“Oh, sod off, I’ve never needed a gun, not on a single one of my photo shoots, and I’ve trailed mob hit men!”
Oh, man, it’s gonna be a long three months . . .
Margo steeled herself to keep smiling if it killed her, and vowed to cope. “Ms. Nosette, I am fully aware of your credentials. No one is questioning your status as a competent journalist. But you may not appreciate just how dangerous it’s going to be for us, even for the team members born in England, trying to blend in with Victorian East End Londoners. It’s your right to choose not to carry a personal weapon. But the rules of the Ripper Watch Team are clear. You must be familiar with their use, because many of us will be carrying them. And the more you know about the kind of gun some Nichol-based gang member pulls on you, the more likely you’ll be to survive the encounter—“
“Miss Smith,” Dr. Shahdi Feroz interrupted gently, “I am sorry to disagree with you, but I have been to London’s East End, several years ago. Most of the Nichol gangs did not carry guns. Straight razors were the weapon of choice. So popular, laws against carrying them were suggested by London constables, even by Parliament.”
Margo was left with her mouth hanging open and blood scalding her cheeks until her whole face hurt. She wanted desperately to dig a hole through the concrete floor with the toe of her shoe and crawl down through it, pulling the top in after herself. Before she could recover her shattered composure, never mind think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound completely witless, the station’s alarm klaxons screamed out a warning that shook through the weapons range like thunder. Margo gasped, jerking her gaze around.