Bum’s Rush: White Lightning Series, Book 2

by Debra Dunbar

  She paused, obviously waiting for Vincent to defend the accusation, but he refused to rise to the bait.

  “Then you parade me in front of your boss like some trophy,” Hattie continued.

  “That’s not my intention.”

  “Oh? Then tell me what will happen.”

  He shot a look at Lefty, whose face remained stony. “I’m not entirely sure. It’ll be what Vito says it’ll be.”

  “That’s supposed to give me comfort?”

  “No. But I can tell you this. He’s moved Heaven and Earth to bring you into the fold. And as long as you come with me, you won’t get sent upstate. Which means, assuming you act civil, you’ll be given resources. A place to live that’s a sight better than this. And you’ll have me to watch over you.”

  Hattie’s mouth twisted. “Listen here, Calendo. I may go along with this, as you have my parents under the point of a gun. I may play the part of the docile light pincher, as you’ll have a knife at my family’s throats. But I will never, ever, be your friend. You’ll only ever be the lying bastard who delivered me into slavery. So, chew on that while you go on about how close you’ll be.”

  Vincent shook his head. “You know, every time you say that word, slavery, it’s like you’re smacking me in the jaw again.”

  Alton snickered. “She do that a lot, then? Smack you in the mush?”

  Vincent rubbed his jaw. “More than you’d think.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Alton quipped, taking a sip of his whiskey.

  Hattie’s last nerve seemed to fray loose, and she spun on her father. “Da! Why are you acting this way? We’re his property, now. Don’t you see that?”

  Alton set down his glass, then reached over to smooth Hattie’s arm. “Ah, my dear sweet girl. Only, you’re not really a girl, are you? You’re a grown woman, now. Responsible for herself. You know, getting yourself in and out of the shite you do. Our days of protecting you are long gone. You’ve been the captain of your own ship for longer than either your mother or I are willing to admit to.”

  Hattie wilted under her father’s touch.

  He continued, “In fact, you’re the one taking care of your parents. Making me well again.” He waggled his brows. “If you think I hadn’t seen you slipping me something in my morning tea all these months, then your estimation of my eyesight is simply insulting.”

  Hattie released a single laugh.

  Alton gripped her fingers in both hands, pulling her forward. “Live your life, girl. That’s all that matters. That’s all we’ve ever wanted for you. I know, I know, we’ve been on and on about these damned crooks and their moonshine and Tommy guns, and how you should stay clear of that world. Fat lotta good that’s done ya, eh?”

  Hattie shook her head as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ve done just fine, Da.”

  “The only reason they’re here is because this lad thinks we’re the means to getting your cooperation. But he’s wrong. At least, he ought to be wrong. And if he had a brain under all that hair, he’d know it.”

  “What are you saying?” Hattie gasped.

  “What I’m saying,” her father replied in a firm tone, “is that you have to get on about your life, ’Attie. You want to do that with these gangsters? I’ll support you. You want to be your own woman somewhere else? Then you go do that, and hang the rest of these bastards. And us with them.”

  Vincent sat stunned by the man’s words. How could anyone feel so selflessly devoted to another? Was this what family was meant to be? As opposed to the continual betrayal and belittlement he’d equated the word with?

  In an unexpected rush of motion that set everyone in the room, including Lefty, to high alarm, Hattie released her father’s hands and reached over Vincent’s pistol to grip the sleeves of his suit. Her face blazed with desperation.

  “Will they be safe?” she rasped. “Truly safe? From everyone, including all of your bastardly goons?”

  Vincent nodded. “You have my word—”

  “Your word means nothing,” she snapped. “I’ll never trust you’ll keep your promises because one word from your boss and those promises will go right out the window. You can say what you want about protecting my parents, but you won’t—not the first moment that promise conflicts with what the Crew wants. If anything, you’ve just proven that to me.”

  Vincent swallowed hard. He’d already surrendered the integrity of his own vows. He was a traitor to Hattie. No oath would hold meaning from this day forth. “I promise you that I’ll put a gun to the head of anyone who so much as looks at your parents sideways.”

  “I’ll need more than that,” she insisted.

  He replied in a volume low enough that only she could hear him, “What do you want from me?”

  “I want Smith’s head on a bloody pike, is what I want!”

  Vincent clenched his hands into fists. His stomach twisted into a knot. Glancing over to Hattie’s parents, he saw they were as shocked by this sudden declaration as he was. Only, Vincent knew precisely what she was saying—and why.

  He cleared his throat with a pointed glance at Lefty. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Hattie sat back as her grip on his suit relaxed.

  “Your parents, and your associates as well…they will all be safe,” he added. “I swear it.”

  Hattie peered at Vincent with an otherworldly intensity. This was deeper than any oath he’d made before. This was beyond any loyalty he’d ever shown to the Crew. This was a life-bound debt.

  She nodded. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “Then…we’re solid?”

  Hattie dropped her hands to the table. “Feed my parents. Take me to your goblin.”

  Vincent sucked in a breath of sheer hope, then nodded. “Okay.”

  He raised his hand, and Lefty stepped forward to urge Alton and Branna to their feet. He murmured assurances of his gentility as the gunman who had roosted inside Hattie’s bedroom emerged, pistol in hand.

  Alton lumbered to his feet, catching as his hip gave him a complaint. Hattie rushed to his aid, kicking the chair aside as she got to her feet. Once she’d aided her father to standing, they both peered at Branna.

  She remained seated.

  “Ma?” Hattie put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s decided. Either you smooth the way for us, or you add to the suffering.”

  Branna’s face pinched tight, then eased into a sorrowful release of will.

  “I…oh, fine then.”

  Lefty corralled Hattie’s parents quickly, speaking in short but polite tones as he urged them to pack only what was necessary for one day. At the end of the second day, they’d be afforded certain luxuries and accoutrements—assuming Hattie complied as expected with the Capo’s direction.

  It was enough to send them downstairs within ten minutes’ time. Lefty paused by the door frame leading to the stairs. He shot Vincent a dubious glance.

  “You’re taking her in alone?” he whispered.

  Vincent replied, with Hattie busied behind him with her own packing, “It’s safer this way.”

  “Because her illusions don’t work on you?”

  “That’s the long and short of it.”

  Lefty shook his head in contemplation. “That’s a weird thing. I don’t like that that’s a factor.”

  “Well, what you like don’t matter a hill of beans, does it? Get her parents to the hotel. I’ll take her to the Capo. It’ll all be over come sunrise.”

  Lefty reached to grip Vincent’s arm. “You’re certain she can’t weave her magic over your mind?”

  Vincent blinked, then realized Lefty was talking about Hattie’s illusion abilities. “I’m certain. She’s tried time and time again. No, I’m set.”

  Lefty escorted Hattie’s parents to the car downstairs, set to deliver them to a suite in the Old Moravia Hotel overlooking the city. It would be a nicer evening than Vincent had ever enjoyed, to be sure. Silk sheets. Champagne. Caviar—whatever the balls that was. And most importantly, the entire
ty of the Baltimore Crew protecting them.

  It was the wild card, Alexander Smith, that put the hook in Vincent’s plans. What if Hattie wasn’t simply being hysterical? What if Smith truly was double-dealing? Would that matter at the moment?

  The clear answer was a resounding “No.” Vincent had Hattie Malloy. And she was coming quietly. The matter with Smith could wait.

  He escorted Hattie down the flight of stairs to the street, once her parents had been carted off under Lefty’s ministrations. She preceded Vincent with limp posture, seemingly resigned to her fate. Vincent kept an eye on her nonetheless. He’d been sucker punched by Hattie one too many times to really trust she wouldn’t try something, even if simply out of spite.

  Outside, a figure leaned against the Alfa Romeo, rolling a cigarette.

  Vincent sighed. “You’re supposed to be two doors down.”

  DeBarre smirked and licked the wrapping paper. “I wanted to meet her. Is this your light pincher?”

  Hattie stiffened as he slipped the cigarette between his lips and offered her a hand to shake. “Loren DeBarre.”

  She glared at his hand without response.

  As he pulled it back, he shook his head. “Yeah, that’ll be her alright.”

  Vincent grumbled, “I told you to not to show your face. Her magic still works on you.”

  DeBarre shrugged, then stiffened. His eyes bugged, and he took a step back. Just as Vincent was about to turn to check over his shoulder, DeBarre released a belly laugh that echoed off the surrounding buildings.

  Vincent peered at Hattie, who smirked up at him.

  “What are you doing?” he muttered.

  DeBarre pointed at Vincent’s face, tried to catch his breath, then burst into more laughter. “She…you…you’re a…”

  “I’m a what?” Vincent snapped.

  “You’re Josephine Baker,” Hattie replied as she moved for the passenger side door.

  Vincent rolled his eyes, then waited for DeBarre to compose himself.

  Finally, DeBarre said, “You’re gorgeous. Hey, can you keep him this way?”

  “I’ll meet you at the hotel,” Vincent grumbled, moving around to the driver’s side.

  “Yeah, yeah. One more stop, then I’m skedaddling back to Philly. Hate to think what Arnoud’s done to my city.”

  Vincent slapped his shoulder. “Drive safe.”

  “You too.”

  Vincent climbed into the car and cranked the engine. He sat as the motor rumbled, hands on the wheel, staring forward through the glass. Hattie joined him in his silent repose.

  “I’d like to think of this as a beginning,” he told her.

  She continued to stare straight ahead. “Just drive the bloody car.”

  He engaged the gear, easing the Alfa Romeo up the lane, turning at the next intersection.

  The thunderstorm that had been brewing over the Bay finally decided to waltz across dry land. Rain spat upon the glass of the windscreen, and soon the inside had fogged over enough for Vincent to reach forward and wipe it clear with his sleeve. Puddles gathered along the sides of the streets, which were mostly empty. He kept the car toward the middle of the road to keep the wheels from rutting into the mud. All the time, he kept Hattie solid in his periphery. Night. Rain. Fog. These were all means for her magic to come dirt cheap. It wouldn’t be hard for her to play with light here. But he wouldn’t see it. This was the safest way to move Hattie Malloy—him at the wheel, and no one else.

  What would working with Hattie be like, now? She had clearly written him off as an enemy. The thoughts darkened his mind, so he decided to try to break the mood.

  “Josephine Baker, huh?”

  “What?” Hattie snapped.

  “You know, I saw her once. Up in New York, when I—”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a truck pulled to a halt just past the nearest intersection.

  Vincent laid on the brakes, sending the Alfa Romeo fishtailing one way, then twisting almost straight again in a rush of rainwater and mud. The car slid to within inches of the truck.

  Their heads jerked forward, then back again as they came to a full stop.

  “Shit!” Vincent spat, reaching for the door latch.

  His vision filled with light as he looked to his left. Two headlights, then an eruption of motion and noise.

  Vincent pinched time out of reflex. Shards of shattered glass sprayed into the cab, slicing his cheek as they dangled in midair, reflecting the headlight beams of the car that had just rammed into his door. The raindrops hung like tiny prisms out in the street, nearly indistinguishable from the glass. A bend of steel edged toward his forehead, already sent shooting for him before he’d pinched time to its slow grind. The momentum of the impact sent Vincent sideways toward the door frame, even in the slowed bubble of time.

  As the steel of the door frame made contact with the back of his head, its imbued energy sank into Vincent’s body, knocking him instantly unconscious.

  Chapter 23

  A dull throbbing ache pounded through Hattie’s head as she came to. A wall of wood spread away from her face like a vertical fin. It took a moment before she realized that wall was, in fact, the floor. Her cheek pressed into rough-hewn planks, and as she struggled to right herself, she noted that her wrists had been tied behind her back. With a grunt, she struggled against the rope, the scratchy jute digging into her skin. Whoever had crafted this knot had meant business.

  With a few swings of her torso, she managed her way to a sitting position. Her eyes made out shapes in darkness. A low-hanging gable of rafters sat at a lazy slant overhead. Several posts held up the roof along the length of the stuffy space. She appeared to be in an attic. A tiny L-shaped banister stood at the far end of the attic, cordoning off what must have been disappearing stairs. Four louvered ventilation windows lined one wall, one of them with the slats completely broken off. Faint moonlight streamed in through them. The storm had cleared, making her wonder how long she’d lain here.

  The air was heavy with the fishy rot of the harbor, but this was no warehouse. Old furniture and a few steamer trunks sat at the far end of the dark space. They had to be in the city, probably atop one of the three-story brownstones near Canton. Just to Hattie’s right, a figure lay slumped against one of the support posts.

  Vincent.

  He had four times the rope invested in his immobilization than Hattie. Whoever had waylaid them with that car in the middle of a stormy night had made precautions for the man. They must have known who he was, and what he could do.

  Meanwhile, Hattie sat there in a simple wrist knot, as if an afterthought. Was she simply collateral damage? A hapless bystander in some sort of mob hit? The odds stacked in favor of that conclusion, and she pursed her lips to glare at the lump taking shallow, unconscious breaths before her.

  That rat bastard. He’d sold her family out, then got her caught in the middle of Crew intrigue before she’d even officially joined. Hattie scooted across the planks toward a nearby post, trying to get to her feet. Unfortunately, her ankle sent a spike of pain up through her leg as she tried to put weight on it. She slid back down the post with a quiet gasp.

  Even if she could find a way to free herself, it wouldn’t save her parents. At this point, she needed Vincent alive and intact. Otherwise, no one would believe her.

  And her parents would be dead.

  Hattie spun on her butt to slide toward Vincent. She jabbed his thigh with her foot once. Then twice.

  The air shuddered. Going thick, then thinning out again in flashes. It was his power. She recognized the dizzying sensation of slipping into the time bubble, but it was only in jerks and starts. She gave him a solid kick, and the air solidified. She panicked for a split-second, gasping against the air. Her lungs wouldn’t move. Her muscles were frozen. Her mind was free, but everything else in the world seemed truly trapped in time. Then the time pinch abruptly released as Vincent sucked in an enormous gasp, his body jerking against the rope.

&nbs
p; “Get a hold of yourself!”

  His wide gaze darted around the attic for a few seconds. He’d just emerged from the moment of the crash, Hattie deduced. The shift for him was sudden and jarring. Perhaps that was the way it always was, when a person is taken down in the middle of a time pinch?

  His breath came in ragged gasps until his nerves calmed enough for him to close his mouth and breathe through his nose. Shoulders bobbing, he tried to move his arms.

  “What…where…” he wheezed.

  Hattie squinted at him. A sheet of dried blood covered half of his face from a cut along the side of his temple. “Oh, Jesus,” she grumbled. “You look like hell.”

  He scowled. “Thanks. Where are we?”

  “Search me. An attic, apparently. Did you get an eye on whoever hit us?”

  Vincent shook his head. “Felt like it was deliberate. They wanted to take us alive.”

  “Aye,” she sneered. “A lot of that going around.”

  He glared at her. “Not helping.”

  “Why should I help you, then? Do I get a bonus, or something?”

  Without replying he pinched time, struggling against his bonds for a moment before releasing the pinch. The cut on his head broke open and a fresh drop of blood oozed sluggishly down the side of his face.

  “I’m trussed up like a damned pig here. They came ready for me.” He looked her over. “You, though?”

  “It’s painfully clear to me that you’re the one who got me into this mess,” she snapped.

  He nodded. “Yeah, well it looks like you’re gonna have to be the one to get us out of it.”

  “Who do you think put us here?”

  Vincent shushed her quickly, eyes looking up into space as he bent an ear toward the banister. Muffled voices sounded from below the planks. “I think we’re about to find out.”

  The attic ladder creaked against long steel springs, dropping through the floor of the attic, sending flickering gaslight into the room from below. The stairs clunked once, then twice as they were straightened, and heavy steps took the climb into the attic. A head emerged, followed by its enormous frame. Hattie recognized the figure.