Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One

by Thomas Webb

  They'd managed to wipe out the Confederate patrol, but there was no guarantee there wouldn't be more. If they were discovered attempting a clandestine insertion into the South, the results would be disastrous. Speed had suddenly become of the essence.

  “What about you?” Montclair asked.

  “If we ride hard, we will be safe within the borders of the Croatan nation by nightfall.”

  Ayita leaned down from the saddle and grabbed Montclair by the front of his shirt. She pulled him in and kissed him, long and slow and fierce. For the briefest of moments, he forgot about it all—the clandestine insertion into Richmond, the mission, the Confederates, the stalemate. Nothing else existed except for her lips on his.

  When it was over, she held him close.

  “Go now,” Ayita whispered. “If it is meant to be, our paths will cross again.”

  Then, she spun her stallion and galloped away.

  8 (Exact Location Redacted), North Carolina, May 1864

  “Steady, girl,” Copperhead said. “We’ve been watching for the son of a bitch this long. Be a shame to blow it all now.”

  Scarlet nodded. There was an inherent amount of boredom in surveillance work. DSI agents dealt with it in different ways. Listening to the sound of his own voice was Copperhead’s preferred method.

  Copperhead scratched at the three-day stubble on his chin. “Breeze is dead still right now,” he said. “Could change any time, though. You have to take a shot. Gauge your wind speed and direction first.”

  Scarlet listened to the afternoon chatter of the birds as she surveyed the valley below them. She was careful to remain as still as possible. Even this far away, too much movement could give away their position.

  Copperhead perched next to her, muttering to himself and scribbling notes on what they saw. Every few minutes brought another piece of unbidden advice on the finer points of surveillance, sharpshooting, or espionage in general. Most people found Copperhead’s constant mentoring to be an annoyance, but Scarlet didn’t. For one thing, what he said was most always right. He’d hammered so much of it into her brain over the years that it was now practically second nature.

  Humidity clung to Scarlet and her minder like a hot, damp blanket. She wiped sweat from her face. A drab olive headscarf kept most of it from her eyes as she lay prone on a bed of pine needles. Only the droning of insects interrupted the still of the Carolina pine forest. She closed her eyes and listened. Even the birds had gone silent.

  The two agents watched, unseen, from atop a wooded outcropping. They’d taken great care in choosing the location. Low bushes and vines grew wild and thick at the feet of loblolly pines, affording them excellent cover. The outcropping jutted from the top of a high set of hills and provided the Union spymasters with a commanding view of the widow Julip’s plantation below.

  Only four days earlier, they’d received credible intelligence that their target had taken up with the widow. Two days later, they had ridden into the woods just outside Greenville, covered their clockwerk horses with nets and brush, and spent three grueling hours crawling into position. They’d had eyes on the plantation ever since.

  “Anything?” Copperhead asked again, his thinning patience beginning to show.

  “No, sir,” she said.

  “Dammit.” Copperhead pounded his gloved fist against a nearby tree trunk. “He had to have been in one of those steam carriages that arrived last night. Who else would call on the widow at such an ungodly hour? Could’ve been a whole damned army in those transports for all we could see. If only we’d had a little more light.” Copperhead put his spyglass to his eye. “Why hasn’t he shown his face yet?”

  Scarlet peered through her rifle’s looking glass at a soldier standing sentry duty. He leaned against the side of the barn, his forage cap low. His chest moved up and down at an even pace. These boys were lax.

  “The general’s been known to keep late hours. Maybe he’s sleeping in?”

  The butt of the weapon sat comfortable in Scarlet’s shoulder. Her right hand curled tight around its ornate trigger guard. Scarlet’s trigger finger—the tip of her glove missing so she could more instinctively feel the pull of the firing mechanism—lay straight and flat.

  Her rifle itself was a work of art. Forged in a subdued black, it seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. The inlaid silver scrollwork along the stock, forestock, and barrel was exquisite. The weapon sat in its spring-loaded bipod like a soldier on parade, every inch of it as beautiful and lethal as its owner.

  Her name was Cecelia Elizabeth Alayne. Few people knew that, and fewer still actually addressed her as such. Unless she was on an assignment, she went by her DSI moniker. All the agents had one, and as soon as they’d laid eyes on her fiery red mane of hair, Scarlet had hers.

  Scarlet blinked, fighting to clear her vision and keep her eyelids from drooping. She yawned and took a sip of water from her canteen. Two days of continuous surveillance was taking its toll and still no sign of either of their targets.

  Copperhead raised his spyglass and examined the valley. “Look,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “There—, by the stable. Those aren’t Confederate regulars.”

  Scarlet repositioned her body behind the rifle and looked where Copperhead indicated. Three men jumped out at her from the scope. Instead of the standard gray uniforms of the Confederates, they wore faded black from head to toe.

  “Shadow army,” Scarlet said. “Horton’s private band of thugs.”

  Copperhead smiled. “They’re here. Horton’s not far behind.”

  Scarlet adjusted her rifle’s looking glass, zooming in for a closer look. The men in black uniforms spread out, searching the area and pushing Confederate regulars out of the way as they went. Seemingly satisfied that whatever they were looking for wasn’t there, the three men regrouped next to the stable door. A fourth man, also dressed in black, appeared. The three shadow army soldiers stiffened to attention.

  A smile crept across Scarlet’s face. “General George Washington Horton, the Blade of the Confederacy. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

  She’d seen the daguerreotype in Horton’s file. She’d been bothered by his eyes, the coldness of them coming across loud and clear even through the grainy, sepia-colored image. Those same eyes peered at her through the riflescope, sending a shiver down her spine. They were blue just like she’d read. Blue but dead and lifeless, like looking into the gaze of an azure-eyed snake.

  Horton’s file said he stood an even six feet tall. Seeing him in person, Scarlet judged that an accurate estimate. She mentioned it to Copperhead, who furiously scribbled the detail into his leather-bound notebook.

  “Three forty-five PM,” he said, still writing. “Identity of secondary target confirmed.”

  Scarlet gripped her rifle tighter. Her trigger finger, ready to move at a split second’s notice, rested straight and flat against its magazine well.

  “Easy, girl,” Copperhead said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Remember, we’re just here to watch for now. Our orders are to shoot only if we must.”

  Scarlet gazed through the smoke-gray glass of her riflescope, centering the crosshairs on the general’s pale forehead. “World would be that much better a place without the likes of Horton.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me, young lady. Relieving that monster of his life would be a service in my opinion. His time will come soon enough, though. I’d bet a hundred greenbacks on it.”

  Scarlet smirked. “Oh, really? Union greenbacks or Confederate?”

  Copperhead harrumphed. “No one likes a smart-ass, Scarlet.”

  “Still no sign of the scientist,” she said as she swept her scope back and forth across the valley below.

  “Doesn’t mean he isn’t here. Horton’s here. Even money says Telacivic is as well. They’re probably just keeping him out of view.”

  “Does Oversight really think Telacivic is alive?” Scarlet asked. “It’s been over two months now.”
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  “They must. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. Last sighting of the good doctor was in Greenville, less than ten miles away. Granted, that was back in March.”

  Scarlet nodded. “Around the same time Horton began calling on the Widow Julip.”

  “Very good, young lady. My thinking exactly. Telacivic’s disappearance and the general’s arrival have to be connected. Oversight sending us here means they think so too.”

  “There is one thing that’s been bothering me since yesterday,” Scarlet said. She adjusted her scope for a better look at Horton and his soldiers. She saw the general say something, and then all four men laughed. “Horton was commanding general of the Army of Tennessee during the war, wasn’t he?”

  “Correct,” Copperhead said. He pulled a piece of hardtack from his pack and took a bite.

  “And according to his file, one of Davis’ last official acts before his death was putting Horton in charge of all Confederate peacekeeping forces.”

  “Correct again,” Copperhead said, his mouth full of dry bread.

  “I also read that Horton is the only man in modern military history to make general before his fortieth birthday. Anyone who’s advanced through the ranks that quickly is most likely a stickler for detail, right?”

  “What are you getting at exactly?”

  “The general doesn’t strike me as the type to tolerate lax security,” Scarlet said, still watching the men below. “So why is it that we’ve been up here for nearly two whole days and have yet to see even a single patrol? If I were using the widow Julip’s estate as my headquarters, these woods would be crawling with men, especially if I were holding a prisoner as valuable as Telacivic.”

  “Hit it square on the head, didn’t you, girl? Was wondering the same thing myself. Was just afraid to say it out loud for fear of jinxing us. We’ll keep looking until sunset. If we haven’t confirmed Telacivic by then, we’ll head down and have a closer look. For now, we stay put with our ears open and our eyes peeled.”

  Less than a quarter turn o’ the clock later, they heard the first of them approaching. Copperhead shot her a spiteful look, as if to say, “See? I told you!”

  Scarlet shrugged and pretended to pout. She didn’t believe in jinxes or put much faith in luck. In her experience, it never seemed to come along when you really needed it. Where luck was concerned, experience had taught her it was best to make your own.

  Confirming Scarlet’s view on the subject, three Confederate regulars stumbled through the undergrowth, emerging half a dozen paces in front of them. The men gaped in shock at the DSI agents. The first was a nasty-looking piece of work, a single burn mark spanning the right side of his neck from ear to shoulder. He was quick to raise his rifle, but not quick enough.

  Copperhead moved with surprising speed for a man of his age. The old spymaster gripped his Bowie knife blade-down, pine needles flying as he spun on one heel and sliced an arc through Burn Mark’s windpipe. Blood spilled over the faded gray fabric of the soldier’s uniform coat.

  Burn Mark grabbed at his throat, desperate to stop the flow of blood. His eyes grew wide when he felt only a gaping wound where a second before his trachea had been. As he fell to the ground, dying, the next one came at them.

  The second soldier, in no hurry to meet the same fate as his companion, slowed to a stop. He paused for the space of several heartbeats, taking the time to assess the enemies he’d stumbled upon.

  He looked first at Copperhead then at Scarlet. In the space of a single breath, he’d weighed his chances with each. The gleam in his eyes told Scarlet he’d decided she was the easier prey.

  Wouldn’t have it any other way, she thought.

  A flash of gray cloth in her peripheral told Scarlet they had a runner.

  “Got him,” Copperhead grunted. He took off through the woods in pursuit, leaving Scarlet one-on-one with soldier number two.

  Charcoal covered Scarlet’s face, and the fabric of her clothing and cloak was a mixture of blacks, browns, and greens designed to blend in with the surrounding forest. Even dressed as she was, at such a short distance, there was no mistaking Scarlet for anything other than a woman, and a pleasing one at that. Soldier number two licked his lips and smiled, showing her the yellow of his rotten teeth.

  She’d seen that same look in men’s eyes before, more times than she could count. A sickening mixture of anger, cruelty, and lust, probably thinking her fate was a forgone conclusion and how he and his lone remaining partner would take their pleasures with her after they’d killed Copperhead and before they presented her to the general. Probably thinking how they would take their time, how they would enjoy themselves by making her suffer.

  She’d seen that same look in men’s eyes before, usually right before the life faded from them. Scarlet laughed at the poor bastard, actually feeling a little sorry for him. This was going to be fun.

  Soldier number two was a brute of a man who didn’t seem to care for being laughed at by a woman. He leveled his bayonet. With a roar, he charged straight at Scarlet. Scarlet, still holding her Chassepot, sidestepped the clumsy charge and swung the butt of her rifle in a wide, violent arc. There was a resounding snap as the Chassepot connected with his chin. Soldier number two fell to his knees. In one smooth motion, Scarlet slung her rifle, drew her own Bowie knife, and took a knee behind him. She wanted this to be personal.

  Scarlet grabbed a handful of greasy brown hair and yanked the soldier’s head back with a snap. The bright steel of her blade flashed in the sun as she sank it hilt-deep into the juncture where his throat met his chest. She ripped the blade from what was left of the man’s neck, a spray of blood and saliva spattering the nearby trees. Scarlet placed her riding boot on the man’s shoulder and kicked, wiping her Bowie knife on his sleeve as he fell. He was dead before his face hit the dirt.

  Scarlet stood up. She was covered in sweat and blood, and her heart was hammering in her chest. For a moment, the woods went quiet. Then, two loud blasts from a hunting horn boomed through the trees, breaking the silence and echoing into the valley below.

  “Shit.”

  Copperhead came running back to the rise, huffing and puffing. “Third soldier… three-man patrol…” Copperhead bent over and rested his hands on his knees. “We only got two… Third one got away and raised the alarm.”

  “You’ve always had a talent for stating the obvious,” Scarlet said, wiping the blood from her face. She kneeled and began shoving equipment into her pack as fast as she could.

  At the sound of the horn, the valley came alive below them. Like streams of ants, men poured from every building on the widow’s plantation.

  Copperhead caught his breath and grabbed up his pack. “They got brutes and horses down there.” He threw his notebook into the pack and yanked the drawstring tight. “Won’t be long before they’re on us. Won’t be just some run-of-the-mill rebel soldiers either. It’ll be Shadow Army this time too. We’d best make ourselves scarce.”

  Rifle shots cracked in the distance, and rounds struck the trees around them. Scarlet and her minder dove for cover, ending up side-by-side behind a thick pine. The smells of gunpowder and blood mingled with the tangy, acrid stench of sap.

  Scarlet got prone and scoped in for a better look at their attacker. He was good enough to snap back behind the trees before she could get a clear shot, but not before she recognized him.

  She looked at Copperhead, her nostrils flared. “Is that your guy?” she asked. “The one who just beat you in a footrace, raised the alarm, and then came back?”

  Copperhead lowered his spyglass and screwed up his face. “That third reb’s got more smarts and balls than the other two put together,” he shouted over the gunfire. “Got us pinned down ‘till his reinforcements arrive.” He turned to her and smiled. “So, Agent Alayne, what course of action do you suggest we take?”

  “Crazy old bastard,” Scarlet shouted. “You think this is just another training opportunity?”

  “Why not? I won’t be around
forever to pull your ass out of the fire. I’d best learn you while I’m still able.”

  Scarlet found she couldn’t argue with that. “Well, he got a fair lead on us while we were busy killing his friends. How many yards do you make his range?”

  “I’d put it closer to three hundred than two,” Copperhead said. “All he has to do is keep us here with our heads down ‘till reinforcements arrive. Actually hitting one of us would just be icing on the cake. I’d think that at this distance, he’s feeling pretty confident, though. Like maybe we won’t shoot back?”

  Scarlet stood, leaned against the tree, and shouldered her rifle. “I’m betting on it,” she said.

  In the time it took to blink, she got to one knee, spun to face the shooter, and sighted in. With one smooth motion, Scarlet pulled the trigger.

  The aether round screamed from the barrel of the Chassepot. A bright blue spark traced its way through the pine trees, buzzing angrily as it flew. There was a reverberating crack as though the bullet had shattered the air itself. Through the rifle’s looking glass, Scarlet saw a familiar blue flash. A fraction of a second later, the back of the soldier’s head exploded in a spray of brain, blood, and bone.

  Copperhead ripped open his rucksack and tossed in canteens, maps, and everything else he hadn’t had time to grab earlier. Scarlet, impervious to his flurry of activity behind her, got flat on her belly and took aim at the valley floor far below. Soon, the air hummed with a sound like a thousand angry wasps as aether rounds cut through the atmosphere one after another. The rhythmic crack crack crack of her rifle was as steady as a man splitting wood. One Shadow Army soldier dropped. A second went down as fast as she could work the bolt before their remaining comrades made it to cover.