Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One

by Thomas Webb

  Montclair pointed his brute at the approaching train. He rode low in the saddle, his head near the brute’s neck and every muscle in his body tensed. Following his lead, Montclair’s boarding party cut across the barren terrain of the wastelands. If they’d timed it correctly, for a few short moments, they would match the juggernaut train’s speed.

  As they closed the distance, Montclair searched for signs of movement on the train. Seeing nothing to indicate they’d been discovered, he breathed a sigh of relief. Maintaining the element of surprise was key to their success, and so far, they’d managed to do it.

  Montclair, his troops, and the DSI agents galloped across the blasted moonlit landscape. Montclair raced alongside the monstrous locomotive and then slowed his speed even as the rest of his boarding party increased theirs. They thundered ahead of him, organizing themselves into columns of two on his right flank. Montclair, riding alone, fell to the last position in the formation, ensuring he would be the first to board as the train rushed past.

  Like some hell-beast belching smoke and brimstone, the locomotive roared by. The sound was deafening. The train sent a shockwave through the earth as it passed, the energy rushing up through the legs of his brute and into Montclair’s body, shaking him to his bones.

  The massive steam engine flew by in a rush. The passenger cars were next, followed by the baggage cars. When the last of the baggage cars passed, Montclair spurred his brute into action.

  Montclair stood in the stirrups and crossed himself one last time. Now or never. He took a deep breath and then leapt from the mechanical horse.

  He cleared the caboose railing and landed with a thud, his knees bending to absorb the shock. He stood and unslung his rifle in one smooth motion, then crept forward and put his ear to the caboose door. Hearing nothing from inside, he stood and gave the door a violent kick. It crashed inward, the wood around its hinges exploding into splinters.

  Montclair moved into the darkened rail car at a crouch, his eyes sweeping left and right over the rifle’s iron sights. The startled eyes of a brakeman greeted him. The man’s hand shot toward the ceiling, the pan he held above a small wood stove clattering to the floor.

  “We’re Union military,” Montclair said. He lowered his rifle. “And you can relax. We're not here for you.”

  He counted the thuds as his troops landed on the platform behind him. Warriors with clear eyes and ready weapons began to fill the caboose, much to the brakeman’s discomfort.

  “We don't mean you harm,” Montclair told the brakeman, “but I’m afraid we are going to have to detain you.”

  The man nodded, his mouth wide open. Montclair ordered him bound and gagged, with the apologies of the Union army.

  When the brakeman had been made as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, Montclair did a more thorough sweep of the area. The inside of the caboose was a story in muted, dust-filled darkness. Pale moonlight streamed in through several small windows near the ceiling, providing the only source of light save for the dull glow from the woodstove.

  “We’re all secure here, Julius.”

  “Good.” Montclair’s jaw tightened. “I only heard seventeen of us land. There should have been twenty.”

  “We lost three in the jump.”

  “Status?”

  “We don’t know. If they survived, Vindication will circle back to get them, but for now, we have to stay on mission.”

  “Stay on mission,” Montclair agreed. He offered up a quick prayer anyway.

  “I saw eight baggage cars roll past,” Greg said. Some of the color had finally returned to Greg’s face. Even in the low light, the Marine looked much better than he did before the drop. “The device has to be in one of them.”

  Montclair pulled Greg, the DSI agents, and the captain of Vindication’s ship’s guard in close. “We’ll move forward, clearing each car as we go. We don’t know what we’re looking for, but anything powerful enough to do the kind of damage we expect has to be big and probably under guard. I’d wager we’ll know it when we see it. Captain, we’ve got three along with technist training, don’t we?”

  Montclair’s captain of the guard shook her head. “Only two, sir. Lost one in the drop.”

  Montclair gritted his teeth. Damn. He looked at the captain. Her storm-gray eyes betrayed none of the worry he knew she was feeling. “I want both of those technists in the rear. We can’t risk either of them getting shot before we have a chance to disarm this thing.”

  “I’ve got a Marine with some mechanist training,” Greg said. “Thought he might come in handy.”

  Montclair nodded. “Good. I’ll take that help. Have him stay close to my technists.”

  “If anyone can take this thing apart, it’s Telacivic,” Copperhead said. “Horton must have him here to activate the device. Scarlet and I are the only ones who can identify him. If it’s all the same, colonel, we’ll take the lead.”

  “Yes, the two of you will take the lead,” Montclair said, “right behind me.”

  Montclair took point. One by one, the boarding party crept over the caboose’s coupler and onto the next train car. They paused at the entrance, where it took only seconds for Scarlet to defeat the baggage car’s simple lock. Luggage sat in stacks from floor to ceiling and piled on racks along the aisles. The walkway was exceedingly narrow, not even wide enough for two men standing shoulder to shoulder. Too cramped for a rifle. Montclair slung his repeater and drew his Colt.

  They searched the baggage car but found nothing. Montclair exited first, the barrel of his Colt revolver leading the way. The baggage car landing was clear, but light spilled from the cracks around the next car’s doorway. Montclair’s pulse quickened, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Unoccupied rail cars were rarely lit from the inside.

  Montclair hopped the narrow space between cars, landing as softly as he could. Greg and two of his Marines followed. They stopped and listened, making sure they hadn’t been discovered. Hearing nothing inside the car to indicate they’d lost the element of surprise, Montclair placed a cautious clockwerk hand on the door. He tried the knob. It was unlocked.

  Montclair pushed, and the door swung inward. They moved with practiced speed. Montclair took the left, Greg hooked right, and the two Marines went straight ahead. Before the Marines cleared the threshold, Montclair had put a round between the surprised eyes of a Shadow Army regular. Greg ended a second enemy soldier. He was dead before his partner’s body hit the plank floor. There’d been four armed guards in the baggage car. The remaining two had either better training or better luck. Not wanting to end up like their comrades, they took cover behind piles of luggage and returned fire.

  Unable to make entry into the baggage car, the remainder of Montclair’s boarding party hunkered down outside the door. The close quarters battle inside rendered Montclair’s superior numbers useless. For the time being, he, Greg, and Greg’s two Marines were on their own.

  Greg dove to avoid Shadow Army bullets, crashing into several large suitcases in the process. Greg’s repeater had gone dry, but the heavy luggage behind him provided suitable enough cover for him to reload.

  Montclair found himself some cover across the aisle from Greg. “This noise is going to bring company!” Montclair shouted, fighting to be heard over the gunfire. “We’ve got to finish this fast!”

  The bolt of Greg’s rifle slammed home on a fresh magazine. “‘Finish this fast,’ he says!” Greg yelled. Greg peeked out from behind cover, fired off two quick shots, and tucked back in tight. “In case you haven’t noticed, Julius, we’re working on it!”

  A well-placed round from one of Greg’s Marines took out the third enemy guard. The last Shadow Army soldier, deciding that discretion was indeed the better part of valor, broke and ran. He was through the far door and halfway across the railcar coupling when Montclair heard a whirring sound, followed by the crack of a rifle. The fleeing soldier’s body went limp as a rag doll and tumbled to the tracks below.

  Montclair tur
ned and saw Scarlet on one knee, the buttstock of the Chassepot resting in her shoulder. A tendril of smoke curled from the tip of the barrel and rose in lazy circles toward the ceiling. She yanked the weapon’s bolt to the rear. The spent shell casing hit the floor with a loud ping. As she returned the bolt home, a second aether-tipped bullet slid into place.

  Montclair grinned from ear to ear. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  Scarlet lowered the rifle and gave Montclair a wink. “Consider yourself reminded, colonel.”

  Copperhead, followed by the rest of Montclair’s boarding party, crowded into the baggage car. Copperhead moved past Scarlet, his eyes focused on a large, covered object off to the side. Montclair watched as Copperhead inspected it.

  “Think we’ve got something, colonel,” Copperhead said.

  Montclair’s stomach dropped. He pointed to the object. “Remove this tarp,” he ordered. “Carefully.”

  The soldier nearest the tarp swallowed hard. Getting up his nerve, he took a firm grip on the canvas and pulled. Everyone in the baggage car held their breath as the rough canvas covering slid to the floor.

  Underneath was a pine crate, half the height of a tall man and half again as wide. A large “O” was burned into the side of the wood.

  “Open it,” Montclair said.

  The soldier pulled a pry bar from his pack. Several others followed suit, and together, they pried the lid from the wooden crate.

  The contraption was enormous. It was spherical in shape and as big around as a large boulder. To Montclair, it looked like a giant toy ball covered in pipes, wires, and gadgetry. A pulsing purple light emanated from the device’s interior.

  Montclair knew firsthand the damage someone could do with enough raw aether under the right circumstances. It had helped the Union win the Battle of the Potomac. Not much was known about the dark form of the element, except that the Alchemists had seen fit to make its use an offense punishable by excommunication from their guild. Now that unknowable, potentially unfathomable power was in the hands of the enemy, with the added power of Telacivic’s science behind it. God only knew how much destruction it might cause.

  “Colonel,” Copperhead said. The spymaster pointed to the back of the device.

  Montclair walked around the crate for a look. His eyes grew wide. There was a large chronograph attached to the rear of the device. It read twenty-six, but less than a minute later, the numbers flipped with a clack to show twenty-five.

  Montclair’s heart sank. “It’s counting down,” he said.

  “How long ‘til’ we reach the capital?” Greg asked.

  “A half turn o’ the clock,” Scarlet said. “The same amount of time left on this clock. This device must be timed to go off the minute we get into the center of Washington.”

  Montclair swore. Only twenty-five minutes. He had to think quickly.

  He called for the technists. “You two, take Major Gregory’s mechanist Marine and see if you can figure out how to disarm this thing, but don’t act unless you’re certain. Or if you have to,” he added. “Copperhead, you and Scarlet are with me. If Telacivic is on this train, he’ll know how to disarm this safely. The two of you are the only ones who can identify him. The rest of you, form up and follow us. We’re going to clear this train, car by car.”

  Montclair, Greg, their troops, and the agents made their way through two more empty baggage cars without incident. Then, they arrived at the passenger cars. Montclair was first through the door, with Greg, Copperhead, Scarlet, and the rest of the remaining boarding party following behind. The few passengers who were awake gasped at the sight of the tall brown-skinned man with the rifle. They shook their families and traveling companions from sleep.

  Montclair hadn’t changed from the clothes he’d worn to the gala: black formal pants and vest, white shirt open to the collar, sleeves rolled above his thick forearms. He held his rifle at the low ready. On his right leg was his trusted Navy Colt. Strapped to his left was his cavalry saber. A black leather glove covered his clockwerk hand.

  Montclair cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Julius Montclair. I’m a colonel with the Union Army. Please don’t be alarmed.”

  Montclair gave his most reassuring smile. The passengers, eyeing the armed soldiers in full battle dress at Montclair’s back, didn’t appear overly convinced. Most looked as though their last good meal had been some time ago, Montclair noted. The majority of them wore clothing comprised of more patch than cloth. Only the poor passengers rode in the cars closest to the rear. The rich rode in luxury cars, usually situated close to the engine.

  “We’re searching for an enemy of the Union,” Montclair continued, trying his best to exude an air of calm. “The man we’re looking for has taken passage on this train. I ask you to please stay calm and that you cooperate with my soldiers in any way you can. If you do as I say, I promise you and your loved ones will be safe. You have my word.”

  As he spoke, Montclair scanned the compartment for signs of anything out of place. Meanwhile, Scarlet and Copperhead searched the faces of the passengers for the kidnapped scientist.

  Montclair turned to Copperhead. “Anything?” he asked.

  The spymaster shook his head. “He’s not here, colonel.”

  Montclair frowned. He imagined he could still hear the sound of the device’s chronometer ticking away.

  Montclair posted two soldiers at the head of the car to keep the passengers safe and maintain order. Then, it was on to the next passenger car, where the enter-search-reassure scene was replayed. They quickly repeated this process in two more cars.

  “Only one second-class car left,” Montclair said to Copperhead after they’d cleared the third passenger car.

  Horton and his men had to be in one of the cars ahead. Montclair was running out of spare troops to secure the passenger coaches, and they were all running out of time.

  Montclair entered the last second-class car. He’d memorized his passenger speech two cars ago and now repeated it for the newest group. As Montclair spoke, he noticed a man in the first row of seats stand and reach into his coat. Drawing the revolver was the last mistake the man ever made. A hail of Union bullets ripped into the disguised Shadow Army soldier. He died before he hit the floor, his hand still gripping the revolver.

  The passenger car exploded into panic. Women clutched coats and bags, screaming and shielding their children as best they could. Working-class men cowered in the corners of their hard, wooden benches. Through the chaos, Montclair saw a man near the front of the car stand and run for the door. Montclair recognized him. He was a Shadow Army soldier from last night’s skirmish outside the barn, the same one who’d opened the barn door and killed Greg’s Marine. If he escaped and warned Horton, it would make Montclair’s job of stopping the bomb and protecting the train’s passengers that much more difficult.

  Montclair slung his rifle and yanked his Colt from its holster. He pulled Greg in close so the Marine could hear him over the commotion. “Get this under control,” he said.

  Without waiting for a response, Montclair turned and forced his way through the throng of panicked bodies toward the front of the passenger car. Montclair got clear of the rush and sprinted through the exit just in time to see the Shadow Army lookout flee onto the luxury coach. Montclair leapt the coupling between the cars, hot on the enemy soldier’s heels. He was mid-jump when the fleeing soldier slammed the coach entrance shut. Montclair landed on the platform at the rear of the car, tucking into a tight forward roll. He came up at a dead run, lowered his shoulder, and threw his body full into the door. He burst through with a crash, stumbled, and regained his footing. Quicker than an eye blink, his revolver was up and ready.

  The luxury coaches and the passenger cabins were as different as night and day. Where the standard passengers sat on hard wooden seats covered in cheap rawhide and wool, the luxury coach had cushioned benches of red and purple velvet. Passengers in the luxury coach enjoyed semi-private booths, s
eparated by low walls and frosted glass, where the poorer passengers had to satisfy themselves with open seating.

  The luxury coach passengers, already startled by the fleeing Shadow Army soldier, descended into panic at Montclair’s sudden and violent entrance. Montclair’s gaze swept the car. A polished serving tray lay in the center of the aisle, pieces of broken china strewn all around it. The still-steaming contents of a silver coffee pot soaked into the coach’s Persian carpeting. A porter in a wine-colored jacket with gold epaulets sat in the middle of the mess, rubbing his elbow. The Shadow Army soldier was nowhere in sight.

  Where are you hiding?

  Montclair’s gaze followed the length of the luxury car. Curious heads poked out of the booths. Rubbing sleep out of their eyes, they peered around the frosted glass to see what the disturbance was. He saw the jacketed porter on the floor, unaware how fortunate he was that the only serious injury he’d taken was to his pride.

  Then, at the far end of the coach, Montclair saw the open door. There, framed in the bright green doorway of the next luxury coach, was the fleeing soldier. The luxury coach with the green door was the last passenger car before reaching the locomotive’s engine. Horton had to be there.

  Wind blew through the aisle as the locomotive screamed into the predawn darkness. Montclair blinked to clear his vision.

  The fleeing soldier clawed at the green door’s handle, knowing his only chance lay in getting through it. Montclair eased the barrel of his revolver up until it was level and pointed it square at the fleeing Shadow Army soldier’s back.

  An image of the young Marine who’d died at the barn door back in Greenville flashed into Montclair’s mind.

  “This is for you, corporal,” he said.

  As the fleeing soldier opened the green door, Montclair squeezed the trigger.

  Screams of terrified passengers filled Montclair’s ears. He strode forward, ignoring them. Montclair opened the revolver’s cylinder as he walked, dropping the empty shell casings to the carpet below. As he approached the downed Shadow Army soldier, Montclair pushed six fresh rounds into his revolver.