The ship’s speed created a headwind that blew the tobacco smoke toward him. Quincey recognized his advantageous position upwind and undetected. He waited for his opportunity to move forward into range before firing on both men. One deckhand had his back to Quincey while the other faced him. The man facing him momentarily dug into his front pocket for something, and Quincey took that opportunity to scurry forward. With his knees bent, he moved down the lane, all the while keeping his barrel level and fixed on the sailor who finally withdrew a metal flask from his pocket. As the unsuspecting man unscrewed the top, he suddenly noticed Quincey’s rapidly approaching. The thirsty sailor barely had time to react as a bolt of lightning shot across the deck, hitting the flask he held and traveling the path of least resistance into his arms, down his torso, through his legs, and into his boots with wood and rubber soles. With thousands of volts of electricity coursing through his body, the sailor’s muscles tensed so violently and so quickly that it effectively launched him over the railing and into the dark Mississippi. All he left behind was a solitary boot, its rubber heel melted to the deck.
The smoking sailor turned in horror to see Quincey, now crouched, wearing all black with black stripes painted on his face like a tiger. Quincey had used the ashes of burnt birch wood to make a camouflage that would keep his pale face and high cheek bones from reflecting light. The smoking sailor started to shout, “What the—”
Quincey pulled the trigger again. A vein of blue streaked across the deck and hit the man in the chest, charring his button-up shirt and throwing him violently against the railing. The sailor collapsed to the deck along with his lit cigarette.
Quincey, like the rest of the Peacemakers, was told to use lethal force only in dire, defensive situations. So he moved quickly. First, he grabbed the life ring hanging from the nearby bulkhead and heaved it into the river, aiming for the man who had fallen. Then, he grabbed a leather cord hanging from his belt, and with a practiced efficiency, expertly hog-tied the young sailor, binding his wrists and ankles. Quincey stood, reveled in his accomplishment, and stamped out the lit cigarette.
“Oh,” Quincey murmured. “I almost forgot.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a long strip of cloth. “Don’t want you giving me away,” he whispered to the unconscious man as he tied the silencing cloth about the man’s mouth. After finishing, Quincey noticed the flask the first sailor had dropped. “Hello there,” Quincey said, picking up the hot flask and taking a swig of the electrically warmed rum.
The nearby hatch began to open wider. Quincey dropped the flask and moved to hide behind the opening metal door as it swung outward. Three men in dungaree pants and plain white undershirts poured out, throwing open the hatch so that it nearly crushed Quincey behind it. One of the men yelled, “Eddie!” All three men rushed toward their downed comrade. Quincey nudged the hatch forward and acquired three targets—two kneeling and one standing. He pulled Ellie May’s trigger three times. Three men subsequently fell to the deck. One’s undershirt actually caught fire briefly, while smoke subtly rose from the other two’s bodies due to singed cotton fibers and body hair. “I’m definitely getting the hang of this,” Quincey said, letting his sparker drop to his side by its strap and withdrawing three leather cords from his belt.
After binding and gagging the other three men, Quincey pressed on with a predatory grin and a feeling of indestructability. It took only a few minutes to sweep the remainder of the deck, and he found no other sailors lingering about. Careful to avoid the view of the pilot house, Quincey signaled to Mink with a tiny mirror. Then he saw the unmistakable silhouette of his fiancée carefully moving forward, darting between shadows and bulky shipboard fixtures. Quincey made his way back to his infiltration point, where he nearly ran into Simon. “You’re up, detective,” he said, pointing aft. Simon nodded and scurried down the nearest ladder well to the staterooms. Quincey finally looked up and spotted a sliver of Amber Rose crouching behind a network of pipes on the deck above him. And with a cooing pigeon call, he signaled to her to make for the pilot house.
Amber Rose
April 4, 1915
Top Deck of Charon’s Wake
South of Memphis, Tennessee
Quincey gave her the signal. Her path to the wheelhouse was clear. She took a deep breath. “You are a Peacemaker, Amber Rose. You. Are,” she licked her lips, “A goddamn Peacemaker.” She stood up and strode toward the small shed-sized structure where the pilot steered the ship. Through the windows that surrounded the entire building, Amber Rose could see only darkness, save for the occasional glint of moonlight off polished wood and brass. Whoever piloted this vessel was no doubt concentrating on the meandering river ahead of him and wouldn’t see her coming. Even though she wanted to waltz right into the bridge and throw the meanest, dirtiest right hook at the captain’s jaw, then hog-tie the bastard the way Quincey had taught her to, she decided to stick to the prescribed plan.
She pulled the sparker from her holster and slowly pushed down the latch to the wheelhouse door. It sprung open with only the slightest creak. When the door opened enough, she hustled inside, walking softly and keeping her knees bent for balance. It took only a few steps before the shadow of a man steering the large wooden wheel was in the effective range of her sparker. The captain pulled down a lever that rang a bell above him, probably signaling a decrease in power. Amber Rose paid it no attention as she pulled the trigger of her sparker, unleashing a bolt of electricity that struck the pilot. He flailed like a kite in a thunderstorm. The old bearded captain let go of the wheel and fell to the planked floor with a thud.
Amber Rose took another deep breath and recited her mantra to remain calm. “You are a Peacemaker, Amber Ro—”
A hand flew at her from the darkness, knocking the sparker out of her hand and across the deck. Another hand materialized and chopped at her throat. Amber Rose tucked her chin instinctively, but the blow caught her in the nose, making her eyes water and forcing her backward.
Amber Rose remained on her feet and blinked through the tears while taking a boxer’s stance. She could feel blood trickle from her nose. In front of her stood an Asian woman as tall as Amber Rose and wearing a slim-fitting dark dress with brocaded waterlilies of gold scaling up her left side. Jade-topped metal sticks locked her black hair upright. The high-rising slit in her dress allowed her to take an unorthodox stance, kicking one leg back, half crouching, and moving her arms in a fluid, snake-like motion. Something sharp looked welded to her left forefinger.
Amber Rose moved her dominant fist in a small circle and adjusted her balance. “Who the hell are you, lady?” she asked.
The Asian beauty said nothing and maintained her poise.
“I suggest you get outta my way,” Amber Rose demanded. “Or we’re gonna have a serious problem.”
The Asian women cracked a faint smile.
Amber Rose’s eyes darted quickly to her sparker across the deck. The momentarily lapse in concentration gave her opponent the chance to strike. A flurry of blows came at Amber Rose, but she avoided them by taking repeated steps back. “I’m warning you, now!” she yelled. That’s when her opponent spun and unleashed a kick that caught Amber Rose in the midsection and launched her against an aft window, cracking it. The Asian woman, with all fingers outstretched, thrust her needled finger at Amber Rose's neck. Amber Rose fell forward, but even off-balance and out of breath, she was able to defend herself and redirect the blow.
It was now Amber Rose’s turn to counter-attack. With as much energy as she could muster, she threw her fists at her attacker’s face. Each fist caught nothing but air as the Asian woman bobbed her head repeatedly. “Goddamit!” Amber Rose yelled after throwing a haymaker with such force that, when she missed, sent her toppling to the ground. She quickly spun to her back to see the Asian woman circling her, waiting to deliver a final blow. Amber Rose remembered Monomi Mono, Edison’s assassin, rolling around his workshop, striking the heavy bag in upward and unpredictable ways.
That’s what she needed now. Unpredictability.
So as her attacker took a cautious step forward, Amber Rose somersaulted forward, swinging her lean legs and forcing her opponent backward. As Amber Rose completed the roll, she sprung up and kneed the other woman in the midsection, which drove her backward against the bulkhead railing. “How’d you like that one!” Amber Rose exclaimed.
The Asian woman shrugged it off and reached for her hair sticks. As Amber Rose tried to recover her breath, her attacker smoothly removed each one, letting her silky hair fall below her shoulders. Then with careful aim she threw both sticks at Amber Rose. The metal hair sticks were sharper than Amber Rose had anticipated, as one hit the ship’s wheel behind her and the other buried itself in the meat of her shoulder.
Amber Rose recoiled. She grunted at the pain but managed to spot the drawing compass sitting atop the map next the ship’s wheel. She rushed to the sharp navigational instrument, stepping hard on the waking captain as she did. When she grabbed the device, she hurled it in her opponent’s direction. It awkwardly flew end-over-end toward the Asian woman’s center of mass, but with a viper-like grace, the woman avoided the instrument entirely.
“Ahhhh!” Amber Rose yelled in frustration. In moment of pure, unadulterated rage, she reached up and snagged the bell mounted atop the ceiling and ripped it off its brace, pulling off the once-taught strings connected to it. The brass bell, about the size of a man’s boxing glove, became an impromptu bludgeon as Amber Rose ran toward her opponent, swinging the age-old sailor’s signal. The Asian beauty parried every blow with her serpentine forearms, each blow causing her to wince in pain and the bell to ring.
“Ahhhh!” Amber Rose screamed again as her adversary struck the inside of her forearm and made a grab for the bell, twisting it in such a way that it came loose from her hand. The bell dropped to the ground, and the Asian woman shot her left hand toward Amber Rose’s throat. Miraculously, Amber Rose caught the woman’s wrist with both hands, once again preventing the needled forefinger from plunging into her neck.
Be unpredictable, Amber Rose thought as she strained her muscles. She pushed the Asian woman’s hand to the side, causing the needled forefinger to race past her. At the same time, Amber Rose brought up her elbow to meet the woman’s nose.
As her adversary fell to the ground, Amber Rose began kicking at and stomping on her. The Asian woman, however, rolled like someone was wrapping her up in an invisible rug and was able to avoid the attack. With an uncanny grace, the Asian beauty jumped to her feet. Amber Rose threw another punch, which was easily evaded. The woman used an open palm to hammer her hair stick deeper into Amber Rose’s shoulder. Amber Rose screamed, and as she did, the other woman’s hand reached around and grabbed her ponytail.
The pain was excruciating. The nerve endings on Amber Rose’s scalp flared as her attacker dragged her back toward the ship’s wheel. “Let go of me!” Amber Rose screamed. The Asian woman stumbled as the paddle steamer hit an outcropping of rocks on its port side, jarring the ship and puncturing the hull, by the sound of it. The Asian woman strung Amber Rose’s ponytail through the spokes of the ship’s wheel and around the hub. Then, she spun the wheel starboard, the opposite side of the rocky bank they had just sideswiped. Amber Rose’s hair got snagged around the bearing that met the wheel’s hub, effectively sucking her in and bringing her to the ground.
Amber Rose sat painfully tethered to the ship’s wheel trying unsuccessfully to free herself from the agonizing entanglement.
Whatever cloud had obstructed the moonlight must have passed, because now the entire wheelhouse was bathed in an ethereal blue-white glow. Amber Rose’s crafty opponent stood over her, seeming taller than ever. Amber Rose swung her fists and kicked her legs, but every movement caused the nerves on her scalp to howl with pain.
The Asian beauty reached within her dress and pulled out a small silver compact. She flipped it open and dabbed her needled finger into it. When she withdrew the needle, it was coated in something dark. She snapped the compact shut and threw it across the wheelhouse. “Now,” she said softly, “It is time you die.” The Asian woman grabbed Amber Rose’s throat and squeezed. Amber Rose grasped at the hand that choked her, but as she did she saw the dark stained needle headed for her throat.
Mink Callahan
April 4, 1915
The Bow of Charon’s Wake
South of Memphis, Tennessee
“What the hell is going on up there?” Mink whispered to herself, watching the wheelhouse through the dovetail sight of her Springfield rifle. The clouded moonlight made it clear that there was a struggle between Amber Rose and someone else.
Mink constantly adjusted her aim as the ship swayed up and down on the river. “Come on. Come on,” Mink repeated to herself.
That’s when the ship struck something. Mink tumbled to the side, nearly discharging her rifle. “Shit,” she yelled as she scrambled back to her feet. She once again fixed her rifle on the wheelhouse. “Come on, come on.”
The lingering cloud in the night sky finally passed by, and the wheelhouse’s interior was now completely visible. Mink saw someone with long flowing hair hovering over the wooden tips of the ship’s wheel. Whoever it was raised an arm to strike. Mink balanced her rifle carefully. “Come on,” she repeated before she pulled the trigger, sending a bullet careening through the wheelhouse window.
Amber Rose
April 4, 1915
Wheelhouse of Charon’s Wake
South of Memphis, Tennessee
Amber Rose strained to turn her neck and avoid the plunging needle. That’s when she heard the sound of glass cracking, followed by the Asian woman’s head being thrust backward. Her attacker seemed, for a moment, unnaturally suspended upright by strings, like a marionette. But then something cut all her string at once, and she collapsed clumsily to the floor.
Amber Rose took a few deep breaths. “Calm yourself, Amber Rose. Calm yourself, dammit,” she repeated as her dead adversary’s eyes stared up at her. The bridge of the woman’s nose was now a dark crater with a cascade of blood flowing onto the whitewashed planks below.
Amber Rose tried to dislodge herself from the ship’s wheel by spinning it in the opposite direction, but to no avail. Finally, she withdrew the hair pin stuck in her shoulder, wincing as she did so. As it turned out, the pin had a small knife edge to it. Amber Rose gritted her teeth, reached behind and began sawing at her snagged ponytail.
Simon Hum
April 4, 1915
Aft Staterooms of Charon’s Wake
South of Memphis, Tennessee
A small passageway of oiled wood and dimly lit gilded fixtures led to what Simon assumed was the ship’s two staterooms to his left. Light wouldn’t penetrate either watertight door, so Simon was going to have to put his ear to both to determine if someone was stirring inside. Listening to the first door, he heard nothing. Just the faint hum of the engine gently vibrating the ship’s interior. Simon pushed down on the door’s latch and opened the door quietly. Ambient light revealed an empty stateroom. Simon stepped inside, taking note of the perfectly made bed. He checked the pillow and detected a faint layer of dust upon it. No one has slept in this bed in a while. He peeked into the small closet. No personal effects.
Simon made his way to the shared wall between the two staterooms and put his ear to it. He could hear someone clear his throat in the next room. “Gotcha,” Simon said quietly.
Simon’s sparker deployed from the underside of his wonderarm as he continued to listen to the next room, trying to determine if there were any more occupants. After concluding the room had a solitary resident, he moved back into the passageway. Simon positioned himself to one side of the door and gently pushed down on the latch far enough to realize it was locked. He grabbed the latch with his wonderarm, took a deep breath, and pushed forward. The wooden door snapped under the pressure, cracking the frame and springing the door open.
“Don’t move!” Simon yelled, pointing his wonderarm and sp
arker at the seated figure hidden behind a tall newspaper, his embroidered slippers resting on a plush ottoman. Simon’s keen powers of observation saw the date of the paper was more than a week old, the articles describing the air combat in Europe and covering the International Congress of Women meeting in The Hague. He also saw a straw boater sitting on the nearby side table.
Strangely, the man clad in blue silk pajamas and reading the newspaper made no sudden movement; he simply continued to wiggle his lamb’s wool-clad feet.
Simon cleared his throat. “Please put down the paper, sir.”
An airy, annoyingly high-pitched voice responded from behind the paper. “And why, pray tell, would I do that?”
Simon answered matter-of-factly, “Because I have an incapacitation device aimed directly at you, Mr. Delacroix.”
“An incapacitation device, you say? Well, that sounds downright dreadful.” A corner of the stiff paper drooped slightly as E.J. Delacroix’s right hand fumbled about himself.
“Hands where I can see them, please!” Simon yelled.
“Hold your horses,” Delacroix replied with a voice that suggested he had put something in his mouth. There was a small click. That something turned out to be a cigarette; as a plume of smoke rose from behind the paper. Delacroix kept his hand at his side. “Tell me, now, would you happen to be one of those Peacemaker fellas?”
Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2) Page 23