As they stepped into the warehouse, Cicero froze. “Did you hear that?”
Tom stilled as well. But there came nothing more, not even the scratch of mice. Then the wind picked up slightly, and the roof creaked above them, as if in protest.
“Just the building,” Cicero said in relief.
Tom remained grim. “Let’s see that other room, before this place comes down on our heads.”
They went to the other door. “Hexed,” Tom said.
Cicero’s breath caught. So far, they’d found nothing to take back to Ferguson. But surely the anarchists wouldn’t have a locked door inside their own hideaway if there was nothing important behind it.
Tom broke the hexes, and Cicero unlocked the door. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
The space was utterly packed with crates, boxes, and barrels. The light from Tom’s lantern wavered over them.
HIGH EXPLOSIVES: DANGEROUS was stenciled on the crates. BLASTING CAPS on the boxes. GUNPOWDER on the barrels.
“Saint Mary, Holy Familiar of Christ, preserve us,” Tom breathed.
A footstep sounded behind them, and the click of a hammer cocking froze Cicero’s blood. “Stay right where you are, and put your hands where we can see them.”
Tom turned quickly, his revolver leveled. Cicero stood between him and the door, already raising his hands. Two men filled the doorway, one with a pistol and the other a shotgun. Both looked hard-bitten, their mouths twisted in anger, and he didn’t question they intended to kill Cicero and him both.
The one with the shotgun pointed it at Tom. “I said hands up! Revolver on the floor, now!”
The world seemed to sharpen to unnatural clarity. The black bore of the gun trained on him. Cicero’s coat, bright against the washed out clothing of the anarchists. The smell of gunpowder from the barrels.
The hum of hexes from the boxes and barrels, so many he could feel them vibrating in his teeth. Meant to keep the gunpowder and dynamite from exploding too early, or catching fire from open flames.
“Let’s just talk about this,” Cicero said, voice shaking.
“Shut your hole,” said the one with the pistol. “And you, drop the damn gun, or we’ll put a bullet in your face.”
Even with the hexes, the anarchists were hesitant to shoot in the direction of the explosives. Magic could only do so much, after all. As soon as they were out of the room, though, it would be another story.
“All right,” Tom said. His pulse beat in his throat, and the hexes buzzed in his bones. He’d never tried breaking a hex without touching it, let alone so many at once. “Just hold your fire.”
He crouched slowly, then set the gun on the floor. The wood gave him a connection to the hexes, a channel through which he could push his magic, and the vibrations in his teeth intensified.
Now or never.
Black spots danced across his vision, and he nearly pitched forward. “On your feet!” one of the men shouted. “No funny business, or we’ll put an end to you this second.”
Tom’s head spun, but he rose to his feet. The vibrations had fallen silent.
“Now out,” said the man with the shotgun. He and his companion stepped farther back into the warehouse.
“Go on,” Tom told Cicero.
Cicero glanced at him. His face was white with fear, so pale Tom could make out the beginnings of black stubble along his jaw. Surely he knew just as well as Tom that the explosives behind them were the only thing keeping them alive.
“It’ll be all right,” Tom said. “I’m right behind you.”
The fear eased from Cicero’s face, and he nodded. Hands still up, he edged out the door. Tom started after him.
Then, in the doorway, he turned. Before either of the other men could react, he smashed the lantern down onto the floor with all his strength.
Flaming oil splashed everywhere: onto crates and barrels and boxes. The rest of it ran across the wooden boards, making for the huge pile of explosives.
“Fuck!” shouted one of the anarchists.
They both bolted for the side door. Tom grabbed Cicero around the waist, tossed him over one shoulder, and pounded after them.
“Are you insane?” Cicero shouted. He thrashed, but Tom merely tightened his grip and kept running.
They burst out of the warehouse into the cold air. Tom didn’t bother looking around for the anarchists, only kept going, stretching his legs to their fullest. The river lay before them, surging in its banks, lapping at the pier he dashed onto. Ignoring Cicero’s high-pitched shriek, he leapt from the end of the pier, just as the warehouse exploded behind them.
The river water was so cold it stole Cicero’s breath and seized his muscles. For a moment, he was only conscious of darkness and water, of Tom’s arm still locked around his waist.
Then light appeared above.
Flaming debris slammed into the water all around them. A hunk of timber twice as large as Cicero plunged toward them, and he squirmed madly, trying to get away before he was crushed or drowned or…
Tom’s shoulder shifted beneath his belly, and the water raked his hair forward as Tom began to swim. The timber sank lazily past Cicero’s face, bubbles streaming from its heated surface.
Then they were going up, faster and faster, until Cicero’s head broke the surface.
He drew in a great gasp of breath as Tom emerged beside him. “You—you—fottuto bastardo! Cazzo!”
“Steady!” Tom seized him by the collar, keeping his head above water. “Don’t thrash. Can you swim?”
“Of course I can’t bloody swim!”
“Then relax. Trust me. I won’t let you drown.” Tom slid his arm around Cicero’s chest. “There we are. Just stay still. I ain’t letting you go.”
Cicero managed to relax into his hold. Tom swam for the docks with purposeful strokes. Behind them, the night sky was bright with fire. Alarm bells sounded, and a fire company raced past.
The current had carried them a short distance downstream by the time Tom pulled them shivering back onto dry land. “Are you all right?” he asked.
The cold seemed to have eaten into Cicero’s bones, but he nodded. “Other than being soaked, you mean?”
“Aye.” Tom slung an arm around Cicero’s shoulders. “We need to find somewhere dry and warm, as quick as we can. I’m thinking the nearest precinct house. Can you walk?”
Cicero tucked his hands beneath his arm pits and huddled against Tom’s side. “I’m not hurt. Just wet. No thanks to you, madman.”
Tom winced. “It was the only thing I could think of at the time. And it worked, didn’t it?”
“I suppose.” Cicero felt like ice, except for the places Tom touched him. The warm solidity of his arm around Cicero’s shoulders, both kept him on his feet and comforted him. That moment, when the anarchists had pointed their guns at them, and Cicero had been certain they’d both end up dead…
Tom had already come up with a plan. And when he promised Cicero it would be all right, despite the guns aimed at their heads, he’d believed Tom with his whole heart.
“You make me feel safe,” he whispered. It felt like a revelation. Because large, strong men had never been safe in Cicero’s experience.
But Tom was different. Tom used his strength as a shield, not a bludgeon. His hands to protect and uphold, not beat down.
Tom made him feel…well…loved. In a way he never had been before.
“I won’t let nothing happen to you, cat,” Tom said. “Not while I’m still breathing.” He nodded at the green lamps which had appeared around the corner. “There’s the precinct house. What say we go inside, dry off, and get something warm in you?”
Cicero’s teeth had started to chatter, but he still managed, “Not in front of everyone, Thomas. I’m not that sort of fellow.”
Tom snorted. “Like hell you ain’t.”
“Well, not where it would get me arrested.” He slid out from under Tom’s arm regretfully and straightened his coat. “All ri
ght. Let’s tell the officer on duty that we just blew up his wharf, shall we?”
It was nearly dawn when Tom reached his neighborhood again. His whole body ached with exhaustion, and he longed for nothing more than to curl up on his bed and sleep for the next three days. The streets were nearly deserted when he descended from the El’s platform. The gaslight fought through a low fog, and shadows gathered beneath the spindly trestle. Tired as he was, when one of the shadows moved, Tom’s instincts kicked in, bringing his hands up ready to fight.
“I hate this time of year,” said a voice rough with whiskey and cigarettes. The dim light touched Horton Phelps’s face, revealing a wrinkled map of pain. “Used to love it. Picking out toys for the children—a wooden train for Hal, a doll for Missy. I’d set aside a bit from every job, just to make sure they could have something waiting for them Christmas morning.” He stopped a few feet away from Tom. “Until you fucking killed them, Liam O’Connell.”
Tom’s heart pounded, and he had the absurd desire to run. As though he could leave the past behind. “It was an accident,” he said, his voice rough even to his own ears. “Old Mogs knocked over the lamp and set himself on fire too.”
“Like I care!” Phelps lunged forward to shout it in Tom’s face. Tom started to step back, but Phelps seized him by the collar. “You O’Connells cost my gang the job that would have made us all rich. But that wasn’t enough for you. You killed my men. Burned down my home and roasted my family alive, so I can still hear them screaming in my sleep.” His eyes narrowed, and a wild look came into them. “You took everything from me. Seems only fair if maybe I take everything from you.”
Tom shoved him, hard. Phelps stumbled back, and Tom grabbed him by the collar in turn, pushing him into the maze of the trestle. “You’ll keep your mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you,” he blustered. His mind raced frantically—there had to be some way out of this. He just had to keep Phelps talking long enough to figure out what.
Phelps laughed; it turned into a phlegmatic cough. “I thought you were Mike, when I saw you at the restaurant,” he said. “Risen from the grave and come back to haunt me. By why would Mike’s ghost be dressed as a copper, eh?” He shook his head. “Too young to be Danny, and I saw his body anyway. So I knew you had to be Liam.”
“So you what—followed me?” Tom gave him a hard shake. “Not smart, Phelps, following a copper so you can threaten him.”
“I’ve got nothing to lose, do I?” Phelps’s grin was manic, as if he’d taken some cocaine-laced tonic. “But you…I asked around your tenement. Looking for my friend Liam. But they said oh no, that apartment belongs to good old Tom Halloran, local copper and hero of the people.” The grin faded. “I lost everything, but you? You gained a new life.”
“At the cost of my family’s blood,” Tom said. “You ain’t the only one who lost everything, you goddamned fool.”
“Don’t you dare. Whatever happened that night, you brought it on yourselves.” Phelps’s gaze turned haunted. “Your gang…they were like rabid dogs. Worse—rabid familiars. Like they’d been human once, but forgotten how to ever be again.”
Tom swallowed thickly, fighting back the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. The smell of blood, Danny’s red eyes, the ruin where Ma’s face had been before Da tore it off. “What do you want?”
“I want my wife and children back.”
Tom’s grip loosened. Saint Mary, he was so tired. “I know. I want Da back, and Molly, and Danny, and all the rest. But I can’t do that.”
“Then what good are you?” Phelps stared at him coldly. “I haven’t decided what I want yet. Maybe I should just come to your tenement one night and burn it to the ground. Stand outside and listen to you scream, just like my Hal screamed.”
Bile coated the inside of Tom’s mouth. “You can’t. You’d best believe I make sure every landlord on my beat keeps the fire hexes painted fresh and charged. Ain’t none of those buildings burning down.” Not like the wharf tonight. At least the final count had only been three old buildings and no lives lost, not half the precinct.
“I could tell the Police Board they’ve a wanted criminal on the force.”
“You could.” Tom’s heart thudded wildly, but he kept his voice level. Bored, almost. “Then what?”
“Then you rot in Sing Sing for the rest of your life. Illegal hexes, inciting a riot, arson, murder…hell, they might send you to the electric chair.”
“They might.” Fear iced Tom’s veins, but he struggled to keep it from showing on his face. “Maybe it would even be justice served if they did. But you ain’t interested in justice, are you, Phelps? If you were, you’d have turned me in the first day you saw me. You want revenge.”
Phelps cocked his head. “I suppose I do at that.”
“Then what? We meet up someplace quiet, have it out between us?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But I will.” Phelps took a step back, then another. “Until then…watch your back, copper.”
Cicero led the way through the detectives’ area to Ferguson’s office, his step lighter than it had been in days. True, they hadn’t yet found Isaac—but they’d made real progress. Now they knew the anarchists had been making hexes, and it wasn’t hard to infer Sloane was involved. The two men from the warehouse had been caught by an alert patrolman who found their behavior suspicious, and transferred to MWP custody. Neither had talked yet, but surely it was only a matter of time before they did.
Even better, after finding the explosives, they had real proof of a serious plot afoot in the city. He and Tom weren’t alone in this any more. After last night, they’d have the full weight of the MWP behind them.
Cicero glanced up at Tom, who walked beside him. Even though Tom looked awful—bags under his eyes, his hair unkempt, his shoulders slumped from weariness—warmth filled Cicero’s chest.
He paused outside of Ferguson’s office. “Thank you,” he said with a smile. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
Tom returned the smile with one of his one. “I could say the same.”
Cicero pushed open the door and strolled in. Ferguson and Athene were alone; Athene on her perch, and Ferguson behind his desk. Ferguson appeared almost as exhausted as Tom, and he didn’t smile when they entered.
“Close the door,” he said.
A little of Cicero’s good mood slipped away. Tom shut the door and took off his hat. “Sir, ma’am,” he said, nodding to Ferguson and Athene in turn.
“Halloran. Cicero.” Ferguson didn’t sound any more pleased than he looked. “Sit down.”
Cicero perched on the edge of a chair. “No need to thank us for a job well done,” he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “I suppose you want to discuss the next steps?”
Ferguson rubbed at his face. “Well done, you two. You found and stopped an anarchist plot, that’s for certain. You’d be up for a medal, if you hadn’t blown up a building and set two others on fire.”
“What?” Cicero blinked, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. “Better their warehouse blow up than city hall, or the post office, or whatever target they had in mind!”
Tom didn’t seem nearly as surprised. “Aye, sir, but we had no choice. Like I said in the report last night, it was us or them. And if they’d done away with us, those explosives would still be sitting in their warehouse, waiting to be used.”
“I’m not disagreeing.” Ferguson sat back and folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “It would have been nice if we’d been able to recover the explosives, but I was a detective for fifteen years. I know you do the best you can at the time.”
“Then why don’t you seem more enthusiastic?” Cicero asked cautiously.
“Because the Police Board, none of whom have ever actually served as police, disagree. I spent three hours in front of the commissioners this morning, explaining why you shouldn’t both be fired on the spot.”
Cicero felt as though he’d plunged into the river again. “Wh-what
?”
“Politics,” Tom said flatly. “That’s it, ain’t it?”
Athene hopped off her perch, shifting on the way down. “Your friend is a sharp one,” she told Cicero.
Remembering how he’d argued with her about accepting Tom’s help, Cicero felt heat rise to his cheeks. “I don’t understand.”
“The New Year’s Eve celebration is Friday night.” Ferguson leaned back in his chair and exchanged a glance with Athene. “Delegates have already started arriving from Chicago, San Francisco, cities all over America. The explosion of a warehouse full of bomb-making materials makes New York look bad. Like we can’t control the anarchist element and keep the delegates safe.”
“We probably kept them from being blown up!” Cicero exclaimed hotly.
“We know that, Cicero,” Athene replied. “The truth is, if this had happened under the supervision of the regular police…the board still wouldn’t be happy about the explosion, but they also wouldn’t be shutting down the investigation.”
Cicero sank back into his chair, feeling as though the world had dropped away from beneath him. “They’re…shutting it down?”
“That ain’t fair,” Tom exclaimed. “And it don’t make any sense, neither.”
“The Police Board hasn’t been friendly toward the MWP since former Chief Cavanaugh tried to assassinate Roosevelt,” Ferguson explained. The words sounded oddly distant to Cicero’s ears. “They’re inclined to take the explosion and fire as more evidence the MWP is…not out of control, precisely, but in need of firm direction from them. And their direction is to keep things quiet until after New Year’s.”
“But New Year’s was circled on Sloane’s calendar!” Cicero came to his feet. “The anarchists mean to do something then, surely!”
“There’s no direct evidence linking Sloane and the Rooster to the anarchists,” Athene said.
“Are you insane? We found hex-making equipment at the hideout, and we heard Sloane say he needed hexes from Janowski!”
“Which doesn’t mean Sloane was involved in anything criminal.”
Cicero stared at her. None of this made any sense. “So…what? We’re just going to let this go? Forget about Sloane? Leave Isaac missing? Ignore the fact we still don’t know exactly what happened to Gerald and Barshtein? Don’t know what hexes the anarchists were making in their warehouse?”
Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk Page 16
