Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  The wind off the pier bit into him as he stepped into the clear evening. Before buttoning his coat, however, he reached inside and withdrew his handheld comglobe. He held it up to his mouth and keyed the transmission button. The vapors within the globe swirled as he talked. “This is Agent Hum. I repeat, this is Agent Hum. I’ve learned the whereabouts of Delacroix and am en route to confirm his presence now. Over.”

  Simon waited a moment. The vapors calmed briefly before small sparks stirred them. A harmonic voice spoke back. “Simon. This is Colonel Roosevelt. Abort. I repeat. Abort …”

  Wage W. Pascal

  February 5, 1915

  Eden’s Spirits

  Manhattan, New York

  Colonel Roosevelt calmly opened the door to Eden’s Spirits, letting the cold air, Manhattan noise, and cloud-diffused sunlight stream in. The Old Bull Moose removed his fedora and coat and hung them meticulously on the freestanding wooden rack by the door. Like the proud veteran that he was, he strolled with a gallant grace despite his limp, which had gotten more pronounced over the last few weeks. The floorboards squeaked and sounded with a deep thud as his large frame and heavy boots carried him around tree-trunk pillars and across to Wage’s table.

  Wage sat at an odd angle in his chair, with his shoulders slumped, head hung low, and legs splayed out under his table. He was half asleep with a hand on a near-empty glass of bourbon. Next to the glass was a near-empty bottle. The colonel pulled out a chair and slowly sat down, his spine ramrod straight against his chair back. He placed folded hands on the table and spoke not a word. A minute passed in silence, with Wage subtly tapping his tumbler glass with his fingers and listening to his superior’s loud, rhythmic breathing.

  Finally, Wage nudged the bourbon bottle across the table.

  The colonel waved it aside. “I’m not in the drinking mood, Captain Pascal,” he said.

  Wage was drunk. “It’s Major, dammit. Get it right,” he growled.

  “Not anymore,” Roosevelt barked. In trademark fashion, the colonel withdrew a folded letter from one of his shirt pockets.

  “How do you always do that?” Wage asked.

  “Do what?”

  “You always pullin’ out papers. From your shirt. From your pants. Out of your a—”

  “Watch it,” Roosevelt warned. He pushed the letter across the table. “This is the official notice of your immediate demotion to captain.”

  Wage sighed. “Figured that was coming,” he said before taking the final sip of bourbon from his glass.

  Colonel Roosevelt tried to hide his anger. “You released the Witchdoctor, one of the world’s most dangerous criminals.” He rubbed the back of his neck for a moment. “In addition to your demotion, you’ve also been relieved of duty. Suspended without pay, effective immediately.”

  Wage raised his glass. “Well, at least I have my health. And here’s to Simon. I’m sure he’ll be a fine leader in my absence.” Wage toasted his glass, which he realized was empty. “Do me a solid, sir, and pass back that bottle.”

  Roosevelt grabbed the bottle by the neck and hurled it across the room. The bottle shattered against one of the tree-trunk shaped pillars. Monk, the mousey bartender, complained from behind the bar with a childlike voice. The action got the attention of everyone in the bar, including the two gentlemen in black suits sipping tonic waters a few tables down. Roosevelt leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  “Hey now. Was that really necessary?” Wage asked.

  “Simon won’t be leading the team, either. He’s also been relieved of duty.”

  Wage’s eyes grew wide. “Shit. What’d he do?”

  “Nothing. We’ve all been relieved. The Peacemakers Initiative has been officially suspended.” Roosevelt withdrew another letter, this one from his pants pocket, and slid it over.

  “By whose order?” Wage asked.

  “The President of the United States,” Roosevelt replied.

  “Oh.”

  Roosevelt continued. “It seems Louisiana’s newest congressman, one William Henry Pascal Jr., is spearheading a committee targeted at the President’s discretionary spending. Discretionary spending that happens to pay for our little covert operation. As such, the cat is now out of the bag about us.”

  “Well, my older brother was always kind of an asshole,” Wage said, unfolding the letter with the recently broken presidential seal. He brought it to his eyes and drunkenly skimmed it.

  One line read, “Really, Theodore? A damn submarine! You hid a submarine from me?”

  Another read, “How much money does one need for research and development?”

  Followed by, “And when the hell were you going to tell me about Mexico?”

  Wage’s blurred vision could barely make out the last line. “The Peacemakers and all affiliated parties are to cease all operations immediately until further notice …”

  Wage dropped the letter. It fluttered to the table. “What now?” he asked, starting to feel sick.

  “I should be called up to Washington soon enough. The committee, they’ll want a hearing. They’ll ask for more oversight. More transparency. They’ll want to scrutinize everything we do. We play with their money, so we have to play by their rules. ”

  “Where do we go? What do we do?” Wage asked.

  “I’ll have to figure this out on my own for now. Someone tipped off lawmakers to our existence, shined a light on who we are. And by doing that, they will shine a light on everything we try to protect this nation—this world—from. Everything the Black Book outlines. Things the American people can’t know. Shouldn’t know. People who work hard and deserve to sleep soundly at night, without worrying about who or what wants to kill them, control them … poison them while they sleep.”

  “What the hell else is in that Black Book of yours?”

  Colonel Roosevelt smirked. “I spent a great deal of time compiling that book, Captain Pascal. I suggest you try reading it sometime.”

  Wage nodded sheepishly.

  “I mean to find out who exposed us and to try to get lawmakers to understand the gravity of our mission. It will take some time. In the interim, I suggest you take some time for yourself. Get your head right. Get sober. Leave New York for a spell.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “Dom will remain in the hospital. Amber Rose and Nikki are headed back here. Simon has also been recalled. Quincey is at his father’s estate on Long Island. And I haven’t a damn clue where Pani is at the moment.”

  “And Mink,” Wage added.

  Colonel Roosevelt licked his dry lips. “Dr. Bronson said she will recover, thanks to your efforts. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until later, but she’s with Quincey now. Convalescing. Truth is, Wage, if I were you, I’d have probably done the same thing. But I’m in a different position. A position that has to see the big picture. A position that is charged with keeping the people of this nation safe. A position that doesn’t allow dangerous criminals who incite terror to go free.”

  Wage wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Well, then. I guess that’s it. Peacemakers are finished. Everyone goes about their business. Happily ever fuckin’ after.” Wage wiped his nose with his other sleeve. “What about that bastard Delacroix? We just lettin’ him go, then?”

  “His case has been temporarily taken over by the Bureau of Investigation. I was told they will look into it,” Roosevelt replied with a lack of conviction.

  The two men in black suits finished their tonics and rose in sync from their seats. One was larger, barrel-chested with long, stark white hair and a neatly kept beard of the same color. The other was smaller, clean-shaven and reptilian-looking with bulging eyes set too far apart. They both wore a gold pendant on their lapels. The all-seeing Pinkerton eye. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the older one said with a commanding, patriarchal voice. “My name is Gideon Sparrow. This is my partner, Alexander Kane.”

  “Good afternoon,” Kane said with a slick, confident tone.

  “
We are detectives in the employ of Pinkerton,” Sparrow added.

  Wage drew Ol’ Snapper and aimed it at Kane. “Get lost, you Pinkerton pricks,” he slurred.

  Neither Sparrow nor Kane looked particularly uncomfortable with a revolver pointed at them. “I assure you,” Sparrow said, “there is no need for gun play.”

  Colonel Roosevelt glared at Wage. “Unless you would like an official court-martial, I suggest you holster that heater. Immediately.”

  Wage obliged, trying multiple times before fitting his revolver back into its faded leather home.

  “Colonel Roosevelt, sir. My partner and I were asked to escort you to Washington as soon as possible,” Sparrow said. “You would find us extremely agreeable if you would come with us now to catch the four o’clock train.”

  “On whose request?” Roosevelt demanded, leaning back in his chair.

  “Sir,” Sparrow said. “President Wilson did not wish to bother the Attorney General to pursue an arrest warrant for one of this nation’s most treasured leaders. He understood this to be more … discrete. Certainly it’s not mandatory, but as you can see, it is rather preferable to the alternative,” Sparrow said with a slight bow.

  Roosevelt braced the table to help him stand. “I’ll need to stop and get a few thing for the trip,” he said.

  “Certainly,” Kane said, also with a slight bow.

  “Captain Pascal,” Roosevelt said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  Mink Callahan

  March 14, 1915

  Estate of Quinton Gartrell

  Long Island, New York

  “Honeybee?” Quincey said as he slowly opened the door to Mink’s room, precariously balancing her breakfast on a silver tray. “Are you up?” He peeked inside. Quincey expected to find the love of his life sleeping peacefully in her bed with the morning sun warming her soft features. He expected to wake her with a small kiss to the forehead and surprise her with the breakfast she had requested the night before. He saw an empty bed with disheveled sheets, and along with the porcelain coffee cup he held rattling in its saucer, he heard her labored breathing. “Honeybee?” he said with increasing concern as he entered the room.

  Mink’s arms strained as she held a handstand, keeping her back arched, chin up, toes pointed, and her heels against the wall. Her short red hair barely brushed the floor. She wore the clothes she had slept in the night before. Quincey looked on as her shirt fell to her neck, exposing her ribs and small breasts. Mink breathed again, tightening her core to maintain proper posture. Her recent ordeal had left her emaciated enough that Quincey could see the outline of every tensed muscle and rigid tendon in her upper body. “I, uh, made you breakfast, sweetheart.”

  “Just leave it on the bed,” she grunted.

  Quincey obliged and set the tray on the foot of her bed. “Four hardboiled eggs, iced water, and black coffee, just like you wanted.”

  “Great,” she said on an exhale before she gracefully swung one leg, then the other, back to the floor. She stood up and turned, beelining for the tray. She grabbed the carafe of cold water and swigged from the tall container. Mink gulped loudly as water rolled down the sides of her mouth. After nearly finishing the carafe, she handed the perspiring jar to Quincey.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Just tryin’ to get my strength back,” she said as she began stripping off her clothes. She lifted her shirt over her head in one slick motion, and then dropped her bloomers before stepping out of them. Quincey drank in her form only for a moment before grudgingly turning to face the window. Despite her body still being somewhat fragile, the animal in him wanted to be connected to it. Connected to the sweat that currently poured over her. The gentlemen in him, however, chose to gaze out the second-story window at the acres of rolling, yellow-green hills spotted with countless hackberry trees with freshly sprouted leaves. His father’s estate was truly nothing short of sprawling. Quincey squinted at a squall of gray clouds that hovered over the horizon.

  Mink prepared herself for the day. She wiped the sweat from her hair and body with a fresh towel. Then, she slipped into new underclothes, freshly laundered, and donned a dress of purple velvet and ivory lace, freshly pressed.

  “Where’s Colonel Roosevelt?” she asked as she struggled to lace up her black boots. “Did he find a trail on Delacroix? You need to finally tell me what’s going on!” she demanded. “I’m tired of people keeping me in the dark. I’m ready, Quincey. I’m a goddamn Peacemaker, too. Now, tell me what the hell is goin’ on.” Her Cajun accent had come out. It always did when she was angry.

  Quincey finally turned around. “Roosevelt is in Washington.”

  “Washington? Why?”

  “Well, uh, apparently, we are over budget and, uh, under supervised.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t worry, honeybee. I’m sure the he'll sort it all out. Although, he did say it might take a while.”

  “What do we do in the meantime? Where’s Wage? Where’s the rest of the team?”

  “Calm down, honeybee.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down, Quincey!”

  Quincey held up his hands in surrender, still holding the carafe. “OK, OK,” he said. “The Peacemakers have officially been suspended until further notice.”

  “What?” Mink walked over and got right in her fiancé’s face. “What!”

  “Simon and Pani are at the shop awaiting further orders. Dom is still in the hospital recovering. And Nikki and Amber Rose are supposedly replicating Edison’s battle automatons, or something.”

  Mink narrowed her eyes. “Where’s Wage?”

  Quincey rolled his eyes and scoffed. “He got demoted.”

  “For what?”

  Quincey folded his arms and clenched his teeth.

  “For what, Quincey?” Mink slugged him in the chest.

  “Ow! Relax, honey—”

  “Don’t ‘honeybee’ me,” Mink interjected. “Tell me why he got demoted. Tell me where he is!”

  “He let the Witchdoctor loose.”

  “Dr. Mamba?”

  “Yeah, him. The one Pani and I rounded up in Haiti.”

  “Why?”

  Quincey gritted his teeth again.

  “Quincey!” Mink yelled.

  “The Witchdoctor is the one who saved you, all right! Wage cut him loose to save you.”

  Mink took a step back. Her eyes welled with tears. “Where is he?”

  “Last we heard he went back down to Louisiana. Probably to crawl into a hole and drink himself into a coma. He left, Mink! He took off, like you always said he would.”

  Mink retreated to the bed. She sat down and put her head in her hands.

  Quincey moved to console her. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She grabbed it and squeezed. “What do we do, Quincey? What do we do?”

  Quincey went down to one knee. “I don’t know what’s going to happen us. The Peacemakers. And quite frankly, I don’t care.”

  Mink finally lifted her head and met his gaze.

  “I only care about you, Mink. That’s why you’re here. With me. I sat by your bedside and professed my love to you every night when you were in the hospital. Every night, honeybee. And do you know what I said to you? What I whispered in your ear every night?”

  Mink shook her head, tears now running down her cheeks.

  “I told you I loved you more than life itself. I told you I would do anything for you to get better. And …” Quincey trailed off.

  “And what?” Mink asked bracing his cheeks with her hands. “What?”

  Quincey turned toward the window and nodded. “Out there. Beyond the garden.”

  Mink peered out the window, but couldn’t see anything. She rose from the bed and walked toward it. From her new angle she could finally see it. A gazebo erected from fresh, unpainted timber. Stacks of lumber and sawhorses surrounded it.

  “I’ve already made the arrangements. The 22nd of May,” Quincey said. “That’s where we’ll be married.”

>   Private First Class Wilhelm Gertz

  March 15, 1915

  Eastern Front

  Ypres, Belgium

  The Oberste Heeresleitung—German Supreme Commander of the Army—ordered them to march north. A race to the sea in an effort to outflank the Franco-British resistance who had halted their initial surge into French territory only weeks into the war. That initial surge was the first combat Private First Class Wilhelm Gertz, and his childhood best friend Manfred Brewster had ever seen, firing their bolt-action rifles mercilessly at the domed helmets and slivers of faces that popped up from trenches.

  While repelling an early charge, Willy had killed three British soldiers in rapid succession, aiming for their center of mass and firing rhythmically from behind a knee-high earthen mound. All three fell awkwardly to the ground, splayed out like his little sister’s dolls would be when she left them all about the house. The sight disturbed him. Actual combat was nothing like hunting deer back home with Manfred, which admittedly they were very good at. Manny himself downed four British soldiers in the same charge. Several nights later, exhausted from trench digging, Manny would sit on his cot and sob.

  Days later, they march north again to the town of Ypres, where they engaged their enemy again. It was a last-ditch effort to outflank the Allied armies. Things looked to be in German favor, until the sluice gates damming the upper Yser River near the North Sea had been opened, creating a deluge down river and flooding their battlefield. During a late German charge, whistled by their own lieutenant, Willy and Manny slugged through the ankle-deep water, unsteadily firing their rifles and often sticking in the mud.

  They became sitting targets.

  English-made bullets, probably manufactured with German lead, grazed Willy’s helmet and shoulder. Manny, however, was not so lucky. A mortar shell landed nearly on top of him. Unfortunately, the adrenaline surging through Wilhelm’s veins slowed time and allowed him to see his oldest friend unnaturally split into pieces. His immediate thought was to gather up the scattered limbs so he could have a proper burial back home. Manny’s fragmented body, however, was left to bloat and rot in the watery fields of West Flanders.