by Thomas Webb
Abe dropped, his hand shooting out to cover her mouth. That was a mistake. The Pious Man had paid a handsome sum of greenbacks for his security, both human and mechanical. The instant the woman spun on her back and twisted her legs up and around his extended arm for an elbow lock, Abe knew Worthington had got his money’s worth. Training like that didn’t just happen. You had to travel to get it.
Blood poured from the woman’s nose, running down the side of her face. With Abe’s arm securely trapped in place, calling for help looked to be the last thing on her mind. Instead, she glared up at him with a devilish grin, her teeth awash in red. She reached for something at her back. Abe’s eyes grew wide. The handle of a wakizashi—a Nipponese short sword of folded steel—protruded from its scabbard. He had seconds, at most, before she gifted him with a second smile across his throat.
The woman was good, to be sure, but not ‘trained DSI agent’ good. Abe turned his hand thumb-down to relieve the pressure on his elbow then whipped around the woman’s leg to free himself. Her grin faded as he placed his knee on her chest then caught the hand with which she held the blade in a wristlock of his own.
Abe turned the blade back toward her. From there, it was only a matter of time. Technique combined with strength trumped technique alone as Abe brought his now-considerable muscle to bear. Seeing her impending death reflected in his eyes, the woman gave her all. Sweat dripped from Abe's face onto hers, the intimacy of their life and death struggle a strange perversion of the intimacy between lovers.
She grimaced as the wakizashi punctured her throat. All the fight left her body like a dove taking flight. Abe plunged the long knife in until its tip struck wood floor. His shoulders drooped. He hung his head and shut his eyes, suddenly drained. If any of Worthington’s security found him like this, he was a goner. If captured operating on foreign soil, he’d be automatically disavowed by the Union. He shuddered to think of what the Confederacy would do to a captured spy if he even survived being taken into custody. He had to get this mission done and get out of here.
From down the hall, he heard a low chuckle.
“Not bad, Bookkeeper. Looks like you can beat a woman.”
Abe’s eyes snapped open. Before he knew it, he was on his feet, and the distance between him and his minder evaporated like pre-dawn mist under the morning sun, his hands suddenly around Kingfish’s throat. “You sonofabitch!” Abe hissed through clenched teeth. “You almost got me killed!”
Kingfish gripped Abe’s hands and tried to pull them from his neck. “Easy,” he managed to croak.
Abe relented, letting his minder go with a curse.
Kingfish coughed and cleared his throat, rubbing the area where Abe had held his neck. “Almost only counts for two things, boy — horseshoes and hand-explosives — and we ain’t got neither one. Hell, you’re alive, ain’t you? Besides,” Kingfish added, grinning, “I knew you could handle her. That was one helluva entertaining fight.”
Abe looked down at the woman, her eyelids open, dull gaze staring into nothingness. He reached down and pulled them closed.
“She was twice the man you are, Kingfish,” Abe said.
She’d been a formidable warrior. Her mistake had been choosing to work for the wrong side.
Abe stood, looking down at the woman’s face, her nose, mouth, and throat thick with congealing blood, her body pinned to the floor at the neck by her own blade. High forehead and cheek bones, scar across her chin. She’d been attractive in life. Who had she loved? Had anyone loved her? Some parts of this work Abe hated, but it had been him or her, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be him.
Abe turned to his minder. “Let’s finish this,” he said, “before we’re caught.”
Abe drew his pistol and cracked open the door to Worthington's bedchambers. He crept through the entry barrel-first and found himself in an antechamber.
Good. Just like the plans said.
Abe cleared the space before the bedroom proper then poked his head back out into the hallway. He holstered his weapon and gestured at the dead woman’s feet.
“Give me a hand,” he hissed at his minder, more a command than a request.
Kingfish grumbled but did as Abe asked. He picked up the woman’s legs while Abe grasped her under the arms. Together, they carried the body inside the antechamber and placed it inside a closet.
Per the plans they’d stolen, there were only two rooms past this one — a dressing room and the master bedroom suite complete with its own privy.
Abe pulled his pistol again, gesturing for Kingfish to lead the way. He’d be safer with his minder in front, right where he could see him.
Kingfish shrugged and took point while Abe moved into position next to the door. When Kingfish nodded ready, Abe swung the door open and moved in on his minder’s six o’clock position.
A sickly sweet smell permeated the bedroom, lavender, sex, and sweat with a trace of something foul underneath. Moonlight flooded the room, washing a huge four-poster bed in a dull, white glow. Worthington’s shriveled, skeletal frame peeked out from underneath cotton sheets the pure color of new-fallen snow. A paste-white chicken bone of a leg stretched from an exposed, wrinkled buttock. Worthington snored peacefully.
He wasn’t alone. Next to the sleeping Worthington sat a small boy — a beautiful child, long lashes around dark eyes shimmering in the moonlight, skin the color of cooking chocolate. He sat upright in the bed, frozen as a corpse, staring straight at Abe.
Abe fought the urge to vomit. The sight, the smell, the thought of what had happened here all hit him at once. What kind of man — what kind of monster — did this? Their orders were to bring the Pious Man in alive, but it was far more than he deserved.
Abe looked into the eyes of the child in Worthington’s bed. He placed a finger to his lips — quiet — and felt the smallest relief when the poor brown-skinned child nodded once, his face devoid of emotion.
Kingfish moved to the left side of the bed and nudged Worthington with his rifle. “Rise and shine, sweet cheeks.”
Worthington’s eyes snapped open. He jolted up. “What—what’s the meaning of this?” Worthington demanded, any vestige of sleep gone. He scrambled to cover himself. “Do you know who I am?”
“Oh, we know, all right,” Kingfish said. “And don’t even think about shouting for those guards.”
He set the rifle down and pulled his pistol. Then he turned and leveled it at Abe.
“What is this?” Abe asked, the realization hitting him even as he spoke the words.
He’d been betrayed.
Kingfish shrugged. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Vice Chairman McCormick’s decided you’re too much of a liability. I’m sorry, kid.”
“You’re a traitor,” Abe said.
“Yeah. Among other things.” Kingfish indicated Abe’s rifle and sidearm. “Gonna need you to put those down now, Abe.”
Abe stood, undecided about what to do next. Kingfish had him dead to rights. He glanced over at Worthington.
The old man’s eyes darted around the room, first to Kingfish then to Abe then to the boy next to him. Worthington clutched the sheets tight to his chest, whether to hide his nakedness or out of some instinctual hope that it might somehow protect him, Abe didn’t know.
“I can pay you,” Worthington said. “Both of you. As much as you want. A king’s ransom for each of you. Just let me go.”
Abe’s minder smiled. “Don’t you worry, honey. We’ll get to that.” Kingfish glanced at the boy in Worthington’s bed.
“So, you’ve been working for McCormick all along?” Abe asked.
Kingfish hadn’t repeated his order for Abe to drop the weapon. Abe gripped the rifle close. He was keeping it until the last possible second. Abe noticed Kingfish take a second look at the boy in Worthington’s bed. And then a third.
“’Course I was,” Abe’s minder said. “This whole time. You were sloppy to miss it. My orders were to bring you here and finish you off. Was gonna throw my lot
in with the Pious Man here. Get myself that king’s ransom he just mentioned.”
“You still can!” Worthington pleaded. “Anything you want! Just please, let me go!”
Kingfish looked at the boy again. This time, his gaze lingered.
“Nah,” Kingfish said, still looking over at the poor creature Worthington had destroyed. “I’m a traitorous murdering bastard, but I’m not a depraved, traitorous murdering bastard.”
The manse was still, as still as a home could only be in the dead of night when everyone and everything in it were at rest. A pistol was loud enough during the day, but in the quiet peace of night, the sound would be like the final clap of thunder on judgment day. Too late Abe realized what his minder planned to do.
Kingfish placed his pistol against Worthington’s temple, cocked it, and fired.
The boy in Worthington’s bed didn’t blink, didn’t so much as flinch, when the old man’s blood and brains and skull splattered across his face.
“What the hell have you done?” Abe cried. Even in a house this size, there was no way the pistol report went unnoticed. Any minute now, the guards would come bursting in.
Kingfish smiled at Abe, looking more at peace than Abe had ever seen him. “I was actually supposed to finish you first then strike my bargain with the old man.” He shrugged. “But, now? Well, can’t have any loose ends, you know?” Kingfish stepped back and pointed his Colt at Abe.
Abe’s eyes went to the gun in his minder’s hand. “What are you doing?”
“I’m a piece of shit, Abe,” Kingfish said. He suddenly looked exhausted, the gun lowering in his weary hand. “I know that. I was more than that once, believe it or not. I was an outstanding agent. I loved my work, and I was damned good at it, too. I was a patriot.” Kingfish shrugged. “All that’s gone now. Nothing left for me ‘cept to end it on my own terms. I’m sorry, Abe. You deserved better than me. Good luck getting out of here.” Kingfish held his eyes. “I mean that.”
Before Abe could respond, Kingfish placed the pistol in his own mouth and pulled the trigger.
25 Outside New Orleans, Louisiana - Montclair Estate, October 1866
Randall moved like a swamp panther, his saber held well in front of him. A hundred thoughts raced through Montclair’s brain. Had his brother’s swordsmanship improved? Would Randall be a match for the newly acquired skills Montclair had learned from Ueda? If not, could Montclair really and truly kill his own brother?
Randall lunged forward with a thrust. Montclair parried. Randall stepped back, attacking a second time and unleashing a flurry of strikes. Montclair countered them with ease, but he smelled a trap. Randall was better than this, even years ago when they were youths. This had to be a ruse. Randall was merely feeling him out, testing him.
Montclair broke contact and stepped back. Neither man had yet broken a sweat. Montclair spun the saber in his hand and circled the dirt arena, hoping to buy time.
Randall grinned a lopsided grin. “No use stalling, Julius. No one’s coming to save you. Your only way out of this is to die an honorable death.”
“You’re that certain of yourself?” Montclair asked, still hoping there was a way out of this that didn’t end with one of them dying.
“Of myself?” Randall asked. He shook his head. “No, not hardly, but I’m on the right side of history this time, Julius. Justice will prevail. It’s that of which I’m certain.”
Randall shifted his weight, launching himself at Montclair with blinding speed to deliver an overhand strike with such force the blades sang when they met.
Montclair grunted with the exertion of blocking it. Christ the Healer, he’s fast! And his strength was a match for Montclair’s own.
Randall exerted seismic pressure on his blade. The intensity drove Montclair backward, his heels digging into dry red earth. Randall gave his blade another shove, sending Montclair tumbling. Montclair tucked in tight and rolled backward over his shoulder, continuing through and coming back up to his feet. The split-second it took Montclair to regain his balance was a split-second too long. He grimaced, feeling the vulnerability, but to his surprise, Randall withdrew. Randall could have easily pressed the advantage, but he’d chosen not to.
Montclair bent his knees, going into a semi-crouch. He tightened his grip on the saber, watching his brother. Randall’s eyes became unfocused, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling too rapidly. Fat beads of sweat had popped out onto his forehead. A snarl disfigured his face.
“You’ll not deny me the right to clear our family’s name!” Randall growled. “Come on, you coward!” he roared. “Fight me!”
Montclair stood up straight, relaxing the hold on his saber. With Randall’s focus so clouded, Montclair could end this easily. The real question was how to avoid that. To die or to kill his own brother? Those were his choices.
Montclair raised his blade, the weapon feeling as if it weighed a ton.
Randall came at him a third time, transforming Montclair’s entire world into dodge, parry, riposte, dodge again. Randall fought like a man possessed. How long could he keep this up? How long could Montclair keep up his defense?
Early evening deepened into darker night, and still, the exchanges continued. After a quarter turn o’ the clock, Randall began to slow. Even for a young general in peak physical condition, a soon-to-be-crowned king of Truveaux’s criminal empire, the strain of their tempo took its toll. Randall stepped back and lowered his blade.
Montclair breathed a sigh of relief. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, praying to The Healer above that Randall would put down his sword.
“Have you forgotten what he did to us?” Montclair heard the old harpy scream from the edges of the fighting circle.
He fought the overwhelming urge to hurl his own blade at her chest. Instead, he cursed her aloud.
Sadie Montclair purpled with rage. She stood from her seat and pointed at Montclair. “You see? The devil shows himself!” She glared at Randall. “Finish this, son!”
Damnation! Montclair’s hopes sank as Randall seemed renewed. His mother’s shrewish voice was all the urging he’d needed. Having tapped into some hidden reserve, Randall redoubled his efforts, his first strike landing with such force Montclair’s own blade bit into his cheek when he blocked it. Fluid, thick, warm, and viscous, trickled down his sweat-covered jaw. Montclair didn’t have to look to know what it was. He didn’t bother to wipe it way as there was no need to. Randall had drawn first blood.
Dread, cold and unforgiving, crawled up from the depths of Montclair’s soul. It was now or never. There was no turning back. Randall would either kill him or die trying.
The anger came on, fast and unexpected as an August tempest. It hit Montclair all at once, like a blast of heat from an open oven. Montclair unleashed a roar of his own, signaling the beginning of his first true attack. He struck Randall’s blade again and again, his eyes clouded over in a red haze. Rational thought ceased. Battle-honed instinct and skill took over as Montclair hammered at his brother’s defenses and drove him backward, ever closer to the edge of the fighting circle and certain death. Sparks flew each time Montclair struck Randall’s blade.
Montclair attacked again, this time reversing direction and spinning mid-stroke, landing a jarring elbow to Randall’s temple. Randall staggered, hand to his head, and dropped to his knees. Montclair raised his saber high, poised to deliver the killing stroke, his dream from earlier made real, only this time it was he that stood over Randall, ready to end it all.
“Father!” Phineas screamed.
It was the sound of the boy’s voice that did it.
It was a voice from out of time — Randall’s voice shouting at their father from within this same fighting circle all those years ago.
It was the voice that distracted both Montclair and Randall at just the wrong time for just long enough.
Randall tried to stand, stunned and dizzy from Montclair’s blow to his head. He stumbled, pitching forward.
At the same t
ime, Montclair turned.
A stumble. An ill-timed turn. Montclair’s hand seemed to act of its own volition, simply holding the razor-sharp saber in place as it drove through his brother’s chest and out his back.
“Randall!” Rebecca screamed.
“Randall?” Montclair whispered, a soft echo of the scream of despair.
Montclair stared, open mouthed and numb, at the saber, blood running down the guard to drip on the thirsty earth. At his brother, impaled on the end of the blade. At his own hand, covered in gore, as foreign to him as if it belonged to another person. As if that other person were the one responsible for ending his brother’s life, not Montclair himself.
Randall slumped backward, the blade slipping from his chest with a wet, sucking sound. He fell back in the dirt, staring up at a sable-black sky awash in diamond-dust. Montclair hardly noticed the dripping saber falling from his fingers. He fell to his knees and cradled his brother in his lap.
“You fool,” Montclair muttered. Tears of regret and shame and rage welled hot in his eyes.
“Honor… honor demanded it,” Randall said. He coughed a spray of blood, gasping for each precious breath.
Montclair looked up. Through his own tears, he saw his brother’s children — his niece, the breathtaking girl on the verge of becoming a breathtaking woman; his eldest nephew, so wise and caring; his youngest nephew, so much like his father and his grandfather — their faces all buried in their mother’s embrace. Montclair saw the intermédiaire, dumbfounded. He saw the faces of Randall’s men, slavering for the chance to rip him apart. He saw the mixture of horror and pure, scalding hatred in his stepmother’s eyes.
“Randall,” Montclair sobbed, “what honor is there in this?”
Randall spat blood, his breathing ragged and labored. He clenched his blood-stained teeth and squeezed Montclair’s hand. “Honor… demanded,” he repeated. Randall’s eyes pleaded with him. “Re-Rebecca… and the ch-children?” he gasped, fighting for every syllable. “I-I…”