He could never throw a grenade that far… The grenades! Starr soothed Willy, helping him regain his feet without tangling them in debris. Dangling from the lashing, the burlap sack had avoided catastrophe. Although Starr supposed neither of them would have regained consciousness if it hadn’t.
He fetched a single grenade, sloshed its contents inside the fogged glass. After securing the remainder, he lead Willy up to the smashed front door of the Antler Hotel and kicked down what remained. “It’s either this way or back the way we came.” Willy tossed his head, flaring his nostrils as Starr spun around the horse’s neck and back into the saddle. “I couldn’t have said it better.”
Surging through the lobby, horse and rider rose up the majestic stair as sulfur and smoke billowed out from around them in swirls. Gaining the landing they sped along the balcony, smashed through the doors of the conference room and bounded directly toward the panoramic window in the corner of the room.
Amidst scattering shards of glass and gusting hot winds Starr worried he hadn’t calculated the position of the wagon just right, or the pitch of the roof. Had they gone through the wrong window? The jarring succession of Willy’s hooves on shattering Spanish tiles reassured him, slightly. Skidding and pawing for traction, the pair lunged upward and over the ridge of the roof. Sitting on his haunches Willy slid down the backside as fragments of flaming ooze spattered about them.
They were almost close enough. Starr clutched the glass orb of chemicals close to his chest, the beat of his heart threatening to crack it.
“Jump, Willy!” Starr slapped the horse’s neck. “Jump!”
The animal dug his front hooves into the uneven roof and lunged with the back ones. Exploding shards of tile burst from the point of launch. The shockwave ripped cedar planks loose underneath, as the two friends carved an arching path through the throat-clogging smoke of Oleg Rodchenko’s wonderland.
Eighty feet from the tower and ten feet from the ground, Starr twisted in the saddle to take advantage of the closing window of opportunity. His pulse hammered inside his head. Never much of a baller, he had one shot to lob a three pound, glass sphere into a manmade volcano before it consumed him. Pushing down on the stirrups, he heaved the grenade—half baseball, half shot put— and instantly felt the splintering boards of the crash wagon explode beneath Willy’s hooves as they struck down with more force than either of them had anticipated.
Off balance and anxious to limit the burden on Willy, Starr tossed forward and to the side. After glancing off the horse’s neck, he collided face-first with a sideboard. Pitching into an awkward tumble to the pavement, he landed on his knees before being doubled over by the rolling wagon. Pinned flat by smoldering debris, oil seared his back as he struggled to free his arms from beneath him. With a panicked snort Willy’s teeth gripped his collar and tugged.
Gaining the leverage he needed to hoist himself up, he cast off the burning fragments of wagon. “You did it, boy.” Willy tossed his head and pranced nervously while Starr noticed a strange shift in their surroundings. “The tower.” He craned his neck upward. Not only had the fire been vanquished by the grenade, but the spew of black filth had gone. In its absence, the massive volume of oil released on the city of Austin struck Starr. The sheer amount staggered him. Thirty-one towers for how many minutes? Even the gusher at Spindle Top wouldn’t have rivaled it.
Willy nudged him. “Right.” Starr gave his trusty steed the once over for injury, along with checking the girth and burlap sack before swinging back into the saddle. The quick movement made his head spin. Remembering the blow to his face, he found decent amounts of blood trickling from his temple and ear. “Well that’s a bear.” He strained to focus his eyes on a distant object, then a near one, and back again. The images blurred and streaked. “Concussion. I hate concussions.” Willy shook his mane. “Well, let’s put out some fire on our way to the river. You’re gonna have to steer.”
Clutching a fire grenade in each hand, he gave Willy the reins. Snorting with each stride, they loped southward along a flaming San Jacinto Street, leaving an oxygen-less wake behind them. “We’ve got us a submersible to find. And a woman to win, if she’ll still have me.”
~~~
Lickter clutched the handle and braced himself as the streetcar collided with the barrier. The momentum drove his ample gut into the controller box, but he maintained a heavy hand on the accelerator. Thumping the dash with his fist, he struggled for breath. He’d gotten a feel for the armored cars’ capabilities, but his aging body remained the weak link.
The car inched through the jumble of wrecked autos and debris, most of it put there by his own men to secure the area. He lifted his head, adjusted his hat and fetched a new toothpick from the ones he’d snagged at the Grandview. Finally he assessed the situation and swore.
The streetcar had gathered the unwanted attention of a nearby mob with unclear intentions. Lickter didn’t care to give them the benefit of a doubt. Leaning across to the suppression controls, he shoved the handles hard to the right and jabbed the button he now knew to launch the grenades. With a rapid clicking and a fwump, a grenade lobbed over the head of the crowd and struck a burning building. An invisible shockwave rippled outward for thirty yards, swallowing every tongue of fire along the way. It washed over the rioters with a breath-stealing gust.
After a few coughs and gasps they scuttled clear. Lickter focused again on the blockade. Too slow. He stretched across to activate the saws. With a baleful grin, he breathed deep and watched the teeth tear away the jagged pile of rubble, now able to fully appreciate their functionality. The streetcars were the perfect urban all-purpose vehicles, created by someone who understood the blackness of the human heart. Someone who knew to anticipate the worst and prepare for it. Someone Lickter wished he could have met.
In a few seconds he had chewed through the blockade and burst through the other side. Retracting the teeth, he allowed himself a quick glance back. The hole he’d left was clean and even and beautiful. A son of a bitch Picasso in the devil’s gallery. He settled back in his seat and focused on launching fire grenades into the belly of the worst flames while on the short track to the Congress Avenue Bridge.
Each car had been loaded with a dozen grenades. He’d keep two just incase, and his machine guns were fully loaded. He knew the trick would be to lure Oleg to the surface. His bullets might as well been piss on a pond for as far as they’d penetrate. Plus he’d never risk hurting Daisy, and Oleg would know it. Lickter had to use that fact to his advantage.
The plan he’d been working on involved a back-up that’d be strengthened by the failure of the first. The bastard probably wouldn’t be expecting any resistance this side of the Grandview, but if he found it maybe he’d want to flaunt his position of strength—rub Lickter’s nose in it. Then we’ll see who’s top dog.
Lickter chugged within a block of the bridge and slowed to a stop. Gwendolyn’s portion of the map had shown an entrance to the tunnels nearby that he needed to double check. As he jumped down from the car a patch of clear sky rolled past overhead—enough to reveal the setting sun in the west. With a jolt of realization Lickter turned toward the Grandview. Looking back the way he’d come he confirmed the moonlight towers had gone out, run out of fuel. The source of the fuel would be more valuable than the fortune resting in Gwendolyn’s vault. Anarchist or socialist, or maybe a combination of both, Oleg had ensured the knowledge belonged to everyone now.
After checking the access route, and stashing an electric lamp, he returned to the car. As he sat down and clutched the accelerator handle, the main question haunting him was whether Oleg had come and gone, or had yet to arrive. If he could tell that much, he’d be good.
With his left hand still on the gas he switched to the passenger-side console. Cracking his knuckles, he waited as the streetcar clacked onto the bridge and neared the river’s edge. Time to derail this baby.
Jamming his hand down on the button for the saws, he grabbed the controls and buried th
e right conveyer into the asphalt like an anchor. Instantly the rear wheels bucked off the tracks. Rooster-tailing sparks, the back end swung wide until impacting the embankment. Lickter yanked the controls free with a grunt. The sudden lurch tossed him backwards until the front end collided with the bridge railing, flinging him face-first onto the dash.
He swore as the shockwave shook the entire bridge. Cracking his neck, he lifted himself high enough to see past the front of the car which now dangled over the bridge’s edge. “Perfect. Now one last thing, or this is all for nothing.” He lay down on the floor of the streetcar and hung his head out the entrance far enough to see under the bridge.
After a few seconds he caught glimpse of what he was looking for. Just beneath the level of the river, a cast-iron grate still sealing the mouth of the storm drain tunnel announced its virgin status. Oleg hasn’t passed. Lifting his gaze up river, he realized he wouldn’t have to wait long.
A hundred yards off, the water rippled with a phantom ‘V’—no snake or bird on the surface to make it. With more effort than he would have liked, Lickter lifted himself back into the cabin of the car and took a seat behind the machine guns. Let’s make this look good. Clicking open the trigger guards, he depressed them both simultaneously and did his best to fill the river with lead.
Water spit from the surface as he plunged round after round into the river, rattling the cabin of the streetcar in the process. Just when he feared Oleg wasn’t taking the bait, a deluge of bubbles burst from the front of the sub as a torpedo churned toward the storm drain. Distracted, Lickter let up on the triggers. Instantly a spout of flame slammed into the streetcar, engulfing the windshield.
Retreating from the driver’s seat, he bound down the length of the car and out the back. He took two bullets from his pocket, gouged a deep slash across the primer with his knife and tossed them into the fuel tank. Catching his breath, he counted to three while Oleg continued to assault the bridge with burning oil. Slowly he took a book of matches, tore a single stick from the rest, and held it in his hand. Everything depended on timing. Diesel’s flash point wasn’t until 125 degrees. The smokeless powder in the bullets wouldn’t normally cook off until 250. By damaging the casings he hoped to find a sweet spot—burn off enough of the fuel to heat the bullets while leaving the tank open for oxygen intake until…
The alarm in his head went off. He struck the match, held it to the book and dropped the entire thing into the tank, igniting it with a woof. Turning to hustle clear of the car, Lickter spotted Starr galloping out of the smoke and heading straight toward him. He swore while still distancing himself from what he hoped would be a spectacular explosion.
Remaining clear of Oleg’s line of sight, Lickter jumped and waved his hands. Starr continued barreling towards him. “Stop! It’s gonna blow!” Finally the situation dawned on the senator. Lickter continued at a sprint, narrowing the gap between him and Starr to a dozen yards. “Get down!”
The bridge shook, rocked by a thunderous explosion. The last thing Lickter saw, before a wave of fire and hot wind flattened him, was Starr and his horse hurdling the bridge railing just ahead of the flames.
TWENTY-THREE
Over the Edge
Too late, Starr recognized the danger. Like a 2x4 the wall of air struck his face and chest as it tossed the streetcar end over end. No where to hide and buffeted by relentless flames, he and Willy veered for the bridge’s edge and leapt. The glowing surface of the river danced with burning oil and wicked shadows—an eerie, luminescent mirror reflecting one’s deepest fears.
A roaring wind pursued them as screaming metal and fragments of cement whistled in every direction—fire and shadow battling upon every surface. All the while, Starr and Willy sank, plunging ever downward in a failed effort of what? Heroics? The moment when one’s life is supposed to flash before one’s eyes, and all Starr could think of was, “I’m sorry.”
Slapping the surface of the water, an entirely different roar engulfed him. The muffled churning of Willy’s limbs, the rhythmic whirring of a propeller nearby, the constant boil of bubbles bursting and forming and bursting again. Before he could orient himself, a second shockwave slammed against him, forcing him down as water compressed his eyes and ears shut. Tumbling and helpless, the slick metal surface of the streetcar plunged past him like a javelin.
With a crumpling thud the car struck the bottom, jolting his awareness. Thrashing about in his tattered suit, he located the surface of the river. Next he caught the metallic shimmer of a propeller as it passed from the river into a large underwater tunnel. Finally, as if the viscosity of the water had slowed his thoughts along with his movements, he recognized the flagging efforts of Willy to swim to the surface. Before the jumble of information could translate to reaction, a stray hoof struck his temple, turning off the show.
~~~
After the invisible hand holding his face to the asphalt relented, Lickter heaved himself onto his feet. Stumbling to the downriver side of the bridge, he struggled to focus his eyes below the fire-scarred surface of the water. But the rippling mirror refused to reveal what lay beneath.
As the contents of his brain sloshed into place, a jumble of thoughts surfaced at once: Daisy, Starr and Oleg key among them. The rear of the streetcar jutted visibly from the river where it had embedded itself. That much of the plan had gone off without a hitch. But Starr and his damn hero complex. He swore, putting real emotion behind it. He shouldn’t have been such a hard ass with him.
On the northern shore Lickter spotted Starr’s horse, collapsed and motionless. The concussion alone probably pulverized the maze of tiny capillaries woven beneath the surface. He’d seen men survive a mining explosion just to drop dead minutes later, blood leaking from their nose and ears. The thought panicked him enough to check his own nose with the sleeve of his jacket. Relieved, he found it clean of blood.
The fall, the water, the streetcar—sometimes a man proved tougher than his horse. Maybe Starr had made it. Lickter genuinely hoped he had, but his feelings didn’t change the fact that Oleg had his daughter. Somewhere beneath the streets of Austin his Daisy shared the same recycled air with a sick, deranged bastard. With any luck he’d sold Rodchenko on his own death. He wanted Oleg to relax, stick to the plan. The tunnels—the place where Oleg felt most secure—would give Lickter the opening he needed. And he only needed a hair’s width.
If he could wring one more precision killing from his rotting bones and hollow conscience, he’d make it this one. If he had to greet the devil on the other side, he’d do it with outstretched arm. This was his business and his blood, and even the devil knew not to begrudge him that. Fumbling for a toothpick, he found his shirt pocket empty. He spit and strode toward the tunnel access a block north of the Congress Avenue Bridge.
~~~
Starr jolted awake as burning crude lapped against his arm. He rolled, half in the water and half on the muddy shore, until he struck something solid. Dizzy and coughing up water, he hoisted his face from the mud.
“Willy.” The horse’s side rose and fell faintly. Chunks of missing hide, burned away by the explosion and the globs of floating oil, revealed pink meat beneath. Starr heaved a thin bile, mostly water, as he wobbled on hands and knees around his companion’s battered body. The same two words from before raked his mind. I’m sorry.
For all the world’s wrongs from the beginning of time—if he could have apologized for them at that moment, he would have. Finally he rested his head on the horse’s cheek, Willy’s eye flitting open and shut. A weak snort registered his awareness of Starr. “Shhh, go to sleep, boy.” He stroked the bridge of his nose and scratched underneath his jowls. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, when we go for our ride.” With that the horse quaked a final time, exhaling his last and falling limp.
His dead horse’s body cooling beneath him, Starr surrendered to the choking grip of failure. Accusing finger by accusing finger, it encircled him one flailing identity at a time. A bumbling lover, a fickle frie
nd, an incompetent politician, a faithless son. A worthless nobody.
The oozing darkness absorbed his every thought, then his more delicate feelings, leaving nothing but fear and loathing. Like the smoldering tar on the river’s surface, the acrid anger clung thick to the walls of his heart—destined to either burn him up from the inside out, or burst forth like the human torches on the capitol lawn. So Oleg’s poison has consumed me after all… Teetering on the edge of blackness, he fell.
~~~
Wearily, consciousness crept through the veil until Starr found himself shaking with tears and draped over Willy’s neck, unaware of how much time had passed. Most of the fire on the water’s surface had gone out, the oil consumed. The sun crouched low in the west, peeking beneath the blanket of smoke curling outward from Austin like fog in a mountain valley.
Starr put a hand to each side of his head and squeezed, trying to push everything back into place. “Willy.” He brushed the animal’s cheek. “I’m sorry, boy. You deserved better. You were right about me. You always were.” Starr sat up on his knees, slowly surveying the scene around him, and struggling to remember how he’d gotten to the shore. Pain. He focused on the intimacy of his pain. “I’ll make it right.” The last thing he remembered was the bridge… the streetcar rippling with explosion. But there had been something else. Something about Daisy. His eyes widened as his conscious dawned. A tunnel.
Like a newborn foal, Starr stood, testing the uneven ground beneath him. He hadn’t been the one to kidnap Daisy. He hadn’t blown up the streetcar or lit the river’s surface with fire. Oleg had killed his oldest friend and threatened his newest—his partner, his soulmate. Nothing else mattered. His skin cracked with each new movement, and a pain so deep it emanated from his bones, pulsed with each beat of his heart. But he could see his next steps illuminated before him, his eight second instincts guiding the way.
The Austin Job Page 17
