Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “Yes, I can see that. But why are you drawing it?”

  “Because we don’t know who or what’s in there. Now, come on. Let’s go.”

  The detective held back his companion with his natural arm. “Dominic, there is no sign of a threat. If you waltz in there with a drawn firearm, it will do nothing but precipitate violence. We are looking to avoid confrontation, not incite it. So. Put. Your. Gun. Away.”

  Dominic holstered his revolver like a pouting child. “Fine. But Major Pascal would agree with me.”

  The detective rolled his eyes. “Yes. I know he would.” Simon gripped the sliding railcar door with his wonderarm and threw it open.

  Dominic craned his neck. “Huh? Guess nobody’s home.”

  Simon surveyed the entire room. Although his memories had been lost, his natural analytical ability and attention to detail eventually returned to him. Simon was now in his element—finding clues, reconstructing events, determining crimes, uncovering trails. Detective work. It was the only thing he loved more than Amber Rose.

  “Uh … What now?” Dominic asked.

  “Now, we will break this room up into a grid.” Simon waved his arms at the room before them. “We divide it into eight squares. Two rows of four, to be specific. And we will catalogue everything we see in that grid, determining which evidence is helpful in locating the whereabouts or dealings of this Mister Lou fellow. We will start here and work clockwise. Do you understand?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll follow your lead,” Dominic said.

  “Also, mind the door, should we have any unexpected visitors.”

  “Sure thing, yeah,” Dominic replied, pulling a cigarette from his coat pocket.

  “Refrain from smoking, please,” Simon said. “Your sense of smell can be of great use in investigative matters. We wouldn’t want to dull it with smoke.”

  “Are you fu—”

  “Language please, Dominic,” Simon interrupted as he bent down low to inspect the first grid square.

  The investigative duo slowly and methodically worked their way around the one large room. When they made it to the second corner, they took a careful look at the copper still. An open jug, nearly overflowing with a clear liquid, sat underneath the spout. The detective smelled it. Odorless. “Dominic, taste this please.”

  “What? You taste it. You’re the detective. What if it’s poison?” Dominic whined.

  “Just taste it,” Simon barked.

  Dominic picked up the jug and took the slightest of sips. He closed his eyes and waited, half-expecting to double over. Finally he laughed. “It’s moonshine whiskey.” He wiped his brow in relief. “But you already knew that, didn’t ya?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  Dominic sneered and took another sip of moonshine. It had taken them more than an hour so far, and they had only covered a quarter of the building. Simon had worked without pause. “I’m takin’ a break,” Dominic announced. He carried his newfound jug to a booth in the center of the room, one fabricated from the cabin of the steam crane whose arm jutted through the roof.

  “Take care not to disturb anything, Dominic,” Simon said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dominic said, climbing the stairs to the crescent booth. “Uh, Simon. You might want to take a look at this.”

  “I have not yet finished this grid. Please—”

  “I think I found a whole bunch of blood pooling,” Dominic shouted back.

  Simon carefully made his way to the booth and noticed massive amounts of dried blood caked to the leather booth and wooden table, forming a great amorphous stain. “This is easily more than two liters of blood,” he said. “Someone died here. Right in this spot.”

  “No shit,” Dominic shot back.

  “Language, please.” Simon touched the table where he saw a few indentions in the wood to the side of a half-full jug and empty tumbler.

  “What are those?” Dominic asked.

  “Marks from a sharp instrument. A knife point, perhaps. Repeatedly dug into the table.” The detective leaned into the booth and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Jasmine. There is the faintest hint of jasmine. A woman sat here. Frequently. One with a slim figure.”

  “How do you know?” Dominic asked.

  “The impressions on the seat,” the detective replied. “One wide, one slim. It is a safe bet that this is where Mr. Lou always sat. Somewhere he could watch over his establishment. This was his throne of sorts. And a woman sat next to him.”

  “But all the blood is around his side of the booth.”

  “Yes,” Simon said. “I am quite certain Mr. Lou is no longer with us.”

  “Who killed him? Do you think it was Delacroix?”

  “I am not sure,” Simon said, scanning the entire room from this elevated position. “Hold on.” Simon said as he hopped down from the booth. He dropped to the ground on all fours. Meticulously, he scooped up dirt from the stamped earthen floor. There were small traces of yellow in it. He rubbed it between his fingers. Then he smelled it.

  “Now what?” Dominic asked.

  “Sulfur.” He noticed a large square imprint in the dirt nearby. “A crate full.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we have a trail,” the detective replied.

  “Great. I’ll go get the plane ready,” Dominic said. “I’m tired of this place already. Gives me the creeps.”

  “There is much more work to be done here, Dominic.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be outside,” Dominic said as he plucked a cigarette from his pocket and slipped out the door, half closing it behind him.

  The detective retraced his steps back to the grid square containing the copper still and resumed his original pattern. He got back down on all fours and eyed the dirt floor. That's when he heard a horse neigh.

  “Dominic? Dominic, is there someone out there?” Simon called.

  No answer.

  “Dominic?”

  No answer.

  Simon made his way around the room, careful to go through the squares he had already processed. He opened the sliding door wide and stepped through.

  There were seven of them. All masked. All atop horseback.

  Simon’s mind slowed down and recorded every detail. A variety of fading Stetson hats and matching Duster coats. Batwing chaps—some frilled, some not. Spurred boots. All the horsemen had their Duster coats open, revealing white tunics with red, Crusader crosses emblazoned upon them. All their masks were a dark leather stitched with a bright leather cross that divided their covered faces into fours. Most of their eyes now focused on Simon, save for two whose eyes and shotguns were aimed Dominic.

  Dominic stood there, hands in the air, a lit cigarette dangling from his lip. “We may have a problem,” he said.

  “Very perceptive,” Simon replied calmly, lifting his own arms. The man Simon took to be the ringleader had an medieval longsword strapped to his back. The ringleader shot his eyes to the detective’s metal arm.

  “Whaddya say? Catastrophic Emergency Plan?” Dominic whispered.

  Simon took his eyes off the captors to look at the young Dominic. “You would like to take on seven heavily armed men on horseback?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. Just like Major Pascal would do, right?”

  Simon turned towards the sword-bearing ringleader. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. My name is Simon Hum. This is my partner, Dominic DeFelice.”

  “Did you have to use my full name?” Dominic whispered angrily. “I mean, my mom still has no idea what I do for a living.”

  “Shut up, Dominic.”

  “Sorry, right. Yeah. Keep talking.”

  The masked men said nothing. The ringleader moved his Duster coat to his side, revealing a holstered pistol with another red Crusader cross on the grip. Simon recalled the book Colonel Roosevelt required all the Peacemakers to read—although he had his doubts as to who had actually read it. The colonel called it simply, The Black Book. It offered all the known information on secret societies, orders, an
d cults operating in the Western Hemisphere. The masks, the crusader crosses—Simon knew these men were Templars. The book had mentioned that they were known to reside, or at least frequent, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The Blood of Christ, the detective thought. How fitting.

  “Is there something we can be of assistance with?” Simon asked.

  The ringleader spoke. His leather mask muffled his voice. “We are looking for the one called Mister Lou.”

  “I’m afraid you may be too late. Our investigation suggests he has passed away.”

  “How?” the ringleader demanded.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t completed our investigation as of yet,” Simon said.

  “You're law enforcement, then?” the ringleader asked with an accent that suggested he was either from Texas, or perhaps Oklahoma.

  “Not exactly,” Simon replied. “I am a detective, but for an agency that you probably haven’t heard of.”

  “Pinkerton?” the ringleader asked.

  The inaccessible vaults of Simon’s memories buzzed. Flashes of a former life ran through his mind like one of Edison’s projectors, too fast to properly assemble. “No,” he said. “But tell me, why are you looking for him? Perhaps I can help.”

  “What’s with the arm?” the ringleader said, ignoring the question.

  Simon’s shirt and coat were rolled up to the elbow on his left arm leaving his wonderarm fully exposed. “My arm is useless without it. You could say it’s experimental.”

  They were all silent.

  “Listen,” Simon said. “It is my understanding that you are Templars, correct?”

  They remained silent.

  He continued, “This discourse would be far more productive if you were to lower your weapons and—”

  “Tie ‘em up,” the ringleader shouted, interrupting Simon. Two of the riders began to dismount.

  “Dominic, on my mark, get the Jenny ready. Do not delay. Do you understand?”

  “What?” Dominic whispered back.

  “Do not delay. Do you understand?” Simon repeated.

  “Yeah, yeah. But what’s the mark?”

  Simon’s arm clicked and his mortar launcher deployed. He fired it at the feet of the ringleader 15 yards away. Dominic plugged his ears and hit the deck.

  The mortar exploded in the desert air

  Horses reared and men flew from their saddles.

  The cigarette flew from Dominic’s mouth as he rose and sprinted for the Jenny. Simon followed, his single-shot mortar launcher retracting and his revolver deploying. When they made it to the Jenny, Dominic jumped half in the aft cockpit, adjusted the choke and primed the engine while Simon laid down cover fire toward the heavy smoke where the mortar had gone off.

  “It’s not starting!” Dominic yelled. “Come on, you piece of shit!”

  “Hit the ignition! I’ll jumpstart the propellers!” Simon yelled, his ears ringing. He placed a few more rounds before running to the front of the biplane. He grabbed the wooden prop with his wonderarm and pulled down as hard as he could.

  The engine started, smoke pouring from the exhaust.

  “Get in!” Dominic yelled.

  A Templar came racing out from the smoke, bearing down on their position and firing a six-shooter. The detective jumped into his forward cockpit as the Jenny started to roll. Dominic steered her right and punched the throttle. The horse galloped closer. Bullet holes punctured the fuselage.

  “Holy shit!” Dominic yelled as the Jenny picked up speed, bouncing on the hard desert floor. “Holy shit!”

  The galloper caught up. His six-shooter spent, he leapt from his horse onto the plane, his hands grasping on the lip of Dominic’s cockpit as he hung from the fuselage, his boots dragging on the ground. “We’re too heavy with him! Can’t get the speed to take off!” Dominic yelled.

  Simon unfurled the prototype nonlethal option of his wonderarm. He aimed the glowing wand at the masked man reaching for Dominic. He clenched his metal fist, and the wand sent a vein of lighting that hit the Templar. Electricity careened through the man’s body and sparked between his spurs. The man fell to the hard sand and tumbled. Without the excess weight, the Jenny sped faster and reached minimum lift-off speed.

  Simon and Dom lifted off into the cold New Mexico sky.

  After leveling out, Simon turned from his cockpit. “Honestly, Dominic. You must cease your infernal language.”

  FIRST INTERMISSION

  Mr. Vault, Mr. Black, & Mr. Steel

  January 9, 1915

  Madison Avenue

  Manhattan, New York

  Morris Randolph sat in complete darkness, his hands bound behind him with rope that also anchored him to a wooden chair. There was a similar arrangement on his ankles. He was shirtless and shoeless, only wearing his trousers. His Gabardine wool trousers by the feel of them. When was the last time he had worn them? He vaguely remembered a dinner party. How had he gotten here? How long had he been here? He flexed his muscles again, working hard to loosen his bonds that painfully dug into his skin. The wooden chair creaked as he twisted, turned, pushed, and pulled against his restraints. And then suddenly, he sensed someone else in the room. There was a pleasant scent, almost floral. It was a stark contrast to the smell of musty concrete, formaldehyde, and methanol.

  Someone lifted his blindfold. His eyes adjusted easily in the dimly lit space. Three buzzing lightbulbs, suspended from the ceiling, swung ever so slightly in the windowless room. A variety of tools, some of them disturbingly designed, sat atop the few tables and shelves alongside fluid-filled jars that contained skeletal remains. A skull floated in one, while a foot with attached shin bones ethereally bobbed in another.

  “Olympia? Daniel’s fiancée?” Morris asked in shock. “My god, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m afraid I had to call off the engagement,” Estella replied, pulling her shoulder-length dark hair behind her ears and smiling.

  “Jesus. You have to help me. Cut me loose, dammit. Now!”

  “Shhhhh,” she said, leaning over and placing a sole finger on his lips. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Olympia, what are you doing? Why are you smiling? TELL ME!” Morris yelled.

  Estella Blake took a step back and gracefully lifted up her leg. Her plain ivory dress lifted with it giving, Morris a view of the nothing she wore underneath. Her red-painted toes rested where his neck and shoulder met. Morris could feel the rough calluses of her bare feet, and the strength in her knobby toes—a telltale sign of a ballerina and countless hours of pointe work. “My name is Estella.” She straightened her leg slightly, enough to topple Morris. He fell backward in his chair, landing with a sharp groan as his head hit the hard concrete.

  Estella giggled and stepped around him. Her round, dark eyes reflected the three hanging light bulbs, making it seem as if three fireflies flitted across the mouth of a deep cave. Morris’ head rang as he stared at the plain gray ceiling. He heard the door open and turned his head to see a pale man in a derby hat stroll over to the woman who now called herself Estella.

  “Sister,” the ghostly man said.

  “Brother,” the woman replied.

  Standing over Morris, the man pulled aside his jacket, revealing a pistol in a cross-draw holster. “What have you done with our poor prisoner?”

  “Nothing worse then what you would do to him, Mortimer,” Estella replied.

  Morris immediately recalled the disturbing tools he had seen. Fear took hold of him, causing him to hyperventilate and his corded muscles to twitch.

  Mortimer knelt and inspected Morris’ chest. With his long finger, he traced the circular mess of scars and brands that formed The Hand’s insignia above his left nipple. The pinhole scars that made up the circumference of the circle were from when he initially sowed on his Disciple’s stone. The raised, deep pink tissue within that circle was a brand, which signified his promotion to Medjai. Within the brand there were smaller scars, intricately curved and carved in such a way that they
formed an alien inscription around the brand. This signified his next promotion to Vizier.

  “The last man I brought down here had something like this, too,” Mortimer said, still lightly tracing the scars. “Do you want to know what I did to him?” Mortimer looked to the jar that contained the skeletal foot and shin bones.

  Morris’ eyes darted to the same jar, then to the jar with the skull in it. His own head convulsed. Then, he spat at Mortimer’s feet. The globule landed on Mortimer’s shiny black Oxford shoe.

  Mortimer stood, fists clenched. “I tortured him here for weeks,” he said with almost childlike impatience. “Now, I am going to do the same thing to you!”

  Morris’ lips trembled as he spoke. “I … I don’t believe you!”

  Mortimer walked around Morris to a nearby table. He returned dangling a large silver medallion and chain over his head. The inscriptions on the medallion resembled the scar tissue on Morris’ chest. It was an Architect’s chain. “Kasper?” Morris whispered. “No. No. NO!” Mortimer smiled and continued to swing the medallion like a pendulum over Morris’ head.

  “Get him up,” snapped a dark figure from the open doorway. “Get him up!”

  Estella and Mortimer worked in unison, lifting Morris back upright. Two robed and hooded figures came into view. One wore the golden mask of a snarling lion, the other a menacing goat. “Good evening, Mr. Randolph,” the lion said. The goat chuckled and bobbed his head.

  “Who … Who are you? Jesus, who are you people! What do you want from me?” Morris asked, panicked, his head still ringing.

  “We, Mr. Randolph, are the superior species,” Mr. Vault replied. “Do you even realize what has allowed you to grow your little criminal enterprise lately?”

  “Bribery. Extortion. Racketeering,” Mr. Steel added.

  Estella caressed Morris’ neck. The soothing feeling was out of place but strangely welcome. “There were rumors,” Morris said. “Rumors that … The Council …they’re no more. No one heard from them. With Baron DeLacy dead and Kasper missing …”

  “No, he’s dead, actually. Remember?” Mortimer said, pointing again at the jars.