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“You okay, Rabbit?” Abel asked. “They didn’t touch you?”

“I’m fine,” she told him, which was a flat-out lie. There wasn’t anything at all fine about this situation.

The minutes dragged on, one after another, until the city was shaded by night and the streetlights came on. The saloon was filled with the kind of uneasy silence that you find in funeral homes or hospital waiting rooms, where the news coming is sure to be bad.

“Johnny should’ve sent someone by now,” one of the men said, his flat Bowery accent twisting the words.

“You know what he told us, Razor. These things take time. We’re supposed to sit tight until we hear—no matter how long that takes.”

The one called Razor—like that was any kind of name—thumbed at his nose. “I don’t like it. If Paul finds out—”

“Paul ain’t gonna find nothing out,” the other guy said. “He got picked up earlier by the coppers. Saw it myself. He was all trussed up and carried off in a police wagon. The way I see it, he’ll be in the Tombs for weeks. That is, if they don’t transport him to Blackwell’s Island for a longer stay.”

Abel caught Cela’s eyes from across the open space. Paul Kelly arrested? That answered one question but raised others—including why they were being held here by Kelly’s men, especially if Kelly himself wasn’t calling the shots anymore.

The doors of the saloon flew open, and a large, boisterous group of men burst through the door. They were clearly day laborers, probably from the docks nearby, and they’d clearly already been drinking. There were a couple of Negro men in their number, but Cela didn’t recognize them.

Kelly’s guys were on their feet in an instant, but the newcomers were already at the bar and causing all sorts of commotion. Out of nowhere, someone threw a punch, and their drunken noise transformed to an impromptu brawl. The barroom was suddenly a mess of confusion. Men were everywhere, wrestling and shoving one another, knocking over tables and chairs. There was nothing Kelly’s guys could do but back up and try not to get caught up in it.

Abel was at Cela’s side in a second. “You okay?”

“I told you I was,” she said, flinching at the sound of a glass breaking. She glanced at Razor, but he was stuck behind a trio of men who were tussling in the corner.

“You all about ready to go?”

Cela looked up and realized it was Joshua standing there. “What—”

“Quick, now, before they realize,” Joshua said.

Together they picked their way through the chaos. They were nearly at the door… and then they were there, and all they had to do was open it, and—

When the door swung open, another Five Pointer was there. He wasn’t overly tall, but he had shoulders like a brick wall, and he had a gun pointed in their direction.

Abel started to step forward, but Cela caught his arm. She wasn’t about to lose her only brother like that. From behind, she sensed movement, and when she turned, Razor and the other man were there, boxing them in.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the guy at the door said with a smirk.

Her brother gave Joshua a look that Cela didn’t like one bit. “Abel Johnson,” she whispered. “Don’t you do anything stupid.”

“You should listen to the girl,” the Five Pointer with the gun said, but the words were barely out of his mouth when his whole body jerked. He barked out a surprised yelp as his eyes went wide, and then he lunged for them.

Except he wasn’t lunging… he was falling. A second later, he was laid out, face-first, on the ground, with a knife sticking out of his back. The too-familiar silver handle glinted in the light spilling out of the saloon’s open door, and in the street beyond, Viola was there, looking ready for murder.

From behind her, Cela heard a strangled gasping noise, and when she turned, she saw the Five Pointers’ faces contorted with pain. Razor crumpled to the floor, lifeless, and a second later, his friend followed.

Viola was already pulling her knife from the dead man’s back. “Hurry,” she told them, her eyes scanning for other dangers.

Cela didn’t fight her brother when he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her out into the night, with Joshua close behind. Her mind was still reeling. Outside, they picked up their pace, keeping to the shadows in case anyone else was watching. When they were a few blocks away from the saloon and it was clear that they hadn’t been followed, they finally slowed to a stop.

“Thanks for the help,” Abel said, taking Joshua by the hand and then pulling him in for a rough, brotherly embrace. “I hope the guys won’t be in too much trouble for it.”

“Seymour’s gonna have a bill for you if they bust up too much of his stuff, but it’ll be okay,” Joshua assured Abel. “Another few minutes and they’ll break it up.”

“I don’t understand,” Cela said, looking between the two of them. “You planned this?”

“Not specifically,” Joshua told her, glancing at Abel. “And it’s not like I did all that much. We all would’ve been in hot water, if not for your friend there.”

Cela followed Joshua’s gaze to where Viola stood, her shoulders hunched and her usual defenses clearly in place. She looked away when Cela met her eyes.