The staircases let them out on the first of the three stories, not including the basement they had emerged from. Tommy assumed there was some sort of back door, probably through the kitchen, so that's the direction he headed, based on instinct and pure blind chance. If he was the German officer in command, he would have left three or four men to guard the house. Enough to keep things secure, not so many as to weaken them in case whatever or whoever had caused the explosion stuck around to put up a fight. Johnny could take several of them out with the tommy gun, maybe even most of them. They had found him a good position, high on a hill behind an old, crumbling stone wall for protection, right above where Tommy instructed him to set the car ablaze. A very good position. Tommy kept his fingers on the triggers. The house was dusty, and the floors creaked softly with their every step. They were hardly inconspicuous, and if any men were left in the house, they would almost undoubtedly hear them, and the fact that they had yet to be ambushed made Tommy think that the remaining Germans were likely stationed outside. A sudden noise to his left, which opened to the parlor, made Tommy spin, and he almost squeezed the trigger but then the noise said, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Orion! Orion!", and Tommy didn't lower his gun but he didn't pop four bullets off like he wanted to, either. Orion was the code word Solomons had given him, of fucking course, although why he had bothered with a fucking code word if all he was going to do was go back on his word was beyond Tommy's comprehension. The man who had spoken emerged from his crouched position behind a threadbare, moth-eaten sofa in the parlor, opening his mouth to speak again, hands on his head, but before he could Tommy said, "Be fucking quiet," pointing at the man with one of the guns to make sure his point was made. The man gulped and nodded, keeping his hands in the air.
"M-my name is Beck, I work for-for Solomons-," he said, in a whisper, and Tommy scoffed.
"Yeah, I know. If you make it out alive, you go tell Solomons if I ever see him again, I'll send him to that God he claims to love."
The man looked horrified. "But-,"
"Get out, or I'll shoot you myself. Maybe you'll draw some of them away from us," Tommy said, his voice hard.
"Tommy," Tessa said, from behind him. She put a hand on his arm, gently. Her pale knuckles were splattered with blood. "If he works for Solomons, he knows how to shoot." She looked at him, her almond eyes bright, imploring. A smart girl. She was right. It didn't make him any happier to admit it. They needed more coverage, more guns in more hands. He gave a quick, irritated sigh, flipped the revolver in his right hand, and held it out to Solomon's man, whose dark eyes were filled with relief like he had just gotten to piss after having to hold it for three hours. Tommy pulled his other pistol out of the back of his suspenders, and Reilly watched him do it.
"Thank you," Beck said, looking at Tessa. She stared back. Her face was set, her delicate features sharp like the thorns on a rose.
"He gave you the gun with three less bullets in it," she said. "And if I ask him to, he'll use the rest to thank you for fucking off and leaving us alone with Arnholt earlier."
Tommy didn't want to learn what she meant by "alone with Arnholt". He didn't want to know. He looked over at Reilly, who looked nauseous at her words, and a quiet part of himself that Tommy rarely listened to agreed with his expression, although probably for different reasons. He then looked around at his sad little flock, Tessa with only a bloody scalpel to defend herself, her father with less, a Jew who had about as much spine as a jellyfish. He was surprised they weren't all dead already.
He turned and began making his way through the house again, only really aware of Tessa, wishing he had a hundred more men and a thousand more bullets.
Tommy moved like a soldier, his usual swagger replaced with careful, calculated motions, silent and swift and controlled. How many versions of him were there, she wondered, how many facets? A boy who loved horses, a sergeant major directing a battle, a gangster cutting out eyes, a businessman carrying a briefcase. It was a wonder he didn't explode, with all the universes contained inside of him. She had a sudden, stupid desire to reach out and take his hand, to feel a little bit safer, the tiniest bit more okay, but he had guns in both. She wondered if she had ever really been okay, besides when she was with him, and she wondered if she ever would be again, if they somehow, magically survived. She looked to her side to reassure herself that her father was keeping pace. He was, still wearing the same charcoal colored vest she had last seen him in, although now the color was nearly indistinguishable past the blood and the dirt and all manner of other horrible things. She took his hand instead of Tommy's, shifting her scalpel to her injured left, tried to smile at him. His face wavered, and then he managed a grimace back.
They tiptoed past the parlor, down a hallway that was much too narrow for Tessa's liking. There were faded spots on the wall where pictures had once hung. The hall opened up to the kitchen, and across the kitchen, there was a door. Tessa wanted to weep. Maybe, just maybe, they would get out. Maybe she would get to ride Chase again, and kiss Tommy again, maybe the Shelbys would protect her father, maybe she would be able to put this whole, twisted nightmare behind her. She let herself hope, in that instant, and she should have known better. The door they were approaching, their very last chance, their saving grace, banged open, and German men poured into the room.