“No . . .” Emily sank to her knees. “Oh no.”
“I’ll be keeping your advance because I did solve the case.” Sullivan paused briefly on his way out the door. “And if I were you, I’d start running. Considering those Purple boys, you’re gonna want a head start.”
Outside, he could still hear the screams of frustration and the breaking of furniture but the sounds faded as he walked down the steps to his automobile. He needed to get some sleep, but first he owed Bernie some tin foil.
The snow had really cleaned the air. There were kids running in the road, pulling each other on the sleds they’d just found under the tree. The people next door had built a snowman. It was a beautiful morning. Sure, he’d been tricked, lied to, stabbed, and had killed several men, but they’d had it coming, and he’d knocked two more off of J. Edgar Hoover’s to-do list. So all in all, not too shabby . . .
As far as Christmases went, he’d had worse.
THE GRIMNOIR CHRONICLES: MURDER ON THE ORIENT ELITE
This story was originally written as an Audible exclusive. This is the first time it has appeared in print. It is set in the Grimnoir Chronicles universe and takes place a few years after the novel Warbound. So, spoiler alert, you might want to save this story until after you finish that trilogy.
Casablanca, Morocco
August 1st, 1937
“ARE YOU Jake Sullivan?”
That was his name, but it wasn’t the name he’d been going by in this country. He took his time looking up from his drink. The bartender was standing in front of him, wiping out a glass with a grey rag. Sullivan had never been very good at undercover work, but that was his own fault for being so big. He stood out, especially in polite company, where even a casual look could confirm that he was the toughest man in any given room. He glanced down the bar, but the place was packed and a piano was playing, so he doubted anybody else had heard the name.
His lack of response told the bartender a story. This was the sort of establishment where business you didn’t ask questions about was conducted. “Sorry, friend. I must’ve got the wrong giant, scarred-up American, built like a Heavy.”
Sullivan finished off his whisky. If it was the Grimnoir trying to find him they’d have just contacted him through his magic ring. If anybody else was looking for him here, it was either for something important, or to set up an ambush. Either way, his cover was blown, so it was time to move on. There was no need to keep on pretending to be a low rent thug looking for work. He’d been hoping to be approached by the gang of Active criminals tearing up the countryside, but there was no chance of that now.
“How’d you know I was American?”
The bartender lowered his voice conspiratorially. “We get lots of expatriates here. Your fake Irish accent isn’t very good.”
“And this whole time I thought I sounded just like my old man.” Sullivan chuckled as he slid his empty glass across the bar. The bartender surprised him by pulling out a bottle of the good stuff. “Easy there, pal. I’m not made of money.” That was a lie. Nowadays he had access to more funds than he knew what to do with, but once a man had been truly poor, he never again felt rich.
“Word’s got out. We were told to be on the lookout because Heavy Jake Sullivan’s in town tracking down some Active slavers. If you’re really Jake Sullivan, there’s no way you’re paying for drinks in this establishment,” the bartender explained as he poured. “We may be at the edge of nowhere, but we still get the news. Late, but we get it. A big damned hero shouldn’t ever have to buy his own drink.”
“Thanks.”
Most of the really interesting things he’d done had never showed up in the papers, so the bartender had to be a supporter of Actives or a magical himself. Either that or he was secretly an Imperium spy, or a Soviet agent, or one of a dozen other groups with a grudge against him . . . And the booze would be poisoned, but the bartender had an honest face, so Sullivan picked up the whisky and took a drink. Smooth. That really was the good stuff.
“So who’s looking for me?”
“Some big shot out of Shanghai. They call him the Alienist.”
“Aw hell . . .”
The note that had been passed around the criminal underworld of Casablanca would look like gibberish to most people, but for its intended target, the designs were obviously part of a communication spell. The Alienist—Doctor Wells to his acquaintances—had gotten better at spellbinding since the last time they’d worked together. Sullivan had gone back to the privacy of his hotel and scratched the design into a small mirror he’d purchased from the bazaar. Experience had taught him that glass usually worked better than sand or salt, especially since the coast of Africa was a long way from Shanghai.
Wells’ magical formula was good, but Sullivan took the runes and added a few improvements of his own design. Nobody was better at spellbinding than Sullivan, and he got the spell to work on the first try. It didn’t even take that much of his Power to make the connection. He must have overestimated the distance.
Dr. Wells appeared in the mirror. He was sitting behind a dark wood desk in a fat red chair, surrounded by shelves full of books and a gigantic grandfather clock right behind him. There was an ornate elephant rifle hung on the wall. The view was as clear as looking through a window. The slim man hadn’t changed much. His hair was a little thinner, but other than that he looked as calm and unthreatening as ever. Considering Wells was what the Rockville Prison head shrinkers had called a sociopath, and he’d manipulated and murdered his way to the top of the Chinese underworld, he sure didn’t look like much.
“Hey, Doc.”
“You appear hale and hearty as ever, Sullivan. Rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated. What’s it been since we blew up half of Shanghai? Four years now?”
They both knew Dr. Wells knew exactly how long it had been, down to the minute probably, because the man had a brain like a Turing machine. “Something like that.”
Though he was gifted with a rare physical type of magic, specifically being a Massive capable of altering his density, Wells was a true intellectual. He’d been a psychologist before growing bored and turning to crime. The man was brilliant, but Sullivan didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. And since Sullivan’s own magical ability was related to the manipulation of gravity, so he reckoned he could hurl Wells a considerable distance.
“I’d heard that they’d made you one of the leaders of the Grimnoir Society. Good for them. Though I always thought the Grimnoir Elders were the type to issue orders from an office, where they had their secretaries take memos to send to men like Talon or that surly German to carry out. You seem a bit too hands-on for their style. It wasn’t surprising when one of my sources said you were poking around Casablanca looking for fights to pick. Forgive my interruption. I’m certain you are very busy exposing some conspiracy, righting wrongs and whatnot. Let no one ever say that Jake Sullivan isn’t a man of action.”
“Get to the point, Wells.”
The Alienist smiled. “Oh, come on, Sullivan. It’s been a rare treat in my life to have someone worthy of matching wits against. Haven’t you missed our verbal sparring?”
“No.”
“Not even a little bit?”
Sullivan shook his head in the negative. The more words you gave to Wells, the more he learned about you, and the more he learned about you, the more he would eventually use against you. Once a snake, always a snake, and even though this particular snake had been really helpful in defeating the Pathfinder, that didn’t mean he wasn’t still an extremely poisonous snake.
“Down to business then. I need a favor. There’s a mystery in need of solving and I believe you to be the man for the job.”
With a normal person, he’d have asked what exactly the favor entailed, but since this was Doctor Wells they were talking about . . . “I’m predisposed to tell you to buzz off.”
“But you won’t, because you’re by nature a very curious man. Since you are now a leader of a secret s
ociety of do-gooders spread across the entirety of the globe, I’m assuming you are also a very well informed man. You know of my current social status?”
“Crime boss?”
“Someone needed to clean up the mess we’d made.” Wells waved one hand dismissively. “I’m now a successful businessman who has diversified into the gambling, tourism, and entertainment industries of the Far East. But surely, you are wondering why somebody with access to my resources would be asking you for help. Come on, Sullivan. Work it out like the old days.”
Sullivan yawned.
“Fine.” Wells seemed honestly disappointed that Sullivan wouldn’t play his guessing game. “Time is of the essence and I have no associates close enough to deal with this particular problem, or at least any associates smart enough not to muck up everything. I’d handle it myself, but I’m in Shanghai. Luckily, it turns out you are in the right place at the right time, were once a rather capable detective, and I know for a fact you don’t have any problem squishing evildoers.”
As much as he’d love to hear Wells’ interpretation of what qualified somebody as evil, he really wasn’t in the mood for his brand of crazy today. “What’s the problem?”
“As part of my legitimate business concerns . . . Don’t snicker, I’m serious. I secretly purchased a shipping line. We recently took possession of a new luxury passenger vessel, one of the finest airships to ever come out of UBF. It cost me a fortune. Tell your little friend Francis that he really outdid himself this time. The Orient Elite is on its maiden voyage, circumnavigating the world and making stops at all of the finest establishments along the way. Gambling, entertainment, beautiful women, it is a once-in-a-lifetime sort of adventure, all very expensive and prestigious, you know, so I had society’s finest practically murdering each other for a ticket.”
“Darn. I missed it.”
“Your invitation must have been lost in the mail. You have my apology. Let me make it up to you. I’ve already arranged your ticket. Luckily, my ship just left Paris and will be stopping in Casablanca before crossing the ocean to Buenos Aires.”
“Why?”
“I believe there to be a saboteur aboard, planning on blowing up my expensive new airship with all of those wealthy potential investors on board. It might only be a troubling rumor, but I can’t afford to cancel this voyage. These are not the sort of clients who like to be disturbed over mere rumors, and my passenger list also includes some elements of society who would not like entangling the authorities. I do not wish to alarm anyone. Best case scenario is you take a luxury cruise, nothing more. An industrious man such as yourself, why I’m sure you could use a vacation. I simply prefer to be cautious. It is probably nothing.”
That was doubtful. Wells wouldn’t talk to the Grimnoir if it wasn’t serious.
“Who’s behind it?”
“I don’t know who the saboteur is or what their nefarious motivations might be. I have extremely important passengers from twenty nations onboard—”
“Imperium?” If anybody was up to no good, it would be those bastards.
“Obviously. I am a neutral party in the Cold War between East and West. The passengers are mostly businessmen, diplomats, celebrities, not to mention a few high-ranking members of . . . well, let’s be honest and say major criminal organizations. Don’t judge me, Sullivan. I’m only trying to make friends, I promise. You know how messy politics can be. Regardless, I’d like to prevent a horrific tragedy.”
“You expect me to believe you’re actually worried about the passengers’ safety?”
Wells snorted. “Protecting the innocent is your thing. When I said tragedy, I was thinking about what this would do to my reputation, not to mention that my insurance costs will go through the roof should the Oriental Elite turn into a giant fireball. But if it helps you make a decision, there are five hundred souls aboard.”
His case here was at a dead end, and Wells seemed to be telling the truth, or at least as much truth as somebody like Wells was capable of. I’m such a sucker, he thought to himself.
“Here’s the deal. I do this, you owe the Shanghai Grimnoir a huge favor.”
“I’m sure young Master Zhao will be overjoyed to hear that.”
“I want every bit of information you can think of. I want all the details, and have your people have a copy of the passenger manifest ready for me. By the way, when I say favor, I mean if Zhao wants your gangs to storm the Imperial Palace, they’d better sing a song while they do it.”
“You have a deal, Sullivan. I’ll alert the captain that you’ll be joining—”
“Alert nobody about nothing. Book me a place in steerage under a fake name.”
“Ah, that’s very wise of you. However, I don’t think you understand the nature of my ship. There is no steerage. The Oriental Elite is first class all the way. On that note . . .” Wells sniffed disapprovingly. “Is that your best outfit?”
“Yep.” Sullivan looked down at his suit. By his standards it was downright fancy. “All the bullet holes have been patched and they’re even the same color.”
“I can’t believe you actually pal around with billionaires. That won’t do. The Oriental Elite lands in six hours. That’s time enough for you to be fitted for a proper tuxedo.”
Shoot. When he’d agreed to this he hadn’t known he’d have to wear a penguin suit.
Wells’ original clue that something was wrong had come in the form of a bomb found stashed in the cargo compartment of the Oriental Elite. It hadn’t been a very big one, but on an airship it was all about where you stuck the explosive rather than the quantity of the payload. Sullivan didn’t have the exact details, but it had been big enough to make a mess of things. But the timer hadn’t been set; the bomb was wrapped up and hidden to be used later. Sadly, the captain had been in a hurry to get the bomb off his ship and had tossed it over the side after disturbing the scene enough to tip off the saboteur. If they’d just left it there, Sullivan could have simply watched and waited for his target to show to retrieve it.
After binding a few spells that he thought might prove useful, picking up some uncomfortable new duds, and sending a message on to the Society and his wife about his side trip—Akane was used to this sort of thing from him—he’d gone to the Casablanca air station to catch his ride. The Oriental Elite was a long tri-hull, built for comfort and stability rather than speed. She looked like a whale compared to the sleek Traveler that Sullivan had come to know so well. The Oriental Elite was a huge ship, impressive as all get-out, and cast a considerable shadow over the city.
Now he just needed to figure out how to keep some maniac from crashing her.
Wells hadn’t been exaggerating about his ship or his clientele.
The Oriental Elite wasn’t Kaga or Tokugawa big by any means, and it certainly didn’t have any Tesla super weapons aboard, but it was a really impressive feat of engineering nonetheless. Not only because it was seven hundred feet long, but because Sullivan had never realized something could fly with this much furniture in it. The airship he’d spent the most time on, the Traveler, had been sparse in comparison, with an interior that was all grates, pipes, and no-frills business. The Oriental Elite was all frills. This thing probably had twenty tons of red carpet onboard. Some of the stairs were real marble. What kind of lunatic put a bunch of rocks inside his airship? If it wasn’t for the view out the main glass dome revealing that they were a few thousand feet over West Africa, he could have imagined he was in a casino in Atlantic City . . . only there wasn’t anything in Atlantic City this plush.
Sullivan stood on a balcony overlooking the main casino floor and watched the crowd, trying to pick out the various players. In a way it reminded him a little bit of Shanghai, and not just because of the decorations. Shanghai had seemed to collect adventurous types at the ragged edge of the civilized world, and Wells had captured that vibe. Since he’d boarded, he’d heard Chinese, Japanese, French, German, Russian, English, and some other languages he couldn’t place. Every sign was
in multiple languages, though he noted English was on top. Wells had probably just done that to poke the Imperium.
From what he’d seen so far, the Oriental Elite was like one big snooty party, with rich folks rubbing elbows, drinking expensive booze, and telling each other how brilliant they were. It wasn’t his thing. Sullivan had never been much for socializing, especially with the moneyed crowd. Francis would have been far better suited for this job. According to the manifest, most of the passengers had bought a ticket in one city and then got off at the next stop. Very few had the time or money to do the whole leisurely round-the-world trip, but those that did would have bragging rights, and it seemed that in this crowd bragging rights were everything.
The balcony was loud. A big band was playing at the far end of the main hall, and Wells hadn’t skimped on the talent. They were good. The casino itself was filled with dozens of conversations, loud laughter, boisterous shouting, and the chatter of spinning roulette wheels. That was probably why he hadn’t heard the man approach. It wasn’t until he sensed the subtle shift in gravity that he realized he wasn’t alone.
Getting sloppy in my old age. Sullivan exercised a little bit of his Power so he could feel the world around him as it really was, broken down into its component bits of matter, density, and forces. His visitor massed nearly as much as Sullivan did, was carrying some dense metal under one armpit that could only be a pistol in a shoulder holster. But then, suddenly, gravity shifted as the newcomer exercised his own magic and Sullivan was pushed back into the normal world. He was dealing with another Gravity Spiker, and a talented one at that.
“Turn around.” It wasn’t a request. Bossy and with a Japanese accent. That more than likely meant Iron Guard.
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