Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Simon and Amber Rose looked at each other.

  “Now, all I want,” Wage continued, “is to find that one-eyed piece of shit down there. He’s a goddamn Baron. And I am going to put a goddamn bullet in his goddamn skull.”

  Simon’s eyes now narrowed.

  “Wage, honey” Amber Rose said. “That’s who our employer is.”

  As fast as Wage had drawn his weapons, he now returned them. He raised his hands, but something told the detective and his accomplice that this was not true submission. “Well then, take me to your employer,” Wage said through gritted teeth.

  Amber Rose led the way down the stairs with Wage in tow and the detective behind him, his contraption still pointed at Wage’s head. At the bottom of the stairs, before opening the doors to the party, Amber Rose tucked her Remington into her matching handbag and exchanged it for a compact mirror and lipstick. She touched up her thin lips with an interesting crimson. She smiled at Wage, looking like she had literally just ate some poor sap’s heart out. Simon’s weapon collapsed with a whiz and a whirl, revealing just a simple metal brace that gave his withered arm more mobility. The detective then refastened his breakaway jacket sleeve. “Who the hell are you people?” Wage muttered.

  “No sudden movements, please, Captain Pascal. Or I will be forced counteract,” the detective said, ignoring the question.

  “With all due respect, detective. Shut the fuck up,” Wage said.

  When Simon and Amber Rose were sure they would not cause any commotion with the bazaar patrons, Amber Rose opened the door and led Wage across the main floor. On stage, dark-haired, olive-skinned beauties dressed in sheer turquoise robes seductively rolled their bellies to a variety of drums. Once on the far side, they stopped in front of the makeshift booth; atop the wooden structure in elegant cursive it said “Suleiman the Unnatural.” Below the sign, an American clad in oriental robes and a turban performed close-up magic tricks for a small crowd.

  The three of them stood together. A small boy with dark messy hair wearing a crestless school jacket, shorts and long socks eagerly watched the mesmerizing acts of prestidigitation. Next to him stood a Middle Eastern man in a crisp, dark blue suit with a light blue metal carnation attached to his lapel. Khalid Francois ran a hand through his slicked black hair and smiled at the belly dancers. And finally, the Baron stood taller than all of them in a double-vented gray herringbone suit; a large red rose made of silver slightly weighed down his lapel. His one tinted lens flickered when the flame juggler’s batons went high enough in the air.

  Wage’s blood boiled at such a temperature that all his plans evaporated. It seemed fitting then, that the last plan he ever executed, the plan to exact revenge on the man who killed Sergeant 1st Class William Macdonough, would be Ol’ Bill’s personal favorite. The catastrophic emergency plan.

  “Baron DeLacy,” the detective said. “We have him.”

  “Is he armed?” the Baron asked, watching the magician revealing a bouquet of colorful flowers from a covered pot.

  “A revolver in his jacket and a knife in his pant pocket,” Amber Rose answered.

  “Ah!” the Baron said, still watching the magician. “And what were you going to use, Captain Pascal, to ensure my demise? Would you have preferred the intimacy of a blade? Or the less personal but still satisfying revolver?”

  “Take a step closer and I’ll show you,” Wage shot back.

  The Baron finally turned toward Wage. “Me personally, I probably would have gone with a rifle. It’s far removed and cold blooded, yes, but it is like playing God. Put something in your sights, and seconds later, it ceases to exist. Come on, Captain, the upper balconies would have been a prime place to play the deity. Just divine!” the Baron hissed. He placed a cigarette in his mouth and a timid, forgettable-looking gentleman quickly stepped out from the crowd. He wore charcoal livery with a black ascot and small white turban fixed with a wooden pin painted to look like gold. He bowed slightly, said nothing, and lit the Baron’s cigarette. “This is my assistant, Warwick. Warwick, this is Captain Pascal. Kindly remove the revolver from his inner jacket and the knife from his pants pocket.”

  Like a deft pickpocket, Warwick’s hands nimbly danced around Wage’s jacket and pants, removing all his weapons. Wage noticed a black lotus flower, very dull, on his breast pocket.

  “Khalid, you remember our friend Captain Wage Pascal?” Khalid nodded his head like a hungry vulture. The belly dancers were still his main concern. “I am not sure you have been formally introduced,” the Baron said. “Captain Pascal, this is Khalid Francois Deschamps. Khalid, do me a favor and escort Simon and Amber Rose here backstage and show them the highlight of tonight’s entertainment.”

  Khalid gave a brief look of frustration before patting the detective on his enhanced arm and gesturing for Amber Rose to follow. He led them to the stage where he helped both of them up. After hopping up himself he took a moment to blow one of the belly dancers a kiss. He shouted something in Arabic and winked, then led the detective and his accomplice off to stage left. Electric lights fixed to brick walls buzzed and illuminated the large space behind the main stage. They were led past the next performer, a nervous Vietnamese man who practiced spinning his colorful plates on tall bamboo poles. His young face was concealed beneath a conical woven hat tied up with blue ribbon.

  Khalid gestured for Amber Rose and the detective to take the lead through a far door and down a dimly lit stairwell.

  Simon peered down the stairs. “Where are we headed, exactly?” he asked.

  “A first look at a special performance. You will see. Go, go,” Khalid urged them on.

  “Are you sure?” the detective asked.

  Khalid only nodded.

  Amber Rose led the way down the stairs. At the bottom, candles lit a narrow hallway. One of the belly dancers, supple and sultry, one of the Japanese acrobats, shirtless, chiseled, and ghost-white, and a wizened Oriental man all shared a pipe shaped like a dragon. The gaping maw of the dragon hovered over a smoking opium cube. They all whispered and giggled. Amber Rose skirted around them, but the detective stopped. The smell of opium—it brought something back. It triggered images of his childhood, sneaking into his father’s den, smelling the same sweet vapors, finding his gray-haired father in his underclothes, hovered over his desk, sweating and sucking the fumes from a small pipe. Through a small boy’s eyes, his father looked like a man who just gulped oxygen after a lifetime underwater. My God. My gracious God in heaven.

  “What’s the matter? You want to partake?” Khalid Francois asked. He sensually streaked his hand across the dancer’s stomach. “Go ahead, I will wait.” Khalid nuzzled his mouth into the girl’s neck. She moaned and grabbed his jet-black hair. The other two men simply giggled.

  More images came roaring back to the detective. Kneeling alone in the living room with his mother, surrounded by candles, the smell of opium now old and acrid and clinging to the walls. “We must be punished,” his mother would say before throwing a corded whip over her shoulder. With his father spending a late night at the university, there was plenty of time to break open the skin on their backs, bleed, pray, bleed more, pray, and apply a salve, all before he got home. My gracious God! His back started to burn with the memories.

  “Simon!” Amber Rose shouted, alarmed by the look on his face. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. I’m . . . I’m fine,” he replied.

  “Then let’s get going,” Khalid demanded. “I’ve got something special to show you. Turn right at the next door.”

  Amber Rose led the way again, this time into an actor’s vanity room. The large mirror at the far end of the room amplified the only flickering candle. Khalid closed the door behind him. The loud creak concealed the sound of his Italian Bodeo revolver being drawn. He quickly strode across the wooden floor and hit Amber Rose on the back of the head. She fell to the ground. Khalid turned and parried the detective’s gun just as quickly as it deployed. A shot rang out. Khalid hammered the butt of his
gun into the detective’s forehead. Simon fell to the ground. Khalid quickly stepped on the contraption pinning Simon’s arm.

  “Khalid! Stop!” Amber Rose yelled from the floor. She clutched the back of her head with both hands. She could feel warm blood matting her hair. “Don’t do this!”

  “What’s your game, Khalid?” Simon asked to further stall him. He raised his good hand to wipe away the blood flowing over the bridge of his nose into his eyes.

  Khalid pointed his gun squarely at the detective’s forehead. “My game? My game is to kill you. Then, I will have her,” he nodded to Amber Rose. “Then I will kill her. Then . . . I will probably have a belly dancer.” At such close quarters, the alcohol on his breath was so overwhelming it made the detective wince. Khalid pulled the trigger.

  A hand jutted out from the darkness, jarring the barrel of his gun. The shot went wide. The detective’s adrenaline slowed everything down. A look of befuddlement came over Khalid as he missed a point blank shot. Another hand connected with Khalid’s jaw. Khalid stumbled, and the phantom acrobat from the hallway slithered across the room, keeping the distance between himself and Khalid close, intimate. The acrobat looked like a spirit of rage as he unleashed a barrage of punches. In the candlelight it looked almost like a dream, as some punches were struck with an open hand and others with a closed. Khalid had no defense; his arms fell to his side and his body undulated with every strike. He was a doomed mouse being toyed with by a savvy house cat. The revolver finally fell from Khalid’s hand, hitting the wood floor. Immediately after, the acrobat grabbed Khalid’s wrist, stretched out the limb, and with a powerful upper cut broke his arm at the elbow. The sound of bone snapping filled the small brick room. The acrobat then kicked the side of Khalid’s knee; it bent in an unnatural way with the sound of ligaments snapping. Khalid fell to the floor. His mouth was so full of red that it was impossible to see his golden tooth. For a moment, the acrobat looked at his downed opponent like he was a bird with two broken wings. Then he put the bird down with a quick, well-placed stomp to its throat.

  The pale figure’s posture changed immediately to something more relaxed, he did not even appear to be out of breath. The detective’s contraption whizzed as he aimed it at the man’s chest, hoping the bullet would not simply pass through this spirit-like being. The acrobat ignored it and helped Amber Rose to her feet.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They both looked over at Simon, who started shaking, but said nothing. Tributaries of blood covered his face. He got up slowly.

  “Put your weapon down,” the acrobat said.

  The detective stuttered, “Who . . . who are you?”

  The man approached Simon and calmly pushed down the detective’s weapon. “Please,” he said.

  The detective noticed something dark underneath the white powder makeup. It was too dark to be skin. Simon reached over and wiped away the powder on the man’s shoulder. A cloud of white dust rose into the air and a tattoo could now be seen. It was a very large tattoo with intertwining blue and green ink. My god. My god.

  A closer inspection revealed tattoos all over the acrobat. The colorful, writhing animals muted under a thin, granular layer of alabaster.

  Images came back to him. A room similar to this. A particularly nasty fight like the one he just witnessed. His withered arm burned. “I know you!” the detective shouted, pointing to his arm. “You did this to me! Didn’t you? Didn’t you!”

  “Did you become a disciple?” the man asked softly.

  “What? You mean the stone?”

  An open palm flashed to and prodded the detective’s chest. The acrobat smirked.

  “Neither one us sowed our stones on—seemed like madness,” Amber Rose said.

  The acrobat said nothing and blinked slowly.

  “Tell me, man! Did you do this to me?” the detective asked, holding up his mechanical arm.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  The man did not answer.

  “Who are you?” Simon demanded.

  “My name is Monomi Mono.” He bowed slightly. “And yes, we have met before.”

  “A man, Victor Mamba, he told me—”

  “Yes,” Monomi interrupted. He turned and walked to the door. It once again opened with a loud creak and flooded the room with more orange candlelight from the hall. “I killed you once, detective, and if the time comes, I will kill you again. Tell The Witchdoctor that I will see him soon.” And with that, the man formerly known as The Shinobi vanished.

  “Simon, my love,” Amber Rose said, holding her head once again. “Can we get the hell out of here?”

  The Baron

  August 27, 1914

  Carnegie Hall

  Manhattan, New York

  “I love magic,” the Baron said, watching Suleiman the Unnatural. The magician vanished common objects, conjured other objects from nothing, and with a flourish of the hands, amazed the small crowd gathered there. “What do you think, Jules? Do you like magic?” The Baron asked, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “It’s deceptive,” the boy said. “But I believe in science. I don’t believe in magic.”

  “No?” the Baron said. “We will have to work on that.”

  “There is a reasonable explanation for how he is able to make things disappear and reappear at will,” Jules said.

  “Really? And how does he do it?”

  “Not entirely sure, but there must be some mechanical process to it all. Some device that, combined with misdirection and well-practiced sleight of hand, simply gives the audience the illusion of disappearing materials.”

  Wage stood fuming behind the Baron and the boy. He concocted plan after plan in his head, but they all ended in the sacrifice of his own life to be able to take the Baron’s. He cursed to himself. He willingly came down here and had anticipated them removing his weapons. And now what? His window of opportunity seemed to be closing. He cursed again, and then he thought about Sergeant 1st Class William Macdonough. Black Vomit Bill.

  Warwick stood directly behind Wage, pointing Ol’ Snapper at his back, the revolver shrouded by a large white napkin.

  The Baron turned around. “What about you, Captain? Do you like magic?”

  Wage said nothing.

  “Spare me the dramatics,” the Baron said. “I suggest you enjoy the amusements while you still can.”

  “I once saw a man in Boston escape 16 different types of handcuffs and shackles behind a curtain,” Wage said finally. “But it didn’t look like no magic to me. Like the little boy here said, must have been some kind of mechanism he used. Probably had a lock pick hidden on him somewhere.” Wage wished he had something hidden on him, another weapon, anything to exact his revenge. And then, his shiny red metal flower caught his eye. With adequate force and the right strike, it could down a man—more specifically, a Baron. Now he would simply wait for his opportunity and try his damnedest not to forfeit his own life. This would be his catastrophic emergency plan.

  Applause erupted as a Vietnamese man clad in blue robes spun his tenth plate atop a green bamboo pole. “I would like to watch that now. Can we move closer?” Jules asked.

  “Of course,” the Baron said. “Warwick, continue to watch the good Captain.” The Baron and the boy set off to the front of the stage about 20 yards away. The entertainer continued to spin plates, and 13 now spun atop poles of varying height.

  Wage faked a cough and brought his hand up to his face, and with one fluid movement he snatched the flower from his lapel. He closed it tightly and felt a small, painful nick on the palm of his hand. He turned around to see Warwick, limply holding the hidden gun, and then quickly turned his gaze to the performer. A 14th plate now spun. He clutched the flower tighter now, so tight that he could feel a faint stream of sticky blood run in the channels of his palm. He turned again, his eyes flashing to Warwick, still steadfast. Wage narrowed his eyes on the stage again and spoke. “I’m going to get a closer look . . . while I still can.”
/>   Warwick did not respond.

  “I said,” Wage turned, “I am going to take a closer look.”

  Warwick gazed at the first balcony that horseshoed around the wall behind Wage. Blackened figures paraded down the first row.

  Wage waved his free hand at the Baron’s servant. “Hello?”

  The timid little man’s eyes sprung back to Wage and his face hardened. His wrist was no longer limp, but comfortable and confident. He winked. He held the napkin in place as he fired a round at Wage’s feet. Wage recoiled and nearly fell over, dropping the metal flower from his hand. He could hear the bullet ricochet of the polished floor.

  The gunshot created instant calamity. Three more shots at Wage’s feet and the calamity turned to chaos. Two more shots and chaos turned to exodus. Wage fell over onto a Persian rug unharmed, but his legs were trampled by screaming patrons, some of them tripping over him onto the floor. Warwick stood only a few feet away, and when the swell of people had nearly passed them, he threw the spent revolver back to Wage and grinned.

  Wage yelled out in confusion, but Warwick wove through the remainder of people down to the stage. The Baron and the boy stood still together, the Baron holding his Luger Parabellum pistol at his side, scanning the theatre. Warwick spoke and gestured toward the exits that were backstage before helping the boy to the top of the stage, while the Baron continued to scan the remainder of partygoers. Wage grabbed Ol’ Snapper and hid it behind him, tucking it in his belt before playing possum.

  With surprising athleticism, the Baron hopped up onto the stage. Another shot rang out. Wage knew it was a Colt revolver, the same as his own. The bullet, fired by a man with a black derby hat and bandana covering his face atop the first balcony, bored a hole in the stage near the Baron. The Baron whirled and aimed his own gun at the elevated shooter.

  “Baron DeLacy,” a gruff voice yelled. Three men sat next to the standing shooter in the plush red balcony chairs. They all wore tall stovepipe hats with small black shrouds hanging from the brims. The shrouds looked like curtains that might enclose a bathtub or window, but with two holes for the eyes. One of the black figures was lanky and somewhat hobbled over, another was stout and portly, and the one in the middle, with the gruff voice, sat with impeccable posture.