Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “I would head down to the taverns. Flirt with the lady friends of cattle hands until they called me out. Well naturally, we’d go out to the alley to settle the dispute, their whiskey and their bravado giving them powers they didn’t really possess.” He inhaled again. “I smoked ‘em.” He exhaled. “Every single one. I’d drag their sorry carcasses out to my uncle’s hog pen all the while their women were cryin’.” He laughed. “You know, those hogs would eat everything. Even the bone. Always thought the sheriff would come a knockin’, but he never did. An army sergeant did, though. 1st Sergeant William MacDonough. Great big fella’ who asked me if I would like to kill Spaniards in Cuba. Naturally, I said yes.”

  Mr. Black waved away the smoke. “What is your point, huh? That you tortured small animals and then progressed to humans?”

  “Humans are animals, too, Mr. Black. And I’m gettin’ paid a handsome sum to still kill ‘em. Truth be told though, I’d do it for free.”

  “You are sick, Mortimer. Utterly ghastly,” Mr. Black said.

  “Really? I suspect you do the same. Not with stones or bullets, though. But make no mistake, you kill people. Crush them with the very bank notes you carry in your wallet.” Mortimer pointed his finger with his cigarette wedged between his knuckles. “There ain’t no difference between you and me.”

  “My hands aren’t covered in blood, Mortimer.”

  Mortimer looked at the ladies fumbling throughout the room. “No. They ain’t. They’re covered in somethin’ else.”

  Mr. Black flipped down his mask and spoke mutedly, “Tell Vault and Steel that I am going to pay a visit to Fatum. I’ll be in touch.” Mr. Black ascended the stairs.

  Mortimer dropped his cigarette and gazed at the last smoldering flame that delivered the smoke fueling his toxic soul. He stomped it out.

  “Mortimer,” Mr. Vault called. “A moment of your time, please.”

  Mortimer walked to the center of the room, avoiding a few women who made their way around with hands waving in front of their faces. “Gentlemen, Mr. Black wanted me to let you know that he is off to see Fatum,” he announced.

  “Mr. Black is delusional. Always has been. Sometimes, I find it amazing he made it as far as he did,” Mr. Vault replied, pushing both ladies from his lap. One of them toppled to the ground laughing. Mr. Steel continued his own forays. “Mortimer, our ship back to New York departs tomorrow evening, but I want you in Santa Fe in a week’s time. There is an envelope upstairs that details your instructions. Please see to it.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Vault. Do say hello to my sister for me when you return.” Mortimer tipped his hat, revealing a window’s peak.

  “And Mortimer …”

  “Yes, sir?”

  I believe it’s time to retire. Tend the ladies, please.”

  Mortimer smiled. “With pleasure, sir.”

  The Peacemakers

  December 15, 1914

  Cantina Rosa Roja

  Chihuahua, Mexico

  “Uh, honeybee?” Quincey Gartrell said after hearing the first rope thump against the wooden rafter above them. “I think we might have a problem.” Both their hands were tied behind their back.

  “Shut up, Quincey,” Mink replied through gritted teeth as the second rope thumped above them.

  “You think you can come to my desert?” shouted the bald Mexican with a thick, wavy mustache as black as the cold, moonless night that crept in from the open windows above. After years of dusty patrons smoking and quarreling, the inside of the white-washed adobe cantina was a dull yellow pockmarked with bullet holes. The outside of the establishment, however, received a nightly polishing thanks to the sand-filled winds that raced down from the hills. As a result, the cantina was the only thing travelers could see for miles in the barren terrain—a weary traveler’s lighthouse in a sea of sand and cactus.

  “I’m afraid you have made a very grave mistake,” Emilio Vargas continued. He had skin the color of dust, teeth the color of corn, and a small pink brand on his cheek in the shape of a scorpion. His leather sombrero hung on his back, and he hooked a thumb into the bandolier that spanned his brutish chest. “String them up,” he commanded in Spanish.

  Mink spoke as one of Vargas’ foul henchmen placed the braided noose around her neck. Even through the lingering stench of cigar smoke and cheap alcohol, his breath could have wilted a rose miles away. “We’re not looking for trouble. We just want Delacroix.”

  Vargas laughed and returned to his broken English. “The Judge? You are lucky you found me first. I am an angel of mercy by comparison.” Another of Vargas’ men placed a noose around Quincey’s neck.

  “Look, Vargas,” Quincey said. “What do you say—” Vargas cut him off by punching him in the mouth. Quincey was easily the biggest man in the room, but with his hands bound, he was as vulnerable as the smallest kid in the schoolyard.

  “You big, dumb gringo. Do you really think I would trust anything you say?”

  Quincey probed his teeth with his tongue and after deciding that they were all intact, spit a glob of blood onto Vargas’ boot.

  The outlaw leader took a moment to consider his stained boot before smiling. “Kill him first. Let her watch.” Vargas’ men hollered and yelled like coyotes finding a burrow of baby rabbits. A few of them took position behind Quincey; it would take more than one to hoist his large frame. The many patrons in the cantina stared into their cups, praying to be overlooked.

  “You are making a huge mistake!” Mink called out, starting to lose her calm. Her face became as red as the bobbed hair that framed her cheeks. Before Vargas and his men discovered her, she had posed as a man in her tall cattle hat, shirt, and tan trousers, her outfit identical to Quincey’s. She squealed as the henchman with the foul breath kicked the back of her leg, bringing her to her knees and pulling the noose he held taut. She felt the coarse braids burn into her neck.

  The swinging doors at the entrance creaked as a shadowy figure stepped through them.

  Vargas and his men stopped and turned silently to gaze upon the man wearing a dull-colored poncho over fraying, brown trousers. No one could see his hands or his gun belt. He donned a slouch hat with one side loosely folded up so that the lights from the wagon-wheel chandeliers created a sinister half-shadow on his face. Ice-blues eyes gazed back at the men.

  The shadowy man said nothing as he strolled nonchalantly with chiming spurs up to the bar. He sat at the corner stool, only a few feet away from Vargas. The timid and unassuming bartender with a fading comb-over nervously dried a mug with his apron.

  “Dos tequilas, por favor,” the man said in a horrible Spanish accent.

  The bartender shook his head and looked skittishly at Vargas.

  The mysterious man reached into his poncho. Vargas drew a rusty six-shooter from his hip a split second before all his men drew their weapons—a medley of heavy caliber pistols and shotguns. Two henchmen on the wooden mezzanine above sighted their rifles on the stranger’s chest. Slowly, the man revealed his hand and tossed six coins onto the bar and thrust two fingers into the air. “Dos.” he repeated. The bartender’s eyes widened. No longer caring for Vargas’ approval, the bartender slid the coins into his apron pocket, poured two shots, and placed them in front of the man. Without hesitation, he swallowed the first one.

  “I hope you enjoy the tequila. It will be your last,” Vargas said, finally breaking the silence. He walked over and leveled his gun at the man’s head.

  The stranger tipped back his slouch hat so that it hung on his back by the thin leather strap. His black hair was pomaded straight back, but for a small tendril that hung over his forehead almost into his eye. “Tranquilo, Emilio,” he said.

  “Señor Wage?” Vargas said, lowering his weapon.

  “Long time, Emilio. What’s it been? Seven, eight years?”

  Vargas cleared his throat and looked around. “Ocho. It’s been eight years, I think.” Vargas’ tone and spine stiffened. “What … what are you doing here?”

  Wa
ge placed his hand on the remaining tequila. “Here to rescue my friends, Emilio.”

  “Your friends? These men? They are yours?”

  Wage turned in his stool to face the Mexican outlaw. “That’s right. Now, if you would kindly remove the nooses from around their necks.” Wage downed the tequila.

  Vargas lifted an eyebrow.

  “Rápido,” Wage added with a snap.

  Vargas’ snicker turned into a hearty laugh. His men joined in. “You’re not serious?”

  Wage held up a finger to the bartender. “Uno mas.”

  The bartender poured tequila into one of the empty glasses still on the bar. This time, he left the bottle sitting within arm’s reach.

  “These men? Are yours?” Vargas repeated.

  “I’m sorry, did I stutter? You know, the way you used to when you tried to talk to a senorita?” Wage replied.

  Vargas whistled like he was calling a faithful dog.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Wage could see two of Vargas’ henchmen holding shotguns and marching their prisoners forward. A strawberry blonde beauty in a white cantina dress and scarlet sash. Even with a sour face, she contended for the most refreshing sight in the room. Next to her was a hawkish man whose hair, the consistency and color of straw, fell below a black bowler. He wore a three-piece suit that looked tailored from the darkest storm clouds. The silver chain to his pocket watch perfectly festooned across his vest.

  “And how about these? Are they your men, too?” Vargas said with a laugh.

  “Terribly sorry, Major,” the hawkish man said as he tipped his hat with an unusually bulky left arm. His accent was faintly British.

  “Hiya, Wage,” the cantina beauty added.

  “Major? You got promoted?” Vargas asked.

  “It’s a long story, Emilio. Now, let ‘em go. Last warning,” Wage said.

  “Señor Wage, I am no longer the young man you knew so long ago. I am now,” Emilio pounded his chest, “El Scorpion. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

  Wage leaned back and smiled. “Really? Now, would this be the same El Scorpion that allowed me to buy him his first seasoned lady only to hear that he cried himself asleep in her arms and then pissed the bed?”

  A handful of patrons, and even one of Vargas’ own men, stifled their laughter. Vargas made an instantaneous note of who they were. “Shut up! All of you, shut up!” Vargas belted and reaimed his pistol at Wage’s head. “Hang them! Hang them, now! Ándale!” Vargas said with a sneer. “You will watch your friends die for you insolence. Then we will have a little chat.”

  Wage remained calm and whistled a brief, curious tune as he put a hand on the last tequila shot. The tune was a birdsong rendition of the opening to Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik. He looked up with only his eyes and saw a dark figure crawl through one of the high open windows and silently fall to the mezzanine. Both of the riflemen’s barrels were still pointed at Wage, but their eyes were fixed on Quincey as three of Vargas’ men tried to hoist him up. The first rifleman never saw the blade that opened his throat. The second never saw the shadow that enveloped his compadre, nor the hand with sharpened fingernails that cupped his mouth before the same blade slid effortlessly across his jugular.

  Quincey squatted slightly and tightened his neck as though he were about perform a strongman’s feat, a maneuver that kept the men from pulling up his massive frame. A few more of Vargas’ men walked toward him, intent on expediting the execution.

  “Peacemakers!” Wage yelled sharply,

  Vargas looked over again as his men halted their task. “What the hell did you just say?”

  “Plan B,” Wage continued and swallowed his final tequila.

  Everyone in the cantina looked around in confusion.

  “Uh, Major?” the hawkish man said. “Plan B involved fewer… um … hostages.”

  Wage sighed and said, “Well, Plan C, then.”

  Quincey cleared his throat during the brief intermission but still spoke hoarsely. “Wage. I don’t think that plan involved so many uh … guns … pointed in our direction.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ. Peacemakers! CATASTROPHIC EMERGENCY PLAN!”

  The hawkish man in all black spun around, clear of the shotgun that was lodged against his back. A something unfolded from the metal scaffolding that surrounded his arm, ripping his left sleeve in two. The whizzing of gears could be heard as a sleek barrel, attached to a large revolving cylinder, deployed. The strawberry blonde beauty ducked as the mechanical arm swung around, rapidly firing lead bullets that peppered the chests of both their captors. The decisive action distracted the others long enough for Mink to slip her noose and kick back one heel onto the kneecap of the man behind her. The henchman’s leg buckled. He fell screaming to the floor and dropped his revolver. In one fluid motion, Mink fell to her back and pulled her knees to her chest. With her long arms and flexibility, she was able to stretch her arms underneath and around so that her bindings were now in front of her. She sprung to her feet and grabbed a rickety chair within reach. With all her strength she flung it at the men trying to hang Quincey. They all had to drop the rope to avoid it. Mink took that opportunity to quickly remove the noose around the big man’s neck. Luckily, Quincey’s own bonds were poorly tied. He was able to slip them after Mink gave them a hard tug.

  “Grab the rope, honeybee,” Quincey yelled. He grabbed his previously concealed hunting knife in way that suggested the three men that tried to hang him would have to have a death wish to approach him now. His three would-be hangmen backed up and fumbled for the own sidearms. That’s when the shadow from the mezzanine above crashed into them, downing two. The one left standing had no time to scream before he had to use his hands to try to dam the river of blood that flowed from his throat. That shadow was now in the light of the wagon-wheel chandeliers. The feral woman had stalking yellow-brown eyes that glowed behind the tattered black locks of hair, which covered her face. Both remaining men quickly scooted away from her, one of them making the sign of the cross and mumbling a prayer. The less pious man remained silent as he turned and stood, but before he could run away, a well-placed slash severed his Achilles tendon, preventing him from doing so. He fell on top of the praying henchman, and the feral woman pounced on them both. After a few well-placed strikes, she was able to take away the pistols they dropped. The feral woman grabbed both weapons and ran them through the leather belt that cinched her green trousers.

  Mink had grabbed her fallen captor’s revolver and tucked it into her own belt. With hands still bound in front of her, she grabbed the braided noose that had nearly spelled her end, which still hung from the ceiling. She held firmly with two hands and held her breath. Quincey ran over to the other side of the rope that suspended the noose, jumped, and pulled hard, lifting Mink up to the ceiling. After a graceful swing when she reached the top of the rafter, she landed catlike on the mezzanine. She pulled the revolver from her belt, steadied it on the railing and began firing at the various henchmen who waded through the crowds of people running for the door.

  “Look out, Simon!” the strawberry-blonde woman yelled to her companion.

  Simon Hum turned to see a young man vault off a table. He had long Aztec hair done in two thick braids. After the two of them collided and hit the floor, the young outlaw grabbed Simon and wrestled the cold metal arm to the ground. Simon, who was more comfortable being the team’s detective than being a participant in such a violent contest, adjusted his shoulder and allowed his augmented arm to do the work. More whizzes and whirls sounded as Simon grabbed the young Aztec man by the collar, lifted him cleanly and threw him 10 feet into a wooden table that cracked in half.

  “Thank you, Amber Rose,” the detective said, standing and dusting off.

  “Don’t mention it, darlin’,” Amber Rose replied, pulling out a small .22 caliber revolver from under her dress and firing at a rotund henchman raising his shotgun to fire. Two of her shots hit him at waist level, and two ricocheted off the wall, adding the collection of pock
marks. The man fell over a chair, shattering it, and holding his genitals.

  Vargas could only look on in disbelief for a moment before Wage grabbed the nearby tequila bottle and smashed it into his temple. El Scorpion fell to the floor as if his legs were suddenly made of wet noodles. Wage continued to whistle Mozart’s most famous tune while using the broken bottle he now held as a conductor’s baton. With all the moving patrons, it was difficult to find a clean shot at ground level. Vargas’ gang started to maneuver around the chaos, but Wage anticipated their movements within the fray. With impeccable timing, he hurled the jagged tequila bottle at one of the two men throwing punches at Quincey. It was all the distraction Quincey needed to begin pummeling them both mercilessly.

  Wage had no time to watch the well-known taxidermist, Smithsonian consultant, and big-game hunter-turned-government agent defeat his opponents with a flurry of blows. He threw his poncho to the side and drew Ol’ Snapper, his Colt Peacemaker with a golden snapping alligator etched into the ivory handle. Wage switched from whistling to humming Mozart’s work; it helped regulate his breathing, which calmed his mind and steadied his hand. Three bullets found clean paths to the vital organs of three different outlaws across the clearing cantina. Two more bullets went through an overturned table, dropping the man hiding behind it. The American-made .44 caliber round shredded the sycamore tabletop as though it were parchment. Wage fired his sixth bullet, and it sank into the belly of an Aztec man in midair as he flew across the room and landed on a table with a dull thud.

  When all of the commotion ended and the gun smoke was exiting through the upstairs windows, Wage stood back to back with Amber Rose, both of them with pistols raised and reloaded. Pani, the feral woman, crouched on top of the bar, staring down the bartender who lay on the dirty floor whispering Hail Mary after Hail Mary to himself. Detective Simon Hum walked around the downed outlaws, quickly binding the ones who were still alive with cords of leather. Quincey grabbed a cup of warm beer from a still-standing table and drank it as he leaned against one of the swinging doors, acting as lookout.