“Major!” Dom yelled as he reached blindly for the revolver he had dropped.
Simon spotted Dom’s gun. He grabbed it, turned toward Wage, and tossed it across the room with his wonderarm. Ol’ Smoker hit the smooth floor and slid almost to Wage’s boot. Wage retrieved it. Now he had two guns, seven shots, and a new plan.
“Simon!” he yelled. “The table!”
Simon deployed his one-shot artillery shell. The projectile flashed across the room, exploding the heavy wooden table and launching the black-clad figure backward against the receiving door to the loading dock. Wage squinted to see through the smoke. He could see the figure sit upright against the door. The artillery smoke engulfed them both.
Wage took a few steps closer. As the smoke thinned, he could see the black clad figuring holding his nozzle in both hands and scanning the room. The handle of Dom’s gun made Wage’s bare hand burn. It was a feeling he didn’t notice for long as he put all six rounds from Ol’ Smoker into the black shape in front of him. He saw the two bulbous eyes of the mask bob side to side now. Ol’ Snapper’s final shot went through one of them.
“Major!” Dom’s cry faded.
Mink Callahan
January 16, 1915
Pennsylvania Railroad Middle Line
20 Miles West of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
From atop his mount, Colonel Roosevelt lifted his dimmed lantern. “All right, that’s our train. Are you ready?” He and Mink both looked into the distance and saw the locomotive barreling toward them in the moonlight.
Mink patted her own borrowed mount, a copper-colored quarter horse named Dancer. “You’re sure we can’t just nab him when his train hits the station?” she asked.
“I told you, my dear. That’s far too predictable. When dealing with men like this, we always need the element of surprise. We don’t want to do anything that allows Delacroix to take a defensive position.” He turned the knob on his lantern and extinguished the small flame. “Just like we planned. Board the train. Get into the passenger car. Apprehend Delacroix. I will follow behind in case something goes wrong.” The colonel patted his leg. “I just wish I could ride as fast as I used to.”
“And the team of marshals, they’re in position?” Mink asked.
“They will swarm the car as soon as it hits the station and transfer our man to a holding facility.”
The train cleared a cluster of trees and entered the wide-open field in which they waited. White steam pulsed from the stack and fogged the half-moon that hung in the sky. Mink did a last-second check of her equipment. She had two Steyr-Hahn Model 1912 pistols, securely fastened in holsters, one on each thigh. Within her black duster coat, she had two sets of handcuffs and spare 9mm bullets. She pulled the dark bandana around her neck, almost up to her eyes, and tugged down the brim of her cattle hat. She muttered a quick prayer and spurred her horse as the train passed her.
The cold ground proved to be good footing for her horse as it raced behind the train. The only thing louder than the freezing wind howling in her ear was the thunder of Dancer’s hooves. Mink’s legs ached as she stood slightly in her stirrups, moving her body in tandem as her horse finally pulled parallel to the tracks. Judging by the trials Mink had run earlier, Dancer was near his max speed. The locomotive pulled only three cars behind it. The first was a coal car, the second a windowed passenger car with shades drawn, and lastly a boxcar, presumably for cargo. Mink caught her first break, as she saw that the sliding door to the boxcar was slightly ajar. She reached for the lip of the door, but lost it as Dancer slowed down. Unbalanced, she nearly fell off.
She didn’t know how much longer her horse could keep his pace. She spurred him on once more and encouraged him, “Come, on boy. Come on!”
Repositioned, she again reached over and grabbed the lip of the door. Although she had robbed a number of trains over the years, she had always been on them as a ticketed passenger first. She had never boarded a train in this manner. She had practiced the maneuver on a stationary train and stationary horse at the nearby rail yard, but things were different at full speed. Much different.
Mink lifted her right foot out of the stirrup and into the slightly open doorway, her hand still gripping the door tightly. Her left leg now burned in its effort to keep her upright in the saddle. She counted quickly to three, and with her remaining strength leapt from her saddle, kicking her leg over Dancer as he started to slow again. Her left hand clung to the side of the boxcar. Even with gloves on, she could feel the cold and splintered wood. With her head turned, the wind caught her hat at the right angle, and blew it off into the night. Her red hair that had been tucked inside was now ablaze and whipping in the night air. She put her shoulder to the door and leaned in, using her leverage to open it wider—just wide enough to fall inside.
She lay on the floor of the baggage car a moment, catching her breath. A sense of overwhelming pride engulfed her and renewed her strength, which she used to finally stand. She surveyed the room. A faint, flickering light illuminated the car and revealed a few locked chests and larger, unmarked wooden crates. A head suddenly popped up behind one of the crates. “Hey,” a husky voice yelled. “Who are you? This is my car! Get out!”
Mink threw back her duster, drew her pistol, and aimed it with one arm.
The man’s hands instantly went up in a surrendering gesture. “Whoa! Hey! Easy now.”
“Who are you? How’d you get on this train?” Mink yelled.
“I hopped on in Cheyenne, right after they finished loadin’ it. I didn’t do nothing.’ Honest. Just hitchin’ a ride,” the man said.
After the debacle at Morris Randolph’s house, she knew better than to disregard this current situation. In this business, no one was who they seemed. She looked around. A number of cast-iron eyelets lined the walls. They were anchor points for when cargo needed to be tied down. She reached into her duster with her free hand and pulled out one pair of handcuffs. “Come closer,” Mink demanded and waved her gun. The man stepped tentatively from behind his crate. Judging by his clothes, he was clearly a transient. Mink stepped to the side and threw the handcuffs on the floor. She could finally see the source of illumination, a small fire flickering in a two-quart tin can. “Put those on,” Mink said. Cuff yourself to wall, to an eyelet over there. Do it now!”
The man obliged. As he took a step forward, she faintly detected his awful smell. He snapped one cuff to his wrist. Handcuffs were clearly not foreign to him. “You gonna turn me in?” he asked, watching the barrel of Mink’s gun follow him to the wall. He snapped the other cuff to a shoulder-high eyelet.
Mink holstered her pistol and said nothing. She pushed one of the chests across the boxcar so that it lined up with the only top hatch. She stood atop the chest, unlocked the hatch, and raised it enough that the wind took hold of it and smashed it against the top of the railcar. She reached both hands up and grabbed the edges of the hatch.
“Who the hell are you, lady?” the restrained man asked.
Mink braced herself and bent her knees. “I’m a Peacemaker,” she said before lifting herself into the frigid night.
The Bandit
January 16, 1915
E.J. Delacroix’s Private Train
15 Miles West of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Mink crept gingerly across the top of the boxcar, down the thin ladder, and across the massive coupling that connected to Delacroix’s passenger car. She braced the railing of the rear balcony and flung herself up and over it, landing as softly as she could in her riding boots. She waited on the small balcony a moment, peering through a crack in the drawn curtain of the balcony door. Even though her viewing angle wasn’t ideal, it was enough to see a passenger car that looked more like the warming room at a French chalet. Wood paneling, whale oil lamps, royal and refined furniture with floral upholstery on either side of the center aisle, and an iron stove with a glowing belly. To the immediate left and right of the balcony door were two smaller doors. Mink’s intimate knowledge of the rai
lroad industry told her that they were a water closet and storage space, respectively. At the far end of the car, in a cushioned chair and ottoman, a man was reading the paper. His shoes were off and his feet, clad in black socks, bobbed around to an unheard melody. Mink assumed he was whistling a tune as he read the paper. A straw boater hat rested on a stack of papers next to him on a side table.
Plan A, she thought, thinking of how Wage would have planned the mission. Most people don’t lock train doors while in transit. She would enter the car as stealthily as possible, hastily make her way down the aisle, and subdue the man at gunpoint.
Or she might have to go with Plan B—a locked balcony door. Break the glass with the butt of her pistol, reach in and unlatch it. Storm the aisle with her gun drawn. If the man reaches for something, aim low and fire so as to minimize the risk of killing him. Originally, Plan B involved first uncoupling the passenger car from the coal carrier. However, that would alarm Delacroix and allow him to take a defensive position. It also required her to lug a heavy wrench with her, which would have made the boarding process even more difficult.
She drew her pistol once again and lightly grabbed the handle of the balcony door. She cautiously pulled down. It was unlocked. Mink took a deep breath and as she exhaled, she swiftly entered the car. She scurried down the aisle, taking equally measured steps to keep her balance, like Quincey had taught her. She kept her pistol aimed at the center of the newspaper that still blocked her view of Delacroix. She breathed slowly and consistently so as to shoot straight should she need to, like Wage had taught her.
“Eric Jerome Delacroix. You are under arrest,” she said, stopping only a few feet from him.
The Judge bent his paper down. He scrunched his upper lip as he focused calmly on Mink through his wire-rim glasses. “My dear,” he said with a soft voice, “You are aware that probable cause is required to make an arrest in this country?”
“Get on the floor,” Mink commanded.
Delacroix looked behind her. “You could have at least closed the door behind you. You’re letting all the hot air out.” He resumed reading the paper and bobbing his feet. She couldn’t believe how unfazed he seemed by her appearance.
Mink took another step toward him. She reached with her free hand and snatched the paper from his grip, tearing it. She took another step back and let the paper fall to the floor. “On the goddamn floor.”
Delacroix sighed. He pointed to a small Wardian case atop a pedestal to his right. The plant had deep green leaves, wilted flowers, and deep purple berries hanging from it. “Do you like that plant? Do you know what it is?” he asked. Mink’s eyes flashed to the plant and back to the Judge. “It’s deadly nightshade,” he continued, not waiting for an answer. “Have you heard of it?”
Thoughts of Madame Sweetooth came to Mink’s mind. The old bayou priestess often used that ingredient when mixing up old voodoo recipes in front of Wage and her.
“A friend of mine, a doctor actually, told me all about it once,” the Judge said. “It’s sometimes called Belladonna. That’s “beautiful woman” in Italian. Did you know that?” He reached in his pocket for a cigarette.
“Hands where I can see them,” Mink snapped.
The Judge complied, bringing his hands together and placing them in his lap.
“Now, get on the floor. Do it now!” Mink yelled. She aimed her gun at his knees.
That’s when she felt it—filed fingernails gripping her throat and something cold and needle-like pressing against her neck. “Drop you weapon,” a tender voice whispered in her ear. The scent of jasmine filled her nostrils. The pressure on her neck tightened, and the sharp instrument felt like it might pierce her skin. Mink dropped her pistol. That’s when she realized her first mistake. She hadn’t cleared the water closet. Nor did she close the balcony door behind her. The sound of the train rumbling down the tracks had obscured any noise coming from behind her.
“This is my deadly little flower,” Delacroix announced.
Suddenly, Mink felt like the world’s largest wasp had stung her. The needle point entered her neck just below the jugular. And just as quickly as it entered, the large needle was withdrawn. Mink stumbled backward, gripping her neck tightly with both hands as blood pooled out of it. An Asian woman, as tall as Mink and wearing a cherry-red silk robe, came into view. Calmly, the woman inspected her sharpened metal forefinger. Mink spotted something tar-like that coated the end of it. She continued backing up, holding her neck. The blood continued to flow through her fingers. It was pooling, not spraying. The woman had not punctured an artery. Mink knew this meant she would not bleed out quickly—that’s what Quincey had taught her about hunting big game.
Her vision started to blur, and the light from the whale-oil lamps stung her eyes. She drew the pistol on her left leg that was concealed by her duster. She aimed it awkwardly and fired. Out-of-focus shapes fell to the floor, diving behind furniture. As she backed toward the balcony, the high-pitch click-clack became louder and the air became colder. The slide of her gun locked back. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel the final jerk and futile trigger pull. She dropped the gun and made her way over the balcony railing to the side of the passenger train. She hung there, on the outside of the railing, nearly losing her footing. Time for the Catastrophic Emergency Plan. This plan was about two things: adaptability and survival. That’s what Wage had taught her.
She looked down the train cars. Her eyes stung from the cold wind. On the ground in the distance, approaching quickly, was a large bright dot. She assumed it was the reflection of the half-moon above—on a pond, perhaps. But her mind, now as cloudy as her vision, couldn’t decide what was actually doing the reflecting. She didn’t have the time to figure it out, either, as she saw the reflection moving closer and closer. It was nearly upon her.
Using that as her marker, she let go of the railing and fell …
Nikola Tesla
January 16, 1915
The Harlequin, K-0
Off the Coast of Newport, Rhode Island
Rowing the wooden dingy just more than a mile out kept Petty Officer Wilfred Bain warmer than his pea coat with a turned-up collar would have done otherwise. Tesla and Amber Rose, however, had to rely on their coats and knit caps alone to protect them from the biting winds that whipped over the dark waters of the Atlantic.
“Why are we rowing out so far?” Amber Rose asked over a howl of wind.
“The Harlequin ain’t exactly on the books, ma’am,” Petty Officer Bain replied in his New England accent. “When the Bull Moose was still in office, he proposed the construction of a fleet of submarines—eight, to be exact. We call ‘em K-class. K-8 just launched last month. Anyway, the proposal was eventually funded by Congress at the behest of President Wilson. Only nobody took a close look at the paperwork. Typical politicians. The cost of the subs was purposefully inflated so that, as the fine print said, a testable prototype could be developed first. That would be K-0—us. Aptly named the Harlequin. However, the government still thinks there are only eight, when actually, there’s nine. We try to keep it that way. So we avoid docking in highly visible places, if we can.”
“Who commands the ship?” Amber Rose asked.
“The Harlequin ain’t no ship ma’am,” the petty officer replied. The broad-shouldered sailor stopped rowing and reached in his jacket. He pulled out a collapsible spyglass and extended it. He sighted the lighthouse on the shore behind them as well as a reflective buoy further north. Satisfied with his positioning, he lit the small floating lantern that rested at his feet. Ensuring the lantern was burning its brightest, he cast it off to his port side. The current slowly took it further away, while the winds nudged it back. The petty officer then lit his pipe and sat back. “We’re not officially part of Navy anymore, but Cap’n Gally is still our skipper, and him and the ol’ Bull Moose go way back. Matter of fact, Colonel Roosevelt is the only man the Cap’n will take orders from.”
“Captain Gally?” Amber Rose asked.
“So you’re tellin’ me that Colonel Roosevelt fooled two branches of government and got himself his own personal ship thanks to the taxpayers?”
“The Harlequin ain’t no ship, ma’am. And yes. Essentially.”
Tesla, who had already triangulated their position based off his own estimations, finally spoke. “What do you estimate our travel time to England to be?” he asked.
“Could be eight days. Could be 10. Hell, who knows what we’ll encounter out there. Damn krauts are everywhere. She definitely steams faster with your new batteries though. Suppose I should thank you,” said the sailor whose complexion looked much older than his 30 years due to so many years spent at sea.
Amber Rose took her eyes off the half-moon and looked at Tesla. “You gave them batteries?”
“Batteries are required to operate underwater because they do not produce exhaust. They also require a motor to convert the electrical energy into mechanical. I replaced both systems on the prototype,” Tesla replied.
“So it’s like an underwater ship, right?” Amber Rose asked.
“The Harlequin ain’t no—”
“Ship, yes, I know,” Amber Rose interrupted. “Jesus, you people are particular.”
The petty officer only smiled and puffed on his pipe.
A few yards off their portside, the water began to bubble slightly. The tiny lantern began to rock on the surface. The bubbles progressed to a churning froth and what looked like a great metal whale rose from the depths. A portion of the bow rose first, followed by the smoke stacks and topside bridge. Massive white letters spelled out “K-0” on the steel bridge that looked more like an armored chariot. Sea water split and poured over the bow as the submarine surfaced fully, toppling the small floating lantern. The bow waves rocked their small dingy, pushing them further away. Petty Officer Bain stabilized them with the oars. Amber Rose gawked at the modern marvel.
Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2) Page 14
