Her arms pumping, Emma sprinted, driving her legs, planting he feet, and pivoting and spinning around people's carts and chickens.

Rounding a corner, Hutchens and Amelia were huddled, holding each other in the center of four circling men. Amelia was pressed into Hutchinson's chest. His arms were around her, holding her tightly. All dressed in standard ship attire of The Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate. They all had cropped hair, a mix of beards in any style you could name, and barely thirty-four fingers among the lot. But for number, they each held a different weapon. The first of the thugs was a blonde and the tallest bunch, a cutlass in his hand. There was a redhead. He held a club and a net like a Roman gladiator from the classics Emma read in her younger days. With a single, continuous movement, he swung the net before himself, crossing the net in a figure-eight, the low point of each arch; the net kicked up a small sand cloud as it scrapped the ground. There was also a short, black-haired man who jabbed a knife at two in the center, taunting them, laughing each time they shuddered or flinched. The last man wore brass knuckles on his right hand, and they were all mocking the pair with profanities.

"Go's on, you pantywaist. Pick up that gun," The blonde one said, pointing at the gun Hutchens had dropped.

"Yeah. Go on, bend down, and I'll cut you from stem to stern," the black-haired man said, forcing Hutchens to turn around to face the man, inadvertently kicking the pistol further away.

The four men focused on the pair pressed together in an embrace. They were, in no way, in danger from Hutchens or Amelia, and they knew it. Yet two bodies were splayed out on the ground, a pool of blood surrounding them. Mr Wolf's work, Emma thought.

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Running at full speed, Emma pulled her pistol and shot the black-haired man, dropping him instantly. Then, without stopping her forward momentum, she moved into knife range. She slashed with her dagger at the man with the brass knuckles, missing him but forcing him to jump back to get out of the way. He stepped into the pool of blood and lost his footing, mimicking if not actually pulling off an acrobatic split.

The blonde man round to face Emma, lifting his cutlass high in the air, bringing it down in an arch onto Emma's right-hand side. Emma swung her pistol in a left-to-right circle, catching the blade on the trigger guard and stepping into the attack. She drove the point of her dagger up and under the man's ribs, leaving him standing. The handle of the knife protruded from under this rib cage. She let go, stepped back, and turned; the man fell to the ground behind her.

Emma spun again to face the brass-knuckled fighter, lifting himself to his feet. The blood of his fallen fellow covered him, draping the back of his body like fine silk. Emma racked the charging lever of her pistol, forcing a round into the barrel. She lifted it, aimed at the advancing man, and fired. Then, turning, Hutchens and Amelia came into view. They were both standing still and unmoving. Fear had paralyzed the both of them, and they seemed frozen in their embrace.

"You two, run," Emma yelled. Turning her head back, she looked for a new target. Before one could be found, Emma was struck on her gun hand with a fishing net. The net wrapped around her arm, pulled her pistol down, and spun her off her feet. She heard an audible crack and then felt pain on the back of her head, and then darkness took Emma. With a final thought, "Where are you, Wolf."