by Todd Downing
“No time for cold feet now,” Graves muttered and made his way to the skylight.
It wasn’t locked―of course it wasn’t. He dropped to the catwalk below and took in the gloomy interior of the warehouse.
The walkway he perched on was cluttered with old boxes and barrels. It overlooked the floor of the warehouse, which was relatively clean outside of large crates lining the outer walls, two large stills, and the car parked in the center of the building. On the other side of the elevated walk from him there was a door. No lights were visible through the dirty pane.
As the Gunshade watched, a man in coveralls came from behind some boxes lugging a large barrel in front of him. He put the barrel in front of one of the stills and began to drain one of the vats into it, faint whistling reached Graves’ ears.
Graves felt the cold grip of his pistols under his hands, they had moved there as if of their own volition. He stopped to remind himself that the man below could be a simple worker and not some hardened criminal despite what he was doing. The Gunshade was a killer but he never took the life of an innocent man.
He briefly considered leaping over the edge, using his ability to go spectral to land without injury, to get down. However, he might need to save that as an ace in the hole. Instead, Graves crept his way to the stairs watching where he was placing his feet. The smell of alcohol became incredibly strong as he descended.
# # #
From his hiding spot, Mike Sullivan’s face split into an evil grin and his grip tightened on the bundle of dynamite clutched in his big hands. It would only be a matter of minutes now before he lit the fuse and Chicago would be rid of one more annoyance.
# # #
“H-hey, now, mister, I don’t need any trouble!” The frightened laborer stared at the Gunshade as he advanced upon him with both revolvers drawn. “I gots a family!”
“Then you won’t mind stepping aside while I wreck these stills,” the vigilante said.
“Sure, sure, you go right ahead.” The man stepped back, his hands raised.
“Get me an axe... and stay where I can see you,” the Gunshade commanded.
“Sure thing, mister, you just keep that trigger finger still.”
The man slowly inched away from the Gunshade and, without warning, dove behind a stack of broken crates.
As Graves raised one of his pistols to shoot, the sound of many hammers being drawn back and the chokes of several scatter-guns clacking froze him to the spot.
The Gunshade seethed with anger. It had been another amateur move to not check behind the large crates while he’d been up on the walkway, although he wasn’t sure if he would have been able to see the men hidden from up their either. Someone to his left barked at him.
“Drop it and you might live.”
Graves wasn’t so much a fool as that. After all the chaos he’d sown among the Families, they’d throw a ticker tape parade to the palooka who put him under.
His hand streaked down to his left holster and the second Smith & Wesson cleared leather.
“Let him have it!”
The cry came almost as soon as his fingers wrapped around the butt of his gun and he willed himself to cross over.
The warehouse became indistinct and wispy yet each hood lit up to his eyes like headlights on a dark empty road, living beacons of sin and wickedness. Time slowed and the Gunshade took the liberty of prioritizing who would live and who would die.
Graves felt a load of buckshot pass through his body. It was like a breeze off the river, as inconsequential as the bullets being pumped into his incorporeal body.
The hammers of both pistols dropped. One man fell, never to rise again, the other hood would wake up screaming in the night in his jail cell for years to come. The chambers rotated two fresh bullets into play.
More disconcerting to the Gunshade was the dead beginning to take notice of him. Ordinarily a confused mass of emotions, the presence of the living drew their gaze and focus. Many of those spirits were never at peace with their demise. He was simply “food” to some and a target to others.
The long and short of it was that Graves couldn’t stay like this for much longer. Another of his bullets took off a chunk of wood next one man’s head and the man ducked back into cover. His second bullet hit another man who burst into blue flame and screamed like all the powers of hell were after him.
The Gunshade took advantage of the shock this display caused and moved. He couldn’t stay and absorb their bullets all day and standing in the middle of the floor would be suicide. The gaunt avenger leaped and rolled towards the parked car letting his ghostly form dissipate.
Gunfire followed him and Graves came up behind the sturdy metal body of the vehicle. He squeezed off several shots that accomplished nothing other than to lessen the amount of lead flying his way. As good as he was, Graves knew that eventually numbers or a lucky shot would overwhelm him. Besides, his supply of bullets was dropping quickly. He’d never intended this to become a prolonged battle. The Gunshade quickly snapped another four half-moon clips into his guns, and all but emptied the cylinders at his perceived targets.
That was when he heard the screaming and a loud voice call out.
# # #
Edna was terrified inside the trunk of the car as the roar of gunfire continued, but she kept herself put until a bullet punched through and missed her head by inches. She wasn’t sure if someone had discovered her or not but she was being shot at! Edna wondered if, when she looked back upon this later, she would be amazed at how well she kept her poise. However, her unflappability drew a line at being filled with lead. She screamed and grabbed for the handle before her world was flipped onto its side.
# # #
Graves caught something falling from the walkway out of the corner of his eye before the screaming from the car he was hiding behind distracted him. The trunk was swinging open before he caught sight of the bundle of dynamite bounce against the alcohol-soaked floor. He turned quickly to see the gunmen beating a hasty retreat. That this had all been a trap from the beginning became a certainty in his mind.
The Gunshade had no choice. He became a specter again in time to see the bomb explode. Even in his position straddling two worlds, he could feel the blast and watched in fascination as the heavy sedan toppled over on its side and a young woman fall out of the trunk.
More of a concern was the blaze that erupted from the soaked floor. Graves glanced at the doors leading out and noted they were shut. Surely locked too, he thought mirthlessly. The whole place was on the verge of becoming a firebug deathtrap with one crime-buster really becoming dead and an innocent along for the trip.
The woman staggered to her feet, swaying from her blast-addled state, seemingly oblivious to the growing fire that surrounded them.
A gnarled hand grabbed his ankle and the Gunshade looked down to see a smoky desiccated face glaring back up at him. As he went to shake free, he felt another grasp on his shoulder and bony hands clutch at the back of his jacket. A chill even deeper than the afterlife began to seep into his bones. He had gone back to the well once too many times and now it threatened to drown him.
Earthly oxygen flooded his heaving lungs as he bailed out of the spirit realm, air tinted with acrid smoke. Only a superhuman effort kept his exhausted frame from collapsing. His now-human ears could almost swear they heard a parting wail of lament from the dead as the iron-hard grips that had held him vanished.
Heat lashed at his body as he grabbed the confused woman and dragged her across the floor to temporary safety. A laugh from above drew his attention.
“Are you still alive down there, Gunshade?”
The laugh grew more menacing.
“Well, are you?”
Graves looked up and saw a burly man with a Tommy gun step from the shadows. The man pulled the bolt on the gun with a loud clack.
“Or do you plan on roasting down there like a dead duck?”
The Gunshade snapped off a shot that missed completely and ducked back b
ehind the diminishing bulk of the sedan as an answering staccato of heavy slugs forced him to seek cover. This was even worse than the Great War. At least there he had a rifle as the Huns tried to machine-gun him. Even then, he had more than three bullets left on him.
“He’s right,” the woman spoke her first words to him. She seemed to getting over her shock.
“I know he’s right. I’m just kind of stuck at the moment.”
“Can’t you, you know, turn into a ghost or something?”
“Not unless I want to make it permanent.”
“Oh.”
The Gunshade glanced back up at the catwalk. He didn’t see the gunman. He’d either left them to bake or was waiting to ambush them again if they tried to escape.
“What about the doors?” The woman asked.
“Undoubtedly locked. This whole thing was a trap for me.”
She laughed grimly.
“And here I thought I was going to get the story of the year.” Graves paused. The day kept getting better and better.
“You still might, but that’s going to depend upon us getting off this floor and up there. How fast are you?”
“Are you out of your mind?” she yelled.
“I’ll cover you. It’s either run or burn.”
He watched her purse her lips.
“I’ll take my chances. Just don’t you spare the bullets.”
“Sure.”
Graves didn’t have the heart to tell her he only had two left, one in a gun and the other on his belt that he solemnly loaded in his other empty pistol as she bolted for the stairs.
There was no shooting, only silence as she reached the foot of the stairs and flashed him a hopeful grin over her shoulder.
The Gunshade made his way toward the stairs as the woman ran up lightly before him.
Suddenly Graves caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows up on the walk and he fired a shot in the direction of the movement, watching hopelessly as it deflected off of a metal support. The only benefit of his action was that whatever was moving up there retreated back into the darkness. He watched as the woman took off running into the gloom and he gave chase. She might be a meddlesome reporter but he’d be damned if he was going to let her get killed because he sent her up there.
He still had his last bullet.
As Graves made the walkway, he caught the reporter’s frightened eyes, followed by the large gangster with his arm across her neck and the huge maw of his machine gun pointing straight at him.
“Stop right there, Gunshade. You might not be able to be shot but I’ll splatter her pretty little head everywhere if you take one more step.”
The Gunshade bluffed for time until he could come up with a plan. He pointed his pistol at the man’s head. “What makes you think I care?”
The hood laughed. “You’re too much of a boy scout. Everyone knows you only kill people like me. That’ll be the death of you one of these days.” He laughed again at his own joke.
Inspiration struck.
“What makes you think that? Who’s to say I won’t just shoot her and deprive you of a shield?”
Graves shifted his aim between the woman’s eyes, which widened with fear.
“You maniac!” she cried. “You wouldn’t!”
The Gunshade shrugged. “If it’s between you or me... Sorry. That’s the way things are.”
“Why, you!”
The woman’s heel came crashing down on the gangster’s foot as he yelped in sudden pain and released her. As the diminutive reporter charged toward him, Graves leaped completely over her and landed a hard right hook to the gangster’s jaw. The hoodlum went over the railing with a cry of surprise that cut short at the end.
Graves laughed in spite of the situation. He hadn’t expected her to be such a firebrand.
“Are you coming, miss? It appears the way is clear.”
He watched her huff and shoot him a dirty look.
“You dope!”
“I’ve been called worse.”
They climbed to the open skylight in silence, as smoke and flames consumed the warehouse. Bianchi wouldn’t sweat the loss of the building, but he was now short a dozen or so goons, and would have to hire more. Edna’s nerves were frayed and her mind was a jumble of questions. She knew better than to waste this opportunity interviewing the Gunshade. Finally, as they found their way to the rooftop fire escape, sirens distant, she blurted out her first question.
“Would you have really shot me?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
He didn’t bother to tell her that it only hurt the first time.
The Shanghai Incident
by R.L. Pace
Wednesday afternoon.
It seemed routine enough, a confidential communique from AEGIS headquarters directed to Felix Fogarty, their resident technical genius in British China. Make a trip to the Club Lusitano, part of the scene for wealthy Portuguese ex pats, to meet the mysterious Bruxo Cardoso. Reputed to be a dealer in antiquities of dubious authenticity and state secrets of impeccable pedigree. Governments tended to be less forgiving than individuals if they got phony goods. From there he merely had to inspect and transport the blueprints he was to receive to a prearranged location for what he presumed was a trip back to the United States to Thomas Edison’s lab for analysis.
In addition to being a whiz at all things electrical and most things mechanical, he was about as Irish as an American kid could be, commanded seven languages like a native, and a dozen more sufficient to get around nearly anywhere in the civilized world. Which, in part at least, was why he had been personally recruited by Thomas Edison himself to join the Allied Enterprise Group for International Security, despite Fogarty’s tutelage under Nikola Tesla.
“Bruxo Cardoso? Who names their kid ‘Wizard Thistles’?” Felix was looking at the instructions printed before him, memorizing before burning them.
“His mother, apparently. Have you got it?” Joe Frankels was the bureau chief. A squat man, powerfully built with no visible hair save his eyebrows. Felix wasn’t sure if he was denuded with a razor or by nature. Either way his brown eyes showed a resolute attitude and his tone was strictly business.
“Yup, I’ve got it. How will I know this guy?” Frankels handed him a glossy black and white 8” x 10” photo. It was a little grainy and slightly out of focus, like it was taken with a telephoto lens from some distance, but adequate to the task. “Good enough. If I change now I can take a pedicab and make it with time to spare.”
“Are you sure you can verify authenticity of the blueprints?” Joe asked.
“Well, no, not really. I can make a guess as to whether or not it’s a genuine device that will do something when built, but beyond that is a stretch. I mean gosh, a rocket ship is pretty simple, really, but an anti-gravity machine on the other hand…” He let the sentence hang unfinished.
“Yeah, it seemed a dubious claim to me,” Joe observed, “but Menlo Park said they wanted it, so here we are.”
“I don’t understand why this request wasn’t marked Top Secret.” Felix wondered aloud.
“Probably because the higher you classify something the more interesting it becomes to others. Bad others.”
“I suppose. Well, time to shove off. I should be back in about three hours.” Tossing the communique in the fireplace Felix headed for the office door.
“You watch your back out there, son. I know you know how to get around in this town, but you are an important part of the team here. Come back alive.”
“Always my first priority, Chief.” As he departed he had no idea just how difficult the task would turn out to be.
# # #
Since its civil war two years earlier life in China had been a balancing act for foreigners. If you stayed in the International Region you were relatively safe, but only a few months into 1927 Chiang Kai-shek had docked a gunboat at the Bund wharf and general strikes by workers had turned violent, so moving about had become a more hazardous proposition. In an effort
to maintain a low profile AEGIS had moved their regional HQ into one of the mansions in the genteel French Concession and had hired more local Chinese. There were risks associated with such a move, but Joe Frankels had made substantial modifications to the site, turning it into a virtual fortress before deeming them acceptable. Now Felix Fogarty was settled into a pedi-cab heading toward the posh Club Lusitano with one eye on the runner and another on the surroundings.
Situated a few blocks north of Soochow Creek and barely a mile to the Bund, the center of British Shanghai’s clubs, commerce and cabals, the building gloried in neo-classic architecture echoing its Hong Kong sister. Lush palm trees guarded the entrance and two doormen flanked the doors. Felix stepped from the cab, which quickly found another fare, and took a moment to survey the territory.
Single entrance, but there must be a back or side door somewhere. Maybe both. Possibly a courtyard behind the main facade. There were at least a dozen places someone could hide if fleeing the scene became necessary. But each of those spots could also hide someone watching him. He peered intently at a few of the obvious sites then adjusted the tie on his tux and walked inside the club.
Inside, the atmosphere was elegant with Art Deco styling. Oil rubbed mahogany paneling glowed, reflecting on the polished marble steps. In the main lounge, a quintet and a torch singer were covering the stateside Ethel Waters hit “Sugar Baby O’ Mine”. Felix surveyed the scene looking for his contact. A few tables had couples alternately engaged in conversation or listening to the band. At the bar maybe half a dozen men sat alone with their drinks. Nowhere could he see Bruxo Cardoso. Although he had never been here Fogarty knew that the main action was in the billiard rooms so he strolled to the bar looking for directions.
“Mary Pickford,” he ordered.
“Si” the bartender replied. A few moments later he set down the sweet, grenadine laced drink and Felix tossed down a large denomination bank note.
“Estou procurando alguma acao.” Fogarty said in flawless Portuguese.
