Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  And Mink Callahan—the former love of Wage’s life-turned-millionaire heiress-turned train robber-turned government agent-turned Quincey’s fiancée—spied over everything like an eagle perched above a high cactus, eager to sink her talons into a snake. Wage couldn’t help but notice her perfect features; it was as if she were sculpted by the Greek gods themselves. Even through layers of sweat, grime, and Mexican dust, Mink possessed an unmistakable beauty. The emerald wells of her eyes burned as though they were the exhaust of some celestial forge deep within her. She had a gaze that could either drive men wild or turn them to stone. And after leaving a wake of stone suitors behind her, the poised and graceful goddess was now betrothed to a titan of man, and, Wage thought, a colossal idiot.

  Vargas groaned, still lying on the ground where Wage had hit him over the head with a tequila bottle. He finally realized his ankles and arms were bound by the detective’s handiwork. “What the hell are you doing, you crazy son of a whore?” Vargas spat.

  Wage walked over and pointed the barrel of Ol’ Snapper at Vargas’ knee. “Now, you know how this game works, Emilio. I’m quite sure I taught it to you, as a matter of fact. I am going to ask you just a few questions. Tell me what I want to hear, and I might just send you on your way. What do you say?” Wage asked with a smile.

  Vargas swore at him in Spanish.

  Wage fired a bullet that missed Vargas’ kneecap by an inch.

  “OK, OK!” Vargas said, giving in to Wage.

  “A prudent decision, Emilio. Mink, do me a favor and signal Dominic,” Wage said. Mink took out matches, a candle, and a polished mirror from her saddle bag. She lit the candle and placed it in front one of the high windows with the concave mirror behind it. The effect was something like a lighthouse.

  “Where is the honorable E.J. Delacroix, Emilio?”

  “He said … he mentioned New Mexico.”

  “Where in New Mexico?” Wage pressed.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “How long you been runnin’ opium for him down here?” Wage asked.

  “Only a few months for the Judge. Before that, we were employed by a man named Donderbus. Otto van Donderbus. A Dutchmen. We ran it as far as California. What happens from there, I don’t know.”

  “Where do the shipments come from?”

  “The coast—European steamships bring it. We ride out. Pick it up. Deliver it. Get paid.”

  “Do you have a shipment in your possession now?” Wage asked.

  “No. We have not had one in a while. The war in Europe … it delays things. We have been holed up here for weeks.”

  “Now, what if I told you that the townspeople down the way are pretty upset about how your men have been treating their wives and daughters?”

  “I’d say fu—”

  Wage stuck his revolver into Vargas’ temple. “Think long and hard about how you want to answer that question, Emilio.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, this country is in shambles,” Vargas retorted. “My men work hard for the little money that exists outside a caudillo’s gate. I believe they are entitled to a little something for their efforts. It keeps morale high. Would you not agree, Capitán?”

  “Take your best guest as to where our honorable Judge would be going in New Mexico, and maybe I will consider not turning you over to those townspeople, you lousy piece of—”

  “Mr. Lou,” Vargas interjected. “He went to see a man named Mr. Lou. I’ve never met him. I think he’s a Chinaman. He’s in Santa Fe. “

  “You remember anything more about this Mr. Lou?” Wage asked, digging the barrel deeper into Vargas’ head.

  “That’s it. I swear.” Vargas winced.

  “Simon. Untie him,” Wage said as he holstered his weapon and slapped Vargas’ face. “And Emilio … I’m a Major now, remember”

  Detective Simon Hum walked over. He tugged on one side of a complex knot that even a veteran sailor would have trouble deciphering. After both leather cords fell off, Vargas rose and dusted himself off. Wage retreated behind the bar. He reached into his poncho and slapped another six coins on the bar. He looked at the bartender still uttering prayers on the floor. “Do you mind if we … ?” Wage took a bottle of sour mash from top shelf, uncorked it, and drank. “Get the hell out of my desert, Emilio.” Wage threw the bottle to Pani, and the wild woman took a swill.

  Vargas scurried toward the swinging doors. Halfway there, he was nearly knocked over by Quincey, who, on the way to the bar, stopped to jam his shoulder into the Mexican outlaw. Pani slid the bottle of sour mash down the bar. It glided into Quincey’s giant hand. The big man took a swig.

  As Vargas put a hand on one of the doors, Wage yelled, “Emilio!” The disgraced outlaw turned. “We’ll be in touch,” Wage finished.

  Vargas’ last smile looked like a rotten ear of corn.

  The roar of a 600-cubic-inch engine pierced the desert air, and two bright headlights preceded the massive car that tore through the door frame, exploding fragments of white adobe everywhere and running over Vargas. The Marmon Wasp, with its sleek, thin torpedo design and spacious cockpit, was the most popular racing automobile of its day, but this one did not look like the models that raced around the Indianapolis racetrack. A triangular plow, which would have looked more at home on the front of a locomotive, adorned the front. Mounted above that were two chain-fed Gatling guns that were controlled from the mechanic’s seat. The wheels were reinforced steel with custom tires built for heavier terrain, and standing rails, like those on the side of a trolley, ran along both sides.

  The young Dominic DeFelice stood up from the driver’s seat and looked around, oblivious to the man he had just run over. He lifted the goggles from his grimy face, revealing warm, maple eyes. “Plan C—right, Major?”

  Mr. Black

  December 21, 1914

  Bartosz’s Tea & Pastry

  The Bronx, New York

  Walking through the door, Mr. Black took off his top hat. The unoiled hinges of the door squeaked loudly, but none of the patrons of Bartosz’s Tea & Pastry seemed to notice. All the better, as Mr. Black preferred not to be noticed. Bartosz, a burly man with only a tuft of black hair left on his pasty scalp, yelled something in Polish back into the kitchen before returning to his task of grinding coffee beans. The resulting aroma cleared Mr. Black’s nostrils of the lingering tobacco smoke that seemed to fill the hole-in-the-wall café the length and width of a nine-pin bowling lane. A place, Mr. Black gauged, that would not last much longer, given the warped maple wood floors and cracked brick walls. They were telltale signs of a poor foundation.

  Dr. Frederick Fatum sat at a table in the back, sipping tea that was nearly the same color as his olive skin. Surrounding him were two men in matching brown suits and derby hats. Unbeknownst to the patrons around them, both of their hats covered bright pink scars cascading from the top of their bare skulls. One man was thin, hairless, and rocked ever so slightly in his chair. The other man was wider—much wider. He had a bulky chest, protruding belly, hardened face, and curly black beard. Substitute the new suit he was wearing for a toga, and the man could be a wrestler found on some faded Grecian urn. Both men had albino skin and unnaturally pale eyes. The albinos drank nothing and said nothing as Mr. Black pulled the remaining chair out from their table across from Dr. Fatum and had a seat.

  Dr. Fatum took a slow sip of his tea and adjusted his large tortoiseshell glasses.

  “Stone?” said the thin albino man sitting to Mr. Black’s left.

  “What?” Mr. Black snarled.

  “Stone? Stone! Stooooonnneeeee,” the man repeated.

  “What the hell is his problem?” Mr. Black asked Fatum.

  “I’m afraid that is the only word he can say,” Dr. Fatum said with an accent that suggested Eastern European origins. “These two gentlemen were the results of my last experiment.”

  “So they are immortal?” Mr. Black demanded to know.

  “Stone,” the thin albino said in affirmation.


  “Indeed, Mr. Rocke—”

  “No names,” Mr. Black snapped. “Not here.” He scanned the room cautiously. None of the patrons seemed to hear. “What’s wrong with that one, then?” he finally asked, pointing to the wide albino man who sat next to Dr. Fatum.

  “He says nothing. He has yet to speak since reanimation,” Dr. Fatum replied. “I call him Silent.”

  “What do you call this one?” Mr. Black asking, nodding to the thin man.

  “Stone. Stooooone,” the man replied.

  “His name is Stone,” Dr. Fatum said flatly.

  Mr. Black stiffened and adjusted the expensive topcoat. “This is unacceptable, Fatum. I am not paying you to create ever-living imbeciles. I will not spend my eternity as a mindless cretin!”

  “Stone!” the man named Stone called again.

  The one called Silent simply stared at Mr. Black, clenching his scarred fists and breathing unevenly.

  “I’m afraid my experimental trials have come to an end,” Dr. Fatum said.

  “That’s not what I am paying you for!” Mr. Black slammed his own liver-spotted fist on the table. Still, none of the patrons seemed to notice.

  Dr. Fatum snapped back, “I have worked tirelessly at developing my new serum, but not even your money can find me valid test subjects anymore. As we speak, authorities are looking for me. I have been linked to bodysnatching and the disappearances of far, far too many. I now spend my days hiding in the very lab you built for me.”

  “Bodysnatching?” Mr. Black asked, confused.

  “I found these two unknowns at the city morgue days after they died,” Dr. Fatum said. “This one,” he pointed to Stone, “had two bullet holes in his chest. The other,” he pointed to Silent, “Had much worse. A rifle, or perhaps shotgun, wounds to his midsection, back, and chest. I had to repair some lung tissue and his aorta before introducing the serum.”

  Mr. Black lifted an eyebrow.

  Dr. Fatum continued, “Yes. My newest serum brings men back to life. It brings men back, not from the jaws of death, but from its dark bowels. Demeter-20 was only the beginning. My newest serum goes beyond. Way beyond. I call it Orpheus. And all I need now is a viable test subject. One who is still living.”

  “How hard can it be to find a viable subject?” Mr. Black asked, irritated. “I must have passed a hundred bums on the way here.”

  “Bums?” Dr. Fatum scowled. “You would have me test my serum—your eternal future—on these diseased degenerates? This will tell me nothing I don’t already know. I need someone of sound mind and good health. I need to see if his mental faculties are sustained after the introduction of Orpheus. With that kind of data, I will be near the completion of the formula. And you, you will be nearer to eternal life.”

  “Stone,” the reanimated man affirmed.

  Silent pounded his fist on the table so that Dr. Fatum’s porcelain cup clanged against its saucer loudly as it spilled over. None of the patrons seemed to notice.

  Mr. Black rose from his seat and donned his top hat. “Have your lab ready,” he said. “I’ll find you a test subject.”

  The Judge

  December 23, 1914

  The Purveyor

  Santa Fe, New Mexico

  Every afternoon, a dust-covered locomotive arrived at the center of town, belching enough steam to form clouds in the clear blue sky above Santa Fe, New Mexico. Santa Fe was not just a junction in the American Southwest; it was a place where worlds met. It was a plane of existence where ancient Navajo once met white pioneers. Where tribal chiefs met dapper politicians. Where wild buffalo met domesticated cattle. But now, the town was just another metal cast cog in the growing industrial machine—a now-accessible desert hideaway with modern amenities being added by the day.

  One such hideaway was south of town, where small mounds of snow-turned-ice littered the barren landscape. It was a graveyard for locomotives and railcars. The tracks that brought them there long covered by shifting sand and desert weeds. Outdated, steam-driven metal beasts covered in scaly rust created the walls of a seedy establishment, and the gaps between were filled in with brick and mortar. Wheel-less railcars provided entrances and exits with their massive sliding doors. A medley of rotting and warped wood provided the roof. Jutting out from near the center of the roof was the mast of an old steam crane that now acted as a watchtower, provided the current watchman could withstand the freezing winds that blew south from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  When it was nearly sunset, a wiry man, unassuming and with pointy features, stood outside the railcar entrance. A wool top coat shielded him from the wind that threatened to blow the straw boater from his head. Through his gold wire-rimmed spectacles he observed the sign above the sliding door. It read: “The Purveyor.” Beneath that was a crude painting of a man in overalls shoveling coal into the ass of a monocle-wearing aristocrat.

  A brawny man with fists the size of breadboxes stood beneath the sign. He blocked the entrance and stared down at the smaller, wiry man.

  “Good evening. I’d like to see Mr. Lou,” the visitor said.

  The bouncer said nothing.

  The visitor sighed. “Please tell Mr. Lou that the Judge is here to see him. I’ll wait.”

  The bouncer’s eyes went wide for just a moment before he turned and went inside. Moments later he came back out. He gestured inside with a grunt, and the Judge entered.

  Old signal lights hanging from yardarms lit the inside. In one corner, a sleeping coal-shoveler slept next to an old, steaming boiler that heated a network of snaking pipes around the room. In another corner sat a gleaming copper still that would later fill the countless jugs around it with moonshine whiskey.

  At the center of the makeshift establishment was the base of the steam crane whose mast stabbed through the roof. It was elevated with large caster wheels, and its roof had been removed, the original cabin gutted and replaced with a plush leather booth and table. A man in his late 40s sat in the crescent-shaped nook. His derby hat and tweed suit were worn to its last fibers. He had a prematurely wizened and pale complexion, the kind that burns after minutes in the sun. Enormous red whiskers sprouted from his freckled cheeks. A young Asian woman sat in the booth next to him. She wore green and gold robes, and her hair was pinned up with jade sticks. Her eyes were a smoky gray. She rubbed the man’s neck with one hand. Her other hand rested on the round table. She tapped the metal spike that seemed to protrude from a thimble on her left forefinger against the wood. It created a steady, rhythmic sound that echoed in the large space.

  As Delacroix approached the elevated platform, another bouncer—not as big as the one outside but looking equally dangerous—came around and stood in front of the small stairs that led up to the booth.

  The Judge stopped and looked up at the couple. The man had his eyes closed. The woman watched the Judge’s every move and continued to tap her finger spike.

  The Judge cleared his throat and finally asked, “What exactly are you a purveyor of?” Ironically, from his position, Delacroix may have looked to be a defendant in front of a threadbare Judge.

  “Fortune and good will,” the seated man replied, completing their prearranged code. A faint Irish accent matched his Irish complexion. “What is it you need?”

  “At the moment, I need to speak to Mr. Lou. Am I to presume that you are him?” Delacroix asked.

  “That would be me,” the man said, finally opening his eyes. He grabbed the plain jug in front of him and poured a clear liquid into a small glass. He took a sip.

  “And here I thought you were a Chinaman.”

  The red-haired man looked at his Asian companion, smiled, and took another sip of his moonshine. “Most people think that. Must be the name. Lou. It's short for Louis Rooney. And while we’re being honest, I thought you would be bigger, Judge Delacroix. By the way, nice hat.” Mr. Lou snickered. The nearby bouncer laughed.

  The Judge tipped his trademark straw boater and smiled. “You have quite the place here, Lou.”

 
; “My father and his two brothers came he from Ireland about 50 years ago. They landed in New York. One uncle died in a knife fight the moment he set foot on the pier. My other uncle joined the Union army and died a year later.”

  “And your father?” Delacroix asked.

  “He went to the work for the railroads. He even built the line that came down here. He died of heatstroke laying tracks outside of Flagstaff. Left my ma and me with nothing except a bill for transportin’ his carcass back to Santa Fe. I made it my life’s mission not to work the rails. I tried an honest living as a cobbler, but when my ma got sick I needed more money. So I set up an opium operation. Wasn’t long until a crazy Dutchmen found me. Donderbus. Teamed up with him and found a much larger market share. Larger profits. After it was outlawed, I had to come up with a creative solution, of course.” Mr. Lou leaned forward. “I would hide it in the shoes I cobbled, in a small compartment I carved out of the heel.” He leaned back again. “Just about everyone in town wanted to buy a pair of my shoes.”

  “Where you able to save your mother, then?” Delacroix asked.

  Mr. Lou looked down into his empty glass. “Nah.” He refilled his glass. “Eventually though, I purchased the land you know stand on. Built this place. Now, I am a man who can get things. Not just opium. Arms, ammunition—”

  “Tell me, Mr. Lou,” Delacroix interrupted, “do you have what I asked for?”

  Mr. Lou clicked his tongue and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a pipe and tobacco pouch. Another railcar door slid open to Delacroix’s right. Three men walked through. Mr. Lou packed his pipe and shouted, “Get the Judge what he asked for.” The men disappeared and returned in a moment later with a six-foot-long crate. Stenciled black letters on the side read “Dow Chemicals.” The two of them dropped the crate by its rope handles. The third man popped it open with a crowbar, revealing yellow, powdery rocks. The smell immediately stung the Judge’s nostrils.