Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Morris hung his head and sobbed.

  Mr. Vault’s laughter incited Mr. Steel’s and Mortimer’s. “You are creating quite the little empire for yourself,” Mr. Vault continued. “Tell me, does your CEO father know? How about your uncle, the police commissioner? What about your lovely, lovely fiancée?”

  Estella caressed Morris harder. “Yes. Maybe we should bring her here as well,” she said.

  “You’re sick! All of you!” Morris cried.

  Mr. Vault looked around comically. “Me? Are you insulting me?” He pointed a finger at Morris. “The only reason a piss-ant like you was able to operate as such is because we destroyed The Council. Killed them. All of them! Incinerated them until the flesh melted off their bones!” From the recesses of his robes, Mr. Vault pulled a golden medallion similar to the silver one Mortimer still held. It was the chain of a Council member.

  “No, no, no.”

  “Now we are going to do the same thing to you,” Mortimer whispered.

  “No! God, no!”

  Estella caressed him harder. Arousal now merged with his terror.

  Morris mumbled something.

  “What was that?” Mr. Vault asked.

  “I said,” Morris repeated, “why am I here?”

  “Quite simple, really,” Mr. Vault said.

  “Quite simple, indeed,” Mr. Steel echoed.

  Mortimer tucked away the silver medallion and pulled out a matchbook from his inner coat pocket. He removed one, struck it, and let it burn.

  “You are to cease your operations immediately. Turn over all your assets. All of them. Do that, and perhaps Mr. Steel and I can find you a place somewhere within our organization.”

  Mr. Vault slapped Morris across the face with his gloved hand. “You do not run this town. We do. We run this town. We run this country. And when this Great War is over, we will rule this world. The Council is dead, and the Triumvirate has risen. And you, Mr. Randolph, will either kneel before us, or we will melt the flesh from your bones.”

  Mortimer stuck the lit match to Morris’ bare chest. The bound man let out an ear-piercing scream as he smelled his own hair and flesh burning—just like when he was promoted to Medjai.

  “What do you say, Mr. Randolph? Will you comply? Or will you die?” Mr. Vault asked after the screaming ended. Mr. Steel laughed at the rhyme.

  “You wish me to kneel? To serve you?” Morris said, gathering his strength. He lifted his chin. His whole body shook while he talked. “I will not serve you. I will not serve men who dress up in masks like it’s Halloween. I swear to you that you will pay for this. Do you know who I am? I will have you all killed!”

  Mr. Vault looked at Mr. Steel, who shrugged his shoulders. “Mortimer,” Mr. Vault said calmly. “Kill him.”

  Mortimer drew his Colt Peacemaker and put the cold metal barrel to Morris’ head. Morris squinted his eyes. Mortimer pulled back the hammer and …

  “Stop this instant!” a new voice shouted. Another robed man slowly walked through the door. His hood was down. Silvery hair crowned the mask of a striking serpent. Leather straps buckled the golden disguise behind his head. “You will not kill him.” Mr. Black took position in front of the bound man and looked him up and down. Mortimer kept his gun squarely pressed into the man’s temple. “I’m afraid I will require his services first.”

  PART II

  Poisoners & Predators

  Wage W. Pascal

  January 13, 1915

  Eden’s Spirits

  Manhattan, New York

  Wage clicked open his pocket watch. It was a silver piece engraved with crossed sabers on the outside and seven lucky horseshoes on the inside—the symbols of his late father’s old cavalry unit. Symbols adopted by General Custer himself for the 7th Cavalry. “Two o’clock,” Wage muttered to himself. Colonel Roosevelt’s briefing began in a half hour. “Time for a drink.”

  He closed the watch and signaled the bartender. The bartender nodded. “My usual,” called Wage. The bartender reached for an unmarked bottle of bourbon and a tumbler glass.

  Eden’s Spirits was not exactly a hole-in-the-wall, but it wasn’t exactly a grand banquet, either. It occupied the first floor of a four-story sandstone building. The other floors provided housing for white-collared up-and-comers. Single men, mostly, who swirled pens instead of turning wrenches. Men that, in a few more hours, would litter Eden’s Spirits, seeking comfort within the ferns and colorful orchids that rested within numerous Wardian cases around the rectangular space. There was even a large cast-iron aquarium to one side of the long cedar bar filled with goldfish, barbs, and minnows swimming around swaying plants. The tables and chairs that surrounded the bar were also cedar and pockmarked by years of patrons slamming down their glasses. Six artificial tree trunks acted as pillars, holding up the floor above, making it seem as though trees grew through the ceiling and stretched to the roof.

  The bartender, a small, mousy man with glasses who everyone called Friar, placed the bottle of bourbon and accompanying glass on Wage’s table. “I’ll put in your tab, sir,” he whispered.

  “Merci,” Wage replied as he uncorked the bottle and poured two fingers of the brown nectar into his glass. He sipped his drink, swirling it in his mouth until the sting turned sweet, then swallowing. The calming effect allowed his thoughts to flow more freely. The first thought that raced across his mind was Roosevelt’s announcement that The Hand was no more, and all the activity they had recently been seeing was, in fact, Hand subsidiaries jockeying to fill the vacuum The Council’s death had left behind.

  He leaned back in his chair and sipped more. His next thought was of his recently botched mission with Mink. He had already given the colonel his initial debriefing of the incident at Morris Randolph’s home. The colonel was not pleased. A few more sips of bourbon, however, and even the memory of the resulting tongue-lashing he had received from the colonel seemed to evaporate into the humid, smoky air of Eden’s Spirits.

  He felt a slight breeze as someone came through the front door, but one of the tree pillars partially blocked his view of the beautiful woman who entered. Every patron ceased his drunken gab, all looking at her as she slipped off her long leather gloves one at a time by first biting down on each forefinger. She gracefully made her way to a table where three wrench-turners sat, sharing a bottle of peppermint schnapps. She smiled coyly, grabbed the half-full bottle and one of their empty glasses. Strangely, not one of them protested. With every eye still on her, she casually made her way toward Wage’s table near the far wall. Wage could see that a black beret hid most of her dark hair and accented her eyes that, at the moment, looked like freshly lit pieces of coal. Red fox fur trimmed her black topcoat, which ended midway down her laced boots. Boots that she now, standing next to his table, tapped somewhat impatiently.

  “Well, are you just gonna sit there? Or are you gonna pull a chair out for me?” Estella asked natural, high-pitched voice.

  “Pull your own goddamn chair,” Wage replied, staring into his glass.

  Estella sighed. She put down the bottle and glass and untied her coat, revealing a layered white dress with the newly fashionable slim waist. She draped her coat over the chair back, pulled it out, and sat down. Then, she removed her beret and shook out her dark hair from the bun it had been tied in. Wage cleared his throat and swallowed the rest of his bourbon. Estella poured her own schnapps into the pilfered glass. She leaned back, crossed her legs, and took a sip. “How are your balls, Wage?” she asked, smirking.

  “Fine, thank you.” Wage pulled Ol ’Snapper from his holster and aimed at her discretely under the table. “How are yours?”

  She smiled and downed the rest of her drink. She poured another. “That’s hardly necessary.”

  “I think I’ll be the judge of that, thanks.”

  “Honestly, Wage. If I wanted you dead ...” Her words trailed off as she sipped her schnapps, savoring the peppermint taste with a rolling tongue.

  “What’d you do with Morris Randol
ph?”

  “Ugh, do we really have to talk about business right now?”

  “All right, then. How’d you find me?”

  Estella laughed. She put her hands to her cheeks in a naïve gesture. “Now, wherever would I find a drunkard at midday?” Her voice changed to sultry. “I knew it would only be a matter of time before I picked the right bar. And voila. Here you are.”

  “Well ain’t I the lucky one.”

  “Yes. Yes, you are.”

  “So, tell me why you’re here?”

  “I told you, Wage. I like you.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “And you still haven’t bought me flowers. Remember?” Her voice became serious. “When I put a blade through the man who killed your friend?”

  Wage clenched his jaw. He holstered his revolver, stood up, and made his way to the bar. He flung open the top of a smaller Wardian case and grabbed a white orchid within by its stem, heaving it out. The glass case fell to the ground and shattered. “Hey!” Friar shouted.

  “Put it on my tab,” Wage muttered. He made his way back to the table, threw the exotic flower down in front of her, and once again took his seat. “Satisfied?” he asked, scowling.

  “Do you really think you could satisfy me, Major?” She grabbed the flower delicately, shortened it with a sharp thumbnail, and tucked the soft white flower, with veins of violet and pink, behind her ear.

  Wage filled his tumbler again. This time, with three fingers of bourbon. He took a gracious sip. “Where’d you take Morris Randolph?” he asked again.

  Estella rolled her dark eyes. “To my employers.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “For now,” she said nonchalantly, shrugging.

  “Who are your employers?”

  “Who are yours?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “The Peacemakers,” Estella said with a mocking laugh. “Is that really what you call yourselves?”

  “I’m getting tired of this game, Estella. Tell me who you and your brother work for,” Wage demanded. “The three masked men—I wanna know who they are.”

  “I’m afraid if I told you, I would actually have to kill you.”

  “Why not just kill me, then? Right now? Huh?” Wage leaned back and opened his arms.

  “I told you. I like you. And ...” She twirled her hair and said sweetly, “I promised my brother I’d let him kill you. Remember?”

  “You have a lot of nerve and no soul, woman,” Wage said.

  “Not true,” she sang. “My brother has no soul. Honestly, I really would watch out for him, Wage. He means to kill you.”

  “Yeah, well. There’s a line.”

  “My brother doesn’t care much for lines,” Estella said.

  “What the hell do you want, Estella?” Wage yelled.

  “Not one for courting, are you?” She sighed. “Very well.” She reached down the front of her dress and withdrew a brass key. She placed it on the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a key.”

  “Yes, I can see it’s a key. What the hell does it unlock?”

  Estella put her hand over her heart. “My room at the Waldorf. 212.”

  Wage looked at the key. Then to Estella. Then to the key again.

  “Believe me when I tell you, your time is limited,” she said. “Severely limited, I would wager.” She whispered, “Why not live for the moment? I’ll be waiting.” She winked.

  “Excuse me, sir,” interrupted the stout wrench-turner, who now loomed over the both of them. “But your dame here stole our schnapps. And we would appreciate it if we could have it back.”

  Estella smiled coyly again.

  Wage took a moment to answer. “Well, friend, I suggest you take it up with her yourself.” Wage smiled back at Estella, whose eyes turned sinister.

  The wrench-turner grunted. He adjusted his knit cap, emphatically placed his palm on the table, and leaned over her. “Well, miss. Can we have our schnapps back? Or will my friends and I have to—”

  The wrench-turned never finished his sentence because Estella produced a long knife from her boot and, with lighting speed, stabbed the man through the hand. She buried the knife through flesh and bone and deep into the soft cedar below, effectively pinning him. The wrench-turner screamed and grabbed his wrist. Everyone else stared in shock.

  Estella stood calmly. She spun around her chair, and in a single motion, donned her coat. The wrench-turner breathed heavily, trying to find a painless way to remove the blade that skewered him. Estella put her beret back on, this time leaving her hair down, trapping the orchid that rested behind her ear. She leaned over Wage and breathed on his upper lip with a scent of sweet peppermint. Then she snatched the same lip with a kiss. She said nothing more, taking her leave as seductively as she had entered. Wage finally stood. The wrench-turner swore as he suddenly realized there was no painless way out of his predicament.

  “Put their drinks on my tab,” Wage yelled to the cowering Friar.

  He grabbed the key from the table and took his leave.

  The Peacemakers

  January 13, 1915

  Gartrell Taxidermy

  Manhattan, New York

  “Where the hell is Major Pascal?” Colonel Roosevelt barked as he looked around the briefing room. Mink sat at the black bear table with a scowl on her face. Next to her, Amber Rose smoked a cigarette. She flicked the ash into an empty ammunition box on the ground. Tesla sat at the dilapidated table, eyes closed, concocting and solving equations in his head. Calculating the metric volume of all the completed animals had become his favorite way to pass the time in Quincey’s taxidermy workshop.

  “I’ll ask again. Where the hell is Major Pascal?”

  “Right here,” Wage yelled, walking in from the showroom entrance. He tipped his slouch hat to the rest of the team before taking a seat next to Tesla at the dilapidated table. Tesla opened his eyes and smiled awkwardly.

  “What’s a matter, Wage?” Mink asked. “Eden’s run out of bourbon again?”

  “Actually, I …” Wage stammered.

  “Found leads on the disappeance of Morris Randolph, I hope,” Roosevelt interrupted.

  “Nothing yet. Still working on it, sir,” Wage replied. “How about you, Mink? Did you discover anything?” Wage thumbed the hotel key in the pocket of his leather coat.

  “No, Wage. I am too busy consoling my sister about the disappearance of her fiancé.”

  Wage cleared his throat. “Does she suspect our involvement?”

  “She suspects your involvement, yes. And I am not sure I can convince her otherwise.”

  “All right, you two,” the colonel barked. “We haven’t the time for bickering. Now listen up, because time is of the essence. Simon and Dom reported in. They have found a lead on E.J. Delacroix.”

  “How’d they find him?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Sulphur, apparently,” the colonel replied. “Turns out plenty of rail yard workers remember smelling the shipment. And that shipment is tied to Delacroix.”

  “What about this Mr. Lou character?” Wage asked.

  “Turns out Mr. Lou is dead. At least that’s what Simon believes,” the colonel replied.

  “Is Simon OK?” Amber Rose asked.

  “He and Dom are fine, my dear. Just fine. Although they had a run-in with Templars.

  “Templars!” Amber Rose exclaimed.

  “Templars?” Wage repeated.

  “Yes, Major,” Roosevelt said sternly. “The same ones outlined in the Black Book, which you all were supposed to have read.”

  “Right. Black Book. Yeah,” Wage replied.

  “They were sanctioned in the 12th century,” Roosevelt continued. “Charged with protecting pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land during the Crusades.”

  “Wait,” Wage said. “Why are they still around, again?”

  “Like the Black Book details, Major, Templars found hordes of undiscovered wealth in the Holy Land. Enough wealth that they were able to develop what
would become our modern banking system and build strongholds across the Mediterranean and Middle East. However, as the Crusades subsided, their thirst for wealth and power did not. Pope Clement V eventually had most of them disposed of in the 14th century. The surviving members continued their order. They are more or less a guild of treasure-hunters now. I can’t prove it yet, but I believe they have heavy roles in the American finance industry, too.”

  “So, what were our treasure-hunters doin’ in Mr. Lou’s neck of the woods?” Mink asked.

  “Mr. Lou was a man who could get things. The Templars most likely required his services. For what? I have no idea. But there isn’t time or manpower to investigate them right now. It will have to wait.” Roosevelt withdrew a folded parchment from his back pocket. He handed it to Wage. “Major, you are to head down to Cincinnati. Simon and Dom are headed there now.”

  “What’s the mission, sir?” Wage asked.

  “We were able to track the sulfur shipments to a warehouse along the Ohio River. You will leave tonight, rendezvous with Simon and Dom there, and infiltrate the premises. I want to know what Delacroix wants with that sulfur. And this means I need people alive, Major.”

  Amber Rose looked to Tesla. “What can folks do with sulfur?” she asked.

  “It is used in the manufacturing of gunpowder, rubber, insecticides, and sometimes wine,” he answered.

  “Let’s hope for wine,” Wage added. Mink rolled her eyes. “So, boss,” Wage continued, “What about Delacroix? Will we nab him there?”

  “No,” the colonel responded. “Simon’s last report said that Delacroix did not go with the shipment.”

  “Where is he, then?” Mink asked.

  “Glad you asked. He’s on his own private train bound for Pittsburgh. It left last night from Cheyenne, Wyoming. Should be arriving in three days if the log books are correct. He’s got enough coal to make the journey without stopping. I am in contact with every signalman between there and Pittsburg. We’ll know his every move.”