by Debra Dunbar
She beamed at him. “Aye. That, it was. And this?”
She made another gesture.
He frowned. “It was like a cat, but…”
Her hands lowered to her lap in defeat.
“Your powers—are they coming back?” Vincent asked.
“A bit,” she replied. “Can’t be sure how much.”
By the time they’d reached the steel mill, the eastern sky was a rosy pink. A steam whistle sounded somewhere within the hulking plant, enormous gables of steel and tin slicing against the dawn sky, with chimney stacks sending plumes of soot skyward. The entire mill yard was immense, littered with hunks of coke and pig iron, a constant puddle of rusty water gathering into sluices of mud between the street and the gate.
They exited the car, gathering in a line as an army of workers bustled in and out of the gate during the shift change.
Alton lifted a finger. “There. Those three with the beards.”
Vincent nodded, and DeBarre and Lefty rushed forward to intercept them before they were lost in the stream of egress.
The bearded fellows drew up, hands held up to their shoulders as their lunch pails dropped to the mud. They released a flurry of pronouncements in their native tongue, ceasing only as Alton stepped forward next to Hattie. Their eyes eased as they caught sight of the old man.
“Alton!” the tallest of the three shouted. “Is good!”
Alton nodded and stepped forward to shake their hands. “God’s health on ya, Vasily.”
The other two lowered their hands.
“What is this?” Vasily asked with a nod to the gangsters. “You are, as they say, hoodlum now?”
Alton laughed. “Lord Jesus, no. But they’re lending me a hand. And not to put too fine a point on it, I’m hopin’ you’ll do the same.”
Vasily turned to take Alton’s arms into his hands for a quick shake. “For you, my friend, anything.”
“That’s good, lad. Because I need to talk to your young friend, here.” Alton pivoted to the shortest of the three, a man of barely twenty. His beard was remarkably full, disguising the youth in his features.
Hattie strode up as Vasily urged the lad forward. She reached for his cap, jerking it off with a quick snap. “Eh, then. It’s you, after all!” Hattie chuckled. “Aye, last I laid eyes on this one, I put a snake in his hand.”
Vasily’s eyes drooped. He turned to the young man. “You know this girl?”
He shook his head. Hattie cocked a brow and he nodded sheepishly.
Alton reached forward, gripping the young man by the arm. “Last night, my wife Branna was kidnapped by the—what’s the word you fellows used?”
Vincent replied, “Bratva.”
“Aye, that’s it. The Russian mob,” he added with a sudden gravity to his typical sing-song casual tone, “They have my wife, Vasily. She has no part in any of this nonsense. They don’t know it. And I’m afraid they’re going to do her some insult. So, if you’ll be very kind, my friend,” he jerked the lad in front of Vasily, “you’ll muster some cooperation from your wayward youth, here.”
Vasily leveled a glare onto the lad. “Of course my friend. And what’s this about a snake?”
DeBarre rubbed his chin as the five stood across the street from McGillicuddy’s Quality Meats. “You wouldn’t expect to find Russian gangsters housed up in a place with the name of McGillicuddy.”
Lefty grumbled, “Which is precisely why they’re here.”
Vincent commented, “And they don’t know that we are. We get one shot at this, and if we louse it up…”
Hattie frowned. “We’re not lousing it up, so don’t bother painting the picture.” She turned to her father. “Da? I need you to stay here with the car. Don’t stick your head up, getting it blown off.”
Alton cocked his jaw. “Oh, and I’m supposed to let my girl go running into a hornet’s nest then?”
Lefty sighed, then stepped alongside Alton. “I’ll stay with him. Cover the exits in case things go—”
“They won’t,” Hattie urged with a testy tone.
Alton regarded Lefty with amusement. “Hey, now. Aren’t you the one who kidnapped me only yesterday?”
Lefty shuffled on his feet. “And I’m sure this will go just as smooth.”
Hattie squinted at DeBarre. “No, it should be you.”
DeBarre lifted a brow. “How’s that?”
“You should stay, she urged.”
“Why? You don’t think having a third pincher with you would be, well…valuable?”
Vincent picked up the line of thought. “Have you tried to do a pinch recently?” After a blank stare from DeBarre, he explained, “The Aqua Vitae. We used it to keep you from gutting yourself from your own down pinch. Remember?”
He grumbled, “Oh, right.” With a nod to Lefty, he chimed, “Sorry, old-timer. You pulled active duty on this one.”
Lefty smirked. “Story of my life.”
Vincent, Hattie, and Lefty stepped across the street.
“Do we have a plan?” Hattie asked. “Just wondering, is all.”
Lefty inspected the wide three-story packing plant in front of them. “One loading dock up front, and a street entrance. Not a lot of windows. Probably more points of entry in the rear.”
Vincent shook his head. “We strike quiet and dig deep. Get to Mrs. Malloy before they know we’re here. Anyone Hattie can’t shroud us against, I’ll deal with outside of time. Lefty will be our check valve. Anyone gets past us, he drops. But that means we’re blown, so that’s gotta be our last resort.”
Lefty nodded acknowledgment.
With a decisive wave of her hand, Hattie pinched light around them, rendering them invisible. Lefty stumbled for a moment, then pressed on.
They proceeded for the front loading dock, climbing a short flight of stairs to a covered truck loading canopy. The overhead door was down and locked. Vincent tried the employee’s door to the side. The bolt slid open, and the door eased against the hinges into the building. With a nod, Vincent opened the door all the way and the three stepped inside. They found a warehouse area, poorly lit, with neatly arranged crates and packaged goods lined up behind the overhead door. Hattie released the light pinch, giving Vincent an apologetic shrug. He nodded in approval. That was smart. Conserve her powers while they could.
Lefty pulled his gun and gestured with it toward the far end of the warehouse. A long metal wall separated the warehouse from the interior of the packing plant. Two guards stood near the wide sliding doors, each brandishing a Tommy gun.
Vincent whispered to the others, “I’m on it.”
He crouched along the shadows near the crates as far as he could. The guards, immersed in a conversation in Russian, finally noticed his approach when he was only about twenty feet away.
With a snap of his fingers, he pinched time between him and the guards. Swimming forward through the time bubble, he set a flat palm beneath the jaw of the first guard, then rammed his head against the wall behind, leaving it in place. He turned and gave his partner the same treatment before releasing the time pinch.
Both of their heads hammered away from the walls, knocking the men unconscious in a split-second. Vincent took their guns, then turned and gave the others a thumbs-up.
The sliding door creaked loud against its rail, and they paused to check for alarm within. As there was no indication their cover had been blown, they pulled the door wide enough to enter. A spray of ice crystals rained on them as they eased the door against its frozen rail.
Vincent’s breath rose in puffs as the air dropped to arctic temperatures. Rows upon rows of hanging pork bellies ran down the length of the enormous cold box. A series of gigantic ice cubes stood in a wall before a row of fans, sending frigid air through the insulated space.
“Probably no guards in here,” Vincent whispered. “I wouldn’t stand guard in here if I had a choice.”
They wound their way past the carcasses of meat slung onto iron hooks. When they reached the far end, al
l they found was a wall. After a bit of searching, Lefty found another sliding door on the right-hand wall. Vincent and Hattie gave it a gentle shove. Though the rail wasn’t quite as loud as the first, it still sounded a grinding peal as the wheels ran against ice and corrosion.
On the other side were four young men.
Hattie waved her hand in front of her face then marched out of the cold box. None of the Bratva soldiers raised their guns. Instead, they simply turned to her and muttered something in Russian. Vincent had no idea what they were saying.
Hattie, however, seemed to have no problem. She announced, “Ya ostavil moy koshelek na komode tvoyei materi.”
The young men released a belly laugh and waved her through. She continued on. Vincent and Lefty advanced behind her. Vincent gave the nearest Bratva a quick salute. The young man nodded, then returned his attention to his compatriots.
Once they’d rounded a corner, Hattie slumped, holding the wall to catch her balance. As she gasped for air, Vincent reached out to lay a hand on her back.
“You alright?” he asked.
“That wasn’t easy,” she gasped. “Wasn’t sure…it’d work.”
“What did you tell them?” Lefty asked.
Vincent nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t know you knew Russian.”
She smirked. “I don’t. But I spent some time practicing in the market.”
“Practicing?” Vincent asked.
“Never mind. There were some Russian boys I followed for a while. I picked up a phrase here and there. No idea what it means, though.”
Lefty nodded. “Well, it worked. Nice job.”
She straightened up, chucked his shoulder, then continued forward.
They poked their heads into several rooms, finding most empty. Ultimately, they reached a flight of stairs, and made their way to the second floor. This was apparently the nerve center for this Bratva cell. Dozens of men gathered in several rooms, mostly with guns out and at the ready.
Vincent eyed two hallways spreading out in two directions. Taking a chance, he motioned toward the east, then gave them a flat palm to stay put. With several breaths, and a snap of his fingers, he pinched time. As quickly as he could, he shoved his way down the hall, peeping into every door possible. Nothing but Russians. The last door down the hallway was locked.
The time pinch sent tendrils of nausea through his abdomen. This was taking too long. He jerked hard on the door, shoving into it with his shoulder. But time bubble physics didn’t accommodate the way he’d expected. All he did was push his form against an immovable plane, knowing he’d pay for it the second he dropped the time bubble.
And that time would have to come soon, as his throat began to throb, and a cold sweat erupted over his forehead.
He abandoned the locked door to shove his way through his own time pinch back to the stairwell. By the time he’d made it back, he was already grimacing from the pain in his guts. As the time bubble released, he fell against the wall of the stairwell, sliding down to sit and rest.
Hattie crouched beside him, “Thought you’d never make it back. You think she’s behind that door?”
Lefty shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
Hattie explained, “There’s a door at the far end. It’s locked, by the looks of it.”
Lefty squinted. “I don’t understand. How can you—”
“I’m immune to his magic,” Hattie explained. “And vice versa.”
“That a fact?” Lefty muttered.
“Wouldn’t happen to know how to pick a lock, would you?”
Lefty holstered his gun and wiggled his fingers. “I make do pretty good, but that’s a skill that takes two hands.”
She nodded. “Aye, I suppose so. We’ll have to break the door in.”
Vincent lifted a hand as he caught his breath. “Not sure your mother’s…behind that door.”
“Can’t know until we check,” she replied, spying the hallway.
“Loads of Russians between here and there. You got enough magic left to get us there and back?”
She smirked at Vincent. “You got enough gas to get to your feet?”
He reached for Lefty’s hand and stood up. “Just give me a minute.”
“We don’t have a minute,” Lefty whispered as footsteps sounded on the stairs below them.
A flutter of panic spread through Vincent’s chest, the adrenaline sending energy through his body. He peered down the stairwell, gritting his teeth.
Hattie peered at him expectantly. “Well?”
“Well?” he repeated.
Lefty urged, “Do something, folks. Right or wrong.”
Hattie reached out and thumped Vincent’s chest with the meat of her fist. “Let’s go.”
She threw open the door at the top of the stairwell and waved her hands, shrouding them in another pinch of invisibility. Vincent followed, with Lefty bringing up the rear. She rushed down the hall, footsteps pounding against the floor. Vincent couldn’t tell if she was also muffling the noise, but if she was, this expensive light pinch wouldn’t last long. None of the hostiles in the surrounding rooms appeared to notice.
At the end of the hallway, she came to a halt by the locked door, holding herself up against the wall.
She motioned to Lefty with a finger-gun, pointing to the door.
Lefty nodded and pulled his piece.
As he took aim at the door, Vincent eased away toward Hattie, asking, “You covering this sound?”
She nodded.
“You got enough to hide a gunshot?”
She shrugged.
Lefty took aim at the latch, then pulled the trigger.
The shot rang in Vincent’s ears, unmuffled to him by Hattie’s light pinch. The wood of the door beside the latch splintered in a tiny hole.
Hattie nearly fell to her knees, jerking backward as the gunshot pressed against her illusion. Vincent steadied her, noticing a trickle of blood emerging from her nostril.
Lunging into the door, Lefty pushed it open as a few bits of ruined lockset dropped to the floor. He caught the door with his gun hand, hooking the revolver around the edge of the door to ease it wide.
Vincent checked back down the hall. Still no response.
Hattie whimpered as she held onto the illusion. With wild, desperate eyes, she shook her head at Vincent.
Nothing left.
Vincent nodded for her to release the illusion.
She drew in a ragged breath as her powers released. Lefty lifted his head in response to the change, and Vincent gave him a reassured nod.
They crept into the room, sliding through the opened door to find a narrow, wood-paneled storage room that had been cleared of everything but a chair. That lone chair held Branna Malloy, bound at the wrists but otherwise unmolested.
Dmitrevich stood behind the chair, arms crossed, deep in conversation with his mother, Yulia. They exchanged rapid bursts of Russian, Yulia thrusting a finger at her son, then out the tiny square window toward the city. Dmitrevich shook his head and unfolded his arms, revealing a coil of rope left over from binding Branna’s hands.
Dmitrevich’s eyes widened as he saw them and Vincent snapped his fingers.
Still weary from the last time pinch, the pressure of the magic immediately hammered him in the guts. He pushed forward to snatch the rope from Dmitrevich’s hand. He whipped coils of rope over Dmitrevich’s head, ringing the jute over his arms. He threaded the rope over itself a few times, giving it a hard tug before knotting it.
And with the last of his strength, he released the time pinch.
Dmitrevich heaved a hard breath as the rope pressed suddenly against his chest. He flailed backward, tripping over his own feet to fall against the back wall.
Lefty rushed forward, training his gun on Dmitrevich. “Keep it tucked in, pal.”
Hattie pushed past Lefty to lay her hands on the sides of her mother’s face.
Branna muttered, “Hattie? What are you…?”
Hattie’s fingers flew o
ver the knots at her mother’s wrists. Vincent watched as she tossed aside her mother’s bonds. Hattie’s face peered at him over her mother’s shoulder—flushed, tear-strewn not from relief, but from anger. A storm of vengeance brewed beneath her scowl, and as lightning flashed in her eyes, Vincent considered how strangely calm he felt.
It all seemed tied together, now. Done. The Bratva had torn him and twisted him, to be sure. But the urge for reckoning was oddly still within his chest. His thoughts returned to the more mechanical issues. The thugs still down the hall. The fallout with the Capo. DeBarre and Hattie’s father sitting in the car on the street below.
Vincent eyed Yulia, standing a pace from Lefty, her face more a match for Hattie’s than his own. Separating the two would be a wise move—now, before more blood was shed.
And before Hattie did something she’d regret.
Vincent stepped between Lefty and the Malloys, looming over Dmitrevich. “We’re done here.”
Dmitrevich said nothing. But the man’s own calm demeanor caught Vincent by surprise. No anger. No regret. He was missing something.
And it dawned on him just as Vincent turned to Lefty. “Careful. He’s a pincher. He could be standing behind—”
No sooner had the words left Vincent’s lips than a figure filled the frame of the door Lefty had shot open. A mirror image of Dmitrevich took a single step into the room, lifted a gun and pulled the trigger.
It was one of Vincent’s reflex pinches that hurled the room into a time bubble. These were uncontrolled moments, unstable fractures of time erupting from Vincent’s panicked brain. Time shifted in fits and starts. The muzzle flare from the gun rippled and bloomed as the blast of powder peppered the air. The bullet itself eased in jerking motions through the twist.
Vincent eyed the path of the bullet, then twisted on his heel, pushing himself toward both of the Malloys. He hadn’t had enough strength left to completely stop time. The bullet was traveling too fast, the pinch unraveling quicker than he could move through the thickened air. He met Hattie’s startled gaze and with a backwards shove pushed her clear, then turned to pull Branna with the last of his strength.
The woman spun in a lazy half-circle through midair as she eased away from the path of the bullet.