Wilheim laughed to himself, his rounded belly shaking. ‘Don’t be sore about running, Misu. I forgive you! It’s all water under the proverbial bridge, poppet. Plenty of water. Bloody great bridge.’
Something told Misu that he was being facetious and she replied in kind. ‘It’s amazing that you can be so blasé about things. Maybe for you that’ll be the end of it, but me? My character is plenty flawed. I admit that. I dwell on things, obsess about the little details. Hell, when it comes to you and me? I’m just the sort of girl who holds a grudge.’
* * *
Misu’s delivery was flat, too much so for Wilheim’s liking. He was about to begin his horrid imbursement but this stopped him in his tracks. There was no humour to the woman. There was no bait that she rose to. Either she truly didn’t care, which couldn’t possibly be the case, or something else was going on.
Something much more worrying.
He hadn’t noticed before but the woman beside her looked oddly familiar. The one on the left with unpinned black hair stared furiously, seemingly eager to engage in something unseen or unsaid. Wilheim didn’t actually recognize her of course, as all women were nothing more than commodities to him but her face was duly recognizable, which bothered him somewhat.
On the other side, looking as if she was considerably out of place, was another specimen of interest. Sure, she wore the satin and frills of the other showgirls, almost blending in with them, but her eyes told that she was something considerably different. She was no performer, someone who gallivanted with glee for customers. Her eyes spoke of something else, moulded by difficult choices, of one who once shook in fear but was now akin to it. Hardened. Decisive. Battle-born.
She even looked curiously like the one who dared barge into his club some years back and foolishly dared to point a gun barrel in Wilheim’s direction.
Then it dawned on him.
The trap had been set right beneath Wilheim’s nose. Whilst indulging in his monologue, its intention to ensure that Misu would learn the depravity of her failure, he was blind to what was occurring within his own walls.
* * *
Wilheim’s attention was taken by the sudden movement of shadow upon the yard floor, subtle but quick to withdraw. The nesting birds launched into the blue, screeching violently. The moment he saw one of the showgirls flick her eyes to the exposed section of the yard roof, Misu knew this was their chance.
Their only chance.
Chapter 31
The wager for all things
When Misu’s entourage had been escorted inside, over two dozen Bluecoats took their cue to empty from the carriages. They each fell to a knee and prepared for their orders. Juniper had already spied a number of watchmen from the outset who had claimed nooks and shadows, and he created a mental map. When this was completed, he slid out of the carriage from the opposite side, where his men had congregated.
‘I see at least seven. They’re all turned away from us. Clearly they’re under the impression that apart from the girls, this thing would be empty. They didn’t count on us.’ The gloating came first, a stab of encouragement that fate was on their side. ‘Crawl under the carriage and slide under the decking of the platform. I want sixteen men to the left, ten to the right. Nobody is to be higher than a snake, understand? For the left, follow the cover of the buildings and take them out when the signal is given. The right, run alongside the dunes and then get one on the overlook just in case this goes nasty. Keep it quick. Keep it silent.’
The marshal spied the heavy-eyed face of Jacques who seemed slightly too unsteady for his liking. ‘Silent,’ he repeated.
The self-assigned groups moved on, snaking against every scrap of cover, hugging every broken wall. The fluidity of their movements was watched by the marshal, this efficiency being a staple of his men. When given the go-ahead, Juniper ordered a pair out to a sentry or small patrol, then waited for the figures to fall. Routes opened up as eyes closed through incapacitation.
Jacques pulled a young man, covering his mouth with a thick hand, around a corner before driving a knife up to the hilt. When the eyes closed and the struggling stopped he withdrew it and breathed once more. It was a quiet way to go, but a wrong way to kill a man.
Slumped bodies were hauled out of the way before being bound and gagged to ensure they would be of no concern. Those too difficult met a knife or a truncheon – unfortunate casualties though necessary. The arrests would be hauled back onto the Morning Star when the job was done. In time, the broken village soon became empty, leaving only the looming factory as Wilheim’s stronghold.
Workers, Juniper assessed, peering through ground-floor windows from the outside. The main foyer was thankfully bare, but once inside there were tiers and stairwells to cover. Done incorrectly, they would be walking onto a killing floor and despite the firepower at his disposal, the chance of his men becoming casualties was too high. Some have weaponry, he mused, but it was a wildcard that could prove fatal. No, to do this, he had to ensure proper coverage.
Two teams of two were sent inside, through empty windows where the glass had since been ebbed away by a fierce sandstorm. They quietly sprinted up the iron stairwell to the first and second floor gantries. Both pairs drew weapons and waited for the order to be given.
Juniper led his own men into the foyer, easing the front door open and covering every corner with a barrel. Behind him bodies trickled in, ensuring there were no nasty surprises. One, however, did come, as a grubby worker emerged from a toilet, though his cheerful whistle stopped with a revolver to the temple. Juniper got what he needed – information. It was slight, though exactly what they were after, before its provider was knocked out.
Factory floor, rear doors. Loading bay.
The message was relayed. The flood of men poured against the large double doors that entertained the factory’s innards. People moved around like worker bees hypnotized for a grander cause than their own existence. A couple of sentries spoke on the ground floor with another playing cards on the first. When assessed, Wilheim gave the order and counted from five to one.
The Bluecoats filled the factory before any of Wilheim’s men knew what was going on. The sentries on the ground floor saw no use in producing iron and instead unfastened their holsters and slid them over. On the first and second gantries both groups of lawmen burst through their doors with weapons drawn, held over the immediate threats.
It was a precise takeover, with everyone freezing in their tracks. The workers retained their bags of clippings, pails of water, or whatever else they grasped. They looked in turn to the employed protection who were quickly being corralled into the centre, Jacques roughly encouraging them to hurry in doing so. This all happened in complete silence.
Marshal Juniper took to the factory floor, looked to everyone in turn, and placed his finger to his lips.
Nobody dared to find out what would happen if the silence was not followed.
Meanwhile, a small group of riflemen had been tasked to ascend the loading yard roof. Taking the advice from Wyld, they identified the easiest route for infiltration, silencing any straggling patrols along the way. Finally the group ascended to the rooftop itself and, ensuring their feet straddled the steel window frames, silently traversed along to the damaged portion. They each took to their positions, withdrawing their weaponry and taking aim at the busy individuals inside.
Between them, a large burlap satchel was placed near the opening. Silently they communicated via hand gestures, taking sight of the group beneath. The higher walkways blocked some of the better shots, ruling portions of the factory impossible to cover.
But it was good enough.
* * *
Back in the loading bay, Wilheim Fort craned his neck over Misu’s shoulder. Something was amiss. Sure the desert was quiet, eerily so in fact, but he could tell when it was too quiet.
Especially, he assumed, when people were not working.
Then the yard floor flickered with a passing shadow. The birds erupted into the blue. The sho
wgirl’s skyward glance betrayed the plan.
Misu gave the signal with her fingers behind her back.
Wilheim’s inhalation of breath was shortly followed by the basement doors crashing open. Juniper had been watching through the keyhole and correctly assumed that they had been rumbled. It was now or never. As he dived through, right arm outstretched, it was sure as hell not going to be never.
His first shot was rushed and buzzed wildly past the mark. The second, when Wilheim had begun to run for cover, was instead put through the left hand of Donovan who had drawn for a gun. Immediately he clenched the limb and darted backwards for his own wellbeing.
The covering fire from above began, the accurate shots sprawling the targets onto the ground. Spent bullet cases rained down in a crescendo.
Wilheim’s contingent scattered in alarm, utterly taken aback at the situation. Those with weapons withdrew them though even the bravest of chancers ran from the incoming hail of gunfire. Some fell in a slump as Corinne’s daggers met with their backs. Each body obstructed her true target. She withdrew them each in turn, launching them with blistering speed until Wilheim managed to gain shelter.
The Bluecoats stormed down the stairs, providing significant covering fire of their own. Feet ran through collected sand, dashing and diving beneath the cover of old machinery. The husk of the Gambler’s Den was a sizeable refuge for the showgirls who hunkered down behind its bulk. Bullets whizzed and sparked on the train’s ample frame.
‘In your own time, gentlemen,’ Misu yelled patronizingly, ‘it’s not like we’re in any rush!’
On the roof, a Bluecoat kicked the accompanying blue satchel over the side and it crashed down, bouncing off the train wreckage. Immediately the showgirls swarmed upon it, Corinne being the first to reach it. She unbuckling the bag and revealed the bevy of firearms therein, the contents of which were passed around.
‘I said no weapons, Corinne. What the hell were those knives on you for? If someone decided to frisk you, you would have blown everything!’ Misu yelled, keeping her head down.
‘I wasn’t so I didn’t! Besides, I’ve dropped a couple so it’s a good thing that I’m not listening to you then, isn’t it?’ she spat.
‘Oh I must have been a good girl at some point in my life,’ Wyld exclaimed with glee, assessing the pair of revolvers within her grip. ‘These are just cherry.’
‘Can you put them to good use?’ Corinne herself rummaged around for something bigger. She found it.
‘Keep a close eye, maybe you’ll learn something.’ Wyld grinned, nodding her head to Katerina who molested a pistol. ‘Hey. You can read the future. Want to tell us how this all pans out?’
‘Death is in the air around us. Success depends on sticking together. Don’t need no cards to tell that.’
‘Can the banter. This is no time to be breaking funnies.’ Misu took in every face around her. Some were shaken already, flinching at the cracks and pops of gunfire. One was more jumpy than most. Elizabeth fumbled about with her newly acquired shooter, quite unlike her though this was put down to nerves. This was the final push. Anything less than complete focus would get them a one-way ticket to the boneyard. ‘Everybody knows their role.’
Colette took a deep breath as she watched puffs of smoke dance above fortresses of crates. For a moment the others could have sworn that she made the slightest of smiles, confusing since her last brush with death and subsequent injury. ‘See you back on the Star, ladies,’ she stated.
Misu was tossed a pair of guns and took to cover of her own, blind firing around it to keep dangerous heads down. She watched Jacques foolishly sprint through sporadic shots, past crate and body. He slid across the sand to Franco who remained tied to the chair. Punches of thunder boomed in his ears as he yanked the trigger of his revolver. The old familiar feeling was weathered in the strength of his wrist, the iron bucking like an untamed steed. Two bodies fell before him.
With the showgirls now armed, they fanned out among the Bluecoats and used the cover to push forward to the prize: Wilheim Fort himself.
‘Move back, move back to me!’ Wilheim roared in astonishment from his safety. Someone would pay for this one. Better yet, they would all do so. ‘I want each and every one of their heads before me in a goddamn pile! Make it happen, you assholes!’ he bellowed above the din. He called for Donovan by name repeatedly.
Wilheim received no reply. One of his most trusted men had, instead, decided to escape at the earliest opportunity. His limb was wrapped up in a shirtsleeve, tightly bound, which oozed a mass of fresh red. There was no surviving this, Donovan presumed, not if one remained. Wilheim was too stubborn to withdraw. He knew that without even attempting to argue sense. In the confusion, Donovan made it to a side door and navigated the streets to the stables. There were times to fight and times to flee. This was the latter.
Back inside, Misu sized up the considerable defence that Wilheim’s men presented and the dangers it presented to Franco who was bound in a no man’s land between the opposing sides. She watched as Wilheim’s flushed face stuck out from cover momentarily, together with a waving hand.
‘Get those snipers!’ Wilheim fiercely ordered. ‘And Franco! Get Franco! I want those bitches dead too but make sure he’s full of holes first!’
Weapons were angled up. Windows shattered, pouring in sand. Bluecoats atop the roof scrambled in retreat. The unfortunate had the glass beneath their feet give way, leading them to plummet to their deaths. Danger or no danger, Misu had no real choice now. The moment she heard this, she leapt up from her position and filled the air with death.
‘Covering fire!’ she bellowed.
Wyld took up the order from behind, slipping behind truck and crate, executing those she came across at point-blank range. She took down two until she was spotted, and bullets rained down upon the cart she pressed her back against, but her role was sufficient to give the marshal time to organize retaliation of his own.
Misu took to the scraps of cover when possible, waving to the others before diving alongside Jacques who sat flat against a box. He laughed skittishly, fumbling bullets into his revolver’s cylinder. They were just yards from Franco now.
‘Ready for the opening?’
She nodded vigorously, checking her ammo. Fourteen rounds wasn’t much but was fourteen chances at coming out of this in one piece. The Bluecoats had moved their line up on both sides and the marshal himself showed Misu a closed fist before pointing to Franco, telling her to wait for his signal before going. She nodded and poised herself to sprint.
Marshal Juniper was in his element. He corralled his men into position and shouted above the exchanges of gunfire. The accompanying Bluecoats stopped their volley momentarily on his waved hand.
‘Wilheim,’ he bellowed. ‘Wilheim Fort! Please do listen to me now! It gives me great pleasure to inform you that you are, formally, under arrest for crimes against the territories! I would say that you have the choice of doing this sensibly but you’ve clearly forgone the option.’ In exchange, he blindly unloaded every chamber of his revolver, waving for cover from the Bluecoats who had flooded inside. ‘And for that, I thank you!’
Misu kicked her feet forward at the sign from the marshal, as did Jacques. They dived over the last remaining crates before anyone else could stop them and struck the floor shoulder first. Immediately Jacques kicked the wooden chair over with the captive tied, grabbed its back and began to drag it along as the showgirls all followed Misu and ensured that anyone out in the open would swiftly succumb to lead poisoning. Franco was yanked behind a large flume that would be more than sufficient for protection and Jacques began untying his binds. Beside him, Misu held her revolver out and sent the first unlucky person to notice them scurrying back. Fourteen rounds became thirteen.
* * *
Franco blinked at the familiar face above him, though through one eye it was just a mass of blurs.
‘Howdy, boss,’ Jacques said, pulling the last of the ropes away from his wrists. ‘H
ow abouts we get you out of this mess, eh?’
Franco had endured weeks of brutality, administered by a sadist or worse. Parts of him would never recover but those that would were willed into life. His feet trembled though he thought he had the strength to stand. Some fingers still remained broken and one of his eyes was purple and shut, but the fire within him rose. Here were the showgirls, and Misu as well, tossing themselves into this carnage for him, all to save him. Now they had him. All that was needed was to get out in one piece. Not an easy task.
* * *
Their escape was hampered by the floor workers who scattered out into the desert in a vain attempt to flee and in that confusion the security from the factory floor had taken their chances, storming down the stairwell and firing violently. Corinne had run forward but was too far ahead to be called back, yelping with each yank on her trigger, over and over. Two shots missed their target though eventually they ventured true and downed a number of crooks.
Misu attempted to call her back. Let the showgirls bunch together so that the Bluecoats can flank both sides as they move on up, she decided, but her voice failed her over the noise. Instead she relied on hand signals to Corinne and anyone else in sight, encouraging all to give them cover whilst they withdrew their concern.
Franco finally attempted to stand. It took a few tries of course and required being supported, a role that Misu didn’t hesitate to fulfil. Tears shimmered over her eyes, unsure if it was the dust and cordite or genuine relief. She reached out and traced the back of her hand down a swollen cheek, sending it lower and encasing one of his hands. He limply turned his head in her direction.
‘It’s you,’ she whimpered, ‘it’s really you.’
The urge to kiss him in relief was overwhelming but sensibly resisted.
Jacques visually checked Franco over, coming to quite the obvious conclusion. ‘He’s pretty beaten up. Getting him out will be slow. I propose we go back through the factory. We’ve got heat on both sides now.’ He flinched at a terrible whizz from overhead. ‘Unless you have a better plan? I’m open to something different.’
Den of Stars Page 33