Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Mr. Lou lit his pipe and puffed it quickly to cover the rancid smell. “The price of sulfur has more than doubled thanks to the war in Europe, and our government is starting to stockpile it. Customs agents are now freezing all commercial shipments of it unless your name is Henry Dow. So let’s just say, this wasn’t easy to come by. There are twelve more around back. Now. Let’s talk about my payment, and why it’s been such a long while since we’ve seen your usual shipments. I’m starting to lose money.”

  Delacroix withdrew a cigarette from his inner pocket and lit it. “Yes, it seems we’ve run into a snag. Shipments are down thanks to German U-boats. Merchant ships are too afraid to sail the Atlantic. And to make matters worse, Emilio Vargas and his men were … exterminated recently.”

  “El Scorpion, dead? Really?”

  “Indeed. And I would wager that whoever put an end to him and his men will be coming here next.” Delacroix glanced at the sulfur rocks. “Emilio always had a problem keeping secrets.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, Judge,” Mr. Lou said. “My men and I are entirely capable.” The Asian beauty next to him dragged her spiked finger across the table. It etched a deep line into the wood with an irritating sound.

  “Is that right, now?” the Judge said slowly.

  A gunshot rang out. The watchman from the top of the steam crane came crashing through the ceiling and landed with thud on the clay floor. Suddenly, the railcar entrance Delacroix had come through slid open quickly. No one was there, save for the large bouncer who lay on the ground with a Bowie knife stuck into his eye socket.

  “Don’t just stand there, you mugs, get out there!” Mr. Lou screamed at his other men.

  The two crate carriers threw open their coats and drew revolvers. The third man readied the crowbar he was already holding and led the charge outside. The bouncer guarding Mr. Lou followed. The four of them ran out the door and fanned out. From his vantage point, Delacroix could now only see the crowbar-wielding thug through the door. Three quick gunshots rang out. The man with the crowbar turned and looked up toward the roof in horror. The railcar door slid shut. And another gunshot rang out.

  Mr. Lou pulled a double-barreled shotgun from under the table. He shakily aimed it at Delacroix, who calmly dropped his cigarette and smothered it with his shoe. “What in the hell is going on here?” Mr. Lou yelled.

  A shadowy figure stepped in front of the still-open door to Delacroix’s right, the one the crate carriers had come through. Mr. Lou could make out the silhouette of man in a bowler hat holding a smoking revolver. The shadow was out of effective range for the shotgun Mr. Lou held.

  “What is this? What is this?” Mr. Lou yelled.

  “This? This is nothing personal, Lou. I am simply,” Delacroix smiled, “covering my tracks.”

  Delacroix looked up to the young Asian woman, who remained unfazed despite the violence. “Excuse me, miss?” he said. “But do you particularly enjoy working for this gentleman here? Does he pay you well?”

  “What … what the hell are you doing?” Mr. Lou repeated with dread in his voice.

  The shadowy figure took one step into the room.

  “How’d you like to come work for me?” Delacroix continued.

  The shadowy figure shot the wide-eyed coal-shoveler cowering in the corner.

  “Come work for me, and permit me to treat you like the Asian flower that you are,” Judge Delacroix said, lifting his hand in an escorting gesture.

  With her cold eyes still fixed on the Judge, the Asian woman ran her spiked finger across the throat of Mr. Lou with expert precision. It happened so fast that there was no time for him to even react. His complexion went deathly pale. His face frozen in terror as he slumped forward.

  “A most prudent decision,” the Judge said.

  The Peacemakers

  January 2, 1915

  Gartrell Taxidermy

  Manhattan, New York

  As the former Commissioner of the New York City Police Department, Theodore Roosevelt demanded that his new agency have a briefing room. A room where first-hand information could be passed from operatives to officers. A room where a plan of the day could be devised and expressed from officers back to operatives. Naturally, such a room should be modest in size, with rows of tables and chairs closely situated around a drawing board to facilitate both written and spoken communication. What he got, however, was something entirely different.

  At the tail end of Quincey’s cavernous workshop, by the large metal receiving door, was an old Victorian sofa whose once-plush golden fibers were now fraying and the color of dull mustard. To either side of that were two small tables, a dilapidated wooden one and the other a stuffed American black bear on all fours—its flat back creating enough elbow room for four people. The chairs that accompanied both tables did not match the tables or each other. There was, however, a chalkboard in front of the sofa, made portable by a makeshift wooden frame atop caster wheels that emitted such an ear-piecing squeak Roosevelt ordered it never be moved.

  Behind their makeshift briefing room was Quincey’s taxidermy paradise. Every tool used in the skinning, stretching, embalming, stitching, and stuffing process lay in disarray among a medley of metal tables and benches. Some of the tools were handcrafted by one of the fathers of modern taxidermy, Louis Dufresne, more than a century ago. Quincey’s priceless creatures were also littered among the warehouse. They were all mammals, birds, and reptiles in various stages of creation, save for one. Suspended by a chain from the rafters, almost three stories high, a magnificent gryphon swayed subtly in vigilance. It was a lion’s muscular body blended with the majestic head and talons of an African eagle, but the giant wings that stretched out from its midsection most likely came from a Chilean condor, considering their immense length.

  The massive receiving door rattled, alerting the occupants inside. An older, hardened man hoisted the door up with one hand, launching it up the tracks to its apex. Cold air flowed in. Colonel Theodore Roosevelt wore a three-piece, rust-colored suit. He strolled into the warehouse, bowlegged and with a slight limp. He stopped abruptly so that the saddle bag he carried continued to sway. He stroked his thick, walrus mustache, adjusted his limp-brimmed fedora the color of mud, and eyed the team assembled in the briefing area.

  Nikola Tesla, the team’s resident scientist, genius, quartermaster, and inventor, hovered over the rickety wooden table, putting the finishing touches on Simon Hum’s new mechanical left arm, which Roosevelt had dubbed “The Wonderarm.” Tesla had also built Simon’s first mechanical arm, but this new design looked much sleeker than the original.

  The arm’s recipient, Simon Hum, sat with his sleeve rolled up as Tesla worked on him. He was the team’s detective and only scientifically modified member. Six months ago, Simon was a Pinkerton detective on the trail of a derelict and hired gun named Wage W. Pascal. While on that trail, he ran into a dangerous Illuminati assassin by the name of Monomi Mono, and the encounter left him without his memories and with a nearly inoperable dominant arm. On a journey to recover his memories, he met—or rather re-met— Amber Rose, the team’s seductress and his lover, who was currently sharing a cigarette with Dominic DeFelice, the team’s transportation specialist and newest recruit. They both shivered as they stood by the receiving door.

  Mink Callahan, the team’s sharpshooter, master of disguise, and Quincey’s fiancée, sat hunched over the black bear table, cleaning her Springfield bolt-action rifle. The massive Quincey Gartrell, the team’s hunter, tracker, and all-purpose strongman, sat at one of the tables in the back fixing marble eyes into the hollow sockets of a stuffed antelope. Pani, the feral woman Roosevelt had found throwing knives at a carnival in Poland, sat next to a stuffed timber wolf toward the back of the room. Using her favorite antler-handled hunting knife, she sharpened and cleaned her toenails.

  “Where the hell is Major Pascal?” Roosevelt demanded.

  The Peacemakers continued to either work or recreate without looking up. No one spoke.
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br />   “I said,” Roosevelt yelled, “where the hell is Major Pascal?”

  Simon Hum spoke up. “We haven’t seen him yet, sir.”

  “Ain’t heard a lick from him since we got back from Mexico, Colonel,” Dominic DeFelice added in his Bronx accent. Roosevelt, following his term as U.S. President, preferred to be called by his former military rank.

  As if on cue, the sound of a chain-driven V-twin engine came from the alley outside the receiving door before Dominic shut it. Major Wage Winchester Pascal—Mink’s former fiancé—arrived on Harley-Davidson’s newest-model motorcycle, which looked like a thick, heavily reinforced bicycle. He sat toward the back of the long leather seat. In front of him, leaning forward and half-straddling the chassis, was a young woman with oversized goggles and a thick wool scarf, who lifted her velvet dress so the cobalt-blue fabric avoided the cycling chain beneath her. Wage shut the two-speed engine off, and they both dismounted. The young woman was a beauty, with windblown chestnut hair and fresh Manhattan soot staining her exposed face. She removed the goggles and scarf, smiling with jagged, but still attractive, teeth. She handed the goggles to Wage, who snatched them with one hand while grabbing her waist with the other. He kissed her farewell. After they drew apart, he smoothed back his charcoal hair and winked at her. They exchanged a whisper before she politely waved at the wide-eyed spectators and turned to walk toward 86th Street.

  “At ease, troops,” Wage announced as he walked into the warehouse. He undid his leather jacket and scarf. From his pocket, he pulled out a folded slouch hat, impossibly worn and flexible, and donned it. This was the very same hat he wore as a Rough Rider almost 15 years ago under the command of Theodore Roosevelt—who Wage didn’t notice standing by the chalk board to his left.

  “Major Pascal,” Roosevelt said with a calm intensity. “It’s so nice of you to join us.”

  Wage, startled for a split second, saluted casually. “Yes, sir. I trust you received my report.”

  “Precisely what I am here to talk about. Have a seat, Major.”

  Dominic finally closed the receiving door. The crash was almost as loud as Roosevelt’s booming voice. “Just what in the hell happened in Mexico? I distinctly remember saying that this was to be a reconnaissance mission. Zero—ZERO—casualties were my orders. I wanted to find the whereabouts of E.J. Delacroix, not cause an international incident.”

  “Sir, as I noted in my report—” Wage started.

  “Don’t patronize me!” Roosevelt snapped. “I read the damn report.”

  “Then you should know, sir, that we had agents compromised.” Wage eyed Mink.

  “Hey,” Quincey interjected. “That’s not fair. Simon and Amber Rose—”

  “Shut up, Quincey,” Roosevelt replied.

  “As I was saying,” Wage continued. “When agents became compromised, the reconnaissance had to become a hostage rescue.”

  Mink finished putting her rifle together with a slap, slammed it on the bear table with a hollow thud, and stood up. “Put a bridle on it, Wage,” she snapped. “We had the situation under control. We didn’t need you stirring the pot.”

  “Under control? Was that before or after they hoisted you up by your neck?” Wage countered.

  Quincey moved up by the old Victorian sofa. “Hey if you hadn’t been—”

  “Shut up, Quincey!” Wage said.

  “It wasn’t our fault you underestimated Emilio’s force, Wage!” Mink cried, unable to suppress her Cajun accent when she was angry.

  “Come on, now!” yelled Wage, who never attempted to conceal his own thick, Cajun accent. “You had one job to do!”

  “It wasn’t that simple,” Quincey said.

  “Shut up, Quincey!” Mink screamed. “Why don’t you just admit, Major, that your plan was stupid? Yes, I said it. Your plan was stupid. All your plans are stupid. That’s why they never work!”

  “Excuse me?!” Wage yelled back.

  “You heard her, Wage!” Quincey yelled, finally undeterred. “If you wouldn’t have whistled for your pet over there,” he hooked a thumb at Pani, “then maybe we would have had the zero body count Roosevelt wanted!” He barely finished his sentence before an antler-horned hunting knife stuck into the arm of the Victorian sofa, precariously close to his waist. He looked back at Pani, who stood 15 feet away with burning eyes, looking every bit like the wild woman she was. “Or … not,” Quincey added.

  Simon rose from his table and finally put his two cents in. “With all due respect, Major, perhaps our capture should have led, initially, to a parley for our release instead. You knew Emilio Vargas; I am quite sure with your charisma, you could have negotiated—”

  Wage threw open his jacket and pointed to his trusty revolver, Ol’ Snapper. “I’m sorry, Detective, would you like to meet my negotiator?”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mink cried. “You can’t solve everything with a gun, Wage!”

  “Yeah, Wage,” Quincey added childishly.

  Wage turned and pointed a finger in Quincey’s face. “It’s ‘Major,’ man, get it right. And for the record, just how do you solve your problems, Quincey? Now tell me that!”

  “Get that finger out of my face, Major,” growled Quincey, who was easily a head taller than Wage.

  “Come on, everyone—can’t we just listen to the Colonel here?” Dominic DeFelice said.

  “Stay out of this, Dom,” Wage retorted.

  “Yeah, Dom, no one cares what you think!” Quincey yelled. “You ran Emilio over in the first place!”

  That’s when the real commotion began. Dominic flicked away his cigarette and raced toward Quincey while swearing in both Italian and English. Mink made a beeline for Wage, pointing her finger. Simon walked over, sticking his new wonderarm into the fray to prevent a fistfight.

  Finally, Roosevelt walked over to the black bear table and picked up the Springfield rifle. He loaded the cartridge, threw the bolt forward, and fired a shot into the ceiling that punctured a hole in the corrugated roof. Everyone flinched, and a few covered their ears instinctually. “Now, everyone settle down and take a seat,” Roosevelt said. “I mean it. I’ve had it with all this hullaballoo. You will all sit down and you will all listen.”

  The commotion died down as the angry teammates sat on the sofa and around the two tables. “It seems to me, that this team is having trouble getting along,” Roosevelt continued. “This is not entirely unanticipated; I knew it would happen eventually. I just didn’t know it would happen so soon into our venture together.”

  Roosevelt bent over and opened his saddle bag. He withdrew four envelopes and held them up in the air. “There has been an increase in … activity, unlike anything I have ever seen.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” Simon asked.

  Roosevelt plucked one of the envelopes from his hand like it was a playing card from a flourished deck. He threw it to Wage. “Boston police caught these fellas robbing a bank last week. They were all killed in an ensuing shootout.”

  Wage opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. There were four sepia photos of four thuggish-looking men. All of them had their eyes closed and a grimace that only death could afford. Each one also had a stone sowed into his chest. They were round stones about the size of a man’s fist etched with some kind of alien inscription. Simon, the team detective, looked over Wage’s shoulder. “Disciples of The Hand? Why would they rob a bank?” he asked.

  “That’s precisely my point,” Roosevelt replied. “This isn’t like The Hand. They have no need to rob a bank. This is too public—too sloppy. Disciples wouldn’t jeopardize revealing themselves like this.”

  “So something’s wrong,” Wage suggested.

  “Yes, something is seriously wrong,” Roosevelt agreed. “So wrong, in fact, that I am going to meet with the Illuminati. I need to find out what they know about it.”

  “You mean Edison?” Wage asked.

  “That’s right. And Amber Rose, you’re coming with me,” Roosevelt said.

  “Me?
Why me?” Amber Rose asked, surprised.

  “Yes, why her?” Simon added.

  “Charles’ Law,” Tesla answered.

  “Charles’ who?” Wage asked. Everyone turned to Tesla, who was still sitting at the dilapidated table. His huge frame seemed to swallow the chair he sat in.

  Tesla explained, “Charles’ Law expresses the relationship between temperature and volume.”

  “You already lost me,” Quincey said.

  “Don’t think of volume in the traditional sense, as a measurement of the space something occupies,” Tesla elaborated. “Think of it in terms of the volume, or amount, that people speak. Increasing the temperature in a situation will increase the amount spoken, thus increasing the information we get from the Illuminati.”

  “So …” Wage started slowly, prompting Tesla to get to the point.

  “So, meet Mr. and Mrs. Temperature,” Tesla finished as he gestured to Roosevelt and Amber Rose.

  “Increase the temperature?” Amber Rose asked. “You mean like torture or something?”

  “Yes,” replied Tesla.

  “Really?” Wage asked.

  “I am kidding. It was joke,” Tesla replied dryly. “But truly, both of them have the capacity to increase the temperature of a situation. To—what is the expression? Heat. Things. Up.”

  “Nikki’s right,” Roosevelt interjected. “I have a way of making a man’s blood boil, believe me. Edison will talk. And he will talk volumes.”

  “Then what about me?” Amber Rose asked. “How do I …” she mimicked Tesla’s deep Slavic accent, “Heat. Things. Up?”

  The entire team looked at her with their eyebrows raised, including Simon. Wage snickered.