“There ought to be ten.”

Iseabail rooted around in the crate. “For a pretend monk, you’re na bad.”

The truck shot out into a wide thoroughfare. Tires screeched as cars skidded to avoid it. Cannon braced himself for the crash, but it never came. Masaracchia twisted the wheel, and the truck nearly rolled over before steadying, now headed straight down the road. The engine surged as Masaracchia began to weave through traffic, and Cannon risked a peek through the cab’s rear window and out the windshield.

Perhaps half a mile ahead, just before the road reached the south gate out of the city, three tan-painted trucks parked nose-to-tail, blocking traffic. Tommies surrounded them, walking up the row of stopped cars to the accompaniment of angry shouts and honking horns. Masaracchia hit the brakes, looked over his shoulder, and said, “I don’t think we’re going to make it out through the gates today. Perhaps we can hide you until the danger passes?”

Cannon shook his head. “Not with the Royal Naval Air Service hounding my zep. Mr. Masaracchia, turn us around and head for the waterfront?the breakwater at the north edge of the harbor.” He slid the portable radio set over, set his machine gun down, and took the handset. “Calling Whiskey flight, over.”

In the distance, a British soldier lowered his binoculars and pointed. In a moment’s time, more soldiers swarmed aboard the trucks, clambering aboard, and the trucks jolted into motion. Watching all this, Burr frowned. As the British trucks navigated the tangle of carts and automobiles accumulated in front of the roadblock, the lines in her face deepened. “Captain, we’ve been made.” She tilted her head. “Again.”