Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “Put your weapon down,” the man in the middle continued. “Our man here is a crack shot and we have you from an elevated position.”

  The Baron kept his gun raised. “I’m afraid we haven’t met,” he said in a raised voice in the now-quiet theatre. He reached over and grabbed Jules by the back of the collar and with freakish strength hoisted the boy in front of him, now aiming his pistol over the boy’s shoulder. Warwick stood behind the Baron.

  “Really, sir? You would use a child to shield yourself?” said the portly masked man with a booming, slightly Scottish brogue.

  “I do what it takes, gentlemen,” the Baron replied over the protesting boy. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling me just who the hell you think you are, and what you intend to do?”

  The gruff middle man spoke again. “You may call me Mr. Vault. My associates and I are here for you, Baron. We’ve come to make you an offer.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not entertaining offers at the moment,” the Baron replied.

  “Mortimer,” Mr. Vault whispered to the shooter. He fired another round that whizzed by both the Baron and his hostage’s ear. “Your man, Kasper, he said the same thing, and as a result, died a very slow, very painful death.”

  “So you have him then?” the Baron asked.

  “We had him,” Mr. Vault corrected.

  Slowly and quietly, Wage plucked bullets from the bandolier that ran along the back of his belt and loaded his revolver blindly so as not to alarm the two armed parties on either side of him. With one eye open, he surveyed the theatre. Only a few patrons remained, some cowering behind the wooden booths, some still passed out on large, frilled pillows. Suleiman the Unnatural had buried himself in the bosom of one of the belly dancers, both of them hiding behind his narrow magician’s stand. In the quiet hall, Wage also heard a faint humming sound, the source of which was the large, silver chandelier above them all. He ignored it and waited to see how the situation unfolded, waiting for a clean shot at the Baron.

  “Ah, so you are the men I’ve been sent here to find,” the Baron said. “And here I thought it was the Illuminati that had him.”

  “The Illuminati,” Mr. Vault said with a laugh. “Do not insult me, sir.”

  “So Kasper is dead then? That’s it—you killed him?” the Baron asked.

  “We did. And you will suffer the same fate if you fail to cooperate.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you gentlemen, but I must formally reject your offer. I can, however, assure that you have all just signed your own death warrants.” The Baron nodded to Warwick to start inching toward stage left. “Khalid!” he yelled. “Khalid!”

  “You are making a grave mistake, Baron,” Mr. Vault called.

  “Am I? Surely, the men who criticize me using a child as a shield would not shoot through one to kill me.”

  “We will do what is necessary,” Mr. Vault said.

  The Baron laughed and took precise aim at the shooter 20 yards away. “Gentlemen, I bid you good eve—” The Baron suddenly lurched forward and dropped the boy to the ground as the point of a large blade erupted from his chest. The boy scrambled off the stage and made for the main doors, but Wage grabbed his ankle and hauled the boy down. They both lay supine on the Persian rug.

  The Baron stumbled and then turned to see Warwick, his assassin. Blood bubbled from his mouth as he grabbed Warwick’s shoulder. “You?” he whispered, shocked at the betrayal. Buried in the middle of his back was the golden hilt of the blade. His hand moved from Warwick’s shoulder to his face. He grabbed a bushy sideburn as his legs began to give way. The sideburn peeled off with an unpleasant sound. Warwick barely caught the Baron and hoisted him up again. The Baron’s tinted glasses fell to the stage, revealing the formless pink scar in the hollow of his eye. The Baron could no longer speak, and he could feel the blood inside him cascade toward his feet, his heart barely beating. He reached again for Warwick’s face, but instead grabbed his turban in dying haste. His one good eye rolled back, and an ungodly sound, a gurgling from the depths of him, echoed through his throat. He fell straight down, expired, and took Warwick’s turban with him.

  Warwick stood there in the spotlights with oddly disheveled hair and a lopsided turban. He reached up and unfastened the pins on his turban. Long black hair fell to his shoulders. He peeled off his remaining sideburn and thick mustache, leaving behind red marks on his skin. He took some kind of wooden prosthetic from his mouth, creating a jawline much less square, and threw it on the stage. Finally, she loosened her ascot.

  “Outstanding work, Estella!” Mr. Vault yelled.

  Thomas Alva Edison

  August 27, 1914

  Carnegie Hall

  Manhattan, New York

  “Who the hell are you, kid?” Wage whispered.

  “Unhand me, please,” the boy yelled back, still trying to swat away Wage’s grip on his ankle.

  “Quiet down! Or you gonna get us both killed.”

  “It’s too late, Mr. Pascal,” said the woman standing over them who, only a moment ago, had been a male servant to Baron DeLacy. She was striking, her voice sultry, seductive, and poisonous. “Or did you really think I’d forget about you? Come to me, child.” Like a siren’s song, the boy was unable to resist her command. He wiggled free of Wage’s lightened grip and took his place by her side. She put her arm around him, an assassin suddenly and strangely maternal. “That’s a good boy.”

  Wage propped himself up, keeping his right hand on the ground near his back. “OK, OK. You got me. But before we continue, would it be terribly imprudent for me to ask your name? I would like to know whom to address the flowers to?”

  “Flowers?” she asked, confused.

  “Consider it a thank you for taking care of our mutual friend,” Wage said, nodding at the Baron who lay lifeless on the stage in a pool of blood.

  “Charming,” she replied. “My name is Estella.”

  Mr. Vault stood and gripped the brass railing in front of him; the gold signet ring on his right hand generated an attention-getting clang. “Gentlemen, may I present Estella, an operative who has been in my employ for years now. I’m afraid up until this moment her affiliation with me had to be discrete.” Mr. Steel and Mr. Black’s eyes looked perplexed. “And may I introduce Captain Wage Pascal. As of late, he has been in the employ of the Illuminati and has been a key figure in disrupting Hand business. In truth, Captain, you have done us great favors.”

  Wage rose to his feet and turned toward the masked men, the shooter now gone. It felt as though he was a losing gladiator and his fate was about to be decided by the thumbs of Roman senators with an unknown agenda. “Glad I could be of service. Now for the love of God, please enlighten me as to who the hell you are?”

  “Someone who wants to rid the world of the malevolent grip of The Hand. Someone who believes The Hand is an organization that has impeded human progress and development for far too long,” Mr. Vault replied.

  “Well ain’t that just super,” Wage said. “Look, it’s been quite the evening. If you folks will excuse me, I believe I must get goin’.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain, but it is not that simple,” Mr. Vault said.

  “Oh, I believe it is.” Wage drew his gun in a flash and pointed it at Estella. “Let go of the boy, darling.” Estella, strangely calm and dangerously stoic, released the boy. As she did so, a strange hum grew slightly louder and resonated throughout the entire theatre. The young boy stood frozen in the moment. “Let’s go, kid.”

  “Reporting for duty, Captain,” came a voice from behind.

  Ice filled Wage’s veins. He knew that voice. He turned to see the masked shooter holding a Colt revolver to his forehead, his own gun still pointing at Estella. “Why, Corporal Blake, is that you?” he asked.

  Mortimer Blake pulled the bandana down and tipped his hat enough to reveal his widow’s peak. “Been a while, sir.”

  “Fifteen years, I reckon,” Wage replied.

  Estella’s fingers danced over Wage’s gu
n hand as she worked her way behind him and whispered in his ear. “That’s why I didn’t shoot you before. I promised my big brother I would let him kill you. Now, lower your gun.” The siren called again. She gently pushed his arm down until his gun rested at his hip. Then she took it from him like a mother might take a toy from a sleeping child.

  “Your brother? Well ain’t that just about perfect,” Wage said, resigned.

  “I’m afraid you are going to have to come with us, Wage,” Mortimer said.

  The hum in the theatre grew even louder in a quick and eerie crescendo, and then the room lit up with streaks of pale blue and white. Lighting rained down from the colossal chandelier and struck Mortimer’s gun and silver cufflinks. The blast blinded him momentarily as he dropped to the ground. Lighting continued to strike all around the theatre. Wage backed up and almost tripped over Estella, whose black metal flower became the end of a flowing river of blue electricity. Her whole body shook with a strange elegance. Wage looked around and noticed every lingering patron who wore a metal flower receiving a charge of electricity, sometimes in a consistent stream and other times just an intermittent jolt. This was by design!

  Ethereal blues, whites, and purples struck the Baron’s red rose and shook his limp body like an Edison experiment. Lighting struck the pomegranate flower Wage had dropped on the floor. Lighting struck the bars of the tiger cage, forcing its occupant to stir about nervously. Everyone, save for the masked men, the boy, and Wage, were convulsing in the most bizarre way. The masked men rose and hurried toward the balcony exit, the hobbled one limping and grabbing his heart.

  Wage and Jules’ attention turned to the main doors, which had flown wide open. A tall man in a white lab coat and gray slacks marched down toward them. His wispy, white comb-over contrasted the black goggles, black rubber gloves, and black rubber boots that he wore. He stopped in front of Wage and the boy and was at the center of the patrons tied to the chandelier by streaming blue tethers.

  “Mr. Pascal,” Edison said and nodded nonchalantly.

  “Mr. Edison,” Wage replied hesitantly.

  “Thomas Edison!” the boy yelled.

  “I’ll be taking it from here. Come with me, son,” Edison said. The boy darted over to the scientist and relaxed ever so slightly within the wing of his lab coat. “You have done us a great service, Mr. Pascal.” Wage almost corrected the scientist by saying “Captain,” but he refrained. “I am afraid, however, our contractual agreement will have to come to end. Your services are no longer required.”

  “What about all these people? What about those men in masks?” Wage pointed to the balcony.

  “None of that is your concern anymore,” Edison answered. “Why don’t you head on back to Biloxi.”

  “Baton Rouge,” Wage corrected him.

  “Whatever,” Edison said, turning and walking away.

  “What about my money then? I found the Baron, your Architect! He’s dead! Lying right over there,” Wage yelled.

  Edison laughed and turned. “Yes he is, and clearly, you don’t understand sarcasm. No account was ever set up. Hell, I didn’t even think you would survive this long. Good luck, Mr. Pascal. Come along now, son,” he said to the boy. “We have much to discuss.” Edison waved a hand high in the air, and moments later, the humming stopped along with the lighting.

  “EDISON!” Wage yelled.

  Edison only waved again with one hand, the other hand still around the boy.

  Wage stood in shock for a moment. The patrons around him began to rise. “Oh, hell no!” Wage picked up Ol’ Snapper, replaced it in his shoulder holster, and straightened his coat. He stomped on Mortimer’s stomach, then kicked away his gun before storming out in the direction Edison and Jules had gone. He caught up to them just outside the main entrance on 7th Avenue. “Hey!” Wage yelled. “Goddammit! Tell me what’s going on here, Edison. Don’t you walk away from me!”

  New York City’s finest swarmed upon him immediately; they came from every corner and even the secluded alleyway, their copper buttons reflecting both the moon and the buzzing electric lights. They grabbed him, wrestling his arms behind his back.

  “Take ‘em down, boys,” the sergeant yelled.

  “You are under arrest,” yelled an officer.

  “You’re going away, lad,” his partner added.

  “Got ‘em!” another yelled, swatting Wage’s thigh with a billy club.

  “EDISON!” Wage yelled.

  Edison and Jules stopped and turned. They watched Wage get placed in four different sets of shackles. The cops finally stood him up. Wage’s eyes were already swelling, and he spit blood. “Fine work, gentlemen,” Edison said. “Fine work. I do believe you will find this vagrant wanted for murder in the state of Louisiana.”

  “Wait,” Wage said as they started to lead him away. “Wait! Who’s the boy, Edison? Why is he so—” A policeman’s club cut him short.

  The boy looked at Edison before replying, “My name is Julius Robert Oppenheimer.”

  The Bull Moose

  August 28, 1914

  The Oval Office

  Washington, D.C.

  President Thomas Woodrow Wilson wrote furiously at his desk, constantly wiping his brow so stray drops of sweat wouldn’t smear the ink. The summer heat that streamed through the windows was nearly unbearable. He wrote in shorthand, as he always did, to compensate for his dyslexia. The speech he was writing would be delivered to Congress in less than a week. It was to reinforce his policy of nonintervention and to officially volunteer the United States to broker peace deals between the now-warring European nations. Ultimately, the move was to calm U.S. markets and encourage continued investing. At one point, he pressed his fountain pen down hard enough to etch his abbreviated words into the mahogany desk underneath. He had just reached for his perspiring glass of cold water when the door to his office flew open. He looked up, annoyed—he had told all his aides that he was not to be disturbed.

  “Tommy! We need to talk,” Teddy Roosevelt yelled, ignoring the pleas and grabs from the men clad in black suits behind him.

  “Didn’t I tell you people not to let anyone disturb me?” the President barked.

  “Oh, put a lid on it, Tommy,” Roosevelt shot back as he kicked the door shut behind him with his heel.

  “Theodore! I am the president of the United States now; you cannot address me in that manner, nor can you waltz your way in here unannounced!”

  “It’s damn hot in here,” Roosevelt said as he walked heavily and bowlegged through the Oval Office to the windows behind the president. He unlatched one and lifted it open all the way. Roosevelt stuck his head out the window into the humid air. “Ahh, I miss the smell of it.”

  “The smell of what?” the president asked.

  Roosevelt took another big breath through his nose and said, “The smell of politicians pissin’ in their britches!”

  “Must you be so crude, Theodore?”

  Roosevelt pulled one of the yellow upholstered chairs closer to the president’s desk. He sat his wide frame down, put his boots up on the desk, and rested his hands in his lap. “I’ll get right to it. I’ve reactivated the Rough Riders, 1st US Volunteer Cavalry. I’ve already overseen the first phase of training myself. We will be deployment-ready in 13 weeks.”

  “Have you gone absolutely mad?” President Wilson asked. “We are not, I repeat, NOT entering this war, Theodore! If the people find out your outfit has been reactivated, it will cause pandemonium!”

  “When will you wise up, Tommy?” Roosevelt asked, making a fist. “You have my assurance that those kraut bastards won’t advance very far, and I will see to it personally that every Turk meets the business end of an American rifle!”

  “I am trying to calm the American people, not rile them up! You are to cease this training immediately! Where in God’s name did you even get the funding?”

  “That’s what I’m here about, Tommy. I’ve already spent enough of my own money. I need official funding. Men are trainin
g on half pay, and we are running out of bullets.”

  “Congress would have my head, and the Senate would have my hide! Absolutely not! Disband immediately!” The president slammed his fist onto his desk.

  Roosevelt stroked his walrus moustache. “Oh, all right, Tommy. I figured you’d say that. Don’t you go a pissin’ your britches, too!” He pointed a stubby index finger at Wilson. “Say, if you and all those worthless bureaucrats are all in agreement on maintaining peace, then why are you sweatin’ bullets all over my old desk?”

  “It’s nothing. Just insufferably hot, that’s all.”

  Roosevelt laughed. “I’ve trekked through every hot terrain on the planet. Jungles, deserts, savannahs, and none of those places make you sweat like that.”

  The president removed his handkerchief from his back pocket and blotted his brow.

  “Only men about to face a heavily fortified enemy on an elevated position sweat like that,” Roosevelt said. He put his feet down and leaned forward, his tone ominous. “Only men who pray to shoot straight with nervous hands sweat like that. Only men who have kissed their wife’s photograph knowing damn well their last breath will probably be taken on the hill they were asked to charge sweat like that. So tell me, Mister President, what hill are you about to charge?”

  “I . . . I . . . it’s just that,” the president stuttered. He shook his head, and then bowed it. Thomas Woodrow Wilson stood almost a foot taller than Roosevelt, but as large and seemingly formidable as he was, deep down he was always more of a gentle giant—a sensitive soul who was always a better litigator than a pugilist.

  “You don’t know how to handle them, do you?” Roosevelt asked, his voice kinder now.