Bum’s Rush: White Lightning Series, Book 2

by Debra Dunbar

  Serge. Damn Vincent for not listening to her. Damn him for not taking care of this before he’d stormed her parents’ house to haul her in.

  “It’s Smith,” she muttered to Vincent as Serge cleared the landing.

  “Indeed,” a voice called from the darkness behind them. Hattie twisted to find Alexander Smith leering at her from the far corner of the attic, stepping from behind a stack of boxes and old furniture.

  Hattie glared at Smith as he marched between her and Vincent.

  “Sergei,” Smith called. “Pochemu zdes' Irlandskaya devchonka?”

  Serge…or apparently Sergei…replied with a simple shrug, “Ona byla v mashine.”

  Vincent coughed. “Once again for the English speakers in the room?”

  Smith stepped forward. “Allow me to introduce myself in earnest, Vincent Calendo. My name is Alexandre Dmitrevich Sokolov. I believe you knew my brother, Yakov?”

  Vincent stared up at the man. “Shit.”

  Hattie peered at Vincent. “What’s this about, then?”

  “He’s Bratva,” Vincent grumbled. “Always was.” He glanced up at Dmitrevich. “And here I thought we were done with you.”

  “It seems not.” Dmitrevich crouched in front of Vincent. “Though we’ve taken great pains to make it appear as such.”

  “You got pretty good English for a Ruski.”

  Dmitrevich snapped his fingers. “Sergei?”

  The brute stepped forward, wheeled an arm back, then sent a hammer fist directly into Vincent’s jaw.

  Blood sprayed Hattie’s face, and she squawked as she scuttled away.

  The air stiffened as Vincent pinched another time bubble. Hattie sat in her spot watching as he lurched forward and back again, struggling against the rope. After he’d expended his energy, both physically and magically, he released the bubble.

  Dmitrevich turned to Hattie. “Apologies, miss.” He glanced back to Vincent, then stood, a smirk on his face. “I saw the stutter, my friend. You’ll have noticed that I’ve taken precautions against your time twisting.”

  Vincent rolled his tongue, then spat a gob of blood onto the floor. “Guess you want me to shut my trap?”

  “That would be best for now, although you’re going to die tonight whether you continue to hurl insults at me or not. You see, you are no longer necessary for my endeavors.”

  “Endeavors, huh?” Vincent grumbled. “Pitting Hattie against the Crew? Setting me and Corbi against her. Playing both sides while we chip away at one another? That took some brain power, I’ll give you that.”

  “Well,” Dmitrevich declared with a clap of his hands. “You could hardly expect us to do nothing after you killed dozens of us.” He paused and stated with dead sincerity, “After you killed my brother.”

  “That was business, Smith,” Vincent replied. “The Bratva knew that going in. We all knew it. And as for your brother…he would have been fine if he’d kept his mitts out of the till.”

  Dmitrevich nodded. “Yes business is business, but my brother? Well, I guess you wouldn’t understand my family’s feelings on that matter. You’re a pincher who’s never had a true family—a family of blood.” He made a fist in front of Vincent’s face. “Real blood. Blood that is shared in our veins. But then, what would you know about that?”

  Dmitrevich continued, “But until my mother came to visit the Great Damir, and he offered her such valuable advice, our course was uncertain.”

  Hattie blinked at the pair of them. “Who’s the Great Damir?”

  Dmitrevich chuckled. “Oh, you’re unaware of your companion’s night job? He runs a scam on little old ladies.” He made a walking gesture with his fingers. “Leads them into a world of mystery and forbidden knowledge. Plays the part of an Arab, complete with costume and makeup.” Dmitrevich fixed his gaze back on Vincent. “It’s disgusting.”

  Hattie lifted a brow at Vincent.

  He shrugged. “It’s a hobby.”

  “So, this is true?” Hattie asked. “You did this?”

  “I—” He searched for words, then just nodded.

  Of course he did this. He’d confessed it all to her in halting tones at that café a week ago—he’d told her about the young Russian who’d started it all, as well as his feelings of guilt in the matter. She’d given him some ease after he’d told his tale, and now she was regretting that.

  “You’re nothing but a murderer.”

  Vincent squinted. “It was business, Hattie. It was a rival mob. It was business.”

  “What sort of business?” she spat. “The business of murder? That’s what I’m meant to serve? That’s what you and your pig of a boss are expecting me to do?”

  Dmitrevich eyed Hattie. “I see you’ve joined his little gang.”

  “Not that I had any choice in the matter,” she replied. “Much like you gave me little choice when you sent me into your suicidal errand two days ago.”

  Dmitrevich nodded. “Apologies for that. You’ve wound up in the center of this predicament. Caught in the crossfire, perhaps? I hadn’t accounted for you in my initial plans, to be honest, but you pulled that stunt in Georgetown, and incited Corbi into a crusade. I had to adjust.”

  She spat at him. “Well, you can go straight to hell.”

  Dmitrevich nodded. “In time, as will you. But for now, the two of you must wait. Purgatory, I suppose, has become an attic.”

  “Let her go,” Vincent urged. “She’s got nothing to do with any of this. She’s just a boat-legger, some Irish girl caught in the middle of it all. Let her go.”

  “She’s a pincher.”

  “One who hates the Crew. Let her go and she won’t stand in your way. Hell, she’ll probably work with you.”

  Dmitrevich laughed. “I doubt that. Not after she’s watched us paint the floor with your brains. No, she stays here for now until I decide what to do with her and until the time comes to take your life.”

  “Why the wait?” Vincent glared at the man. “Part of your endeavor?”

  “I take a long view, Mister Calendo. You have one purpose to serve yet—but for that, I await a last guest.” He snapped his fingers. “Sergei? Svyazhite devchonku.”

  Sergei strode toward Hattie. She kicked at his ankles to no avail as he gripped her by the arm and dragged her to the post Vincent was bound to. He untied her wrists, jerking them around to her front, then stringing the rope beneath her armpits and through Vincent’s bonds. He made several passes around her chest, tight enough to hold her fast, but not enough to constrict her breathing. She squirmed as the wooden post dug into her back. Sergei finished by re-tying her wrists at her lap, cinching the rope beneath her breasts to hold her hands tight to her sternum.

  “I’m sure the two of you have much to discuss. I shall return shortly.”

  Dmitrevich waited for Sergei to precede him, and the two descended into the building below, closing the stairs behind them.

  Hattie gasped against the ropes. “Another fine mess, Calendo.”

  “You’re blaming me for this?”

  “Well, you’re the one who killed his brother. Now I’m paying…” she grunted as she twisted her wrists “…for it.”

  “If it means anything, I wasn’t the one who actually pulled the trigger.”

  The rope around her wrist slackened as she twisted her wrists into an X. “It doesn’t.”

  “Listen, I’ve been trying to do right by you. But this…this is just old business that you shouldn’t be a part of. It stinks, and I’m sorry. I’ll do everything I can to get you out of this alive and get you back to your parents.” He jerked against the rope, as if he were trying to edge around the post enough to look at her. “I’m sorry, Hattie. I’m so sorry for this—for all of it.”

  “Aye, I suppose.”

  Were they really going to kill him? Of course they were. This is what these gangs did to each other. They were going to shoot him right in front of her.

  And as hurt and angry as she was, even with the pain of his betrayal stil
l sharp in her chest, she couldn’t bear the thought of him dying.

  Not that he needed to know that.

  “So, you’re not mad at me?” he asked.

  “Furious. “But we’ll have to work together if we’re to survive this.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Listen, it’s me they want. You’re not family, not part of the Crew and Smith knows that.”

  She shook her head. “Smith won’t let me live. He’s tried to kill me before to keep me out of the Crew’s hands. Once he finds out your gang has my parents, he’ll know that I’ll do whatever your boss commands.”

  “Then he won’t find out about your parents.” She heard him scoot against the post. “They’re gonna kill me, but I’ll do anything I can to get you out of this mess. Anything. So if I say and do stuff when they come back…well, don’t think I mean it.”

  Everything in her chest hurt, and it wasn’t just bruises from the car accident. All he could talk about was her safety, saving her life. Was that guilt over his breaking his promise to her? Or was it something else?

  And here she was, thinking only of how she could get him out of this with his head in one piece. She glanced around the room, at the banister, at the angles of the roofline, at that window with the broken slats and got an idea.

  “They’re not going to kill you. I won’t let them kill you. I lost Valentino earlier this week. I’m not losing you, too,” she told him, forcing some lightness into her tone.

  She heard the smirk in his voice. “Valentino took a bullet to the head, did he? I thought he died from some infection after a surgery. Wasn’t aware he was courting you, either. Took his death personally, did you? I’m feeling a bit jealous over here.”

  She laughed. “More like I was courtin’ him—me and a million other love-struck women.”

  They both chuckled then fell silent, the seriousness of their situation settling back in.

  “I betrayed your trust,” he said softly. “I’ll go to my grave regretting that. I know it’s too much to ask that you forgive me, but know that I’ll die wishing I’d not done what I did, wishing things hadn’t ended like this.”

  She felt as if a giant lump had somehow lodged itself in her throat. “You’re not going to die. I’ve got a plan. It’ll all work out, but you’ve got to have faith in me.”

  She looked around the room once more. That window with the slats broken off…if it overlooked the water, she might recognize enough of the waterside and landmarks to know where they were, even with only a quarter moon and the city lights to aid her eyesight. And then…and then she’d need to get to work. Wiggling from side to side, Hattie fished her hands toward the dip in her blouse. Her fingers caught hold of the tiny glass dram tucked in her brassiere and tugged it free. It had survived the crash without shattering and spearing her through the heart. Small miracles because she was going to need it after the insane pinch she was about to perform.

  “Of course I have faith in you,” Vincent told her. “So we have a truce?”

  “More like a detente, but you probably don’t know what that word means.”

  “Funny.”

  She pulled hard against the bonds, holding her breath as the rope dug into her ribs.

  “What are you doing?” Vincent asked.

  She pulled again, trying to get sufficient slack in the rope to raise herself high enough to look out the window. “Just need another inch.”

  “Again…why?”

  “I’m going to try something. Breathe out on the count of three, eh?”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it,” she grumbled. “One. Two. Three.”

  Vincent exhaled and Hattie lunged forward, muscles aching as she lifted herself along the post. He released a panicked grunt as they slid down, settling at an angle to each other, shoulders nearly touching.

  Vincent huffed, “You trying to kill me?”

  “Not yet. Not with rope.”

  “Why not rope?”

  “Too slow. I like things quick and painless.”

  He nodded. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate that.”

  “Okay, here we go.”

  “You gonna fill me in, or what?” he asked.

  “I think I know where we are. Canton, near the waterfront, a bit north of the harbor by my reckoning. I’m pretty sure which block too, judging by the lights outside.”

  “Yeah. I heard a ship’s bell outside when Smith, or Dmitrevich or whoever, was giving me the business.” He peered over his shoulder. “What’s your play?”

  “I’m going to try a light pinch.”

  “To what end?”

  “Getting our hides out of this attic,” she groused. “If we’re where I think we are, then we’re about eighteen blocks east of the Old Moravia Hotel.”

  “Huh. You can pinch light over a distance like that?”

  She paused. “Well, we’re about to find out.”

  “Ever do something like this before?”

  “Not really.”

  He twisted more, trying to make eye contact. “You sure that kinda reach won’t kill you?”

  “No, but if the magic don’t kill me, then these Bratva bastards will. Besides, I have a card up my sleeve.”

  Hattie closed her eyes. She pictured the building they were held in, what she saw in this room plus what she’d seen in that brief glimpse out the attic window. Then she envisioned the city, itself. And west, toward downtown. The Old Moravia, lit from within with electric light and a few flickering gas lamps. A jazz band playing. Gangsters huddled in the lounge. Lefty. That pincher from Philadelphia.

  Then she pinched light.

  Immediately, the magic hammered in her chest. It was enough to draw a yelp from her throat. The draw was intense, stabbing into her and through her. Her insides felt lengthened, jerking out through the soles of her feet. Her entire body began to tremble, soon jerking in spasms, blood bubbling up with each breath.

  But through the agony, she maintained focus. This was her only shot, the one illusion that might be able to save them.

  Just as she felt her lungs shredding, she popped the stem out of the dram, and moistened her tongue with the Aqua Vitae.

  The calming warmth spread through her mouth, but even though it had begun to do its work, Hattie’s brain fuzzed. The ropes pulled tighter and tighter as she lurched against the beam.

  And as her light pinch fizzled into the aether, she blacked out.

  Chapter 24

  Whatever Hattie had done was enough to knock her out. Vincent nudged her again, whispering over her shoulder.

  “Malloy? You with me?”

  No response. She’d slumped against the ropes away from him, and all he could see was her shoulder and the tangle of her legs on the floor. He could feel by the periodic ebbing and tugging that she was still breathing, but that was it. That light pinch she’d pulled had to have been far outside the limit of her abilities.

  But was it enough?

  Vincent had been laid low by his own powers more often than he cared to admit. Every time, he’d needed help to recover. If he couldn’t get her out of this attic and into friendly hands, Hattie might not survive this.

  Struggling against the bonds had proven useless. That thick son of a bitch, Sergei, had a remarkable talent for knots. They crisscrossed beneath Vincent’s arms at the shoulder, and retied at the small of his back. His wrists had been bound between his legs in a sort of sitting hog-tie. The odds of muscling his way out of this were long, and pinching time wouldn’t help, either. If he couldn’t wriggle his way out of the ropes in regular time, trying to do so in frozen time wouldn’t be any better.

  He’d have to try to think his way out of this instead—which seemed just as pointless as fighting against these ropes.

  Footsteps clopped on the floorboards behind Vincent, and he froze. Was this part of the illusion Hattie had spun?

  The steps came to a halt behind Vincent.

  “Now,” Dmitrevich’s voice slithered from the shadows, “let’s see wha
t this card up your friend’s sleeve is.”

  Vincent glanced over his shoulder to find Dmitrevich slipping a tiny glass bottle from Hattie’s unconscious hand. He sniffed it, then held it up to the moonlight slipping in from the tiny windows.

  “How…” Vincent glanced back at the still-closed stairs. “You’re a pincher. Aren’t you?”

  Dmitrevich wove around the post, dropping the stemmed cap of the bottle back into place. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “A place pincher. You can be in two places at once.” Vincent squinted. “So, the Bratva has their own magic after all.”

  “What do you think your friend accomplished with her illusion? If anything.”

  “I don’t have a clue,” Vincent grumbled.

  “Clearly. Not very forthcoming, is she?” He held up the bottle for Vincent. “What is this?”

  “Laudanum? How should I know?”

  Vincent knew very well what it was, and he was surprised that Hattie had found the mythical water pincher, as well as somewhat hurt that she’d kept that a secret from him.

  Dmitrevich stared at him for a long moment, eyes peeling aside Vincent’s words, searching for the lie. Then he simply shook his head. “So many secrets between the two of you.” He pocketed the dram. “Not much of a relationship, is it?”

  “We don’t have a relationship, you mook.”

  “Lies, lies. Although, it won’t matter much longer.” Dmitrevich lifted his head toward the outside wall.

  The sound of an engine outside met Vincent’s ears, followed by car doors.

  With a grin, Dmitrevich said, “That would be mother.”

  He marched toward the disappearing stairs and clopped his heel against the floor three times before shouting, “I’m up here.”

  Before long, someone pulled the stairs open, spilling more light into the attic. Dmitrevich stared down the opening, his face brimming with satisfaction. Figures emerged up the stairs. Dmitrevich reached down to offer a hand to a frail, elderly woman dressed in black. One of her feet slipped on the stairs, and he reached with both hands to steady her.

  Dmitrevich blurted in a spate of sharp Slavic syllables, “Ostrorozhno, Mama.”