by Debra Dunbar
“Thank you, courteously,” she said as she scurried up the stack without his help. She glanced toward the Bay, eyes moving left and right. “They doused their lights before opening up on us. Won’t be easy to spot if they don’t want’t.”
“Then maybe it’s best you come back down and take some cover?”
“Maybe it’s best you mind your P’s and Q’s, Buster Brown,” she snapped, resenting the implication that she was some delicate flower.
He lifted hands. “Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, Miss.”
“Hattie,” she replied. “Hattie Malloy.”
“Well, Miss Malloy, you called us. Keep that tucked in your bonnet, next time you feel like airing out grievances.”
She sucked in a breath to release a tongue-lashing but elected against it. Because he was right. She had asked for their help. And if this new promise of business from the Baltimore Crew were to pan out in their favor, she’d have to do Lizzie the courtesy of not antagonizing the first gangsters they let onto the boat.
“Sorry,” she grumbled in a grudging apology. “Don’t mind me. I haven’t slept, I’ve been shot at, and I’m not feeling particularly well at the moment.”
He shot her a look filled with sympathy. “If you like, I can keep watch for you.”
“It’s fine. Wouldn’t be able to sleep with trouble afoot, anyhow.”
“I can understand that.”
They remained silent for a while as the waves splashed up against the bow. Hattie turned back to watch Raymond, whose eyes were in constant motion toward the horizon, then back to the attractive young man slouching alongside the barrels below her.
“Calendo, huh?”
“Yeah?”
“Is that Italian, then?”
He smiled up at her. “By way of Brooklyn, and a few haunts between there and here.”
“Were you born in the States?”
“Yes.” His smile thinned. “Like I said. Brooklyn.”
“I suppose that figures,” she mused. “What with you being in the mafia and all.”
“You’d be wrong.”
“How’s that?” She was genuinely curious, but the man seemed to take her question as some sort of attack.
He pulled his weight off the barrels, then turned toward the water. “Don’t sweat it, Miss Malloy.”
“I’m not sweating it, as a matter of fact. Just asking a question all courteous like.”
When he turned back toward her, his face was filled with mystery. “I’m not famiglia. I have other uses to the Crew. Uses which, with any luck at all, won’t be needed before we let in.”
She considered him for a moment. This man hadn’t shown the first signs of fear or nerves, even though they were plowing directly back into harm’s way. He acted as if he were bulletproof, which would be quite a thing to be in such times as these. Was he really as skilled as his confident attitude proclaimed, or was he just a fool?
Hopefully not the latter, for all their sakes.
Hattie pulled her head forward, then turned toward Raymond. “Stump coming,” she called. “Starboard.”
Raymond angled the boat toward the center of the river, eying the jagged hunk of wood protruding out of the water like the broken half of a bottle.
“Thanks, baby girl,” he called.
“Why aren’t you running with lights?” Lefty asked her.
“Our pursuers are running dark. And, so are we,” Hattie explained.
Lefty nodded. “I see.”
She caught a glimpse of Vincent as he turned back toward the bow. He almost seemed smug. Hattie had seen this sort of dynamic between men before. A grouchy pedant. A cocky upstart. Neither one with enough sense just to talk to each other. Rather, it would end up a battle of wills until one or the other got enough burr and blister to either go fisticuffs or end the relationship. It was exhausting to watch.
Men. She’d never understand them. Even her own Da sometimes. Although things weren’t any easier between women in her experience.
The mouth of the river opened into the breadth of the Bay, and Raymond eased back on the throttle. Even at the slow speed, the engine pounded out enough noise to catch attention all the way to Virginia.
He steered the boat north, then hammered down to put as much distance behind them as possible. Both of the gangsters reached for a handhold, bobbing cartoonishly as the boat lurched forward. Hattie snickered. Vincent followed suit, wiping spray off his face with a grin. He was like a child in a candy store. It was appealing, boyishly charming, and conflicted oddly with his previous overconfident attitude.
“I think the water life suits you, Calendo!” she shouted from the top of the barrels.
“It’s a swap from normal life, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
She smiled at him. “Aye. That it is.”
Her eyes lifted to look behind the boat, but as he went to continue the thought, she held out a hand for him to hush. A silhouette bounced up and down in the surf not far behind them. They’d been spotted.
Vincent followed her gaze behind them, stepping up onto the engine housing for a higher view before releasing it with a grunt of pain, pulling his hand away from the hot metal as Hattie fluttered her hands at Raymond.
Then Vincent withdrew toward the helm and spoke to Raymond. After a few seconds, the engine muffled as Raymond released the throttle.
Hattie shouted, “What’re you doing? Push on!”
Vincent shook his head. “No. Kill the engine.”
Hattie planted her hands atop the barrels and shimmied back down, marching up to both of them. “What’re you going on about? They’ve more speed than we do. They’ll overtake us.”
Vincent nodded with patience. “Which is precisely why we should save our juice. Right?”
“What, you’re going to deal with them single-handed?” With a grimace she turned to Lefty. “That…didn’t sound the way I meant it.”
Lefty stood up, then turned to eye the boat behind them. They could hear its engine now, and the splash of surf against their hull. “Everyone get down,” he stated with disinterest. “Heads down.”
Raymond and Hattie exchanged glances.
Lefty pulled his pistol, keeping it at hip height. “I’m not asking.”
Raymond stood stiff, but Hattie gave him a gentle wave.
“Come on, then,” she groused. “The Baltimore Crew wants to have a little war here on the Chesapeake, then we’ll let them.”
Raymond waffled for a moment before stepping out from behind the helm, killing the engine outright. The enormous man lumbered down alongside Hattie as she tucked herself beneath the bench.
Lefty held his gun to his shoulder, nodded to Vincent. “You set?”
“Yeah,” Vincent replied as he pulled off his jacket. “Had a big dinner.”
“Ridiculous, wasn’t it?” Lefty said.
“I think they were trying to impress us.”
Raymond shot Hattie a quizzical glance as he tried to pull his frame as low as it could go. She simply shrugged at him while she did some quick calculation. Two gangsters with one pistol between them against a boatload of who knows how many with Tommy guns. It would be a massacre. They’d be dead in short order, and the rum would be gone along with them. Hattie couldn’t hide the boat anymore, despite their killing the engine. Not having to cover up sound was one thing, but these people had their eyes on the boat now. That was worth sound and taste put together. Illusions worked best when there was little reason to doubt them.
Hattie gripped Raymond’s forearm, giving him a reassuring nod. He wouldn’t have known why, but she was confident in their own fates—confident that two people left alone, still, and quiet, with physical contact, could be hidden from these assailants without the illusion killing her. Assuming her magic worked at all anymore.
And then, to her surprise, Lefty pressed himself against the deck alongside Raymond.
Hattie glared at him. What the hell? He was leaving the other guy up there alone, weaponless,
to face down a boat full of armed men?
Lefty simply nodded to her, then kept his eyes up at Vincent, who had casually unbuttoned his cuffs and was rolling up his sleeves. A lock of his jet-black hair drifted over his brow, fluttering in the Bay breeze as he stared calmly into the distance like some all-powerful Adonis facing his fate.
A notion settled inside Hattie’s mind as the boat rocked beneath them. He was far too confident not to have a reason to be. And no man would jump directly into a firefight without some sort of weapon. But what was that weapon? Why would a man who said he wasn’t even a member of the mob walk into a gun fight without…?
Her eyes widened.
And at the moment when she’d pieced together what Vincent was, the first shots rang out through the dying hours of night.
Chapter 12
Vincent steadied himself against the helm housing as the attackers sidled up alongside them. The darkness helped his case, as the dark figures swarming the opponent vessel jumped and stretched for a better view. This boat just went dead, and for all they knew, everyone had bailed and were swimming halfway toward shore by now.
But they weren’t. They were huddled in a heap next to Lefty, watching Vincent as he waited for the distance to close between the two hulls.
They’d nearly made close enough it before one of the mooks on the other boat spotted him.
“There!” the man shouted.
Several guns lifted.
Shit. There was at least six feet between the boats. Vincent could make the jump, but he couldn’t pinch a time bubble big enough for both boats and hold it for as long as he needed.
But then again, he didn’t have to.
The first shots thumped through air, and Vincent lifted his hand…and snapped his fingers.
He pinched time over both boats. The load was enormous, but all he had to do was make it from one boat to the other then drop the pinch. He’d take it in small chunks and hope Lefty kept everyone on the other boat down and out of the way while he was doing his thing. It would be delicate work, but he could do it.
Vincent thrust his weight high over the side of the boat, slapping a shoe against the side rail as the thickened, muddy air globbed against his face. He counted five different plumes of muzzle flashes as he stretched his body out long enough to make the six-foot jump. Time bubbles were strange things. Running was near impossible in one of his time pinches, but gravity got light as the air got heavy, making jumps easy. He’d successfully done third-story leaps in a time bubble before that would’ve otherwise ended up with a Vincent-sized smear on the sidewalk below.
Vincent’s shoes landed on the opponents’ boat, and he side-stepped a hail of bullets, each creeping through the air in their powder-fired speed that managed to penetrate his time pinch. Landing was easy. Stopping? That was the trick.
He made it work for him, angling toward the one guy on the boat who wasn’t firing a weapon, twisting his torso after one single hop on the railing of the boat, throwing a shoulder into his midsection.
And just as the time pinch began to tug at his guts, he released it.
A thunder of Tommy gun fire erupted all around him as gravity caught hold of his frame, sending him plowing into the poor bastard. The thug’s head hit the side of a crate, and he released a sick cough as his neck went sideways.
With the sound and fury from the weapons, none of the gunmen had even noticed Vincent’s sudden appearance. Only the helmsman remained unoccupied, and Vincent sized him up with a quick glance.
The helmsman took a good, long second to realize that Vincent didn’t belong on the boat. And at the termination of that good, long second…Vincent snapped his fingers again.
Time congealed around him once more and he fought back a wave of nausea. Better make this fast. First order of business was the helmsman. He pushed through the mire of time and gripped the man by the shoulder. Planting his foot against the opposite side of the boat, he hip-threw the man overboard. The helmsman’s figure hung in the stiffness of air, arcing in the velocity Vincent had given him. It was good enough for now.
The tug against Vincent’s insides made the cost of this power known, and he gritted his teeth to engage each gunman in order. Snatch a gun, toss it into the air. Snatch a man, do the same. He plowed his way through the pre-dawn light, shoulder-checking a hoodlum while snatching the still-firing weapon to toss it into the drink. Three. Four. By number five, the toll the time pinch had exacted began to issue from Vincent’s nose. He ignored the trickle of blood easing from his nostril as he gripped the final gunman by the collar and jerked his head toward the side of the boat.
That was uncharitable. He’d probably break his neck, or otherwise end up unconscious before dropping into the water. But this was war, not some gingham-and-daisies tea party. People brought weapons against Vito’s boat. They were going to pay.
In a split-second, Vincent captured a notion. He reached into the time-stiffened air to grip the Tommy gun of his last victim. He pulled it to his shoulder, braced it tight, and then released his time pinch.
He heard two immediate splashes…probably one gun and one gunman. The rest were likely still in midair. There was a wet crack to his left. Yeah…broken neck. Poor bastard was dead, but at least he wouldn’t drown.
The gun bucked up against Vincent’s shoulder as he jerked back on the trigger, sending the last rounds in the drum through the bottom of the boat. Water gurgled up through the hull, and Vincent tossed the gun aside, pinching time once more across both boats.
He twisted on his heel as his gun lingered on its descent toward the deck. Several spouts of water lifted in midair like dark mushrooms rising through the wooden planks of the boat.
Vincent smiled as he returned to the freelancers’ boat. This was easy. And what’s more, the occupants of his boat wouldn’t know what happened. To them, the entire caper would have lasted six whole seconds. Seven, maybe, counting his landing. Still though…they were face down in their own boat, their arms over their heads.
Or they were supposed to be.
As Vincent shoved off the attacker boat to make his midair glide those six feet back home, he spotted that pretty Irish girl.
Just standing there.
Watching him with wide eyes.
Chapter 13
The man slid back onto the boat from midair, seeming comfortable in this strange, strangling moment. When his shoes clacked down onto the deck with wet thuds, almost as if underwater, he glanced back at the pursuers before stepping down.
And he spotted Hattie.
She’d taken several steps away from the others. They seemed paralyzed. Raymond wouldn’t respond to her, no matter how hard she’d shaken his arm. Her lungs had gummed up with a sudden mire—like a humid day except her breaths were more labored. When she’d gotten to her feet, she’d found Vincent on the other boat, pulling guns out of their attackers’ hands and sending them into the air, where they stuck like sticks in the mud.
Now he stood before her, a trickle of blood slipping from his nostril. He looked surprised, which was unusual for this man who had exuded absolute confidence until this very moment.
“What’s happening?” she shouted. Her voice came out in murky bleat. It would have been clearer if she’d dove into the Bay and screamed it underwater.
He lifted a finger to his throat and shook his head. Then he eased up alongside her, turning to place his foot in a specific spot on the side of the hull. He re-positioned once or twice before giving her a cocky grin and a wink.
And then he snapped his fingers. The air fell into its usual thinness. Hattie sucked in a long breath. Shouts and splashes sounded behind them.
Vincent ran a finger across the bottom of his nose to clear the blood, reaching into his pants for a handkerchief.
“Sorry,” he told her calmly. “It’s not much use trying to talk inside the bubble.”
“Wh…what?”
Raymond and Lefty stirred at their feet. Vincent nudged Lefty’s leg with his shoe, and
the older man pulled himself upright.
Reaching out for Vincent’s arm, Hattie jerked him closer. “The ’ell was all that?”
He smirked, then shrugged. “Probably something you should forget about.”
“Not bloody likely.”
Lefty separated the two as he leaned over to view the scene behind them. The offending boat was taking water, its stern already dipping underneath the surface of the Bay. Four men paddled their way toward the boat, and then recognizing its fate, toward the nearer coastline.
Two bodies bobbed in the waves.
Lefty nodded. “That’s that, then.” He gave Vincent a pat on his shoulder. “Good work.”
Vincent beamed as he dipped his chin.
Hattie turned to Raymond, now standing upright and taking in the scene as well.
“What happened?” he bellowed. “They goin’ under?”
Hattie nodded. “Looks that way.”
“I heard gunshots,” he said, peering at the rest with wide, wild eyes.
Vincent pocketed his handkerchief and unrolled his sleeves, meticulously buttoning each one at the cuff. “They got off a couple shots. The rum’s intact, though. We can make easy time back for Baltimore, if you like. Be home by breakfast.”
Raymond put the sudden shift in fortune behind him, perhaps not really believing it, and brought the engine back to life. As the boat sliced through the water, he continued staring forward.
Hattie eyed Vincent, who had picked up his jacket and donned it, smoothing the creases out before moving toward the bow. Once there, he seemed to intentionally place his face into the line of spray, wiping the moisture across his brow.
It was dangerous to be talking to this man. She should be on the opposite side of the boat from him, counting down the minutes until these two gangsters left, praying that neither of them figured out what she was. But he was a pincher. A pincher. Like her. Panic and fear collided with curiosity, compelling her to follow him and ply him with questions instead of ducking her head and keeping her mouth shut for the rest of the trip.