Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  Violetta raised her gun. At least he would receive the mercy of a quick death.

  The blast was the last sound he ever heard in this life.

  Kelly Quinn arrived at the warehouse within an hour after receiving the call from Jamie Walsh.

  “There was an ambush at the warehouse,” Walsh had told him from the first payphone he’d made it to. “I’m not sure if anyone survived.”

  It turned out that no one but Walsh had. He had managed to escape while the shootout was happening, but William Jones, Devin O’Casey, and Brody Kier had all been executed.

  Two of them had been butchered by gunfire. Jones lay beside the truck in a thick, crimson pool of blood, his entire body a mangled piece of meat. The same went for O’Casey, whose head was no longer recognizable. Kier had been found lying on his back with one bullet in the chest and another near the center of his forehead. His eyes were staring upwards as if he had been looking at the most horrific thing on Earth.

  Worse of all, the cargo had been stolen! Thousands of dollars’ worth of alcohol taken! The thieves had even ripped open crates and stolen what spirits Quinn had left.

  “Youze think it was Romano, boss?” Garcia asked, holding his handgun close to his side. “Or Clark?”

  “Clark? Maybe. It’s Romano who’s aiming to take me out, though.”

  “Why would she leave this crate, though?” Lithgow asked, standing by the last remaining container of alcohol.

  “Maybe dey ran outta room, eh, boss?”

  Sirens sounded nearby and were quickly growing louder.

  “It’s the bull, Mr. Quinn,” Lithgow announced unhelpfully.

  “The bitch must have tipped them off,” Quinn surmised. He realized he and his boys had walked into a trap. “She wants us pinched.”

  She let Walsh live so he could call me here!

  “What do we do, boss?” Garcia asked.

  Quinn looked to his car parked inside. They wouldn’t have time to drive it out before the coppers arrived, and they couldn’t simply run away on foot. Both the vehicle and the building were registered in his name.

  Quinn removed his coat and jacket so he could slip off his gun holster.

  “We can’t make a break for it, boys. Mr. Lithgow, take all the guns out the back and hide them.”

  “Right, boss,” he said, rushing over to collect Quinn’s and Garcia’s weapons and holsters.

  He then bolted for the rear exit and vanished. Quinn hurried over to the open crate of alcohol. “Mr. Garcia, help me close this lid.”

  In no time, they had covered up the booze.

  Black and whites vehicles squealed to a halt in front of the building. The bull soon jumped out, and over a dozen swarmed in through the open doors, guns drawn.

  “Hands up!” a few ordered them.

  Quinn snapped into character.

  “Thank God you’re here, officers!” he exclaimed urgently, hands raised. “I’ve been robbed and three of my workers have been murdered!”

  Quinn had one shot at this. He had to put on a show to maintain his freedom. He started off strong but then started to waver when he saw none other than Sergeant Hawk Geo. He looked as dangerous as his pictures in the papers.

  Geo marched over to Quinn. As he did, Quinn spied Officers Dylan Agnew and Timothy Cian, his coppers on the take. He needed to get to them.

  “You’re the owner of this place?” the sergeant asked Quinn.

  “Yeah,” he answered, keeping his hands in the air. “I just arrived and found my place like this.”

  Meeting Sergeant Hawk Geo face to face was more nerve wracking than he ever thought possible. The sergeant was very tall and broad. Quinn had done a little research on the lawman—know thy enemy and all that. Geo was an ex-general who obviously hadn’t left his war days in the past. He had continued the fight as an NYPD officer. He had a hard face with soulless eyes to match. His teeth were crooked and yellow.

  “We received a call about a shooting,” the sergeant explained. “Did you witness anything?”

  “My assistant and I didn’t see a thing until we arrived and found everything as you see it now.”

  “Search them,” the sergeant ordered Agnew and Cian, who had conveniently posted themselves nearby.

  “I’m a businessman, not a thug,” Quinn argued as Agnew searched him. “I don’t carry weapons.”

  “Perhaps,” the sergeant said. “This area has a reputation for unlawful occurrences. We recently discovered badly burnt bodies not far from this very building.”

  “He’s clean, Sergeant,” Agnew informed the sergeant, as did Cian, who had searched Garcia.

  Geo didn’t break his fixed stare on Quinn. “What is it that you do, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Quinn, Sergeant,” he answered, lowering his arms. “Kelly Quinn. I own The Village Antique store. I use this warehouse to store my inventory.”

  “Not exactly a safe place to do so, Mr. Quinn.”

  “Indeed,” he grunted, glancing at Brody’s body. “But it’s cheap. And I had hired these men to guard the building.” He forced a bereavement expression onto his face. “God rest their departed souls. I’ll need to inform their families.”

  Geo’s own hard expression did not change, which worried him.

  “Perhaps you will, Mr. Quinn. Perhaps you won’t.” With that, he turned to the waiting officers standing about. “Search the warehouse! Leave nothing uncovered.”

  While the sergeant joined his officers, Quinn turned to Agnew. “The crate over there by Mr. Garcia.”

  The officer nodded and went to his partner. They opened the lid, rummaged through just as thoroughly as the other coppers had searched the other wooden cases, and then closed it up. Officers Agnew and Cian lifted another, smaller, crate, placed it upon that one, and searched it. When they were done, they announced to the other cops that no alcohol was inside those crates and left to look through the others. Quinn secretly blew out a breath of relief, as did Garcia. His relief didn’t last long. Was that the only one?

  He focused on the rest of the bull. “Be careful! There’s a lot of fragile items stored here.”

  As the search continued, Garcia causally leaned against the crate of alcohol and lit up a cigarette. Quinn sucked in a breath and approached Sergeant Geo, who was observing his men.

  “What is it that you’re looking for, Sergeant? Alcohol? I assure you I’m no bootlegger . . .”

  “You mentioned your name is Kelly Quinn, correct?” the lawman responded. “You wouldn’t be the same Kelly Quinn who owned Quinn & O’Sullivan?”

  “I was, yes.”

  “And now you’re peddling a bunch of old stuff?”

  “Well, I can’t exactly reopen my business, now can I? After I was forced to shut down my brewery, I still needed to make a living. Collecting antiques has been a hobby of mine for many years, so I decided to start selling them.”

  Quinn did his best to remain calm. He understood fully what the man was capable of.

  The officer gave no response, only walked off, lighting a cigarette of his own.

  After every container was searched, the two-hour search finally ended. During this time, the homicide team had arrived and investigated the murder scene. They traced out the bodies in white chalk and indicated bullets with markers with handwritten numbers on them. A pile of shell casings was found behind a single crate near where the trucks had been parked. The gunmen had fired a machine gun. Photographs of the departed were taken. After the coroner collected the dead, the detectives asked more questions. Afterward, Quinn and Garcia were allowed to leave.

  “What are we going to do, boss?” Garcia asked from behind the wheel as they drove away.

  “Right now, Mr. Garcia, I’m not sure.”

  That evening, business picked up at The Attic. People were packing in, ordering their gin and tonics, Jack Daniels, beer, and wines. The speakeasy was filled with cigarette smoke and chatter. George tended bar while the two waitresses, Fiona and Bernice, bustled about, as usual.
r />   Managing had given Pierce new territory to explore, but he began growing utterly bored with the routine. Granted, it was nice not having to freeze out in Rum Row, but he had been doing the same thing since before Christmas, sleeping through the day, eating breakfast at four in the afternoon, showering, and then popping in at the general store. He would meet up with Lucy after her shift ended and sometimes they’d have a bite to eat before he went to The Attic, or he would head to her place for a bit of fun under the sheets. Other times, they would go to his flat. Lucy was quite taken by Marvin the mantis. On the weekends, they’d see a show.

  Finally, he had asked her not to come around The Attic or the antique store anymore and explained the reason why. She seemed to understand well enough. Every Friday, Pierce would stop in at the bank and put half his earnings into the security box. Lucy had a birthday coming up next month and he was thinking about surprising her with the money he had saved for her.

  Honestly, if it weren’t for her, Pierce might have already bought a ticket and headed out to California. Who knows? If he made it as an actor, perhaps he’d buy her a bloody château anywhere she wanted to live in France.

  Pierce thought about these things as he entered the cramped office to retrieve change from the safe for the bar register. With a cigarette hanging from his mouth, he counted out what he needed, then dabbed out his smoke into the ashtray and returned to the noisy speakeasy.

  Can’t wait to get this bloody night over with.

  He put the loot into the brass National cash register and went about doing his usual rounds. Pierce didn’t mind this bit. He rather enjoyed chatting with people. It also helped him fine-tune his American accent, which he flaunted to keep Leon Clark from finding him.

  After lighting a smoke for a lovely young woman, he was turning to go about his business when he found his feet nailed figuratively to the floor.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he grumbled under his breath.

  He headed for the bar.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Pierce said to the Trickster. “Lookee who it is, eh?”

  He came up beside the god and leaned against the bar. The Trickster turned from the little wind-up Christmas tree ornament and smiled at him, showing off his perfect teeth. If the Trickster ever shaved off that beard and mustache of his and applied a smidge of makeup, he would easily pass as a woman. He wore a black and red zoot suit, which clashed with that tacky feathered hat of his.

  “Pierce Landcross,” he said in that deep voice Pierce could never forget. “Small world.”

  “Small world?” he chided. “We’re not bloody far from where you left me, bruised and hurting, remember?”

  His side ached just talking about it, and thinking about those bums made him shudder.

  “I do,” confessed the Trickster. “And you remember the reason why I brought you here. Until the threat is taken care of, I can’t take you back to your rightful time.”

  He hadn’t come for him, which gave Pierce relief.

  “How are your injuries now?”

  “A bit sore,” Pierce informed him, rubbing his side. “Hurts to laugh.” To the barkeep, Pierce called in his fake America drawl, “Hey, Tin Man, a glass of Benton’s Old Fashioned, eh?”

  George glared at him while a few patrons laughed. “Don’t call me that, Isaac.”

  “Just joshing you, George.”

  “Good,” the Trickster praised him. “You took my advice and changed your name. Even your accent, too, huh?”

  “Only around certain folk,” Pierce explained, reverting to his natural voice. “I’m used to living under assumed names, anyway. Listen, there’s something I want to ask you.”

  “Order a bottle of whiskey,” the cocker interrupted. “We’ll drink together.”

  Pierce knitted his eyebrows together. “What makes you think I want to drink with you?”

  The Trickster gave him an exasperated look. “Stop acting like being dropped off here is the end of the world. I could have plopped you in the middle of the Amazon jungle and let you deal with headhunters.”

  Pierce thought about responding but quickly decided against it.

  Take it easy, old boy, he told himself. Remember what happened at the theater.

  “Right,” Pierce yielded and then hollered out, “Georgie. A bottle of whiskey, yeah?”

  When he raised his hand to catch George’s attention, the Trickster spied the 38. holstered under his jacket.

  “You seem to have done well in the short period of time you’ve been here.”

  “S’pose. But I’ve endured the most confusing days of my life.” He tipped his chin up at the Zeppelin passing across the skylight. He smiled as he thought about Lucy. “Motion pictures, automobiles, zeppelins. Bloody hell—airplanes? The bleedin’ world has gone and gotten all cluttered up with machines. I honestly thought I was about to go mad in those first few days.”

  “Could have been worse,” the Trickster threw in.

  George came over with their whiskeys. He set the bottle down and left to tend to other customers. Pierce lifted his glass and eyed the Trickster.

  “I fell into some trouble that got me mixed up in a smuggling racket,” Pierce explained. “I helped sneak booze into this speakeasy. My experience in this sort of thing has earned me a rather quick promotion.” Just talking about the ridiculous law caused Pierce to slap his own forehead lightly. “What sort of free nation bans alcohol, eh?”

  The Trickster chuckled at him. “It won’t last. It never does. It’s simply a piss poor way to try to make mankind more civilized.”

  “Aye, well, that word, ‘civilized,’ has no meaning, in my opinion.”

  “Exactly. What does it mean to be civilized?” The Trickster raised his glass to him. “To a pair of civilized gents like us.”

  Pierce shook his head petulantly. “Right. To us, then.”

  They tapped glasses and drank.

  “If you haven’t come to bring me back, why are you here?”

  “I’m on a treasure hunt,” he answered unexpectedly.

  Pierce stared at him before starting to laugh. “A treasure hunt, eh? What game are you playing at?”

  “A treasure hunt game,” he responded flatly. “Like I said. I’ve been challenged to find certain items.”

  Bloody hell. He’s serious.

  “What sort of items?”

  Pierce was suddenly intrigued. What on Earth—or in the universe, rather—would otherworldly folk be searching for? Where and how far would they have to go to find them? Thinking about what all these beings saw and experienced, Pierce could only dream of having the opportunity to journey so endlessly.

  The Trickster took another casual drink of his whiskey. “Drink up, boy. They’re coming.”

  That threw him. “Who?”

  There was a loud crash from the door downstairs. People were yelling at the doorman as they clambered up the stairs. Pierce’s chest tightened. He knew they were buggered.

  “It’s the coppers!” George called out.

  “Shite,” Pierce cursed, running from the bar.

  Moments later, the bull burst in, pushing the doorman in with them. They immediately swarmed into the fray of panicked people. Pierce took advantage of the distraction and grabbed Bernice by the hand on his way behind the bar. Fiona ran into the office and slammed the door close.

  “C’mon,” Pierce said to Bernice, leading her through the chaos.

  George already had two bottle bombs lit by the time Pierce and the woman joined him behind the bar. This was what Kelly had instructed that the staff do in the case of a raid.

  “Get out of here,” Pierce ordered George, taking the bottles from him.

  George didn’t need to be told twice. He opened the secret door and let the waitress enter first before following.

  The coppers were ordering people to stay still, even firing a shotgun blast into the ceiling. Pierce didn’t wait another moment. He threw the bombs—one over the counter of the bar, where it crashed beneath the d
rapes, and the other right into the shelves of alcohol, where it burst into flames. The place was suddenly bright with wild, flicking fires that quickly went to work devouring everything they touched.

  The order the bull was trying to establish quickly backfired as people scrambled to escape through the only door leading out. Pierce crawled into the secret crawlspace and reached the way leading to the office. Fiona, who had escaped through the office, had most likely taken the same route. Pierce went in to check. When he arrived in the small room, he found nobody. Pierce seized the opportunity to empty the safe. After loading up the moneybags and grabbing his coat from the office chair, he crawled back in just as smoke breezed its way underneath the door. He reached the ladder and climbed up to the rooftop.

  George and the two women were waiting for him.

  “Get your tail hoppin’, Isaac,” George exclaimed.

  The women, dressed only in their cocktail dresses, huddled together. Pierce rushed over, threw his coat around Fiona, and gave Bernice his jacket. George wore only his shirt and vest.

  “Where’s my coat and jacket?” he quipped.

  The small group rushed over to the ladder leading down to the fire escape, careful not to slip on the frost-covered rungs. They gathered at the bottom where George had his car parked. The windows of the speakeasy exploded as the fire broke through. People were spilling out from both exits of the antique store.

  “Mr. Quinn ain’t gonna be none too happy about this,” George remarked as he unlocked the door.

  They got in and drove off down the street. Pierce looked through the rear window at the inferno.

  “Couldn’t agree more, lad.”

  The eight-legged Sleipnir steed rode out of the realm where Kayden had roped him and flew across the sky over the Atlantic Ocean. The horse needed no wings, for the sheer might of his powerful legs kept him airborne. The mild air was a blessing. Though elves, especially wild elves, were more than capable of enduring harsh conditions, the calmer atmosphere helped with her concentration. And focus was exactly what she needed to survive. Many had heard about The Gate. Countless travelers had vanished into the mist surrounding it. The few who’d made it out spoke about the torn and rotting corpses within. It had taken Kayden days, but she had found some who did. After they explained how to survive in the mist, the wild elf continued her journey.