Madison Mosby and the Moonmilk Wars

by Jason Winn

  Bullets shredded the shelves. The men fired wildly in her general direction. The fire was withering. Madison felt another fly through her hair. Another inch closer and it would have hit her skull. Running now toward the end of the shelves, Madison’s foot broke through the plywood. She sank to the knee. Her other knee slammed into the wood, cracking it.

  “Oh, there you are,” shouted the redhead that she’d passed outside.

  Automatic weapon fire rang out from the door. Another Russian fell. The remaining three men took shelter behind the brewer and returned fire. A biker fell into the doorway, clutching his stomach.

  Oh no.

  Madison threw up again. This time it felt like a dry heave, and as she raised her pistol to return fire, she noticed the ghostly form of her hand and the pistol.

  Bullet holes started crisscrossing the glass of the brewer. And then Madison realized what she had to do. She aimed at the glass and fired until she felt the slide lock back. Reloading her pistol with her last clip, she resumed tearing into the glass. Now her hand was completely visible and another wretch hit her, this one so powerful it caused her to double over, grasping at her stomach.

  The brewer glass exploded, causing it to cave in on itself. Shards of glass mixed with the torrent of rain coming in through the mangled roof. The metal cap at the top of the brewer tumbled into the ankle-deep water, with the electrical wire still attached. Sparks erupted from the floor as the Russians were fried with thousands of volts of electricity. Their bodies seized for a second as vibrato screams of pain filled the warehouse. The gray box began smoking and sparking as well, and the entire space filled with the acrid smell of burnt hair and flesh.

  Carefully, Madison pulled her completely visible leg out of the hole and walked to the edge of the shelf. The water hadn’t reached that far into the warehouse, yet.

  “That’s all of them,” Madison shouted. “Stop shooting.” She walked over to the door to see blood on the concrete. “Don’t shoot, I’m coming out.”

  “You okay?” asked Dwayne. He looked her up and down. Assumedly, he hadn’t noticed that she’d turned invisible. Perhaps she’d gone behind a car and they’d lost sight of her. Instead of asking them about it, Madison left the subject alone.

  “A little banged up, but I’ll live.” Her leg was throbbing now, but she could walk all right.

  Ham Steak rolled on the ground, coughing and groaning.

  “We need to get him to a doctor, now,” said Dwayne.

  “No, we don’t. Pick him up and follow me.”

  As they walked Madison felt her stomach return to normal. She was completely visible now and the only thing she could think of was that maybe the Predator’s Cloak had some sort of expiration date. That was fucking great, she thought. How was she going to get more? She didn’t even know how to make it.

  One more fucking thing.

  Waves now crashed against the breakwall, sending sprays as high as some of the buildings in the industrial park. Power lines broke free of their poles and fell to the ground in a deadly dance of sparks and smoke. Madison led the bikers back to her car. She opened it and reached into the center console and pulled out a small jewelry box.

  Ham Steak was now lying in a puddle of oily water behind her car. The bikers exchanged worried looks as they stood around him. Madison opened the box, carefully so the contents wouldn’t be blown away, and removed a thumb sized blue crystal.

  She placed it on Ham Steak’s chest and shouted, “Jupiter!”

  He jolted and convulsed. A blue light surrounded him. The bikers looked like they were about to run off, more afraid of the magic than the bullets they’d faced a few minutes ago.

  “Don’t move,” Madison shouted. Bunch of scaredy cats.

  A moment later Ham Steak blinked and came to.

  “Oh, shit,” he exclaimed. “Resurrection.”

  “Sort of.” Madison clapped her hands and looked over at the group. “Somebody want to help him up?”

  Dwayne obliged and helped his fellow biker to his feet.

  “Right then,” said Madison. “We’re out of here.”

  “What about the stuff in the trucks?” asked Dwayne.

  “That’s shit Moonmilk.” Madison cracked a smile. “And no, you can’t sell it.”

  Dwayne smiled back as he waved for his men to mount their bikes.

  The group mounted up and drove off as the seawater began washing over the streets.

  Chapter 61

  “It was you,” Hector shouted over the phone. His voice was curt and angry.

  The smoky tentacle holding Contessa’s phone gently pulled it from her ear.

  “Hector, please. Are you sure it wasn’t the storm?” asked Contessa with phony sincerity.

  “Yes, it could have been the storm. Why didn’t I think about that? Oh, wait. Do storms in America hurl 9mm bullets? I think not. Six of my people are dead from bullets, not wind, and we lost our last batch. My brewer is smashed. At first I thought it was that asshole, Max. But, I hear he’s gone now.”

  Contessa tried to contain her excitement. Madison had fallen for her Russian bait. She’d actually attacked Hector’s operation.

  “Yes,” said Contessa. “It looks like Max got himself mixed up with the wrong people. And, regrettable as your problems are, I have my own problems. I think these people are already probing my operation. Three of my couriers have gone missing and one of my warehouses was broken into last week. Thankfully, nothing was lost. It was empty, you see.”

  That was a lie. Contessa had paid her couriers to disappear for a while, in the event Hector or his men were keeping tabs on them.

  “Good for you.” Hector snarled. “I am so happy we have something to share now. Perhaps, if what you say is true, then this Widow person is back. I hear that after Max had his little accident, one of his children was arrested on charges of bribing a police officer.”

  “Yes, it is a shame that reliable corrupt cops are so hard to find these days.”

  Contessa wondered if anyone was fortunate enough to find the Winter Rose Caymen had left behind. She hoped they had. Word would spread like wildfire through the magical community.

  “Whatever. This foolishness is costing us all a lot of money. Clients are now scared to come for pickups, and the shooting at my warehouse is bringing unwanted attention from the police.”

  “Yes, I know. My business is down as well. I simply don’t know how much longer this can go on. Or, god forbid, it escalates to all-out war.”

  “I can’t have that. My bosses in Russia will be very angry if we are shut down for a war.”

  “I’m glad you said that.” Contessa blew a cloud of smoke, forming a rabbit.

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “I may know who is behind it all.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so when I called you?”

  “Because, Hector, I needed to know you weren’t behind it all. I’m sure you weren’t now.”

  “Tell me who it is and I will have them butchered.”

  “I thought you might. Before I tell you though, you must tell me something.” She exhaled another cloud. This one turned into a bear, walking up behind the rabbit.

  “What?”

  “Who killed Cooper?”

  “Why do you care? He’s gone.”

  “No name, unless you tell me the truth.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Good-bye, Hector.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  She could hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the phone. She watched as her smoky bear stood on its back legs, about to pounce on the little bunny.

  “It was a man named Trask. He killed Cooper. I knew Trask from the old days—you know, Cold War. He and I were opposite numbers. He was in US military intelligence. I was GRU, Soviet military intelligence. But we both knew we were working with magical elements. We didn’t say as much to each other, but it was a small community. Understand? So, he came to me a few years back and asked me if I wanted to make some mon
ey. I said sure. Who doesn’t? And he starts telling me about this operation in Baltimore that I can take over. All I have to do is come over to America and he will set me up, simple.”

  Contessa’s pulse started to race. The admission opened so many questions. “That’s it? You just have to come over here and take over a Moonmilk operation?”

  “Almost exactly. The price was that I had to give up a client or two, every now and again. They disappeared. Was not a big deal for a long time, because we had so many clients. But, I guess Trask was not so truthful with me, because I guess he was working with the Preens, in Washington, too.”

  Contessa almost felt insulted that this Trask never approached her. Caymen’s words echoed in her head: “You were next on the list.” There was only one way to interpret that—Trask didn’t want to work with her, he had wanted to wipe her out and install another outsider. Another Russian, perhaps?

  “Did he go to New York?” Contessa asked.

  “I don’t think so. Max Molden was not a foolish or desperate man. In fact, I am surprised Max lowered himself to talk to us at your home. I have studied him. He is a very wealthy and powerful man, who did not suffer fools. Maybe Trask had plans for him. I do not know.”

  That was true, but Max’s Moonmilk fortune had afforded him access to wealthy and powerful people in New York. A shrewd man could do quite well up there, fashioning layer upon layer of protection. Contessa reasoned that Mr. Molden was probably servicing Wall Street elite, and with the United Nations in his territory, along with a large international banking concern, there was no limit to his reach. Now, all those customers would need another source for Moonmilk.

  With Molden crippled, the Rose Widow’s operation was in sight, but first she had to deal with Madison. And Hector would have to be tricked into doing her dirty work. Even if he failed she’d be able to get an estimation of Madison’s strength. How powerful could that young girl be? So, she was able to raid Hector’s one brewing facility. That didn’t mean she could come up here.

  Hector was a ruthless barbarian. He could go down there and take care of her. Then she’d move on him.

  “I think you are right, Hector.”

  “The name.”

  “I’ll find out. And when I do, I’ll send you the home address. I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”

  Contessa ended the call. She stared at the bear and the rabbit for a moment. Finally, she watched as the rabbit turned, grew to the size of the bear, and mauled it. Madison’s tenacity was beyond what Contessa had expected. Instead of losing another group of people, Madison had taken out a sizeable chunk of the Russian’s operation. She may need to hurt Madison herself. She got up and headed towards her portrait gallery.

  Chapter 62

  Contessa entered her portrait gallery, a circular room with a white marble pedestal in the center. Blank canvases, the size of movie posters, hung on the walls in ornate wooden frames. The canvases had yellowed with age and exposure to decades of cigarette smoke. It was time to see what little Madison was really up to.

  From her pocket she pulled a lock of Madison’s hair, which she’d snatched off her during their meeting in Washington. She placed it on the pedestal and waited. The yellowed canvases crackled like campfires as chips of paint slid from the edges of the frames.

  Contessa walked over to a wingback chair and sat. She lit a cigarette, forgetting that she already had one in her hand. The portrait room filled her with the excitement of a young girl about to open up a mysterious present. What images would the paintings reveal? Her hope was that one of them would show the Moonmilk recipe or some key personnel. Cedric had been useful, but he didn’t know the entire operation. Contessa could kill all of Madison’s couriers, but that wouldn’t solve the problem of knowing the recipe or of knowing her support people.

  The first of the twelve canvases was forming into solid shapes. Contessa inched toward the edge of her seat, squinting, even though it was the picture that was blurred, not her vision. Finally, the canvas revealed a rustic cabin in the woods, ringed with blue roses. Contessa studied it, wondering what was so important in that little house with the foggy windows, to warrant the protection of Winter Roses.

  It must be remote, she decided. Nancy would not have risked some curious backpacker getting turned into ash. No, this place was deep in the woods. But where? And what was in it? Without any distinguishing landmarks, it was impossible to tell. That was the drawback of the portrait gallery: sometimes the images were too vague to make anything of them.

  The next canvas was of a tall black man, holding a little green army soldier.

  Langston, you snake.

  It was impossible to miss him with his narrow eyes and gold tooth. He must have been the one to take little Madison under his wing and tell her the truth about her grandmother. The question was, did Madison or Langston actually know Nancy Mosby’s fate? Contessa didn’t think so.

  She’s looking for Nancy, too, Contessa thought.

  The front door of the Blue Dreamz bakery appeared on the next canvas. Nothing new there.

  Contessa became excited when another canvas showed a long dining table, with people laughing and smiling. The courier dinner. Contessa would have the painting brought to Cedric in order to identify who all of these people were. They were now targets, cogs in Madison’s operation that needed to be stripped away, until she was naked and vulnerable. Once that happened, she would come back begging for dear Auntie Contessa to take care of her, and before long Contessa would have the recipe.

  It was all falling into place. A few weeks, no more, and Contessa would own the East Coast. Then, onward to the West and perhaps even South America. She would be even bigger than Nancy Mosby.

  The second to last canvas revealed the handsome face of a man, with a strong jaw and magnetic blue eyes.

  Oh, is that your boyfriend, Madison? He’s cute. Does he know you’re playing with fire? Have you told him your little secrets?

  Amused at herself, Contessa smiled and puffed on her cigarette. Romance in the Moonmilk trade was a dangerous thing. She imagined that was true for traditional drug dealing as well, but drug dealing lacked the consequences of a furious customer who can manipulate time.

  Contessa turned to the last canvas and her heart skipped. This would be all she could get out of the lock of hair. She would have to go get more if she wanted a new set of paintings. And with tensions rising, that would be difficult.

  The canvas revealed an image of an arm, opening the glass door of an office building. Etched on the glass was The Law Offices of Abbott, Vance and Lee. The Outfit? The idea turned Contessa’s bones to ice. Washington DC’s king-makers, with a national law practice whose influence spanned the globe. And the worst thing about them was they chose their clients. Even Contessa’s considerable means weren’t enough to buy them off.

  The sight confirmed that Madison was a real player, connected now to national politicians, possibly protected by them. The Outfit didn’t do business with millionaires or even billionaires off the street. Someone they trusted had to vouch for you.

  Contessa’s fight or flight response kicked in. The Outfit could make one phone call and have people from any number of a dozen government agencies swoop into her house and drag her off to jail. People who could invite the president to a golf game and have him say “thank you” had that kind of power.

  After considering for a moment, Contessa reached the only conclusion she could make: it was time to make an all-out assault on Madison and her entire operation. It had to be swift and decisive. She picked up the phone next to her chair and dialed the chief Bulldog.

  ***

  Police Captain, Folger, the head of the Bulldogs, answered on the second ring.

  “Yeah, this is Folger.”

  “How are you, John?” asked Contessa.

  “Mrs. Morano?”

  “That’s right. Are you still in business?”

  The phone went dead. A second later Contessa’s phone rang with an unlisted number
.

  “John?” she asked.

  The police captain’s voice was a low growl. “Don’t ever mention business on my work line. I got Homeland listening in all over the department.”

  “Too bad. Anyway, I have a contract for you.”

  “Oh yeah, what or who?”

  “A who. Actually a few whos.”

  “Fifty, a who.”

  “Oh, you’re going to want to charge more when I tell you who.”

  “Go on.”

  “The lead partners of Abbott, Vance and Lee.”

  John’s was silent.

  “John? Have you fainted?”

  “No.” He paused again. “I don’t know if I even want to touch that. Plus, I doubt you could afford it. It would have to be at least a mil each, three guys that well connected.”

  “I have something worth more than three million dollars.”

  “What’s that?” He sounded unconvinced, pissed even at the idea of not getting his three million.

  “The identity of the person that hit Hampton Corner the other day. And I’ll want them dead too, of course.”

  There was a long pause as Folger considered.

  “One million for all three partners, plus the name, and I want that up front.”

  “Deal,” said Contessa. “And one more thing: I’d like you to throw in a little surveillance on some Russian gangsters. No rough stuff, just keep an eye on them.”

  “Okay. Send me the info.”

  The phone went dead. The Bulldogs smelled blood, and they would have it.

  Chapter 63

  Madison almost skipped into the liquor store. The Outfit had notified her that the restaurant, formally known as Taste of Soul, was hers and the keys would be on her doorstep tomorrow morning. The utilities would be on and Sarah had scored Brushite from a distributor in Fort Worth. That too would be delivered tomorrow morning. The Russian storm brewer was history, and it was time for a fucking drink.

  Five minutes to the store’s close and she knew exactly what she wanted, some Courvoisier 21. The two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar price tag didn’t bother her and perhaps she’d buy two bottles, one for her, one for Wrench.