

Esta cursed and dropped the match to the ground, where it went dark. “I’d be more of a wonder if I had a flashlight,” she grumbled.

He couldn’t see her, but he could hear the frustration—and the nervousness—in her voice. Esta hated dark, tight places, probably the result of being locked in a closet by Nibsy when she was a toddler.

Luckily, it had been a long time since Harte had needed light to pick a lock. Years of practice in boxes and safes and cases of water had made him an expert in breaking any lock blind. This one was no exception. He could sense Esta close by him as he worked the pick into the lock, feeling for the pins inside the mechanism to give way. She wasn’t crowding him, but in the darkness, that didn’t matter. She could have been ten feet away; the lightless space made it feel like she was right there, next to him. The scent of her was a distraction, and the warmth of her both steadied him and made his nerves jangle.

“Esta…” He paused, not exactly knowing what he wanted to say. If he wanted her to be closer or to step back so that he could think.

She went very still.

“On the train…” He paused, feeling more than ridiculous, but it needed to be said. She had to understand. “You have to know—”

“It’s fine,” Esta told him, her clipped voice coming to him through the pitch-blackness.

“It absolutely isn’t,” he said. He stopped what he was doing and reached for her hand, feeling how it shook slightly—from the cold of the room or from nerves, he didn’t know. “I was an idiot.”

“You were,” she said, and without being able to see her face, he could not sense what she was thinking. “But that isn’t exactly a new development.”

Harte barked out a surprised, grateful laugh, and as he moved closer, Esta went suddenly still, as though she was waiting to see what would happen next. He paused, giving her room and time and an escape, if she needed one.

She was so close, and even without Seshat’s constant prowling, Harte felt unsteady. He knew that if he kissed her, he would not want to stop.

“Are you going to take care of the lock, or do you need me to do it?” Esta asked finally. Her voice was breathy, and Harte understood he hadn’t been alone in his desire, but it was also enough to shake him back to the moment at hand and to force him to focus.

“I can handle it,” he said evenly, trying not to feel too disappointed. He worked carefully, letting the vibrations and the tension on the pick guide him, wishing Esta’s feelings were as easy to unlock as the bit of metal beneath his hand.

He hadn’t quite managed to release the lock when an explosion sounded on the other side of the door. Even with the thickness of the metal, Harte could hear the blast and feel the vibrations. It was enough to make him lose his concentration, and all the progress he’d made on the lock. Then a barrage of gunfire erupted, a muted rat-a-tat-tat that seemed impossibly fast, followed by more shouting. And then… silence.

Esta grabbed his arm. “What’s going on out there?”

“I’m not sure, but maybe if we’re lucky, it’ll have taken care of Torrio for us,” he told her, knowing that they couldn’t possibly be that lucky. More likely, whatever was on the other side of the door would be another problem… and most likely a well-armed one.

For what seemed like an endless stretch of time, they stood together, Esta’s hand on his arm, and they waited. Listening. They were concentrating so hard on trying to hear the danger that might be coming for them that they both jumped when a narrow window slid open in the door. The scent of gunpowder drifted in through the bright slash in the darkness. Then a set of mismatched eyes—one brown, one green—appeared in the window.