Spirits of the Charles (The Mithras Cycle Book 1)

by Paul C. K. Spears

  “No cut—I'm just here for the laughs.” This struck the enforcers funny, even though they wouldn’t be able to say why. It just seemed appropriate, to stop and chat with Carla. Like she was a former friend, arrived on their doorstep after years abroad. She saw tense shoulders relaxing, scowls receding. In a few minutes, she’d have these guys handing over the operation to her. And they’d do it with smiles on their faces.

  Unfortunately for Carla, their real boss had other ideas.

  Boots slapped the gangplank. Striding off the tugboat came a woman wearing aviator’s trousers and a red snakeskin vest. Her hair was in a long black braid which nearly reached her thighs. She carried a carpenter’s hammer, and a large, moon-like razor was woven into the end of her braid. Her features were sharp and pale, like a statue the sculptor had chiseled too harshly. She was easily a foot taller than Carla.

  The woman walked up to the gunmen, and they stopped laughing. Carla sniffed the air, and couldn’t detect any hint of Noxious—this dame wasn’t using anything unnatural to control her men. They truly feared her. She’d never heard of any gang run by a moll, and in the back of her mind, she questioned whether this one-woman heist of hers was really such a good idea.

  Keep it cool, Carla. You got this. Nobody talks faster than you. Just stay loose…

  The woman leaned over Carla. “Who’s this?” she said, her words skewing towards a Slavic accent. “Strange bird. Perhaps she is lost, on the way to a party?”

  Nobody laughed. Carla thought fast, maintaining composure.

  “Well? Explain yourself, before I put you in the harbor.”

  “Like I told these guys. Big Joe sent me.” This bitch was stealing her show. If the men got too nervous, the Noxious would wear off. A few were still smiling, but it wasn’t going to last. “Fellas, you know Big Joe wouldn’t send me if it weren’t important. Right?”

  “Couldn’t hurt to have her along, ma’am,” said one of the men, a stubbled bruiser with a hat too small for his head. “She’s a hell of a view, at least—”

  The woman gripped her long braid, the palm-sized sickle at its end flickering. She twisted her palm, and the length of hair whistled through the night. The razor sliced through the man’s jugular, hauling gibbets of flesh away.

  The man collapsed. Blood sprayed over the pier, splattering Carla’s shoes.

  “Anyone agree with Mr. Moran?” The woman was grinning, her white cheeks spotted with red. The men were silent. “No? Good. Put him in the water, and get back to work. Our Cause does not wait.”

  Ponzi had seen some shit in her life; you didn’t run the tables on people, and expect roses and sunshine. She’d once donated half the skin on her back to a mine worker, in a scheme to gain control of the mine itself. But this kind of brutal, sudden violence was beyond her. Her tongue, normally agile, was glued to the roof of her mouth.

  “Gesu cristo! You didn’t have to do that!”

  “I disagree.” The Red Queen’s hand shot out, gripping Carla by the throat. “You Americans are full of words. You persist with them, even when death is all around you.” She was strong; Carla kicked and thrashed, but she might as well have struggled against the tide as the Queen dragged her towards the ice-truck.

  “Hey! Hey—” When they rounded the back of the truck, the Queen threw her against the doors, and tackled her. The Queen was nothing but muscle and trembling fury, and with the other woman’s body jammed against her Carla realized she'd never been this close to another person outside of her conjugal duties. Some of Moran’s blood dripped onto her forehead. From there, it traveled down to her lips, the taste coppery and still warm. Carla struggled not to vomit.

  “Look, you don't have to kill me,” she said, smiling weakly. “Maybe we could work something out, we’re both intelligent women, we can talk this out, sister to sister—”

  “Such a noisy bird.” The Queen’s eyes were an insane blue. She squeezed Carla's throat; the smaller woman kicked her, but it was like kicking concrete. “The god of the Cause will silence you. Mithras will relish your greedy, capitalist soul.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Get off me!”

  “Aleksandra,” boomed a watery voice from the gang-plank. An obese man, draped in an elegent suit, dangled a golden stopwatch at them. “We are running late.”

  “We’re almost finished here.” The Queen kissed Ponzi on the lips, the blood there staining their mouths like lipstick. “There. You have been baptized. Go with anarchy, my sister.”

  “Wh-wha…” Before Carla could respond, she was hurled inside the ice-truck, landing next to the big crate. It was cold, the floor slick with ice-water.

  “I wish we had time to help you see the truth.” The Queen gripped the twin doors, as Carla struggled to stand. “But there’s work to do.” She slammed the doors shut, sliding a bolt home, and Carla was left in darkness.

  “Wait! You c-can't do this! I have connections, dammit! I could set you up!” Carla threw herself at the doors, tiny and impotent. Behind her, something shifted in the dark. “Let me out! Do you know who I am? I'm Carla fucking Ponzi! I will wreck you! I’ll—”

  And then a hand reached from the shadows, to press over her mouth.

  CHAPTER 11

  “DAMN. Damn!”

  Mick’s feet pounded over old newspapers and fish-bones in the alleys, as he tried to think of the best way out of this mess. Any minute now, those men would open fire on Carla, and the whole street would be filled with flying lead. He knew from experience what a fusillade of spread-shot did to human beings, and he didn’t want to witness that.

  The cop in him was fighting with the Pinkerton agent he’d become. I don’t have to save her. I could just leave her…

  He paused between coiled lengths of hawser rope and harbor buoys. The Agency had required some dirty work from him, over the years. This was just another dirty job, just another unfortunate night with unlucky people caught in crossfire. He could leave Carla behind. It would be easy.

  “No, dammit!” He turned back towards the docks, the camera swinging heavy against his chest. He couldn't just abandon a woman in peril. She wasn’t a striker, or a union Red--she was an American, and that mattered to his sense of honor. Even if she was a no-good, conniving, criminal liar.

  Wait…

  Something smelled strange. In between the reek of haddock and sea-scum, he caught the stench of cigars and old leather. And beneath that, a sharp whiff of crisp dollar bills.

  I know that smell.

  He rounded a corner with his gun out, and in the glow of far-off streetlamps he caught the shapes of five looming men. The flare of a cigar lit the nearest one’s face, and Mick nearly pulled the trigger. That nightmarish mess of scales, sideburns and teeth could have come right out of a Goya painting.

  But to Mick, this nightmare was familiar. An old friend. “Gus? Gus Henderson?”

  All five shapes swiveled towards him, and he saw barrels shining in the dark. Gus held up one misshapen hand.

  “Hold, boys. I know this fella.” He advanced. “Mick? You get that ugly mug into the light, before my boys blow it off.”

  Mick did so, stepping into moonlight with hands up. “Gus. It’s been a while.”

  Flashes of memory came to him: the two of them in fatigues, pinned down under mortar-fire. Spearing lice with their knives for a snack, in the absence of rations. The strange things we drank, on the killing-fields… “It is you. Isn’t it?” He held up his hands as Gus searched him, pausing to examine the camera. “Christ, big fella, what are you doing out here?”

  “We’re workin’ a job. The hell are you doing here?” The Myth’s tone wasn’t friendly, and Mick realized this was no chance reunion: he’d interrupted Henderson on a money-making venture, and 'Greedy Gus' did not take kindly to that.

  “I’m on a job, too.” He peered at the frills on Gus’ chin. “You look like shit. What are you drinking lately, Envy?”

  “Greed. You don’t look so hot, either. I think your nose grew
another ten inches.” Facing off in the dark, they shared a momentary grin. For a moment it was life in the trenches, all over again.

  Then a heavy splash sounded from the harbor. Something big, and soft. Something that sounded like a body.

  “Boss,” said one of Henderson’s crew. “We gotta move. That truck’s not gonna stay here long.”

  “Right.” Gus sighed. “Rose still ain’t back, but we got no choice. Take positions.”

  Mick’s eyes widened. “You’re hitting that truck? Right now?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  Mick felt dread pooling in his stomach. “You can’t do that. That shipment...I don’t know what it is, but it ain’t Draughts. It belongs to Joe Lombardini—you need to get out of here.”

  The whole gang froze at the mention of the dead mobster’s name. Gus paused, golden eyes flickering over Vance and weighing his words. Mick saw him look back to his boys, for a moment, judging their nerve.

  “Big Joe's dead, Mick. Ten fathoms down. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “The papers also said a guy who looked like him hit Springfield Savings this morning. These aren’t mood-leggers, Gus, they’re anarchist lunatics. You jump these guys, there’s no surrender. They’ll fight to the death.”

  He watched his old friend fill with doubt, for a moment. Then a filmy set of secondary, nictating eyelids slid over his eyes. “I’m taking my score, Mick. You don’t have to like it. Just stay out of my way.”

  “Gus, this is a bad idea! Gus—”

  But they marched off anyway, relentless. He was about to follow them when a thin wire slipped round his throat, dangling from the warehouse roof. The makeshift garrote tightened, digging at his neck, and Mick Vance was lifted off the ground—thrashing like a hooked fish.

  The worst part, worse than all the pain, was the silence. No one heard him kicking and clawing at his neck.

  He was going to die, and no one would notice.

  CHAPTER 12

  “AUGH!” Carla threw one skinny, pointed elbow out, catching her mystery assailant in the forehead. There was a quick, silent struggle, and then the lithe shape shoved her up against a crate—the second time she'd been pushed around today.

  “Calm down! I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  The sound of another female voice gave Carla pause. Reaching for a chunk of ice, she hefted it, cold numbing her fingertips.

  “Who is that? Fess up.”

  “Quiet! They don’t know I’m here.” There was a shuffling sound, then the hiss of flame as her new acquaintance lit a match. A soft brown face, with curly hair and wary eyes, stared at her from the dark. The woman was thickly built and wearing coveralls, with a grease-monkey’s cap shoved over her hair. “Who are you? You botched my grab—now we’re both stuck in here.”

  “Your grab? This haul is mine, lady!”

  “You don't even have a gun!”

  “Do you?” The match guttered out. They stood in silence; Carla shivered as the chill of the ice began to reach her bones.

  “Okay. Fair point.” Rose shivered, annoyed. There was a scratching from inside the box, and they both shrank against the wall of the truck with instinctive reflex. “Did they tell you what’s in there?”

  Carla decided to keep her info about the missing stones under wraps. “No idea. Gotta be pricy, though. That ‘Red Queen’ takes it real serious…”

  Rose snorted. “Yeah. But from what I hear, she’s also nuts.” A pause. “If I can get it out, and we can get it to safety… I’ll give you a cut of whatever it is.”

  Carla knew a deal when she heard one. “Sure. Whadda they call you? I’m Carla Ponzi.”

  Rose snorted. “The Carla Ponzi?”

  “The very same.”

  “Nice to meet you. Can’t shake hands in the dark, but… I’m Rose Sweetwater. Draught runner and getaway driver.”

  “A Renaissance woman. I like it.” There was a gentle buzzing from inside the crate, and light pulsed from inside—enough to fill the tiny space inside the truck with a miasmous, purple glow. The two of them watched it, transfixed. “Damn, this thing gives me the shakes.”

  “Same here. But if we can get it to a buyer…”

  Carla licked her lips, shivering. “I’ll check the box, see if there’s a hinge. You get the door open. We don’t have much time.”

  “Yeah. They’re going to move the goods soon.” There was the churning rumble of an engine from the truck cab. “Or… right now. Shit.”

  “It’s not just that. The cops will be here in a minute.”

  “Wait, what?”

  Carla shrugged. “There was a phone in the harbormaster's office… I needed a distraction, you know. For my getaway.”

  Rose’s heart began to thud, heavy and panicked, as she realized what was about to happen. “Your getaway? Are you insane? They’ll blow this place to hell, shooting it up! We’re dead! My friend is out there, dammit!”

  In the glow of the Mithraic symbols, Carla grinned. Nothing motivates a criminal like jail. “Then you better get that door open real quick.” She hadn't called the cops, of course. It was a bluff, carefully timed to get the most effort out of her new “partner.”

  But unbeknownst to her, someone had called the law. A frightened family in the South End, who’d heard the Scots plotting through the thin, rickety wall. Police were already combing the hideout. They’d found the Tommy guns, maps of the harbor, and drew their conclusions.

  Outside in the dark, tires raced across Boston cobbles, drawing near.

  CHAPTER 13

  MICK FLAILED as the metal loop around his neck bit his skin, threatening to slice his windpipe and turn him into a limp, gangling corpse-puppet. By sheer luck he’d managed to get one hand up through the loop before it closed—just a few fingers, nothing more. But it saved his life.

  With his free hand, he pulled his revolver and fired blindly, over his head. The boom of the shots rattled over Boston Harbor… and the assassin, caught by a stray bullet, plunged into the mud.

  Wheezing, Mick clawed the garrote from his throat. His neck burned; blood wept from welts on his neck, but he was alive. A lucky shot—that was all it’d been. Numb and jittery, he still had enough focus left in him to check the body.

  It was a man, slender and tall, wearing a leather coat and a gas-mask. The third anarchist—from the bank!

  He was stretched flat, with a bloodstained exit hole in the back of his coat. More shots sounded from the warehouse—Gus and his men had begun their ambush.

  From around the corner, Gus peered at Mick. “What the hell was that? You blew our cover!”

  He would have shot back a retort, but he could hardly speak. Waving Gus away, he knelt to examine the dead man further.

  The corpse reeked of Draughts, and was oddly proportioned: limbs jointed in ways they shouldn't have. He smells… familiar. But this odor was subtle: a mix of basil-leaves, rubber and wool.

  It struck Mick as a half-formed , someone he’d known—but only briefly. Sometime long ago. He knelt to remove the gas-mask… and suddenly, like magic, there was a knife in his stomach.

  He watched it sink home like a farmer’s hoe, disappearing in his guts. It was a small one, polished steel, but a knife didn't need to be big. Just a few inches, enough to pierce major organs.

  The pain was blunted by shock, at first—then it came crashing over him, and he went down. Writhing in agony, he kicked away to avoid another stab. But the assassin was on his feet, sprinting at Mick.

  From the nearby alley, Gus saw the dead man stab Mick and get up. “Jesus!” He raised his lever-action. There was a fresh round in the chamber, but the assassin was still moving: bounding through the air, kicking heels off the wall. A heel smashed into his jaw; fortunately, his scales took the brunt of the hit. Dr. McDonough’s Greed Elixir, at your service.

  No time to pause. No time to ask questions. Mick was his friend, and his friend was in danger. Gus fired, and the round went wild, clipping a faded sign painted on the bricks a
nd alerting the assassin to his presence.

  The bug-eyed mask stared him down, and then the killer came at him, quick as greased lightning. The bloody knife was still in his hand.

  “Come on, then!” Gus gripped his gun like a club, bashing it into the masked man’s legs. The force of the strike spun him into the nearby bricks, and Gus reflected he should try out for baseball. Once he was done killing this asshole.

  A knife fight, in close quarters in the dark, was not his favored battlefield. He’d seen men bleed out, from the kind of wound Mick had just gotten. But he was a Myth, and a little more durable than the beanpole detective. He was willing to face that blade—as long as it meant dishing out some payback.

  He reached for the man’s coat, intending to grip and bash him into the wall until he stopped being a nuisance. “C’mere!” But the mud-slicked leather pulled free of his claws. As the figure sprinted away, Gus caught one detail—twin Noxious canisters, with gilded nozzles, bouncing on the man’s back.

  Breathing Noxious, inside the mask… He should be dead.

  Gus shouldered the rifle and fired again; all he heard was the ping of ricochet. And a faint, muffled singing.

  “Praise the lord… pass the ammunition!”

  For a moment, Gus was torn; his boys were in trouble the next block over, pinned down. He didn't have time for this. But Mick wasn't going to last long: a knife to the gut was bad news. Without a doctor, Mick would bleed out in minutes. Maybe less.

  He hurried to his friend’s side, cursing. More guns boomed, and he heard a scream… and then, sirens. The cops had finally got wind of what was going on. There goes our window to get the goods.

  Gus was no medic, but he could patch a guy up in a pinch. He fumbled in his pocket for the materials he’d brought, in case of trouble on the job. This definitely qualified as trouble. His boys and Rose would have to handle themselves—he could only save one sucker, right now.