Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One

by Thomas Webb

  “Then. . . end it,” Montclair gasped, hardly able to breath. “If. . . you can.”

  Montclair put on a brave front, but there was no doubt in his mind as to who was winning this fight. Montclair was a talented swordsman, but if he was a musician with the saber, then Horton was a maestro. Montclair was far outmatched, even on his best day. Factoring in blood loss and exhaustion, Montclair saw just how slim his chances were.

  All right, Montclair. Get it together. If this is to be the end, let’s make it a damned good one.

  As he readied himself to die, something tugged at the back of Montclair’s mind. No matter how he tried to focus, the “something” refused to be ignored. It gnawed at him from deep within his subconscious. Then, as if someone had hit a switch, it became clear. A memory bubbled to the surface of his mind.

  Montclair could almost hear Ueda's voice speaking to him the very first morning after he’d agreed to train Montclair with the eastern sword.

  “For the true samurai, Julius-san, failure lies not in death.”

  “It doesn’t?” Montclair laughed.

  “No!” Ueda bellowed.

  The laughter died on Montclair’s lips.

  “Failure lies only in disappointing one’s master. As long as there is breath in the warrior’s body, redemption may yet be achieved. Often, it is only a single sword stroke away.”

  The warm wind on Montclair’s face brought him back to the present. Montclair chuckled to himself. “Only a sword stroke away,” he mumbled.

  Horton turned back to face Montclair. “Oh, my, started talking to yourself, have you? If we’ve gotten to the point of delirium, I’d best put you out of your misery.” Horton raised his blade, and the mask of civility he'd been hiding behind fell away. Hid dead blue eyes filled with blood lust. “Come on, half-breed!” he shouted. “Let’s, you and me, make an end to this!”

  As Horton lunged in for the kill, Montclair raised his saber above his head. Montclair took up the two-handed katana stance Ueda called Jodan-No-Kamae.

  Horton swung his blade, striking three times in quick succession. Feeling more relaxed and at peace than he ever had in the heat of combat, Montclair blocked each attack.

  Then, for a split second, time seemed to stop.

  As Montclair parried the third blow, he dropped his body and spun on the ball of his right foot. Montclair twisted from his waist, pouring every ounce of strength he had into a vicious two-handed cut.

  The blade slashed deep, slicing into Horton’s midsection. A red smile split the general’s torso, stretching from rib to rib and slicing him near in half. Horton’s saber dropped to the roof of the dining car with a clatter. Horton fell to his knees, staring at his ruined belly in shock.

  Montclair fell backward, off balance and scrambling for a handhold. He managed to get back up, using his saber as crutch. He regained his feet but leaned heavily on his blade for support.

  Horton looked up at Montclair, his eyes already beginning to cloud. His face, contorted in pain, was a mixture of contempt and disbelief. “H-h-how?” was all he managed to say.

  Montclair looked into Horton’s eyes, hungry to see the light fade from them. He spat in the general’s face. Then, summoning the last of his strength, Montclair kicked Horton’s dying body from the train. Montclair sank back down to his knees as what was left of Horton tumbled to the tracks below.

  Montclair’s vision swam. “More than you deserve, you bastard.”

  Montclair tried to use his saber to stand again. This time, the point of the blade slipped, and Montclair collapsed onto the train car roof. Montclair’s mind said to rise, but his body refused.

  Montclair chuckled. So this was what dying felt like.

  “Did I miss the joke?” Greg asked as he climbed onto the roof. “You know how much I love a good—Christ the Healer, Julius!” Greg rushed over to Montclair.

  “You missed quite a party,” Montclair managed to say. The effort to speak took more out of him than he’d thought it would.

  Greg ripped a first aid kit from his pack. Using his teeth, he tore off several strips of bandage. He propped Montclair up against his own body and began applying the wrappings.

  “Looks like I’m just in time to help clean up, though,” he said, his voice shaking. “What happened up here? And where is Horton?”

  “He had an appointment in hell,” Montclair said, his teeth clenched in pain. “I just helped him to keep it.”

  “Christ the Healer,” Greg swore again.

  “Water?” Montclair asked.

  Greg pulled out his canteen and set it to Montclair’s lips.

  Montclair drank and nodded his thanks. “Copperhead and Scarlet?” he asked.

  Horton was dead, but that victory meant nothing if the DSI agents hadn’t been able to disarm the bomb.

  Montclair felt Greg shrug behind him. “A Shadow Army regular broke through the door. After I dealt with him, I got the engineer to reverse the train. Then, I came up here and found you. I don’t know if they succeeded or not.” Greg sighed. “One way or the other, we’ll know within the next couple of minutes.”

  Montclair slumped forward. Greg, his closest friend in the world, pulled him back up to a sitting position. Greg was closer to him even than his own brother.

  A memory of Randall Montclair fought its way to the front of Montclair’s mind. Two young boys, brothers as well as the best of friends, alike yet different, fenced with wooden swords behind their father’s estate in Orleans Parrish.

  Strange he would think of Randall now. Yet another semi-healed wound Horton tore open.

  He and Greg sat quietly on the roof of the mail car as the wasteland gave way to the lush woodlands surrounding Washington. Montclair’s eyes grew heavy.

  Montclair opened his eyes. Had he dozed off? He felt Greg move behind him and turned to see. Greg was looking off into the distance. Montclair followed his friend’s gaze to the east, where a brilliant orange ball of fire broke the horizon.

  A new day had dawned.

  28 Washington D.C., Rock Creek Park, October 1864

  “It’s not too late to call this off,” Montclair said, his breath frosting in the chill night air.

  Greg shook his head. “I’m sick of discussing this, Julius. I’ve earned it. He promised us whatever we wanted. ‘Name your reward’, he said. Those were Grant’s exact words.”

  Montclair frowned. “I’m not sure taking out a high-level DSI handler was what the president had in mind.”

  “After all the dirt Copperhead dug up on him, he’s guilty of treason three times over, and you know he damned well deserves it, Julius. For what he did to me. . . For what he did to her.”

  Montclair nodded.

  Thick, cold mist hung heavy over Rock Creek Park. Montclair flipped up the collar of his black wool overcoat. He winced in pain. The slash across his stomach and the cut on his arm were healing, but he still felt them if he moved the wrong way. He reached under his clothing to check the bandage for blood and was relieved when his fingers came away clean.

  Montclair looked Greg in the eye. “And you’re certain this is what you want?” he asked. “If you cross this line, there’s no turning back. For either of us.”

  “I’m more certain of this than I’ve been of anything in a very long time.”

  “I guess that settles it then.”

  Montclair and Greg were dressed as civilians in plain woolen suits under black overcoats. Dark Stetsons kept their faces in shadow. They’d arrived at the park at dusk, a full two hours before the agreed-upon time of Greg’s meeting. Two hours gave them plenty of time to survey the area and come up with a plan. Now, there was nothing left to do but wait.

  The two men stood behind a copse of pine trees, just outside the glow of the nearest aether lamppost. Montclair had an excellent line of sight on the designated park bench. He fought against the urge to fidget. He wanted nothing more than for this night to be over.

  “You sure you’re up for this?” Greg asked.

>   Montclair wondered if Greg was asking because of his injuries or because of something else.

  “I’m good.” Montclair said, deciding he’d go with the former over the latter. “Take more than a few saber cuts to stop me. No way I was letting you do this alone.”

  Greg seemed to accept that, for which Montclair was grateful. For a time, they waited in silence and also watched, on the lookout for signs that they themselves weren’t being surveilled. The freezing mist turned to a gentle, steady rain.

  Greg looked at his pocket watch. “Almost time. I’d better get into position.”

  Greg moved behind a stand of trees opposite Montclair. A quarter turn o’ the clock later, the man Greg was meeting strolled into view. The man was dressed head-to-toe in drab gray. He wore a faded gray hat and overcoat, gray slacks, scuffed gray shoes. From his height, to his gait, and the way he moved, nothing about him stood out. Everything was perfectly ordinary and perfectly forgettable. The man’s bowler hat obscured his face, but Montclair knew it was him. Montclair felt the same uneasiness he’d felt that night in the Yellow Oval Room. He watched as the forgettable man took a seat on the park bench.

  Right on time, Greg emerged from behind the trees and took a seat next to the man. Montclair bent down and re-checked the pulses of the two heavyset men who lay bound and gagged at his feet. Both of them were unconscious but alive. Montclair and Greg had given their word there would be no collateral damage.

  “You’re late,” Agent Kincaid said. His singsong voice was oddly soothing.

  Greg shook his head. “On the contrary, Mr. Kincaid, I’m right on time.”

  Kincaid hadn't survived the intelligence business as long as he had without good instincts. Montclair saw from Kincaid’s body language that the DSI agent knew something was wrong. Montclair moved his overcoat aside and gripped the handle of the Colt on his hip.

  “You’re not my usual contact,” Kincaid said, the barest hint of concern creeping into his voice.

  “You don’t recognize me?” Greg asked. The Marine major tipped his black Stetson, revealing his face.

  Kincaid’s eyes grew wide with fear. He stumbled to his feet. “You!” The DSI agent hissed. Kincaid’s head whipped back and forth, frantically searching for a sign of his two-man security detail.

  “Agents!” he cried out.

  “They won’t be coming,” Greg said. “No one will.”

  “Dead, I expect,” Kincaid said, his voice quivering. “You call yourselves soldiers, but you’re nothing more than glorified killers.”

  Greg smiled. “No, they aren’t dead. I don’t envy them the headaches they’ll have in the morning, but otherwise, they’re unharmed.”

  Montclair watched as Kincaid’s eyes darted back and forth. The spymaster was trying to think his way out of this. Montclair almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “All this for a Cuban whore you barely even knew?” the DSI agent squeaked, still looking around for the two-man security team laying bound and senseless at Montclair’s feet.

  “She was my wife,” Greg said. His voice was flat, as if all emotion had drained from it. “We were married in secret. I’d planned to bring her here to the Union after we’d finished our assignment in Cuba. That was before they left her to die. . . on your orders.”

  Kincaid laughed, high pitched and maniacal. “Let’s be reasonable, major,” he said, struggling to keep his tone even. “Every man has his price. Name yours, and I’ll see it done. Perhaps we can still work something out.”

  Montclair saw the DSI agent’s hand inch toward the pocket of his gray overcoat. Montclair pulled his Colt and took aim.

  “Work something out?” Greg asked. “No, Agent Kincaid. I don’t think we can.”

  The derringer leapt from Kincaid’s coat pocket, but Greg was more than ready. Greg knocked Kincaid’s arm aside as the DSI man squeezed the tiny trigger. A single shot rang out in the night. The round struck an ancient oak several hundred feet away, but not before Greg’s blade slipped between Kincaid’s ribs.

  The DSI agent dropped his weapon and slumped forward into Greg’s arms. With one hand, Greg grabbed Kincaid by the lapel, forcing the smaller man to look up into his eyes. With his other hand, Greg stabbed the agent several more times. Greg grew angrier with each thrust. Montclair lowered his Colt and watched as Greg avenged the death of his wife.

  At last, Kincaid’s body went limp. Greg dropped the cooling corpse to the ground. He knelt next to the body and used Kincaid’s faded gray overcoat to wipe the blood from his blade.

  Montclair holstered his sidearm and walked to where Greg knelt. “I’m sorry about Esmerelda,” he said.

  The chilly rain continued, slow but steady. Greg wiped his hands on the wet grass and stood up next to Montclair. Neither man spoke as they stared down at the corpse. A minute passed. Then two.

  “He deserved it,” Greg said, breaking the silence. Rain dripped down his face. He retrieved his Stetson from the bench and placed it on his head. “I’ve been ordered to take some leave. Didn’t want to at first, but maybe that’s not such a bad idea now that I think about it.”

  “Maybe not,” Montclair said, not knowing what else to say.

  “From here, we go our separate ways,” Greg said. “We’ll draw less attention.”

  “You sure?” Montclair asked. “That you’re all right, I mean?”

  Greg laughed. “I’m far from all right.”

  Montclair frowned. “Meet me at City Tavern,” he said. “The one in Georgetown. You know the place. Meet me there in three weeks’ time. I want your word on it.”

  There was a long pause, too long for Montclair’s liking.

  “Your word, Greg.”

  Greg nodded, finally. “You have it,” he said.

  Montclair clasped Greg’s hand, thought better of it, and pulled his friend into an embrace. “First tankard is on me,” Montclair said.

  Greg walked away without another word. Montclair watched as he disappeared into the night. Then, Montclair turned and went in the opposite direction, trying in vain to dismiss the uneasiness he felt.

  29 Paris, Banks of the Seine, October 1864

  Of all the places she’d been with the department, Scarlet loved Paris most. She felt at peace as she strolled the walkway along the Seine. Those few incredible moments between full sunset and twilight were a magical time in Paris. The soft glow of the streetlights on the water mesmerized her. She paid little attention to the appreciative looks of the men and a few of the women who walked by.

  The assignment had been a simple one, an easy kill. The senator from South Carolina secretly had been meeting with a delegation of European leaders, his goal to secure formal recognition of the Confederacy as a sovereign nation. He’d come very close to succeeding. He may have even done it if not for Strategic Intelligence intervention.

  The senator’s one weakness had been beautiful young women. Brunettes were his diversion of choice, the younger and prettier the better. With perfect French and a dark brown wig to hide her fiery tresses, Scarlet fooled the elderly senator and his security detail. She wined him, dined him, and then drugged him. The deadly nightshade worked quickly. Scarlet was down to her corset and lace undergarments when the senator at last clutched his chest and collapsed. Once he was dead, she undressed him and carefully set the scene.

  The world would believe the old man died in bed of a heart attack brought on by the stress of negotiations with the Europeans. The senator’s security detail would believe he’d died in the saddle, overcome by the ministrations of a skilled Parisian courtesan. They would disavow any knowledge of the prostitute for fear of embarrassing the Confederate government. Only a handful of people would know the truth, that the senator had died at the hands of a DSI assassin.

  Scarlet slipped into an alleyway and tossed the brunette wig onto a trash heap. A few minutes later, now a blonde, she entered the hotel. She smiled politely at the staff in the lobby. The senator’s death was just another roadblock in the Confederacy’
s bid for international legitimacy. She felt satisfied she’d done her work well, even if it had taken a little longer than she’d anticipated.

  Scarlet stepped onto the lift and in excellent French told the bellhop to take her to the sixth floor. She exited the lift and floated down the hallway, a vision in a gown of fine yellow silk. She stopped in front of room 637. She knocked three times, paused, and then knocked twice more. At the last knock, the door opened.

  “You’re late,” the man who opened the door said. His hair was as blond as the wig Scarlet wore. He de-cocked the hammer of his Colt and swept Scarlet inside.

  “Just finishing up some work,” Scarlet said. She leaned up and kissed him on his cheek. The whiskers of his white-blond beard were rough against her lips. “Always good to see you, Dublin.”

  “You too, girly,” the senior agent replied.

  “How’d you end up with door duty?” Scarlet asked as she brushed past him. “Paladin not around?”

  “He stood watch for an hour ‘fore I took pity on the lad and spelled him,” Dublin said. “He’s in the parlor with the others.”

  “Sorry about that,” Scarlet said.

  “It’s the job. No need for apologies, especially after what you and your minder pulled off on that train. Fine bit o’ work there, girly. Saved the city, you did. Likely the Union itself.”

  “We had help,” Scarlet said. “It wasn’t just us.”

  The tall Irishman grinned. “Aye. Hero of the Potomac, eh? Guessin’ they’ll have to come up with a new name for ‘im now. ‘Hero of the Union’, or some such.” He nodded toward the interior of the suite. “We’d best get in there. They’re waitin’ for us.”

  Scarlet followed Dublin through the foyer and into a large parlor area surrounded by a suite of rooms. Scarlet was greeted by the sight of four DSI agents seated around a fireplace. There was a table between them, with tea service set for six.

  Dublin’s protégé, Paladin, sat nearest the fire. Scarlet had to look up when she spoke to Paladin. He was nearly as tall as his minder. Paladin had a clean-shaven head, beautiful dark brown skin and features that looked as if they were chiseled from ebony.