Tom Simpson leaped out into the cool alpine air, the cap-and-ball revolver ready in a two-handed grip. As he drew a bead on his first target, he saw exactly what he had expected to see.

Four armed men-medium-to-large in height and build-were positioned around the entry to the crotto. Because they were in a public street, they were not in combat-ready postures or positions. Neither were their weapons; the tools of their grim trade were concealed in their cloaks, or by their bodies. And while Tom wasn’t a great shot, at these ranges-six to twelve feet-he didn’t need to be.

Tom started firing, double-tapping as he went. His first target was not the closest of the thugs, but definitely the most dangerous, already raising a double-barreled flintlock fowling piece that had a menacingly short profile. Tom’s first shot missed completely but the second. 44 caliber bullet punched a red hole in the man’s chest. He went down without a sound.

Sidestepping to clear the doorway, the American shifted his aim to the big swordsman who was even now rushing forward, blade rasping out of its sheath and reflecting the failing sunlight. He fired two more shots from the H amp;K revolver, both of which went higher than he’d aimed.