Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “She doesn’t look dangerous,” Mr. Black sneered.

  The Asian flower delicately withdrew one of the pins holding up her hair, revealing exactly what Mortimer had suspected—a one-piece sleek stiletto knife.

  Mr. Black’s words echoed within his golden snake mask. “Oh, excuse me. A sewing needle and a bobby pin. Well, you have definitely addressed my reservations. You imbecile.”

  With an almost imperceptible flick of her wrist, the knife flew end over end, slicing the cherry of Delacroix’s cigarette clean off. But before the glowing ember could even fall to the deck, she loosed the other knife from her hair and held in to Mortimer’s neck. When the event actually registered with Mortimer, he chuckled, forcing his own lit cigarette to bounce between his lips.

  Mr. Steel laughed heartily, while Mr. Black and Mr. Vault both looked stunned with wide eyes waxing within the sockets of their masks. Mr. Black noticed a small trickle of blood running down Mortimer’s pale neck.

  “Quite deadly, indeed,” Delacroix reassured them. “Now, where were we?”

  Mr. Vault cleared his throat. “Hmm, yes. We are pleased to know the shipment is slightly ahead of schedule. It appears the Germans are advancing on the Western Front. If they were to break through without our machines, then they would have cause to renege on our deal, or at the very least demand a lower price, seeing as how we are practically bankrupting their defense ministry.”

  “Mr. Vault,” Delacroix said, lighting the remainder of his cigarette. “I am certain a man such as yourself has already planned for such a situation.”

  “I’ve been smuggling arms to the British, who are reinforcing their lines as we speak,” Mr. Vault replied.

  “Smuggling? By what means?” Delacroix asked.

  “A British passenger ship. The Lusitania.”

  “You are not afraid of German U-boats?” Delacroix inquired.

  “We have an arrangement,” Mr. Vault said.

  “For now,” Delacroix replied. “I Wouldn’t trust those krauts if you paid me.”

  “You don’t have to trust them, Eric. Just me. Because we are the ones paying you. And the Triumvirate would like more reassurance on our investment.” Mr. Vault looked down at the rows of quiet sentinels. “The Illuminati’s machines didn’t come cheap.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what was the final price tag?” Delacroix asked.

  “The money itself was of no importance. My pocket change has the ability to inflate most economies. No, no. They wanted autonomy.”

  “Autonomy?”

  "In our New World Order, yes. They will have the freedom, the independence to operate beyond the Triumvirate’s reign. Beyond any government regulation or moral authority. An oligarchical state of scientists with no boundaries and near-limitless funding. That’s all they’ve ever desired. And we are their only chance at creating it.” Mr. Vault looked back to Delacroix. “Mortimer will accompany you to New Orleans.”

  “Not necessary—” Delacroix began.

  “I’m not asking you, Eric,” Mr. Vault interrupted. “Mortimer!”

  “Sir?”

  “She may protect him,” Mr. Vault pointed to the Asian woman. “But you will protect our investment. These … Peacemakers. I don’t want them causing any more trouble.”

  “With pleasure, sir,” Mortimer replied. His eyes darted to the Asian flower. “Would you mind removing the knife from my throat?”

  August P. Nash

  April 1, 1915

  Above the Ohio River

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  August Phillip Nash sat atop the hill overlooking the river. From his seat within the cluster of elm trees, he had a clear view of the covered pier that sat off the river like an oversized can of sardines. For two months, he had forwent his studies and made his way here every morning. It was a great deal, really. The 12 year-old Auggie hadn’t much cared for school, especially the grammar lessons imparted on him by the rigid Mrs. Sweeny—affectionately called Meany Sweeny by Auggie and all of his friends. What good would grammar do him anyway, when he would just end up at the steel mill like the rest of the men in his family? So when a well-dressed man with an odd accent named Simon offered him $42 upfront to keep an eye on the sardine pier and send a telegram the minute the ship within it got underway, Auggie had happily obliged.

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a worn nickel. He contemplated using it to buy a bigger lunch at the general store, but he needed it to send a priority telegram to a taxidermy shop in New York announcing not only the ship’s departure, but also the direction it was headed. And when Auggie successfully completed the task, the man named Simon, who claimed be a detective, would wire him another $48 for his troubles. Auggie held the nickel in his palm, pretending his entire arm was metal like the detective’s. A sleek metal arm with a gauntlet-like hand and fingers. Auggie had seen plenty of lost hands and arms growing up in a steelworker’s town, but all those men had replacement hooks, not hands. And certainly not hands with fingers that could curl and uncurl as Simon’s did. Auggie did his best to mimic the whizzes and whines of Simon’s arm as he stiffly deposited the nickel back into his pocket.

  After a eight weeks of daily spying, Auggie had memorized the routine of the place. Knuckle-dragging sailors arrived bright and early for work, lugging heavy bags of tools, and leaving at precisely noon for a one-hour lunch before returning and working late into the evening. Auggie knew they were working because he could faintly hear the sound of hammer hitting steel inside. Not iron, but crisp, Carnegie steel. Everyone in this town could hear the difference.

  Thanks to the gift of Simon’s binoculars, which Auggie kept around his neck at all times save for his own dinner table, he could also see some of the non-sailor folk arriving and departing. Through his new lenses, he could see the magnified image of a dainty, Oriental woman leaving, and sometimes walking the shoreline with floral umbrella popped. Her hair was jet-black, always done up, and even through the binoculars, Auggie could see meticulously applied makeup. There was also another man that, from time to time, would stroll with her along the riverbanks. The man was thin, wore the same boater hat every day and strolled just as daintily as his companion.

  For the past few days, however, flatbed trucks hauling massive crates cycled in and out of the covered pier that looked more like an enormous warehouse on the riverbank. A truck would pull alongside the sliding doors to the sardine can, the driver would get out and perform a specific knock, at which point the giant doors would open to allow the truck to enter. Roughly an hour later, the same truck would reappear from the covered pier and make its way north. There was also an automobile, shiny and fancier than any Auggie had ever seen, that arrived a day ago. Just before supper time. It was difficult to tell how many people were in it, but it entered the covered pier the same as the trucks, and after an hour, it sped away north as well.

  Today, though, Auggie was bored. Fewer workmen had shown up, and he hadn’t seen any new flatbed trucks. Just a lone automobile driven by someone new. Auggie observed the gentleman as he got out to knock on the sardine can’s door. The man was not as wide or gruff as a sailor, nor as effeminate as the man in the boater or his Oriental lady. Just a man in a black bowler with a purposeful stride.

  Auggie stretched out for a nap after an unfulfilling lunch of bread, jerky, and his mother’s seasoned pickles. He laid down like a corpse with his arms crossed over his binoculars and closed his eyes to enjoy the warmest day of spring day yet.

  A great horn blast woke him up. Auggie rubbed his eyes and moved to the nearest tree for balance. He didn’t need his binoculars; he could see as plain as day the luxury paddle steamer exiting its covered berth, angling south down the Ohio River. It looked quite similar to Carnegie’s own luxury steamer, which Mr. Carnegie would pilot himself from time to time, only the color was off. It wasn’t a vibrant white, but a battleship gray. The paddle was different, too. Not the classic red-painted wooden slats, but dull gray ones with some kind of reinforc
ed metal fins that dove into the water, propelling the ship almost soundlessly.

  The paddle steamer’s horn let out three short blasts, signifying its turn to port. Its new course gave Auggie a broadside view of the magnificent vessel as it churned through the water. It also displayed the vessel’s name in small block print on the aft hull. After focusing his binoculars on the black letters, Auggie read “Charon’s Wake.”

  Auggie checked his pocket watch. It was almost 7 p.m. He was late for dinner. He patted his pants to feel the nickel still there before running as fast as he could toward the nearest telegraph office.

  Peacemakers Incorporated

  April 1, 1915

  Gartrell Taxidermy

  Manhattan, New York

  “So, is he gonna show?” Quincey asked, lounging on the worn Victorian sofa in the back of the workshop.

  “Captain Pascal said he would be here,” Simon announced, attentively waiting by the open receiving door. “Have patience.”

  “He’s here,” Dominic yelled as he ran in from the alley. “He’s here!” Dom touched either side of his goggles as he walked into the workshop. The yellow lenses covering his eyes sprung upward, joining an array of other lenses that rested atop the goggles by thin metal arms. Clear eyepieces deep within the each socket remained covering his lidless eyes. A pair of blue lenses from the above array then fell through a prescribed slot back into the sockets, covering the clear eyepieces. In the early evening, Dom used his yellow lenses for better night vision. The darker blue lenses, however, made the vibrant electric lights from the workshop more tolerable for his lidless eyes.

  Captain Wage Pascal turned his motorcycle into the workshop and cut the engine. After dismounting, he covered his windswept dark hair with his slouch hat that he withdrew from inside his leather jacket. Wage took center stage in their improvised briefing room in front of the chalkboard on wheels, which still had the diagram of what Colonel Roosevelt had seen at Edison’s laboratory—a walking suit of armor twice the size of any man.

  Wage tipped his hat and smiled at everyone. “Good evening, all. Been awhile, I reckon.” Wage took in the sight of his team around him. All of them sported confused looks at first, save for Pani and Dom. Pani looked surprisingly wide-eyed and pleased, while Dom looked absolutely star-struck with arched eyebrows and an ear-to-ear grin. As Wage’s stare turned to Mink, though, he noticed her surprise turn to something else. Relief, perhaps. Wage tried not to give away his own joyous feelings upon seeing how much healthier Mink looked.

  “Where’s Nikki?” Wage asked.

  “He doesn’t like being called that,” Amber Rose and Mink said simultaneously from the black bear table they sat around.

  “I am back here,” Tesla called, waving a wrench as he popped up from behind a machine that looked like an industrial-sized printing press with one set of wires leading to the roof and another leading to a nearby bookshelf full of foot-long, newly invented, stainless steel cylinders. Wage waved back.

  “How are you, Captain Pascal? What’s the news?” Dom asked.

  “I’m good, Dom.” Wage said, staring at the thick metallic goggles cinched around Dom’s face with an oiled leather strap. “How are … you?”

  “Oh, the goggles,” Dom replied. “Mr. Tesla made them for me. I still don’t have any eyelids, but the inner-most lenses lock in moisture.” He tapped the frames of his goggles. The blue lenses lifted, revealing the clear eyepieces that magnified his caramel pupils to near the size of hazelnuts. “Watch this. This is for when I sleep.” Dom tapped his goggles again. A pair of pitch-black lenses fell into the socket. Dom smiled. “Neat, huh?” The black lenses lifted, once again replaced by the blue lenses. “I can even see close up!” Thin metal arms guided a pair of slightly convex lenses over the top of the goggles from the lens inventory above. Dom titled his head at Wage. “Whoa, Captain. Is that blood on your collar?”

  Wage checked his dingy shirt collar and confirmed the tiny spot of blood that he could barely see. “Cut myself shaving, Dom. Don’t worry about it.” Wage ran a hand along his smooth cheek.

  “Sorry, Captain.” Dom triggered his magnifiers to rise, leaving just his shaded blue lenses still in place.

  “No problem, Dom. I’m just glad to see you back on your feet. Now, I want everyone to listen up. The Peacemakers are once again a fully operational unit.”

  “I don’t get it,” Amber Rose said. “Our funding got cut. Colonel Roosevelt called off the whole thing. Suspended the entire initiative?”

  “That’s correct, Amber Rose. The government-funded Peacemakers Initiative is suspended, pending a thorough Congressional investigation. One spearheaded by my own brother, I might add.”

  Everyone but Pani looked perplexed.

  Wage, with a Colonel Roosevelt-like grace, withdrew a bundle of papers bound together with twine from his jacket. “This here, however, is our company charter,” he announced.

  “Company charter?” Simon asked, approaching Wage.

  Wage handed the papers to Simon, who immediately noticed the insignia. A red skull within a triangle of black revolvers. “That’s right,” Wage said. “Henceforth, we are Peacemakers Incorporated.”

  “Incorporated?” Amber Rose said. “Like a business?”

  “Precisely,” Wage replied.

  “But how are we funded?” Mink asked. “Where is the money coming from?”

  Simon perused the charter carefully. “Templars?”

  “That’s right,” Wage said. “I had the startup capital, but we needed funding long-term. So I decided to let the Templars handle my … our … investments.”

  “Investments? What investments, Wage?” Mink asked.

  “You gotta have money to make money, Mink. So … I …”

  “ … Signed over your trust fund?” Simon asked in surprise, still studying the documents.

  There was a collective gasp in the room.

  “You did what?” Mink asked.

  “I have been assured a more profitable and steady return by our new allies.”

  “The Templars?” Dom asked. “The same guys that damn near killed Simon and me down in Santa Fe?”

  “The very same ones,” Wage replied. “I got to readin’ that Black Book of ours …”

  There was another collective gasp.

  “Will you stop that? Honestly.” Wage composed himself. “Turns out their role in the financial industry of this country is true. Also turns out that they do frequent a hideaway in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.”

  “You found them?” Dom blurted out. “No way!”

  “I didn’t exactly find them. When you spend a few days ridin’ through their sacred ground, they tend to find you.”

  “So the Templars found you? Then what?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Well, all right, captured might be a better word,” Wage admitted. “But none the less, I was able to request a parley.”

  Yet another collective gasp.

  Wage pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I realize my method was a little unorthodox, but rest assured, my charm can free me of just as many predicaments as my trusty revolver. Now, as I was saying, I was able to converse with a Templar commander. A knight by the name of Sir … something or other, doesn’t matter, but he ultimately agreed to invest my small fortune—”

  “Small fortune?” Mink challenged.

  “Yes, Minerva,” Wage replied. Mink rolled her eyes and smirked. He continued, “The terms of our financial relationship, believe it or not, are surprisingly fair given the current market. They will provide us with steady flow of capital in exchange for standard servicing fees, a modest cut of all capital gains made off my investment, and um … you know, a small favor.”

  “A small favor,” Quincey said with a laugh. “What kind of a small favor?”

  “Well, the terms aren’t entirely specific, but—”

  Simon interrupted, again reading directly from the charter, “You are to acquire an artifact hereinafter known as
the Most Hallowed Relic within a period of 18 months of the date of signing or else forfeit all initial capital up to and including the entirety of the aforementioned trust. If the Most Hallowed Relic is not acquired within period of 13 months, then the investee mentioned above shall present himself in person for appropriate adjudication and subsequent administering of punishment based on terms previously agreed upon.” Simon scanned further. “Signed by one Captain Wage Winchester Pascal, Chief Executive Officer, Peacemakers Inc.”

  “What was the agreed-upon punishment, then?” Dom asked.

  “That’s not important right now, Dominic. The good news is, we’re back in business.”

  “They’re gonna kill you, aren’t they?” Mink asked.

  “No! Not if I deliver them that relic thing.”

  “That’s what the Templars were doing in Santa Fe,” Simon said. “Mr. Lou was a man who gets things. They wanted him to get the relic. But why not just get it themselves?”

  “Sounds about right,” Wage replied, ignoring the question.

  “What the hell is the Most Hallowed Relic? And where is it?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Like I said, they weren’t incredibly specific as to what the relic is, but they did mention a remote village in British Honduras. Look, I have plenty of time to worry about that later. But for now, I have something else in mind.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Dom asked.

  “I wanna get that bastard Delacroix,” Wage announced.

  “So we catch him. Talk to him. Then what?” Mink asked through gritted teeth.

  “I figured I’d let you decide, Mink, but seeing as we are a profit-seeking enterprise now, I am sure the government would pay a great deal of money to get their hands on such a criminal.”

  “So we’re bounty hunters now, too?” Dom asked.