Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  “That’s where we need to go,” he announced. “You were a tad off, mate.”

  Brody scrunched his face up unpleasantly.

  “Right, well, if I’m wrong, I’ll buy you a pint, eh?”

  “I don’t drink,” Brody admitted, cranking up the engine. “And if I did, I’d get it without charge.”

  Pierce huffed. “Fine. Go whichever direction you want, but if that ship leaves before we collect, you tell ol’ Kelly.”

  Brody mulled it over a moment. “We’ll go to your location, but if you’re wrong, I’m tossing your sorry arse outta this boat, got it?”

  You’ll bloody well try.

  To make sure the bastard stayed on course, Pierce directed him while holding the compass. He wouldn’t put it past Brody to deliberately miss their pickup so he had an excuse to force him to “walk the plank,” as it were. It also occurred to Pierce that he still carried no firearm and that, most likely, Brody did.

  Dammit.

  The Irishman stayed the course, and when they arrived at the location, Brody halted the boat and cut off the engine. No one was about.

  Both men used a classy pair of French Chevalier binoculars to scout the watery area.

  “See anyone?” Brody asked.

  Pierce did, and still he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It had the body of a schooner, but the sails were turned upward, facing the sky. Black smoke billowed from two rear smokestacks. Underneath each layer of canvas were large fans much like the ones on the Ekta. And like the sails they faced skyward, fanning strong winds into every canvas. A pair of propellers spun on either side of the rudder. And the only reason Pierce could see the rudder was because the vessel wasn’t even in the water!

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Pierce exclaimed, lowering the binoculars. “It flies?”

  “You’re joking, right?” Brody scoffed. “Airships have been around since the mid-1800’s. Diesel-fueled ships—like that one—are faster than the old coal-powered ones, though. Haven’t you seen them before?”

  Pierce shut his jaw tight. He quickly remembered Kelly saying something about a war airship when he had explained about the aerial bomb in his house. Pierce had tried to prepare himself for whatever this century threw at him in order to keep from blowing his cover, but that practice had failed him right then.

  “I . . . erm, didn’t think schooners flew anymore,” he threw out, hoping it would be enough to repair the damage.

  Brody tutted at him and cranked up the engine. “You’re a dolt.”

  The airship schooner slowed when the propellers wound down, as did the blades of the fans. The ship gradually descended until it landed like a graceful swan in the ocean.

  Pierce and Brody came alongside the vessel where shaggy-looking fishermen stood on deck.

  Brody cut the engine and asked the crew, “Captain Durand?”

  A man dressed in a long black coat, wearing a cap, and smoking from a corncob pipe, answered in an unfamiliar accent, “That’s me. You must be Kelly Quinn’s boys. He told us he’d be sending out an Irishman.”

  The captain had thick, greying muttonchops with stubble covering his chin and upper lip.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Brody acknowledged.

  The captain gave a curt nod with tobacco smoke breezing from his mouth and nostrils. “Good. Whelp, c’mon an’ collect your bounty.”

  Brody handed over the cash for the booze, and then he and Pierce loaded the barrels of alcohol, stored inside burlap sacks, into the backseat of the runabout boat and in a storage compartment in the rear. The workout helped get Pierce’s muscles going again. He was impressed by how many barrels they’d managed to fit in the boat. He estimated at least forty gallons, which wasn’t a bad take. There were still more burlap bags onboard the schooner, and when Pierce queried Brody about them, he said the crew must be waiting for another pickup.

  Sure enough, on their return trip, they passed another motorboat heading for the schooner. The two boats were a good distance off from one another, but Brody saw who they were.

  “That’s the Sugar Hill Gang. Violetta Romano’s lot.”

  “Romano, eh?” Pierce remembered Frank mentioning her.

  “The Italian mafia. We ought to be safe, though. Mr. Quinn made a pact with Romano.”

  “A pact?”

  “Aye, a treaty. No worries,” Brody assured him, a smile appearing from underneath his goggles. “We’ll be fine.”

  Twelve

  Pirates

  The sun had gone down by the time Pierce and Brody returned to the boathouse. They had no trouble with the Coast Guard, which made them both very happy.

  Even so, Brody appeared a tad on edge even after they had successfully loaded all the barrels into the milk truck and made their way on. Other than the threat of police, there wasn’t much to fret about, Pierce thought.

  While heading for the Meatpacking District, they said nothing. Pierce decided to try and start a conversation. After all, they hadn’t fought once during their excursion. Maybe there was hope. He handed Brody his pack of cigarettes.

  “Do you want one?”

  Brody gave it a sideways glance and then snatched the whole thing. He pulled a cigarette out and tossed it back.

  “You’re bloody well welcomed,” Pierce grunted, taking one out for himself before shoving the pack into his coat pocket.

  When he lit it and inhaled, the soothing touch of smoke in his lungs made him feel calmer. Brody seemed to experience the same rush when he lit his own. With nerves somewhat less frayed, Pierce tried again.

  “Where in Ireland are you from?”

  Brody checked the rearview mirror for the hundredth time since leaving the marina. “Eh?”

  He seemed rather distracted.

  “Where in Ireland did you come from, mate?” Pierce asked again.

  “Galway,” Brody replied simply. “And I’m not your mate.”

  Apparently, their little outing hadn’t mended any fences.

  Pierce huffed. “Just trying to make conversation, is all.”

  “You want to make conversation, aye?” Brody spat, sounding rather put out.

  Pierce cringed.

  “Let’s bloody feck talk about the land you stole from us, the Free State as it’s called, which started a civil war amongst the Irish.”

  “I, er . . .”

  Brody continued.

  “And the famine! The Irish were left to starve while your country did nothing to assist them! You damn Brits have stomped on the Irish for centuries, and to this feckin’ day, you’re still doing it.”

  “Whoa, hey now, listen, I’m fully aware of all that shite,” Pierce lied. “But you’re also speaking about the English as a collective whole. Not all English people are the same. Just as not all Irishmen are drunks.” He pointed to Brody who looked at him hatefully. Pierce threw up his hands. “I’m only sayin’, lad.”

  “So, if given the chance, you wouldn’t suppress people for your own gain?” Brody challenged him.

  Pierce could honestly say he wouldn’t, but he wasn’t going to give the bloke a straight answer.

  “Would you?” he countered. “Don’t act as though the Irish have committed no human indecency. Many wealthy families owned slaves when migrating to America. We’re all products of our time, wanker, but that doesn’t mean we have to be reflections of its evils.”

  Brody sucked on his cigarette and then retorted, “Och. That’s a cute little speech, Chaplin. But you’re full of shite, you are.”

  It was apparent they weren’t going to make nice. Washing his hands of it, Pierce cracked open his window and flicked his ashes.

  A few moments went by before they turned down Thirteenth Street. It was a long, dark road without streetlights, and it cut into the industrial area where closed-down factories and warehouses from the last century waited. A few were still in operation, but not many.

  Only minutes into the drive, Brody cursed, “Ah, feck.”

  His alarming tone grabbed Pierce’s attention. />
  “Eh?” he said before noticing the headlights of an approaching vehicle in the side view mirror.

  “It’s the pirates,” Brody announced, pulling his pistol from under his coat.

  Bloody hell, land pirates?

  Gunfire exploded from the oncoming automobile.

  “Christ! They’re aiming for the tires!” Brody exclaimed. “Grab the gun from the glove compartment!”

  Pierce opened the compartment and snatching out the six-shooter.

  Brody swerved the automobile from left to right, aiming to keep the gunman from coming up alongside them. Pierce checked the bullets in the chamber, a technique he had learned from watching Frank.

  “Keep the damn truck steady,” he demanded while rolling down the window and taking aim.

  He squeezed on the trigger. The kickback from the first couple of shots caught him off guard. Never had any flintlock pistol he’d ever fired kicked like this. It almost surprised him that he didn’t drop the thing. Acclimating quickly to the force of the firearm, he aimed for the driver through the windshield. That was no easy task, considering the only lights to guide him were the bloody headlights, which were shining brightly in his face. Not to mention the slushy roadway kept both trucks sliding about.

  Their pursuers had two shooters blasting away, which Pierce came to realize when he stuck his damn head out. One of the gunmen sat on the rim of the windowsill on the passenger’s side, and the other hung behind the driver’s side door. When Pierce started firing on them, the assassins redirected their aim on him. Sparks lit up around him as bullets smacked the car door. It amazed him to no end that he wasn’t shot.

  “Fuckin’ hell!” he yelled, falling into his seat.

  His face and fingers burned from both the cold and the panic.

  “Hang on,” Brody advised, shifting gears.

  He pressed on the accelerator, creating more distance between the two vehicles.

  “How did they find us?” Pierce asked.

  “Violetta Romano,” Brody retorted bitterly. “Her people must have informed her through their Sparky when they saw our boat. She then sent her hired thugs after us.”

  “I thought you said there was nothing to worry about because of the treaty.”

  “Apparently, the bitch doesn’t care for peace,” Brody snapped.

  There was a box of ammo in the compartment. Pierce worked with numb fingers to reload. The blistering winds from the outside didn’t help much. The bullets bounced out of his hand when the truck jolted violently forward. A loud crunch sounded in the back.

  “Shite!” Brody exclaimed. “They’re ramming our truck to force us to spin out of control.”

  “Is there anyone at the warehouse who can help?” Pierce asked while reaching for the ammo down on the floorboard.

  Brody took a potshot out the window. “Nope. We’re alone in this. And if they catch us, we’re dead!”

  “Bloody perfect,” Pierce grumbled, snaring a few bullets.

  Brody turned off just as Pierce managed to fully reload his pistol. The move did nothing to shake off the pirates. The bastards accelerated and soon afterward, the world outside Pierce’s window exploded into a brief, bright blast of heat.

  “Christ!” he yelled, covering his head.

  He looked in the sideview mirror and saw someone from inside the truck handing something over to the pirate who was hanging outside. What he held was on fire.

  “They’re throwing Coke bottle bombs!” Brody yelled as another glass bottle soared into the air, striking the side of their milk truck.

  The Coke bottle smashed and ignited, leaving small flames attached to the exterior. It caused Brody to lose his nerve some and the vehicle slowed enough to allow the pirates to ride up along their righthand side. Pierce caught a glimpse of the Asian man just before he fired at them. The bullet miraculously missed both Pierce and Brody and crashed through the driver side window beside Brody. The gun blast caused a loud, high-pitch ringing in Pierce’s ear. At least they hadn’t tossed in a Coke bottle bomb. Perhaps they had decided not to take a chance and set the car on fire, possibly losing the booze they carried. Perhaps they only wanted to rattle the driver—which they had succeeded in doing. Brody swerved, which cost the gunman a second kill shot. Brody didn’t give the cocker another chance. The pirate’s truck fell behind when he finally regained his bravery and accelerated.

  Instead of risking getting himself shot in the face while poking his head out the window again, Pierce suggested, “No, let them come up beside us.”

  “Are you outta your bleedin’ skull?” Brody seethed. “I’m speeding up!”

  “Don’t! You might lose control,” Pierce demanded. “I have an idea. Just trust me.”

  Brody didn’t seem too inclined to that, but before Pierce could explain his plan, the pirates rode up fast beside them with their assassin ready to shoot. Pierce hunched over as far he could, pushed on the latch, and swung the door open as hard as he could. The gunman was close enough that Pierce was able to whack him hard and cause the wanker to drop his weapon. For the briefest of moments, Pierce thought they had eliminated at least one of the threats. Then that eliminated threat grabbed the door before Pierce could shut it and yanked it open. The pirate pulled a knife and jumped inside.

  “Fuckin’ hell!” Pierce shrieked, suddenly finding himself face to face with the Asian man.

  The assassin leaped on top of him. Pierce needed to drop his gun in order to grab hold of the man’s wrist and prevent him from stabbing him. Pierce struggled to keep the man from getting all the way inside the car, for he could imagine the pirate snatching the steering wheel and causing the truck to spin out of control. Brody might also shoot Pierce in the spine in his attempt to blast through him and get at the pirate. Pierce needed to do something quickly.

  While holding the pirate’s wrists, Pierce used the only weapon he had—his forehead. He’d headbutted people before and it always left a sting. This time was no different.

  The bastard cried out with blood from his broken nose gushing out of his flared nostrils. The gruesome sight made Pierce wish the radio bulbs weren’t on for him to see it. The man appeared to have little fight left in him, but once again, Pierce was proven wrong when the pirate broke free from his grasp as Pierce tried to shove the bloke out.

  He took a firm hold of Pierce’s coat collar, yanking him forward and out the door. The pirate didn’t have it in him to keep his grip and so went tumbling onto the icy pavement and rolled out of sight. Before he could follow, Pierce hooked his arm around the window frame and his body swung out.

  “Shite!” he yelled, holding tight to the latch with his other hand, his legs dangling over the moving pavement.

  He wanted to reach for the seat, or even the doorframe, to pull himself in, but the suicide door had swung completely open. His muscles strained as he worked to keep himself elevated above the ground.

  “Chaplin!” Brody called out. “Get your arse back in here!”

  Pierce gave no response. His mind raced. He had to do something before the trucks slammed into each other and crushed him in between. He thought of letting go and hoping for the best, but the fear of breaking a bone or landing under the wheels kept him fastened to the door. His decision was made for him, though, when the pirates clipped them in the rear bumper. The panic in him rose when the milk truck spun. The vehicle had no chance against the ice, and as it circled 180 degrees, it took everything in Pierce’s power to hang on.

  The glow of the radio bulbs became a long line of blazing light that streaked across the air as the truck spun. When the vehicle finally came to a halt, Brody shook off his dizziness and looked toward the open passenger door.

  “Chaplin?”

  There was no answer from the dark outside. The British bastard wasn’t there. Whatever had happened, whether he’d fallen or had run off, it mattered little to him. In truth, he was willing to shoot Chaplin in the back while the limey was struggling with the pirate. Kill two feckin’ pricks wi
th a single bullet.

  Brody shifted the gear, ready to get going before it was too late. The truck rumbled and then went silent. Panic seized his pounding heart. He frantically twisted the key. The engine whined in protest.

  “C’mon, start, you bastard!”

  His door was flung open and a pistol nearly touched his nose.

  “Dete koi!” the pirate ordered.

  Brody froze for a beat before coming to terms to his dire predicament.

  “Dammit,” he grunted, raising his hands.

  As he exited, he recited a prayer inside his head, for he figured he was about to meet his Maker.

  As a child, growing up in the slums of Galway, Brody had found illness and death constant companions. Brody lost two baby siblings to cholera and typhoid fever. By the time he left Ireland, nearly his entire family had died. His folks were still alive, but too old to make the journey across the Atlantic. Like most immigrants, when Brody came to America, he had very little. A change of clothing and a few shillings in his pocket. Falling in with Mr. Quinn was the best stroke of luck he’d ever had. Working in the racket had earned him fast money, and he always sent half to his mum, da, and remaining brothers and sisters back home. He had lied about his occupation to his Catholic family, of course. Whatever greeted him in the afterlife, at least he’d looked after his kin the best he could.

  Brody had his loved ones in his thoughts as he got out and the gunman forced him to walk over to the headlights where the rest of the pirates waited. They were all Asian. Two had short hair and one had shoulder-length hair. They were dressed in black and brown leather jackets with many zippers and wore derby hats with long bandanas wrapped around the crowns. One word was written in Japanese on their hats: “Ghost.”

  Blast it! The Ghosts, like all pirates, were thugs, hired by mob bosses to loot and pillage product from rivals. And they didn’t come cheap. The Ghosts were the most brutal of the pirate gangs. They never left anyone alive.

  Their rig was parked nearby with both doors wide open where the Ghosts had apparently jumped out the moment the milk truck had stalled.