"These fit Lal Singh's pistols.

Hurry, hurry!" Bruce helped Kathlyn into the vehicle and jumped in beside her, and Ahmed struck the horse.

The gharry was a rickety old contrivance, every hinge creaking like some lost soul; but Ahmed had reasoned that the more dilapidated the vehicle, the less conspicuous it would be.

He urged the horse.

He wanted the flying mob to think that he was flying, too, which, indeed, he was.