Kaederman shoved Skeeter away from the fracas, toward a hansom cab waiting for a fare, the horse’s head bent low, the cabman bundled against the cold wind. Skeeter’s fury faltered into the beginnings of real fear.
“I say,” a familiar voice said from behind them, “did you drop this, sir?”
Kaederman started to glance around, an instinctive response to the polite inquiry—and Doug Tanglewood kicked Skeeter’s feet out from under him.
He went down with a startled yell, no more expecting that sudden move than Kaederman. A brief, sharp scuffle exploded above him. The muted clack! of a silenced pistol reached him. The scent of burnt powder and hot metal filled the air as the gun discharged almost soundlessly. Tanglewood gripped Kaederman’s gun wrist with both hands while swearing savagely, oblivious to the hole through the loose side of a once-fine Prince Albert coat. The crowd of gentlemen on the steps stood like spectators at a sporting event, thinking this was an ordinary brawl; not one of them recognized the anachronistic, suppressed semiautomatic pistol as a dangerous weapon.
Skeeter kicked out and managed to clip Kaederman’s ankles with one thrashing foot. Kaederman tripped, flailing for a moment off balance. Tanglewood suddenly had his opponent’s full weight slipping through his hands and only slowed Kaederman’s fall enough for the assassin to control it, leaving Tanglewood the one off balance and Kaederman rolling back up. Skeeter scrambled to his feet just as Margo rushed in low, under Kaederman’s gun arm. She prevented his second shot from catching Tanglewood between the shoulderblades. The gun fired wild as Kaederman tried to avoid her. A giant’s fist punched Skeeter in the chest and sent him sprawling, saved from the bullet by the Kevlar panel under his fancy dress shirt. Margo was still struggling with Kaederman. Shrill whistles sounded, police whistles, and someone shouted, “Constable! Over here!”