The armored steam truck trundled around a corner and headed down the narrow street. Acetylene headlights lit up the night, brightening the scene of the staged wreck as the four-wheeled monstrosity approached.

Brakes squealed as the driver, peering through a narrow metal slit, realized downed horses and a wagon blocked his way. The truck stopped and he paused for a moment, wondering what to do. There was no way to drive around, and backing up would be difficult.

The truck huffed, smoke billowing, the all-steel body practically throbbing with anticipation. It rocked lightly on its chassis, waiting impatiently for the driver’s command from the gearbox to go forward.

Beatrice, Biggin and Chance, standing to one side, watched on the street. Then Beatrice’s attention shifted to the rooftops above.

“Look up, Mr. Robinson.”

Chance glanced up to where Beatrice pointed. Several men on the roof seemed to be struggling with something on the other end of the rope attached to the beam up suspended above the truck.

Finally, they lifted their burden up over the ledge and pushed it off. Chance recognized it as an exceptionally large block of steel, a forging anvil the size of a small table.

He watched as it sailed down, the rope picking up slack. At the bottom of its arc a couple feet above the street, the beam above bent with the sudden weight . . . and held. The driver watched as a half-ton chunk of solid metal rushed over the tipped wagon, and angled up on a perfect collision course for his truck.

The anvil hit the top of the vehicle in a massive collision, popping rivets and shearing off the cabin. The driver was thrown back in his seat, battered by shrapnel. Two gunmen in the back were less affected, but they stared out at the night stunned, the rifles in their hands slack as they looked around the street, open-mouthed.

The men who worked so hard on the rooftops returned, now pointing their Mausers down at the open armored car. They lit up the street with automatic gunfire, spraying a deadly hail of bullets.

Beatrice quickly stepped behind Biggin’s large frame. A bullet or two ricocheted off the vehicle and plunked into his skin. The expression on the giant’s face never changed.

Chance shrank back to the wall and held his arm over his face, just in case a ricochet came near his eyes. He watched the two guards in back get riddled with bullets.

The driver came to his senses. He too had been shot several times, but nothing fatal so far. He screamed in pain and frustration, and shoved the truck into gear, flooring the accelerator. Sitting idle, the truck had a full head of steam. It lurched forward toward the tipped-over wagon and unconscious horses, knocking aside spindles of cloth left in the road.

The truck slammed into the wagon, obliterating the wooden frame on impact. Splinters and small chunks flew out in a circle as the machine gunners on the roof kept firing.

The driver ducked, barely keeping his eyes above the wheel, foot pressed down hard on the accelerator. The heavy steel truck trundled down the street, bullets pinging off metal all the way.

Beatrice stepped out from behind Biggin and stared at the departing vehicle.

She sighed and looked at Chance, pointing at the truck.

“Go get our gold, Mr. Robinson.”

Chance nodded once, then took off running.

Fortunately, even with a full head of steam the lumbering vehicle did not move quickly, yet. Like a train, it took time to build up significant speed.

It approached the first intersection, and the driver finally let off the accelerator, preparing to turn. Chance put on a burst of speed and made it to the rear of the truck before it turned left.

He jumped up, catching the edge where the top had been knocked off, and he pulled himself inside the now open cab. The two men in back were dead, their bodies draped over sturdy wooden chests splattered in blood.

Chance stepped to the front. The driver looked over his shoulder as he came close, eyes wide in fright. Chance reached down, grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him out of the seat. The truck immediately slowed, the steering wheel spinning. Its wheels bumped up against the curb.

“Get down and play dead, if you want to live, mate,” Chance said, pushing the driver roughly to the floor.

He jumped into the driver’s seat and pressed down on the brake. When the truck stopped, he set the parking lever.

The driver jumped back up, reaching for his sidearm. Chance slugged him from a sitting position.

“I said stay down.”

They heard the sounds of pursuit as other men rushed to the intersection.

“When you get up, report to the Venture Society first, before the peelers. Tell them the Luddites did this. Got that, mate?”

The driver nodded, his jaw starting to swell from where Chance hit him.

“Good. Now play dead until everybody’s gone.”

Half a dozen men rounded the corner, guns out. They stopped at the truck, looking up at Chance, as Beatrice Belle and Biggin approached.

“There’s a lot of chests up here, milady,” Chance called down.

Beatrice smiled.

“Bring the carts closer, everyone, and help unload. Mr. Biggin, you’re the strongest. Go fetch me those chests of gold.”

The injured man said nothing, but he climbed up into the truck with Chance and started unloading the precious cargo.

Chance gave the driver one last look, but the man lay perfectly still. Then he moved to help Biggin unload.