Tiff in Time (The Fae Killers Book 1)

by Jaxon Reed

  “What’d I miss, Cait?”

  “The Northside Gang set up an ambush for the Capone brothers. They managed to kill Ralph via sniper fire. Al used a fae artifact to eliminate the threat. He has driven off with his brother’s body, leaving the other three behind.”

  Tiff grimaced. “This is a serious departure from O-Earth’s timeline. Capone’s men were supposed to take out Moran’s in the Valentine’s Day Massacre.”

  “That is correct. But this alternate has already deviated so much from OE history, such anomalies as this should not be surprising.”

  “You said Capone used a fae artifact?”

  “That is correct.”

  “How did you not notice it? Or is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “This one is evidently small. It was cloaked with a spell I have never seen before. I did not know it was here because I did not detect its presence until it was used just now.”

  Tiff nodded and mentally filed the information away for later. Cait had never failed in sensing fae objects before, especially on an alternate with adequate sensors. But how inadequate were the sensors on this world, she wondered? Obviously, not very adequate at all.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Cait opened a new door for her, and she stepped through before the first police car arrived.

  -+-

  Eliot Ness squatted amidst the burned and blackened debris on the docks. All that was left of the sniper’s body was a charred husk. The wooden stock of his weapon had burned away too, leaving behind the metal barrel and receiver. An FBI agent wearing gloves picked it up and searched for serial numbers.

  “They’ve all been scratched off, sir.”

  Ness nodded, unsurprised. He kept his attention focused on the sniper’s body.

  “Any idea who our friend here could be?”

  A couple other agents standing behind him shifted their feet, nervously.

  “Hard to tell, sir. There’s not much left.”

  Another agent approached from the other end of the pier.

  “We’ve got three bodies over there. Capone’s boys. Long rap sheet on all of them. Additional blood stains appear to be from two other people. The sniper evidently left at least one of them alive. Based on the blood trail, looks like the one who made it pulled his buddy into a vehicle and drove away.”

  Ness stood and gave his full attention to the new agent.

  “That’s interesting. Find anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. Tracks were left from a second vehicle. It matches the tires used on Bugs Moran’s limo.”

  Ness nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, “How do you know that?”

  “We monitor all the treads of known vehicles used by the mob bosses, sir. We know what brand of tire they use and, uh, keep track of them if you’ll pardon the pun. I was just looking at the file on Moran a couple days ago. I’ll double check back at the office, but I’d wager a month’s salary I’m right.”

  Ness nodded again and said, “I don’t doubt you. Let’s work on the assumption you’re correct. Tell me what happened here.”

  “Looks to me like Moran’s boys met up with the Capones. Bugsy had this guy hiding here among the barrels. He tried to take out the Capones. He got somebody important, probably Al or Ralph. The other one lived and drove away.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Ness said. “Now, how do you explain all this?”

  He waved around at the blackened debris and the charred body. The agent rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. Then his eyebrows popped up in epiphany.

  “Somebody brought a flamethrower to the fight.”

  One of the other agents said, “I’ve seen them! We used them to clear Krauts out of the trenches a few times toward the end of the Great War.”

  Ness nodded, soaking in the information, and glanced around once more at all the damage.

  He said, “Sounds as plausible an explanation as any. Include it in your report.”

  -+-

  “Paper, sir?”

  Booker handed the boy a dime and took the newspaper. In bold type filling a fifth of the page the headline, “GANGLAND WARS!” screamed out at him.

  He skimmed the lead story as he continued on his walk to work.

  “Oh, look! They discovered the drive-by. Looks like both sides have used it to take out quite a few people lately.”

  He nodded back at the disembodied voice of Ms. Tiffany Valor, but he didn’t share her enthusiasm.

  He murmured under his voice, “They’re calling Mr. Capone a ‘mob boss.’”

  “Well, that’s accurate.”

  “I never looked at him that way.”

  He continued walking through the stream of humanity, making his way to the office. Tiff walked beside him, unseen. She considered carefully how to respond. Booker’s attitude had changed remarkably since the Capones had taken him to their brothel, and he took a closer looks at the books. Any shred of idealism toward his job and his employer had been ripped away.

  Upon reflection, she thought his loss of idealism had to do with Capone’s falsifying of the books more so than the illegal nature of the businesses the Outfit ran.

  “This is typical, Darius. I suspect there are a few alternates where Al Capone did not turn out to be a gangster, but I haven’t come across any of them.”

  Cait spoke up in her mind and said, “There are some. Among the alternates we maintain a presence, Al Capone has been an upstanding citizen in—”

  “Shut up, Cait.”

  Booker tucked the paper under his arm, looking bitter. He said, “Things were going fine until Matt Sleaghan showed up.”

  -+-

  Later, Capone walked into Booker’s office without knocking. The plump mobster appeared morose, and looked thoroughly unhappy, dressed all in black. Under his coat, a slight bulge over his shoulder hinted at the bandages where he had been shot.

  “Everybody’s got the afternoon off. I’d appreciate it if you rode to the funeral with me.”

  “Of course, Mr. Capone.”

  Booker grabbed his hat and coat off the rack on the way out. He followed Capone down to the back entrance where a waiting limo idled, surrounded by henchmen carrying Tommy guns. Booker sat in the seat opposite Capone, squeezed uncomfortably between two of the gunmen.

  The limo fought its way through traffic to a downtown cathedral where cops directed pedestrians and automobiles out of the way. It parked at the curb and Capone exited with Booker. They greeted several family members, and Capone was swept up in a wave of mourners flowing toward the entrance.

  Booker followed at a distance and made his way in moments later, where someone directed him to the VIP seats directly behind family members. He sat through the funeral looking neither to his left nor right, then followed the crowd out the door.

  Capone saw him in the milieu outside and waved him over.

  “I want you at the graveside. He liked you, Book.”

  Reluctantly, Booker agreed to attend the family graveside services.

  Half an hour later he found himself standing in a small crowd outside a tent and chairs set up for the family. While the priest spoke a few words, Booker’s attention wandered among the headstones. He found himself idly wondering how much a plot in this upscale section of the cemetery cost.

  He jumped slightly when Tiff spoke in his ear.

  “Up on the hill to your right. Two of Moran’s men.”

  He shaded his eyes and squinted in that direction. Sure enough, he could make out the shapes of two men squatting behind some shrubs on a slight rise.

  “You should tell someone. Cait says they’re armed. It’s not right to shoot up a funeral, if that’s their intent. Cait says there’s a high probability they’ll try and kill someone.”

  He nodded but kept quiet, unsure if her anti-eavesdropping powers were in play. He sidled up next to one of Capone’s henchmen and tugged on his coat sleeve. The larger man bent his head down while Booker whispered.

  “Up on the hill to our right. I saw two men hiding in
the bushes.”

  The goon looked in that direction, then made his way to Capone, sitting on the front row under the funeral tent. He whispered in Capone’s ear. Capone whispered something back. The goon straightened and motioned for two others to follow him. The trio began a circuitous route to go up the hill from behind.

  After the pallbearers placed their boutonnières on the casket, the big man returned and whispered to Capone again. Capone made his way back to the limo, signaling Booker to follow.

  “Thanks for letting me know about those two, Book. We got ’em.”

  He nodded in the direction of another car, a Ford Model A. In the back seat, two men with bruised faces reluctantly sat at attention. One of Capone’s men waved a gun back and forth between them.

  Booker felt a stab of guilt at their fate, but brushed it away. Ms. Tiffany Valor had assured him they were up to no good. It served them right to have the tables turned.

  “Take the rest of the day off, Book. I’ll drop you off at yer apartment.”

  Later, Booker walked through the door of his tenement, surprising Bertha Brisbane.

  “Did you get fired? Rent is due on the first, regardless.”

  “No, Ms. Brisbane. My boss’s brother’s funeral was today and he gave me the rest of the afternoon off.”

  He turned his back on her and headed up to his room.

  Tiff appeared after he locked the door and they spoke for about an hour. She assured him that Cait knew the mobsters hiding on the hill were up to no good. His guilt assuaged, they began discussing more pleasant things.

  Later he had supper downstairs with the other tenants. He excused himself early and headed back to his room to share another couple of hours with Tiffany. Then, mentally and emotionally exhausted, he turned out the lights and fell asleep.

  Tiff fell asleep, too.

  -+-

  In her dream, Tiff found herself back in 18th century Paris on her first mission. She reveled in the crisp fall air. Even the scent of raw sewage from the Seine could not dampen her spirits.

  She received plenty of looks, dressed in a simple white outfit that seemed a step above the poor, yet not quite as ostentatious as the bourgeoisie might wear. Cait had explained the need for class-neutral and attention-damping attire before she stepped through.

  Still, a cheerful, clean, and clearly excited young woman with considerable joi de vivre attracted plenty of attention.

  She passed Notre-Dame Cathedral, and made her way further into the city. A commotion broke out ahead of her. Horses clip-clopped and wagon wheels rattled over cobblestones. Several people began running, many in her direction. In a panic, those around her took off with the crowd, too.

  She stopped a young boy, reaching out and bringing him to a halt with an arm around his middle then quickly turning him by the shoulders to face her.

  “What’s happening? Why is everybody running?”

  “The Third Estate has declared a Republic, and the King has surrounded Paris with his army!”

  9

  Two black cars pulled to a halt in a rundown part of North Chicago. Nothing of interest stood out on the street, but the men in the cars eyed a plain stairwell leading down to an unmarked basement entrance. Al Capone stepped out with a Thompson submachine gun. A dozen other men joined him carrying .38 revolvers, Browning Automatic Rifles and sawed-off Winchester shotguns. Capone led the way down the steps.

  He rapped on a heavy oak door. A tiny window slid open and a pair of eyes appeared. They narrowed.

  The voice behind the eyes said, “This is a private club.”

  They rounded in surprise just before Capone squeezed off a quick burst of bullets through the slit, splattering blood everywhere.

  People behind the door screamed. Capone emptied the rest of his magazine on the handle and lock. The door swung open a few inches, reluctantly, before bumping against the dead man’s body.

  Capone signaled to one of his henchmen. The large man nodded and put his shoulder into the door, shoving it open the rest of the way. Capone walked through while swapping out drums, followed by all his men, their weapons at the ready.

  Patrons of the club lay on the floor underneath tables, quivering in fear. Band members had scrambled off the stage, all but the cellist who cowered behind his instrument.

  “Where’s Murph?” Capone said to the crowd. “This is ‘Murph’s Place,’ right? Where is he? Tell that mick Al Capone wants to talk with him.”

  An office door along the back wall burst open and four men ran out shooting revolvers at the Italians. Capone quickly emptied his Tommy gun again.

  Badabadabadabadabadabadaba!

  The other side fired back. One of the Italians stumbled to the floor with a bullet to his forehead. Capone and his men scrambled for cover behind chairs and toppled tables. The Irish mobsters took up positions on the other side of the club and continued firing.

  Capone muttered a curse, then said, “We gots superior firepower! Vinny, gimme yer gun.”

  Vinny, a table away, stood up to hand Capone his BAR, then collapsed in a hail of gunfire.

  Capone’s face burned red in rage. He pulled back the sleeve of his suit coat, exposing the thin golden bracelet on his wrist.

  “Take that!”

  A stream of golden light burst from his fist, streaking across the room and engulfing one of the gunmen in flames. Capone stood and fired burst after burst from his wrist, setting all the gunmen and several other people on fire.

  “Let’s go!”

  -+-

  Late in the evening, Capone plopped down in a wingback chair. He reached over and grabbed a Cuban cigar from a humidor on the coffee table, clipped the end, and tried striking a match.

  He gave up after a couple strokes, and tossed the unlit match to the floor. Concentrating on his forefinger, he produced a small flame, and carefully toasted the foot of his cigar. He leaned back, puffing contentedly.

  The door to the library opened unceremoniously, and Matt Sleaghan walked in.

  Capone’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened, and the cigar almost fell out before he caught it with his teeth in the nick of time.

  “Sleaghan! Where y’ been? Youse gots no idea what’s happened lately. Bugsy killed my brother!”

  “Yes, yes, terrible tragedy.” Sleaghan waved it away as if he were shooing a fly.

  He stood in front of Capone, still seated in the over-stuffed chair, and glared down at him.

  “Why have you been using the filigree?”

  Capone pulled up his sleeve and looked down at the thin golden bracelet on his wrist.

  “This thing? The guy youse put it on got himself killed. It was an emergency. I used it to take care of the situation. It’s taken care of three or four other situations for me, too.”

  “I know. It’s not meant to be used by people like you.”

  He sighed, and sagged a bit. Capone noticed for the first time how haggard he looked. Normally Sleaghan appeared youthful and virile, but now he just seemed tired. He slumped into another chair nearby.

  A spark of anger kindled inside Capone now that the shock of seeing his business partner alive had worn off.

  “What do y’ mean, it’s not meant to be used by me? Am I not good enough to use yer toys? Because my men sure seem to be.”

  Sleaghan turned exhausted eyes on the mobster and said, “I gave the filigree to Sergio because he had a very simple mind. He had no ambition, no desire for power or the pursuit of it. All he wanted was food, women, and drink. You supplied those, and he happily worked for you without ever dreaming of more.

  “The Filigree of Flame grants tremendous power and is excellent as a weapon, but it accentuates the part of human nature that craves power.

  “You have that craving, Al. It’s ingrained in your personality. And the more you use the filigree, the more power you’ll want.”

  “And the more power I gots! Bug Moran is on the run. I control all of Chicago. I’ve taken out his best men. He’s just got a few yellow-bellies le
ft, holed up with him somewhere. And when I root him out, I’ll kill them too!”

  “And then what, Al? When you’ve got control of all Chicago, what’s next?”

  “There’s other cities. St. Louis, San Francisco, New York. Who knows? Maybe the Outfit will control them all!”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Sleaghan lifted a finger and Capone froze in place. The cigar smoke hovered motionless above his head.

  Sleaghan stood and wearily walked over to the mobster. He removed the thin bracelet from Capone’s wrist.

  “This one is not for you, Al. That’s not part of the plan. Now, forget you ever had it.”

  -+-

  Booker trudged out of his office building, barely acknowledging the doorman’s hearty farewell. He stared at his feet and the sidewalk, making his way down the street.

  Invisible beside him, Tiff felt a pang of sympathy. Booker had become thoroughly disillusioned, and it seemed obvious he felt all his work had been a sham. Which was certainly true. That Booker had not been as complicit as he made himself out to be did nothing to alleviate his concerns. Or his feelings of helplessness. He had confided the night before in the privacy of his room that there seemed no way to right the ship at this point.

  The books were bad, and Booker felt it was all his fault.

  “Tiff, Eliot Ness is in the car approaching to your left.”

  Tiff looked where Cait mentally pointed and spied the government sedan squealing to a halt. The back door opened and two agents jumped out. One grabbed Booker’s right arm, the other his left.

  “Come with us, Mr. Booker. The FBI would like a word.”

  Booker’s eyes widened in shock, but he silently acquiesced and let the men guide him to the back seat of the car. Inside, wearing a dark three-piece suit, Eliot Ness stared at him from under a fedora.

  Ness said, “Well, there you are. Darius Booker, famous accountant for the mob. We meet at last.”

  The car entered the street’s traffic. Tiff cupped invisible hands over Booker’s ear so the other men couldn’t hear, and whispered, “Don’t let him rattle you, Darius. He’s just trying to feel you out. Act calm and rational.”