Simon took a deep, relieving breath at seeing her alive. “What happened?”
“Well, Tiny here decided to barge in unannounced not too long after you left, and I reckon he aimed to kill me.”
“But what happened?”
“Well, as it turns out, Tiny, like most men, are somewhat slowed when they see a naked woman.”
“And,” Simon urged her on.
“So, I hit him over the head with the vase and dragged him in here. Damn heavy bastard, too.”
Simon held out his good hand. She grabbed it. Her robe, untied, flew back as he hoisted her up. She flew to his embrace and he kissed her passionately, intensely. She grabbed his hair and pulled. He pulled her hips in and squeezed. They finally broke apart.
“We need to go,” he said.
“Where?”
“To see Tesla. He is the only man I now trust in this city . . .”
Wage W. Pascal
August 30, 1914
9th Precinct Holding Cells
Manhattan, New York
Lying on his back, Wage stared at the concrete ceiling from his small cot. His cell was a closet of brick and mortar with standard iron bars dividing him from the hallway that led to other cells and to intake. From his cell, he could see a few other prisoners. Most of them smelled like alcohol or reeked of filth or vomit. When they sobered up and the desk sergeants completed their paperwork, they would either be released, taken to court, or transferred to Sing Sing Correctional Facility.
In the three days Wage had spent there, he was the only one not shuffled out of these holding cells. A young deputy had informed Wage that he would be transferred to Sing Sing soon, and according the paperwork being drawn up, would later be extradited by train and wagon back to Louisiana, where he would stand trial for the murder of Henri Jardin. This wasn’t Wage’s first incarceration and admittedly, this holding cell was far better than the one in New Orleans and more comfortable than that hell hole in Chihuahua. As he stared at the ceiling, he came up with his getaway plans, all of which involved escaping during times of transit. The hinge point of every plan was the lack of vigilance typically displayed by accompanying U.S. Marshals on long transfers.
The same informative deputy, still new to his job, still nervous, scurried down the hallway, holding a chair in either hand. He set both chairs down in front of Wage’s cell.
“Everything all right there?” Wage asked with his hands folded behind his head.
“Um, yes . . . yes sir,” the young deputy replied. “You . . . you have a . . . a visitor.”
“Well, how about that.” Wage scratched the stubble on his face. “Let me guess—some morally repugnant, broke-dick judge come to offer me a one-sided deal on fear of pain and death. Tell him I’m busy.”
“Broke-dick, hah,” an imposing man said, slapping his knee and sitting down in one of the chairs in front of the cell. He adjusted the second chair and propped up his dusty and finely stitched brown boots. “How the hell are you, Wage?” Theodore Roosevelt asked.
Wage shot up out of bed as if formally called to attention. “Colonel Roosevelt, sir.”
“At ease, at ease, Captain.” Roosevelt ordered through a gap-toothed smile. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and rolled up his beige shirt sleeves. He dressed as though he could lead a jungle safari at a moment’s notice. “Strangely enough, I am here to offer you a deal, but it’s far from one-sided, and admittedly, it may be . . . well . . . morally ambiguous.” He laughed again.
“I don’t understand,” Wage said, still at attention.
“How are you holdin’ up after the whole thing at Carnegie Hall?” Roosevelt asked.
“I don’t know, really.” Wage took a moment and collected his thoughts. “I know that bastard DeLacy is dead. I know Edison is a lyin’ sack-a-shit. I know there are three masked men who are contesting The Hand and The Illuminati. I know Corporal Blake is still alive, works for them and still wants to kill me. I know I met his sister, and she is probably more dangerous than he is. And I know The Hand and The Illuminati are both interested in some kid named Julius Oppenheimer. Couldn’t tell you why though. I know I’m tired. I know I’m concerned. I know I’m angry. And I know I miss my best friend, Sergeant William Macdonough.”
Roosevelt pulled a letter from his back pocket. He unfolded it. “I was sorry to hear of Sergeant Macdonough,” he said. “I am truly sorry you lost your friend. He was one of the finest soldiers I’d ever come across. He sent me this letter, in fact.”
Wage’s eyebrows rose and fell like a great wave. “When?” he asked.
“A few weeks ago. Postmarked from Battle Creek. Asked me for help. Told me about the problems you boys ran into with The Hand. Told me about picking up work for The Illuminati. Told me about your father. Your brother. Even a childhood sweetheart.”
The sides of Wage’s face twitched out of sadness, out of pain.
Roosevelt folded the paper and replaced it in his back pocket. “I took care of the murder charges. The district attorney down there is a hunting buddy of mine. You’re a killer, Wage, but a murderer you are not. I also had the D.A. write out a formal apology to you and your family and had that bastard Delacroix disbarred.” Roosevelt reached into his other back pocket and pulled out a sealed parchment. He handed it to Wage through the bars. “There is a modest settlement involved, too. It is ready to be transferred into your reactivated trust as soon as your brother notarizes the appropriate paperwork.” Roosevelt looked around. “Where is that damn jailer with the key?”
“Why not my father? Why doesn’t he notarize the paperwork?”
“Your father has become unresponsive, Wage. He’s comatose currently. Doctors don’t expect him to recover. I’m sorry.” A tear rolled down Wage’s cheek as he recalled the last conversation he had with him. Roosevelt continued, “I’ve arranged transport for you should you want to go back to Baton Rouge. Your father was a good man, a fine soldier, and a generous benefactor. If it weren’t for him, we would have never made it to Cuba.”
“What do you mean, never made it to Cuba?” Wage asked, confused.
Roosevelt stroked his mustache. “The Rough Rider Initiative lost funding shortly after we began our training, Wage. The bastards in Congress reappropriated the money. So I had to solicit some donations. Your father provided me with nearly all the funding I needed to finish training and get to Cuba.”
“You knew my father?”
“His reputation at first, sure. But when I found out one of his sons joined my unit, well, I approached him personally. He gave me nearly all I needed in exchange for—”
“In exchange for what?” Wage yelled.
“He insisted you be made an officer,” Roosevelt said after a moment. “That’s when I had Sergeant Macdonough train you. That’s why I made you a lieutenant.”
Wage sat back down on his cot. The nervous deputy returned and, after a bit of fumbling, unlocked the door. The iron bars creaked open. “That’s why I became an officer? Because of my father’s money?”
“Yes. But it was the best damn decision I’d ever made. Men followed you up Kettle Hill after Captain O’Neil died. They followed you, not your money.” Roosevelt pointed at Wage. “You earned your promotion. Sometimes fortune presents us with opportunities, Wage; but fortune doesn’t fire a gun, it doesn’t charge a hill, and I know for a fact it only favors the brave. What you did on that hill was some of the finest soldiering I’ve ever seen, and you were only 17!”
“I had just turned 18, actually.”
“Listen to me. When you men cleared out that garrison. Deep below . . . in the cellars—“
“I’d rather not talk about it, Colonel,” Wage interrupted.
“You didn’t know it at the time, but that was The Hand at work.”
“That . . . was . . .”
“Yes,” Roosevelt said. “You’ve had more experience with them then you think. And now, I would like to offer you command once more, Wage.”
“Command? Command of what?”
&nb
sp; “A new initiative. The Peacemakers Initiative. We are going to take the fight to these shadow organizations, Wage, and I need operatives comfortable in the shadows. But more importantly, I need someone to command those operatives in the field. Say yes, and you and I will make The Hand pay. We will make the Illuminati pay. And we will make these new fellas—whoever they are—pay, too. It’s up to us. Not just to save the American people, either, we’re talking about saving the entire world from these conniving assholes.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you go back home.” Roosevelt shrugged his soldiers. “Resume a normal life. Forever looking over your shoulder.”
“Well, when you put it like that . . .” Wage said.
“Wage, this is an opportunity to honor Sergeant Macdonough. It is a way to honor your father. It’s an opportunity for soldiers like us to finally get back to doing the thing we love—soldiering. I have a feeling that you are like me. Ever since I left the Army, the Rough Riders, I’ve felt empty inside, felt like something was missing. It’s difficult to explain, but I think you understand.”
Wage shook his head. “I do . . . I do . . . but with my father ill, my brother running for Congress, my other brother shippin’ out to Annapolis, perhaps I am mostly needed at home. Perhaps I should stop running around and settle down.”
Roosevelt nodded. “Bill told me about some of the adventures you have had over the years. I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to retire. Maybe that part of you, that part of your spirit, has been quelled. Maybe. But for people like you and me, I don’t think it’s ever quelled. I think it’s who we are. What we crave, what we do, what we are, Wage—you don’t just retire from it and settle down. You do it until it kills you.”
“I don’t know if I can do this without Ol’ Bill,” Wage said. “The man has been with me since I was 17 years old.”
“If not him, who could you do this with?” Roosevelt asked.
Wage looked up with the faintest of smiles. He got up, walked out of the cell, and stood over Roosevelt to shake his hand.
Roosevelt stood and his huge, tight grip swallowed Wage’s hand. “Does this mean you are accepting the job?” he asked.
“Peacemakers?” Wage asked.
“Peacemakers,” Roosevelt said.
“Well, Captain Pascal reportin’ for duty.” Wage casually saluted.
“Actually,” Roosevelt said, pulling out yet another piece of paper, this time from his front shirt pocket. He handed it to Wage. “You’ve been promoted, Major.” Wage took the paper and unfolded it. At the top was an insignia. Three silhouetted Colt Peacemakers forming a triangle around a small red skull. Below it were details of his promotion and general appointment to the Peacemakers Initiative. It was signed by Theodore Roosevelt, Executive Director.
“Major Pascal,” Wage said, trying out the title.
“Major Pascal,” Theodore Roosevelt echoed. “Welcome aboard.”
Mink Callahan
August 31, 1914
Estate of Quinton Gartrell
Long Island, New York
The red brick mansion sat nestled upon acres of rolling green hills. The countless hackberry trees were brushed with the faintest of yellow, signaling an early autumn. The air was humid and the grass still damp from the evening rains. Atop one of the hills, a picnic basket filled with cranberry pastries, boiled eggs, and a warm bottle of champagne sat next to a woven blanket big enough for two. Mink lay prone on the blanket in a modest brown skirt and ruffled white top. A sunhat with blooming pink flowers shielded her eyes from the sun as she stared down the iron sight of a Springfield bolt-action rifle. In her aim, almost 500 yards away, was a large metal milk can brimming with water.
“Slow down your breathing,” Quincey said softly. “Relax your trigger finger. See the elm tree down there?”
“Yes,” Mink said, opening both eyes now.
“Which way is it blowing?”
“Left to right.”
Quincey pulled his spyglass taut and like a sea-captain of old, spied the tree by the milk can. “Yep. Five knots.”
“Probably closer to seven,” Mink said, adjusting her sight ever so slightly.
“Remember, this close to the ocean you tend to get swirling winds,” Quincey said.
“I know.” She listened to the subtle sound of lapping waves and a distant trolley bell.
Quincey placed a hand on her back. “Relax. Breathe.” His hand glided over to the crest of her backside. He squeezed it ever so slightly. Mink rolled her eyes, momentarily taking her focus away from her target.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
“I don’t. No.”
Mink fired the 30-ought-6 round. In the spyglass, Quincey saw the milk can spring a leak halfway down and a stream of water jet out. “Perfect,” he said, slapping her backside this time. Mink pulled back the bolt, ejecting the round, and then pushed it forward in one smooth motion. Then she rolled over and snatched Quincey by the neck. He leaned over and kissed her, bracing himself with one hand as her hat fell off.
“One hell of a shot,” came a voice from behind them. An imposing man with a walrus mustache, a worn slouch hat and wire-rimmed glasses snuck up on them.
Quincey shot to his feet. “Well, I’ll be damned.” The two men clasped hands hard enough to shake all of Long Island. “Didn’t hear or smell you coming.”
“Always approach downwind,” the man replied.
“How the hell are you, Teddy?”
“Damn fine! Damn fine!” Roosevelt said with his trademark smile. “Just had a cup of the finest coffee with your father, Quinton, and he told me I’d find you out here.”
“Well, what brings you down?” Quincey asked.
“Not you,” Roosevelt said to Quincey. Then he pointed at Mink. “You.”
“Me?” Mink asked nervously from her perch on the blanket.
Roosevelt pulled out a piece of folded paper from his back pocket. Quincey helped Mink up and she adjusted her hat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said. Roosevelt kissed her hand with a surprising sensitivity and then handed her the paper. She opened it up. A triangle of black revolvers surrounded a crimson skull atop the paper.
“Wait—what’s going on here?” Quincey asked.
“It’s an appointment,” Roosevelt said.
“Appointment to what?” Mink asked.
“You have been asked to join a special, covert unit sanctioned by the U.S. government by order of the president himself.”
“What?” Quincey said, shocked.
Mink scanned over the letter addressed to one Minerva M. Callahan. At the bottom were two signatures. Theodore Roosevelt and . . . “Wage Pascal!” she shouted. “He’s alive?”
Roosevelt laughed. “Of course he’s alive, my dear lady. Have you ever known anything that can kill him?”
“Besides bourbon, you mean?” Mink wiped away a tear and laughed.
“He asked for you specifically, said you are experienced with bewitching men and locomotive operations, and you have an absolute mastery of disguises.” Mink blushed. Quincey laughed. “He also said he wouldn’t do it without you.”
“Wait, what?” Quincey asked.
“Where is he now?” she asked. “Is he with you? Is he here?”
“He’s gone down to Baton Rouge on family business.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m afraid it’s his father. But not to worry though, he’ll be reporting back in a few weeks. We have work to do.”
“Wait,” Quincey repeated. “Let me get this straight. You came here to recruit my fiancée for government work?”
Mink turned her head. “Fiancée? What are you talkin’ about?”
Quincey walked over to the picnic basket. He picked up the bottle of warm champagne and a small jeweler’s box. He tossed the bottle end over end to Roosevelt, who caught it as if this were previously rehearsed. Then he went down on one knee and opened the box. “Mink, will you do me the honor of being my wife?
”
Mink gasped. “My God, Quincey, are you doin’ this now? We’ve only known each other a few—”
“. . . weeks, I know,” he finished for her. “But I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. I love you, Mink. Marry me and make me the happiest of all God’s creatures.”
“I . . .” Mink hesitated. This would be her third proposal. Her last proposal, truth be told, was just as unexpected but lacked romance. Ronald Thomason’s business partner Marcus came to her tiny apartment one Sunday afternoon as she was folding laundry fresh off the clothesline. He discussed nuptial legalities, the logistics of her move, appropriate compensation, and the required expectations of a socialite and new member of the “industrial aristocracy.” He handed over a sealed envelope that contained a polished gold ring with a solitary diamond the size and shape of a bird’s eye. Her own Cinderella story rewritten by a bland accountant and emotionless lawyer.
Before that, it was a 17-year-old Wage Pascal, covered in the kind of sweat and grime that only the Louisiana humidity could produce. He asked her with one knee sinking deep into the swamp mud, presenting a twine ring bound with both their hair, red and black, and a small chicken bone woven in as a centerpiece. At the age of 15, Mink gave a resounding and unhesitant “yes.”
But for the first time, she was receiving a proposal that seemed more like the fairytale. Although it was a bit rushed. She looked down at the massive man before her. Like a true fairytale, the handsome knight knelt upon a lush green hill bathed in late-morning light; behind him were softly swaying trees and the tiniest of whitecaps in the ocean beyond. She knew his intentions were true. She knew that there would be nobody more faithful, more loyal. She knew he would never leave her. And there was no doubt her love for him was growing, and growing fast. But would it ever be like the love she remembered from her youth? Could she love him more than any other? Could she love him more than . . .
“Do not torture me, my love,” Quincey laughingly pleaded.
“Yes, Quincey. Yes, I will marry you.” Overjoyed, he plucked the ring from its box—a marquis diamond surrounded by emerald leaves blooming atop a smooth gold band. He slid it onto her finger. Roosevelt withdrew a bush knife from his boot and opened the champagne. The pop of the cork echoed over the hills. He handed the frothing bottle back to Quincey, who handed it promptly to Mink. “Ladies first,” he said. Mink, forgoing fairytale civility, took a swig from the bottle and handed it back to her new fiancé. He took a massive pull before handing it to Roosevelt. “Here’s to you,” Roosevelt said before finishing off the bottle and wiping the foam from his mustache. Quincey and Mink embraced again.
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 35
