“What’s your name?” Jake asked, trying to be friendly and ease the white knuckles the man had wrapped around a French-made revolver.
“Matthew. Matthew O’Malley. Outta Dublin.”
“Listen, Matthew.…” Jake got a thoughtful look on his face. “Hey, wait a minute. Do you know a Mickey O’Malley in Denver?”
“Aye! That’s one of me boys. Cora’s youngest.”
“So you’re based out of Denver?” Cole asked.
“No. I’m from Boston. Cora lives in Denver.”
Jake pushed his hat up towards the back of his head. “You live in Boston, but your wife lives in Denver?”
“One of them does,” O’Malley said easily.
“One of what?” Jake looked perplexed.
“One of me wives, o’ course.” O’Malley had a devilish grin on his face.
“How many wives do you have?” Cole managed around a gaping mouth.
“At last count, I had six wives, thirteen sons, and fourteen daughters, each one of them another part of me master plan.”
Jake and Cole looked at each other, their eyes filled with disbelief.
“And what master plan is that?” Jake asked.
“To someday have an Irishman rule the world. I’m putting the odds in me family’s favor.”
Jake thought about it and couldn’t find any flaws with the logic. Make enough O’Malleys and you could take over the world.
The faint sound of breaking glass, like someone dropping a Christmas tree ornament, floated out of the cargo hold, and then silence.
“Bear, you all right back there?” O’Malley said over his shoulder. “Talk to me, brother.”
The continued silence made everyone shift nervously.
“Listen, O’Malley, I think you’re getting the sense that something may not be all cream and peaches back there, and I’d have to agree with you if you said so. My partner here and me, this ain’t our first rodeo, and we’re on your side. Honest. We’d be happy to go in there and check things out or back your play if you wanna go first … however you wanna do it.”
Matthew’s eyes shifted slowly between Jake and Cole, narrowing as he sized them up. Jake could read the conflict and watched it settle slowly into uneasy trust. Jake knew what the steward was going to say before he drew a breath to speak.
“I’m gonna trust you, Mister. You go on ahead and I’ll be right behind ya. Any funny business and I won’t have any choice but to shoot you in the back. Understand?”
“Fair enough,” Jake agreed. “Just remember to point that thing someplace else if anybody starts shooting at us. Deal?”
O’Malley nodded and motioned with the revolver for Jake and Cole to move inside. “You can go ahead and pull them pistols if you like. I ain’t one to send a man into the lion’s den unarmed.”
“Much obliged,” Jake said and, stepping past Matthew, pulled the Officer’s Colt out in his right hand.
Stacks of crates, trunks, and suitcases towered to the left and right, fifteen feet high and secured with cargo netting. It made a tight corridor twenty feet long and wide enough for a skinny bridesmaid and her father if they were walking up the aisle in a chapel. Jake could see an open area beyond and the livestock stalls another forty feet past that. Now that he was in the hold, he could hear the open air rushing through wide-open doors. The steady hum of propellers filled the air. Jake paused and listened for a few seconds, but all he heard was the wind. He looked up to his left and right, noting the gap between the tops of the luggage and the ceiling was too narrow for a man to do much more than lay down in.
Jake pressed his back to the left side of the corridor and slid up towards the opening, straining his senses to pick up anything. The air in the hold grew even colder as he moved. He heard the steward shuffling behind Cole, but Indian-fighter that he was, Cole remained as quiet as a panther. As Jake neared the end of the aisle, he could see that one of the cargo hold doors had been slid aside, with nothing beyond but open sky and the occasional outline of a cloud.
Clamped to the floor in the open doorway, Jake spotted two curved, metal brackets set about thirty inches apart. Several coils of stout rope were anchored to steel braces that held in the luggage. He scanned forward toward where the animal stalls were and didn’t see anyone, so he crept up to the edge of the luggage and darted a glance around the corner, the Colt tracking wherever he looked. Along the far-left side of the hold stood a high stack of larger crates that looked like produce, clothing and other goods, and he could see a tall gap near the far side close to where the livestock was kept.
Bear stood about five feet to his left, up against the luggage, immobile as a statue. His back was turned to Jake, and his hand appeared to be frozen halfway towards the pistol at his hip. Jake looked close, and it looked like he was still breathing.
“Bear!” Jake whispered, but the man didn’t move a muscle. Jake slid back half a pace and glanced over his shoulder. “Cole, Matthew, I want y’all to stay here and stay low. Bear is just around the corner … standin’ there. He looks like he’s breathing, but he ain’t moving otherwise.”
“You got it, Jake,” Cole said and pulled the hammer back on his pistol.
“Matthew, how deep does the cargo go off to the left there?”
“About another forty feet … we’re standing near the port side of the ship.”
“Was that stuff packed tight, or is there room to walk around back there?”
“Damned if I know. Could go either way, knowing those cargo-handlers.”
“Great,” Jake grumbled. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Here we go.” Jake slid forward, keeping his back against the luggage and his eyes scanning every nook and cranny in the hold that could possibly hold a threat. As he passed behind Bear, he put his foot down and heard the distinct crunch of breaking glass. His gaze darted down, and he spotted shards of broken glass around Bear’s feet. It looked like a small glass cylinder had been dropped there. There were also a few traces of a grayish liquid on the floorboards. Jake took another look at Bear, and realization struck. “Cole,” he whispered over his right shoulder.
Cole peeked around the corner and stared at Jake.
Jake deliberately sucked in a long, drawn-out breath and made it obvious he was holding it, and then nodded. Cole got the message and did the same thing. About the time Cole’s cheeks puffed out, a glass vial about three inches long shattered between Jake’s feet. A second one shattered directly in front of Cole as Jake spotted a shadow moving up behind some crates.
He heard the wood creaking to his left before he saw anything, but it was enough to get him to turn his head. His gun naturally tracked towards the movement when Cole shouted, “Jake, lookout!”
Jake saw a stack of three-by-three foot crates in the corner coming down right on top of him. His left arm came up in a flash as he braced with his legs. The stack came down fast and hard, and Jake’s raised arm slammed into one of the crates. His metal forearm cracked two of the boards on impact, exposing dense rolls of canvas inside. The rest of the stack fell around his feet, bouncing up against his legs with dull thuds. As the crate teetered on his arm and fell towards the floor, he heaved hard, pushing it back in the direction it had come from.
The soldier who pushed the crates over raised a stubby-looking rifle strapped over his shoulder. The weapon’s barrel was a thick cylinder about the diameter of a beer bottle, and the hole in the end looked to be on par with Jake’s .45. Behind the barrel was a cross-mounted ammo cylinder. The soldier aimed it at Jake when he realized one of the crates was coming back towards him. Jake had just enough time to notice that the soldier was one of the crop-haired goose-steppers that followed the foreigner out of the salon.
He had to grin at the surprised look on the soldier’s face when the eighty-pound crate crashed back into his mid-section, pinning him to another stack of crates behind him and sending the strange gun clattering down to the floor.
Jake stopped grinning when the other goose-stepper
from the salon came around a corner with one of the strange guns swinging toward him. The second soldier pulled the trigger before it had centered on Jake. The thing screamed with the sound of an electric motor and barked a staccato chain of gunshots, flame burped out of the end and heavy rounds chewed great chunks of wood and leather from the wall of luggage in front of Jake. The holes drew a dotted line toward him.
Jake dove away from the opening between the crates and out of the line of fire. His legs pushed off hard and fast, carrying him eight feet in a tumble that had him rolling, up, and running in an instant. A chorus of panicked animal sounds erupted from the livestock area as the strange machine gun roared behind Jake and then cut off. Another opening in the crates loomed to his left, and Jake, assuming there would be someone back there, blindly fanned the hammer of his Colt, spraying one round after another into the gap as he raced by. He leapt again, aiming for the hallway that ran down between the animal stalls, desperately trying to make it there before anyone behind him could put a bullet in his back.
He heard the distinct report of Cole’s pistol sound off twice, followed closely by the harsh electric whine and chatter of the strange repeater. As Jake made it into the wide corridor between the stalls, a second whine-chatter of a repeater sounded off from behind and to his left. The rounds sent chunks and splinters of wood spraying in the area where Jake had just been. The animals raised another cacophony of neighs, bleats, bellows, and other mixed barnyard sounds. One of them pricked up Jake’s ear.
His Officer’s Colt now empty, Jake yanked his Peacekeeper and fired behind him. Several animals spoke up again, and he heard the one he wanted. Jake saw Cole moving backwards toward the entrance to the cargo hold as he tumbled to his left and came up in front of a stall door somewhat wider than the others.
“Cole! Get help!” Jake shouted as he lifted a heavy steel bar that secured the stall before him. He yanked on the handle, slid inside, and slammed the thick, oaken door as loudly as he could. A massive animal shuffled in the hay, and Jake turned slowly, stepping to the side as carefully as possible.
“Hi, Lumpy. Did ya’ miss me?” Jake moved up along Lumpy’s massive body and patted him on the top of his head. Lumpy twisted his head, forcing Jake to duck under the horns as the bull sniffed, recognizing Jake’s scent immediately. “I need you do to me a favor, boy,” Jake whispered, “and I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.”
The foreigner called from outside the stall in his strange accent. “Do you feel safer in there, Mister Lasater?” The man sounded perfectly confident. Jake heard a steady set of boots slowly approaching the door.
“Well, now that you mention it, I do feel a little safer,” Jake replied easily. “It’s actually pretty cozy in here.”
“You don’t think that door will stop my chaingun, do you Mister Lasater? These rounds are quite special. They can even pass through metal. I wonder if your pistols would be as effective.”
“I was sorta hoping the door might be enough,” Jake admitted slowly. “Any chance you might come on in here? I’ll introduce you to my Peacekeeper. I may even have a bullet in here with your name on it. I never did catch your name, by the way.”
“What does it matter?” The boots came closer, and Jake moved his way slowly along Lumpy’s body.
“I like to know who I’m killing before I do it. I’m funny that way,” Jake remarked. “Call it etiquette.”
“I have heard you are a man of honor, and I can certainly appreciate the sentiment.” The man laughed. “Why else do you think I was at that poker game?” Jake’s ears perked up at that one. “However, I doubt you’ll be doing any killing today.” There was a thoughtful pause, and then the foreigner continued. “Very well. I have a little more time, and you’ve appealed to my sense of honor. You have the pleasure of meeting Colonel Radu Szilágyi.” Jake heard a metallic click, like the receiver of a shotgun being opened. Then he heard another, like the clip of a Gatling gun clicking into place. “It’s quite ironic, Mister Lasater, but I was not planning on killing you for several more days. You’ve altered time, and you do not even know it.”
“Altered time?” Jake took off his hat and scratched his head, a confused look on his face. “What the hell are you talking about? Do I know you? I don’t recall shooting anybody with an accent like yours, so it seems you’ve got me at a bit of a disadvantage.” The boots stepped quietly in front of the door, and Jake could see the man’s shadow along the crack at the bottom.
“Allow me to introduce you to my little friend.”
“Actually,” Jake said, raising his hat high, “I thought I might introduce you to one of my big friends. Say hello to the man, Lumpy!” Jake slapped his hat down on Lumpy’s rump as hard as he could.
The electric whine of the chaingun started up, but the only thing louder than Lumpy’s yowl of terror was the sound his back hooves made when they hammered into the door. The door slammed open and crashed into the Colonel, silencing the chaingun and sending him flying like he’d been shot out of a cannon. The door swung all the way against the next door stall and then came back, hitting the doorframe and swinging out slightly.
“Colonel!” shouted a man’s voice from the open area of the cargo hold. He had the same accent as Szilágyi. “Ralin! Ajuta-l ducem la scara! Te voi acoperi!” Heavy boots stomped quickly across the cargo hold floor.
“Sunt bine,” Jake heard the groggy Colonel say tersely. “Să plecăm de aici. Am realizat ceea ce am venit sa facem!”
A burst of chaingun fire chewed into the stable door at a shallow angle, and the force pushed it closed. Lumpy groaned and shifted around in the stall, shoving Jake against the wall.
“Easy, boy,” Jake cooed, hoping Lumpy wouldn’t start bucking. If Lumpy went loco in the stall, they’d have to mop Jake up and pour what was left of him into a bucket.
Another burst hammered into the door, sending splinters inward. The angle was still too shallow to let any bullets get near Jake. Lumpy shifted again and Jake stepped around the bull’s rear end and put his back to the wall closest to the foreigners. Kicking the door open, he stuck the barrel of his Peacekeeper through one of the holes. He fired off three rounds in a wide fan, then pulled his arm back as the electric whine fired and another hailstorm riddled the door. Jake reloaded his pistols as quickly as he could. Seconds ticked away as he wondered what the foreigners were doing.
“Jake, you okay?” Cole’s voice rang out from the far side of the cargo hold. Jake hoped Cole had come back with help—lots of it. “That’s two I owe you,” he soothed as he patted Lumpy’s side. He slipped the last cartridge into his Peacekeeper, kicked the door open and dove out of the stall, crossing the eight feet, tumbling, and coming up against the far wall with both pistols pointing into the main area of the cargo hold. A Winchester barked once, and Jake heard the round hit the wall far down along the livestock area.
“Hold it!” Cole barked from the doorway they’d first come in through. “That’s Jake!”
Jake nodded to Cole who had six men behind him, including the big steward from the salon. They were all armed. Jake rushed forward to the edge of the livestock hallway and peeked toward the open cargo hold doorway. The clamps attached there released and disappeared from view. Jake knocked off his hat, closed his left eye and dialed the lens of his ocular, letting in the light.
He charged across the cargo hold as Cole and the rest of the men rushed past the luggage. Tossing his Peacekeeper to Cole and freeing up his left arm, he dropped down onto his hip and slid across the floor toward one of the ropes coiled by the luggage. His boots slammed into the luggage. He gripped the end of the rope tightly with his left hand and pushed off the luggage as hard as he could, angling his body straight out the cargo bay door.
“Jake!” Cole screamed as his partner disappeared over the edge and into the freezing midnight darkness of open air.
Chapter Twelve – Hard Questions
“When it’s my time, the good Lord, or whatever is up there, is welcome to take me.
”
~ Jake Lasater
Wind whistled past Jake’s ears as he fell. He could just make out the pitch black shape of a smaller zeppelin forty feet below, and drifting away. He closed his right eye and opened his left. The night opened up to him and he spotted a man sticking out the top of the zeppelin, reeling in a long, metal ladder.
The man looked down through the hatch, as if someone called him, and then he looked up and saw Jake. As he let go of the ladder, someone shoved him aside from below. Jake saw the barrel of a chaingun point out from the hatch. Jake’s Colt and the chaingun went off at the same time. The flashes from both weapons filled the night, casting the surface of the zeppelin in flickering orange light.
A hailstorm of bullets lanced towards Jake, but he kept firing. His third shot found its way home in the chest of the man who had been coiling the ladder, and he dropped down on top of the one with the chaingun. Both disappeared into its dark interior.
Jake let loose one last round into the hatch and then prepared for the inevitable jerk, hoping only that the rope and the hand Tinker Farris had fashioned would hold tight enough to keep him from plummeting to his death. He tightened his grip on the Colt and clenched his teeth.
The rope tightened, snapped taut, and swung his body around with a tearing pain that shot through his shoulder and back. If he’d been falling straight down, Jake was certain he never could have held on, either that or his arm would have been torn out of its socket. His arc out of the hold carried him out far enough to lessen the force of his fall, and he swung back under the looming shadow-on-shadow of the Jezebel above. The frozen air bit at his face, and he prayed the men above would be able to hoist him back in quickly. As the arc carried him back, he saw Cole leaning over the edge, along with several other men, their eyes popping out at the sight of Jake still dangling below them.
Cole stared at Jake and shook his head, his face full of disbelief and awe. The faces of the men behind him were equally stunned, and they all kept staring as Jake swung beneath the gondola.
Blood Ties Page 11