Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Aside from Andromeda and Mink, only one other woman stood out—a trophy that forewent the stiff, bulky, Edwardian dresses for something more form fitting. A sleek red evening grown graced her ballerina figure and matched her red lips and lacquered nails. Her hair, parted like black velvet drapes, framed an alabaster face with meticulously fine features. Her eyes were serious and dark, the kind of eyes that could bewitch a man. The kind of eyes that could make a priest forget his vows. Wage couldn’t help thinking they were the tell-tale eyes of a born sinner. One who looked strangely familiar.

  Wage pulled out the chair for Mink and took the seat across from the bewitcher. Andromeda was to his left and Mink to his right. He was a sinner in between an angel and the devil, across from another sinner.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Wage said after sitting. “It is a pleasure to meet and dine with all you this evening.”

  Four servants entered from a swinging door at the far side of the room and began shuttling covered plates to the guests and refilling wine glasses. Side conversations resumed about lobbyists, federal regulations, the price of coal, the current war in Europe.

  Morris Randolph, who sat to Andromeda’s left, ran a hand over his slicked brown hair and began his own side conversation. “So Mink, it’s been a while since we saw each other last. When was it?”

  “Your engagement party at Carnegie Hall,” Mink replied. Wage coughed into his napkin.

  “Ah, yes.” Morris stroked his thin, recently grown moustache. “Did you catch the final act? A riveting performance of the assassination of Julius Caesar. People thought it so real, they ran out! Cost me a fortune to take out an apologetic ad in the Times.”

  “I’m afraid I missed it,” Mink said.

  “‘Riveting’ isn’t quite the word I would use,” Wage interjected. Mink kicked him under the table.

  “Ah, you saw it too, then? I’m sorry, Walter, was it?” Morris asked.

  “Wage, actually. And may I say, you have a lovely home, Boris.”

  “Morris, actually. And thank you. Tell me, Wage, what is it exactly that you do?”

  Wage looked down at his corned beef and steamed greens. “Oh well, I’m in firearms manufacturing …” Wage coughed again, this time because a hand was caressing his thigh. Tender fingers traced up his leg.

  “Really,” Morris said. “Do you have any European contracts? I was quite certain ol’ J.P Morgan Jr. had them all? Business is booming over there.” Morris smiled and took a bite of his dinner.

  Wage took a brief moment to enjoy the feeling before looking over to the angelic Mink. She returned his look, not with tenderness, but with a curious impatience. Wage looked down and saw it was Andi’s French-manicured hand squeezing his inner thigh. Not Mink’s. He looked up at Andi in surprise. The devil winked. He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. That’s right.” Wage finally swatted Andi’s hand away discretely.

  “Actually,” Mink added, “that’s what we wanted to talk to you about. Perhaps after dinner, we could discuss a very lucrative joint enterprise.”

  Wage slapped away Andi’s hand again. “That’s right. I think you’ll take a liking to our proposition.”

  Morris stroked his chin. “Well, I am always looking to expand my portfolio. But please, we're all potential investors here. Tell us what you have in mind.”

  The bewitcher in red across the table kept her gaze on Wage as she sipped her wine. Her significant other, sitting across from Mink, chimed in, “Yes, yes. Do spill it, chap. Firearms seem to be a sure thing these days. That is, if you can actually get them to Europe. Damn German U-boats are everywhere.”

  “Wage,” Morris said, “this is my good friend Daniel Astor and his fiancée, Olympia.” The woman in red smiled. “I am sure they would love to hear your proposition as well.”

  “All right then,” Wage replied. “I have a fella named …” Wage coughed again. A hand had shot between his legs. “His name is …” Wage stammered.

  “A man named John Thompson,” Mink finished. “He has developed plans for a handheld machine gun. It will have a heavy stock with a forward grip to provide accuracy. We are looking for another investor.” She continued to talk to the eager businessmen. Wage peered down at his lap and noticed, not a hand, but a slender bare foot with shiny red toenails. Wage looked up at the bewitching woman whose strong, somewhat knobby toes now curled around him.

  As Wage stared, she sipped her wine, winked, and wiggled her to toes against him again. Wage mouthed the words, “Do I know you?”

  As everyone ate, Mink took the opportunity to finish her pitch, explaining in great detail the specifications of the gun in development. Then she discussed its strengths and weaknesses as it related to both urban law enforcement and soldiers on the battlefield.

  “Thompson’s non-mounted, high-capacity, handheld machine gun, eh?” Morris finally said with his last bite of dinner swallowed. “That’s not a marketable name. It needs something snappier, catchier.”

  “John Thompson’s submachine gun,” Daniel Astor recommended.

  “J. Tommy’s machine gun,” Morris continued. “Tommy. Gun. Tommy gun!”

  “I like it,” Daniel Astor said.

  “All right,” Morris said, rising from his chair. “Shall we all adjourn to the parlor for a cigarette and digestif before dessert?” Everyone followed his lead and got up.

  Mink caught up with Morris before he could leave the dining room. “Morris, if we could have but a moment of your time in private, we would be much obliged.”

  “He’s already heard your proposition, Mink,” Andi cut in. “Let my fiancé think it over.”

  “There is something else regarding the Tommy gun that we failed to share,” Wage interjected with a whisper. “We were hoping you could give us a … hand.” Wage tapped the man’s chest.

  “Sweetums,” Morris said to Andi. “Please see our guests to the parlor. I will be back for dessert.”

  Andi rolled her eyes. “Very well, my love.”

  Morris Randolph’s private study lacked the opulence seen throughout the rest of the house. To one side were trophy-filled bookcases, proving his achievements in tennis, rowing, cycling, fencing, and running. Every trophy recognized first place. There was also a modest writing desk and chair made of a much lighter wood than the paneling on the walls. On the other side of the room, a cluster of armchairs surrounded a stone fireplace. Morris sat at one of the armchairs and after finishing a small glass of lemon liqueur, reached for the cigarette case in his inner coat pocket.

  Mink quickly reached in her purse and pulled out a small tin box. Tesla’s special cigarettes were on one side, and the harmless smokes on the other. “Please try one of these,” she said. “They are Turkish, crafted for the Sultan himself.” Mink took one of the normal cigarettes and placed it in her mouth. She lightly shook the box so that the special cigarettes crested above the others.

  Morris looked at her curiously, then at Wage. Immediately, Wage stepped up and grabbed a special cigarette and placed it in his own mouth. Morris did the same, using his Ronson Wonderlite to light his, then Mink’s. He tossed the lighter to Wage, who caught it with one hand.

  “What do you want?” Morris asked, inhaling deeply.

  “We know the Baron’s death was real at your little party,” Wage said, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lip.

  Mink inhaled. “We also know that some of your boys are robbin’ banks up in Boston.”

  Morris Randolph laughed. “You see that phone over there?” He pointed to the writing desk. “I make one phone call, and the two of you disappear. Now, tell me why I shouldn’t make that call.” Morris reached into his other inner coat pocket and pulled out a Baby Browning pocket revolver. He aimed it at Mink and exhaled another plume of sweet-smelling smoke.

  “Because,” Wage said. “We would hate for your fiancée to find out about your little enterprise.”

  Mink noticed Morris’ gun hand start to waiver. His eye lids drooped. Tesla’s cigarettes were taking effect.<
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  Morris looked at Wage. “Why aren’t you lighting your cigarette?” he said, before dropping the gun, slumping, and falling to the floor with a thud.

  Wage walked to the door and latched the lock. He turned around with a smile. “How about that? Plan A worked.”

  Wage W. Pascal

  January 5, 1915

  Outside The House of Morris Randolph

  Manhattan, New York

  “Steady, Mink. Steady. Easy does it,” Wage said as he caught the top half of Morris’ body that limply hung out the window two feet above him.

  Mink, still inside the study, labored to hold on to the man’s legs. “Come on, Wage,” she said. “We don’t have much time.”

  “I’m tryin’,” Wage called up. “But this damn hedge is quite the inconvenience.”

  “Wage!” Mink grunted before letting go of Morris’ legs. His body crashed onto Wage and they both flattened the leafless shrubs beneath them. “Damn it,” Wage said angrily, getting up and inspecting the rips in his new suit. “Damn it. Damn it.”

  “Come on, Wage!” Mink called from above.

  “I’m fine, Mink. Why thank you for asking.” Wage used his boot to flip Morris over. A long, bleeding scrape ran down the side of the unconscious man’s cheek. “Good thing you were asleep for that fall, friend.” Wage grabbed the man by his lapels, hoisted him up, and stood him against the red brick of the house. From there, Wage intended to throw Morris over his shoulder. “Okay, Mink. Signal for extraction.”

  Quickly, Mink took out a signal mirror from her purse. She leaned out the window and reflected the moonlight down the block. In the distance, headlights flashed in confirmation. Amber Rose would be there momentarily.

  “Extraction imminent,” Mink whispered loudly. “I will get back to the party.”

  “OK,” Wage replied. “And, hey, Mink.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Good job, tonight. You did well.”

  She winked with one blazing emerald eye. “I’ll see you back at the party. I’ll leave the window unlatched.” Mink closed the window and drew the shade, leaving Wage and the incapacitated Morris Randolph in the darkness of the side yard. Wage leaned over to finally throw Morris over his shoulder and carry him out the gate.

  “So you’re just gonna walk outta here with him over your shoulder,” a voice said from behind him.

  Startled, Wage turned around and let go of his man. Morris Randolph slumped and fell once more into the hedge. Olympia eyed the downed man before looking back to Wage with eyes liked polished black marbles that glinted in the moonlight. “That looked like it hurt.”

  Wage recognized the siren’s voice. “Estella, isn’t it?

  Estella Blake put her hands on Wage’s shoulders. And with a seductive squeeze, she leaned in for a kiss. Then she drove her knee hard into his crotch. Wage collapsed to the cold grass.

  “You really didn’t recognize me in there, did you?” Estrella asked.

  “In all fairness,” Wage grunted and held himself, laying sideways in the yard. “You were dressed like a man the last time we met.”

  Estella Blake worked for the masked men who had crashed Morris and Andi’s engagement party. She had posed for years as a male butler named Warwick and had served a high-ranking member of The Hand, the one-eyed Baron DeLacy. He was an Architect to be specific; the last rank achieved before becoming a member of The Council. The Baron had killed Wage’s best friend, Sergeant 1st Class William Macdonough, better known as Black Vomit Bill. But to Wage, he was just Ol’ Bill.

  Estella had put a knife through the Baron’s heart on the stage of Carnegie Hall. The whole incident had been mysteriously covered up by Morris Randolph and the press. Billed as the “all too realistic portrayal of the assassination of Julius Caesar.” In truth, Estella had done Wage a great favor in killing the man that killed his best friend. He’d promised to buy her flowers.

  “It’s funny. Every time we meet, you seem to be on your back,” Estella said. “And to think, they called you the hero of San Juan Hill.”

  Estella Blake was also the younger sister of one Mortimer Blake, a pesky, dead-eyed corporal in Wage’s Rough Rider unit. Mortimer also happened to be the personal bodyguard for the three masked men.

  Wage moved a hand up to his belt line. He found the handle of Ol’ Snapper.

  “Don’t even think about it, Captain Pascal,” she said as she dug her three-inch heel into the side of his leg.

  Wage screamed again, hoping Mink might hear him.

  Estella finally relented.

  “Argh,” he grunted. “It’s Major, now. Get it right, dammit.”

  Estella laughed childishly. “You wanna know something?”

  “What’s that?” Wage asked, rolling to his back.

  “I actually like you.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Wage replied.

  Estella hollered into the night air with a stern voice, "Jack! Get over here, you big lug!"

  Seconds later, Wage heard Amber Rose’s flatbed truck pull up outside the gate. A homeless man had also arrived. He stood next to Estella and looked down at Wage. “No weapon is a match for charm,” he said, smiling and flipping a nickel that landed on Wage's cheek.

  Estella laughed again. “Grab Mr. Randolph,” she commanded.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the homeless-looking man said.

  The stout man slung Morris over his shoulder and walked toward the gate.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Major Pascal,” she said, following her accomplice. As she walked out the gate, she waved nonchalantly to Amber Rose sitting in the idling truck.

  Wage finally sat up, still in pain. “Shit.”

  Simon Hum

  January 9, 1915

  Over the Skies of the Purveyor

  Santa Fe, New Mexico

  “You know,” Dominic said from the Jenny’s aft cockpit. “When I asked Nikki to give us a more effective in-flight communication device, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  Simon, sitting in the forward cockpit, moved the tin can on a string from his ear to his mouth. “No, but it does seem rather effective. Tell me, are we close?”

  “Have a look on the port side. 10 o’clock,” Dominic answered. “Looks like the description we were given.”

  Dominic throttled down the Curtiss JN-2 biplane, affectionately called a “Jenny” by most American pilots. He banked left as he neared the locomotive graveyard, the supposed domain of one Mister Lou. After circling around a few times Simon asked, "Can you find a safe place to land?”

  Dominic yelled into his can, “I’ll scout the south end. Looks smoothest down there. This Jenny is pretty heavy, so I don’t think we’ll have a problem plopping her down.” Dominic adjusted his wide-framed goggles before setting up his approach with a series of turns.

  As the biplane careened toward the desert floor, Dominic yelled, “Might want to hold on up there!” Simon tightened his harness, gripped the side of the fuselage with his wonderarm, and closed his eyes. He felt the Jenny bounce, jostle, and cut down a few desert scrubs and cacti. Dominic remained calm, despite knowing that a deeper-than-anticipated rut could topple the Jenny over, killing them both.

  Dominic safely brought the plane within 40 yards of the largest structure on the grounds, a dilapidated building whose walls were made of train cars, with a crane jutting out from a wooden roof. After cutting the engine, they both climbed out. “Where do we start, Simon?” Dominic asked.

  “Follow me carefully and slowly, Dominic. Do nothing without first asking my permission. Do you understand?”

  “Sure thing, detective,” Dominic replied, placing his goggles atop his forehead.

  Simon surveyed his surroundings. The large building with train-car walls stood in front of him, with a handful of outhouses to its rear. Behind the outhouses were long, abandoned railcars and locomotives. Some of them had clotheslines outside of them. Others were affixed with wooden additions signaling, perhaps, that these great iron beasts had now become living quarte
rs. The entire place was eerily quiet. Desolate. The only sound came from a nearby hawk that screeched in the cold afternoon sun.

  Simon did an entire lap around the main building, mentally recording every tiny detail. When Dominic was not in tow, Simon made him peek in all the outlaying buildings and privies. The whole place seemed abandoned. Finally, both men arrived at what they assumed was the front door, a wheel-less railcar with colorful sign above it. “Stop,” Simon said.

  “What is it?” Dominic asked.

  “Blood spatter on the sliding door,” Simon said.

  Dominic went to get a closer look.

  “Stop,” Simon repeated, now pointing at the ground. “Blood pooling on the ground.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t even see anything.”

  “Take a closer look at the rocks. That discoloration, it’s blood. There was blood pooling here. The ground has since absorbed it, but the tiny stones give it away. Someone bled as a result of an injury they incurred while standing here. That explains the cast-off blood on the door. Then that individual most likely collapsed and bled here among the sand and stones.”

  “Who was it?” Dominic asked.

  “There isn’t enough evidence to determine it definitively, but given the height of the blood splatter, I’d say it was a man of above average size, or a woman of extraordinary size.

  “Damn,” Dominic whispered. “Did they die?”

  “Too difficult to tell without further investigation. Ready to see what’s inside?” the detective asked.

  “Sure thing.” Dominic opened his aviator jacket and withdrew a Colt Peacemaker with a six-inch barrel. It was dull iron with a grip of worn black leather. He opened the cylinder and ensured all six .45 caliber rounds were intact.

  “What is that?” Simon asked.

  “Why, this here beauty is a Colt,” Dominic said, snapping the cylinder back into place and pulling back the hammer. He smiled. “Just like the one Major Pascal carries.”