by Sean Wallace
“You didn’t even know I existed.”
“That’s true enough.” His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “How could I? But honest, I wouldn’t have killed her if I had.”
His voice ended as a squeak, and the dragon let the silence settle around them. If there was one thing he was good at, it was waiting.
Finally, the man broke the silence again. “Sparky Jones paid me. I was just supposed to kill her, leave her where she could be found, and vanish.”
“Who was she to Sparky Jones? An inconvenience? A loose end?”
“I don’t know. I don’t. I’ve been trying to get the attention of one of the big shots higher up, move up in the world, you know? This was my chance, and I didn’t ask no questions.”
If the man was going to be this useless, Rashall might as well kill him. First, though, he needed whatever information he could get.
“So who was she? He had to give you a name, a way to find her.”
“Hazel. Hazel McIntyre. Said she’d be at the Brass Ring most nights.”
The Brass Ring being the night club on the street below. “Sparky own the Brass Ring?”
The man barked a laugh. “Sparky and Dutch don’t get along no how. And if he did own the Brass Ring, he’d just have someone slip her a bad drink, you know? Easy way to off her with no one the wiser.”
“So Sparky had Hazel killed to send a message to Dutch, then?”
The man frowned as he thought that over. “That could be. It’s not as obvious as a hit on the club, but if Sparky did that, he’d have to buy off the coppers that Dutch is paying, and he wouldn’t want to do that.”
Of course not. The dragon understood men like Sparky and Dutch, with their urge to gather money and gain territory. These men were dragons at heart, even if gold didn’t actually prolong their lives. The cardinal rule of such men was to never spend money you didn’t have to.
“Why Hazel? Why not a random hit on whoever was leaving the club?”
The man’s eyes shifted sideways, looking away from the dragon. “Sparky didn’t tell me.”
Rashall’s claw scratched the man’s throat – not over the jugular or the carotid, barely enough to draw blood, but enough to scare the man in front of him, who yelped in response. “You’re holding something back from me. Tell me about tonight.”
“All right, all right. I got there early, hanging out on the street, looking like I was trying to decide whether I had enough money to go in. Flatfoot ran me off, but not before I saw the doll going in on Dutch’s arm. She was no It Girl, but I figured they’d be a while, so I ankled it and came back just a bit ago to catch her coming out.”
“And no one around to see?”
“A couple other birds, but they’d had way too much of the giggle water and headed the other way down the street. So I cozied up to Hazel, told her she looked a real biscuit and asked if she wanted to go to a petting party I knew of. That’s when she scratched me. I just bumped her off right there in the street and lammed it. What else was I going to do?”
The dragon puzzled through this narrative. “Where was this party you were going to take her to?”
“There weren’t no party, see? I just wanted her to follow me where I wasn’t going to get caught by the shamos.”
This man was worthless. Rashall could ask him to go bring gold, to use information or ideas the dragon gave him to play the stock market, but Rashall could never trust him. Sparky probably didn’t even trust him, merely gave him the job to see if it would get done.
Twitching his nail against the man’s neck, the dragon growled. “Where can I find Sparky Jones?”
“He’s at the warehouse tonight, checking on the shipment that’s coming in. He won’t be alone – lots of guys around, including a handful of cops, ready to swear they were playing poker when the dame bought it. Hell, for all I know, that’s exactly what they’re doing while guys like me break our backs moving the booze. Does he know you wanted her alive?”
The dragon considered before answering. Twice now, the man had assumed Rashall cared about keeping the woman alive, as though she were his latest pet, instead of a bare meal he’d had, something to tide him over. But that would work for the dragon.
“I doubt it. He knows of my existence no more than you did. He will before the night is over, however.”
“How you going to catch him by hisself?” The man was entirely too curious. Time to quash that.
“Perhaps I won’t. I rather think anyone babbling about seeing me is going to wind up either arrested as drunk or shipped off to – what’s the name of the local facility? Pilgrim?”
Judging by the man’s shudder, that was the place. Not that it mattered. Rashall had no intention of being seen by anyone who would or could talk about it later. Humans might not believe, but other dragons would.
The first loose end to tie up was the man before him. Quickly, Rashall placed his nail against the scratch he’d already made and let the blood wick upward. The man beat at the claw and tried to pull away, but he had nowhere to go. Soon, he collapsed, faint from blood loss. Killing him outright, however, wasn’t the plan.
The man’s tongue took a couple tries to pull out, and more blood was spilled. He would not be speaking of what he’d seen. Would he try his hand at writing it down? Not the way he’d blanched at the mention of the mental institution. Rashall would be safe.
The dragon scooped the man up with one foreleg and skittered down the side of the building on his remaining legs, pausing above the level where the people below would be looking. Yes, there were still police all over the area. Dutch must really care about the dead woman; there would be a bloodbath coming, one way or another.
More slowly, sticking to the shadows, Rashall slipped lower, angling for the nearest alley. There, he deposited the man in the shadows, then banged deliberately against the cans and refuse scattered about before scarpering up the side of the building once more.
Whistles sounded, and feet pounded as men converged on the alley. Above, Rashall listened to accusations of sloppiness and excuses for missing the man on the first try. What would they make of the man’s missing tongue? Not that it mattered; the scratches on the man’s face and the bloody knife in his pocket painted his guilt clear for all to see.
Now Rashall had business elsewhere. Between Hazel and this man, he had blood enough to keep him for a while, but that just meant clearer thinking, planning even further ahead instead of scraping out survival by the day or week.
The dragon could use his information to gain concessions from Sparky, but would Sparky be a source of what the dragon really needed? He wasn’t likely to have bullion, and might not even have much specie on hand, unless he was stockpiling that rather than drawing attention to himself by banking the money. Some of the mob bosses were going to get themselves in trouble that way eventually, but maybe Sparky was brighter than that.
He’d have to be if Rashall was going to work with him.
Rashall had to wait to catch Sparky alone, first until the shipment had moved from the docks to the warehouse, then for the police dancing around each other with Dutch’s paid men unable to say the others were dirty liars and Sparky’s asking whether the others wanted to sit in on the next hand of poker, and finally for Sparky to send his men out of his office, leaving fewer witnesses.
The gunsels weren’t the brightest of guards. They didn’t have to be; they only had to shoot anything they saw moving. Sadly for their boss, they never saw Rashall move.
He slid into Sparky’s office, high over the warehouse floor. Sparky had some trinkets lying around – a pile or two of bills, a jade vase, and an oil painting leaning against the wall were readily seen. There was gold, too, though Rashall couldn’t see it. He could smell it, and that was enough. He knew it was there.
“Why did you have her killed?”
Sparky didn’t look up from his books. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It was the same response he’d given Dutch’s cops earl
ier.
The dragon threw the hired man’s tongue onto Sparky’s desk. “That’s not what I heard.”
Sparky pushed his chair back violently. “What the hell is this?”
“The killer’s tongue. I don’t like being lied to.”
“Who – what – are you?”
Fear. Yes, he could work with that. Especially with such a clearly intelligent man.
“Your new boss.”
“I don’t work for no one,” Sparky said, getting to his feet and reaching for a gun that lay next to his blotter.
Rashall moved before Sparky had time to blink, knocking over his chair and pinning him against the wall. “You do if you want to live.” He eased up his pressure so Sparky could put his feet back down on the ground. “It’s not like anyone but you and I will ever know.”
“You think you can just waltz in here and take over?”
“You think you can spend any of your money if I kill you now?”
Sparky paused, and he stared upward as if doing calculations in his head. Debating whether he could get away? Or trying to decide how little a cut he could get away with? “So say you do come on board as some sort of silent partner – what’s in it for me? Or you just planning on taking all the money without taking any of the risks?”
Sensible questions, assuming Sparky got anything besides his life out of it. But Rashall knew the man would be less likely to rat out the dragon if he had an investment to protect. Rashall released Sparky. “I’ll give you investment advice, help you build your empire into a legitimate business that’ll keep going even if Prohibition doesn’t. Together, we’ll own this town.”
“Yeah? And what do you want in return?”
“Blood and gold. Blood and gold.”
Floodgate
Dan Rabarts
September 1922 (Year eight of the Great War of Empire) Northern Sahara Desert, Tunisia
Rubber screeched and wind roared as Flight Lieutenant Flinder hoisted the airbrakes to full. The Sopwith Wildebeest’s Vickers engine howled, a squealing descant of gasoline and hot metal, momentum battling the will of the pilot as she choked back the throttle and fought to keep the biplane in a straight line. The aircraft hurtled down the impromptu desert runway, bouncing as the wheels shredded dust and loose stones. Flinder grappled with the jerking stick, swallowing her rising panic. At any moment a chance collision with a stone could tip her crippled craft, a wingtip grabbing the earth and sending the whole plane cartwheeling in a bright blossom of fire, torn metal and splintered timber. Then the tailwheel touched dirt, inertia and gravity asserted control, and the plane slowed.
Flinder breathed deep as the Wildebeest decelerated to taxiing pace, the engine coughing and missing. She nudged the biplane around in a half circle, until she was facing back the way she’d come, looking through the blur of the propeller at the trail of smoke that marked her descent. Small dark shapes looped and arced against the clear sky amid crisscrossing streaks of black. Cannon-fire flashed bright like summer lightning. Flinder breathed the smell of motor oil, hot metal and woodsmoke. Her eyes settled briefly on the blood spattering the glass, before she realized that one of those black dots was coming around, bearing this way. Probably the Hun blighter that had peppered her plane and co-pilot full of lead. She twisted to look over her shoulder, confirming what she already knew: Croft hung slumped in his straps, his leathers soaked in blood. Maybe, if she could haul his dead weight from the cockpit and get to the cannon controls in time, she could shoot down the incoming Fliegertruppe. But she would be open to the enemy’s machine guns, and the same burst of fire that had ripped through the plane might’ve shredded the wire controls that swiveled and fired the rear cannon armament.
Either way, she’d be a sitting duck. She and the photographs that Croft had died for; photographs that filled her with dread every time she thought of what she had seen in the lake at Tunis. More urgently, the smoke was growing thicker, and she could smell fuel. It might only be minutes before fuel met flames and fire engulfed the Wildebeest.
“Sorry, mate,” Flinder said, tugging her tinted goggles over her eyes and wishing there were more words. Her skill as a pilot had served her well, up until now. This time, it hadn’t served Croft a damn.
Like her hands in the rising waters, hadn’t been enough to save Matthew.
The dot swelled against the cloudless sky, taking on the silhouette of a biplane. Flinder unclasped her belts, hooked the survival pack from under her seat onto her back and jerked the Enfield rifle from its restraints before sliding out of the plane, into the desert heat. Buffeted by the reek of fuel, oil and smoke, she released the bolts latching the hatch on the fuselage’s underside. The camera folded down on slick oiled hinges, miraculously unharmed by the Fokker’s deadly burst. Disconnecting armatures and releasing the straps that held the cumbersome camera on its spring mountings, she lowered it into her arms and set off at a run. From the distinctive thrum of its engine, Flinder guessed the approaching plane was a Hannover CL.IV, sent to destroy the grounded aircraft and its precious cargo. Pilot and tailgunner both would be looking for survivors, fingers ready on triggers. The Wildebeest was a goner, Croft was going to be cremated and, if she didn’t get to cover, she’d be shredded by German lead and left for dead in the desert. The photos taken over Tunis, lost.
Flinder kept running.
Sound in the desert was treacherous, bouncing off hardpan and the surrounding foothills, so when she heard the rumble of an engine up ahead she thought it was merely an echo of the approaching attack plane. Up until the moment the halftrack crested a rise in front of her. The clatter of its crawlers filled her with dread, memories of tanks appearing across the trenches of France.
Just a few hundred yards away. Scrambling to get airborne, shellfire erupting around her . . .
Flinder darted toward a tumble of rocks as the armor-plated quad-barreled cannon turret rotated, then fired. Once. Twice. Three times. Flinder slid into cover, tucking the camera to her chest and ducking her head. The Hannover’s roar changed to a fiery metallic shriek punctured by the detonation of airborne shells. Behind her, the fireball plummeted to the desert floor.
Ears ringing, heart racing, Flinder picked herself up and started forward. Presuming this was indeed an ally and not just a misguided German patrol vehicle, she could hopefully find transport, maybe even commandeer another plane, and get the film to Tripoli where Command was amassing to strike against Tunis. They would go into the battle forewarned; that was, if anyone could make sense of the formless shapes half-sunken in the waters of the lake behind the seawall.
The halftrack’s passenger door opened and a soldier stepped out, dressed in New Zealand khakis, his skin a rich brown.
Flinder recoiled before she could stop herself. Recovering, she bit her lip and threw the officer an abrupt salute. “Captain.”
Through tinted goggles, the captain looked her over, returning the salute. “Nice landing, Lieutenant.” He scanned the desert and the smoldering wreck of her biplane. “What about your co-pilot?”
Flinder shook her head. “He didn’t make it.”
“Well, we can’t leave the poor bugger there, eh?” The captain signaled at the truck. With a yell, a door clattered open and half a dozen soldiers appeared, hurrying to the captain. Flinder stiffened, but said nothing.
“Sergeant Rapu, check the plane, and if it’s safe, retrieve the body inside.”
Flinder drew back, startled, as the squad of burly Māori troopers set off at a run toward the smoking Wildebeest. “Captain,” she read the name on his khakis, struggling to pronounce it, “Hara-wear-a? The plane’s on fire and leaking fuel. It could go up any moment.”
“That’s why my toa are running, Lieutenant. And it’s Harawera. Looks like we got here just in time, for you and your friend.”
No, she thought, it’s too late for Croft. But she said, “How did you know?”
Harawera shrugged. “We saw a plane coming down, figured if it was one of ours, we could
pick up any survivors. If it was one of theirs? We’d make sure there weren’t any. Did you save your radio?”
Flinder ground her teeth. “No.” And she’d thought she had a chance of surviving in the desert? Idiot!
“No worries. If you’ve got any messages for Command, I can get our operator to pass them on. Transmission’s terrible through here anyway.”
Flinder nodded. “I got reconnaissance photos over Tunis. I need to get this film to Tripoli.”
“But you’ve seen what’s there? In Tunis?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Then you know why we can’t turn back. You’re part of Company E now.”
“But Command—”
He waved a hand vaguely. “Command tasked us with handling what’s happening at Tunis. Did you know it’s built on the site of the ancient city of Carthage?” He grinned, his dark features spreading in an easy manner Flinder didn’t find reassuring. Abruptly, he changed the subject. “You’re Aussie, eh?”
“Yessir. Seconded to the British Royal Flying Corps.”
Harawera nodded. “New Zealand Māori Battalion, but you probably guessed that, eh.”
Flinder frowned. “I thought the Māori Battalion were pioneers? You look more like a combat squad than engineers.”
Infuriatingly, Harawera ignored her question, and pointed at the blood on her face.
“Any of that yours?”
Flinder touched a gloved hand to the stickiness on her cheek. “Um, no, I don’t think so . . .”
“Corporal Patua,” Harawera yelled. “Bring your gear!”
“Captain, I’m . . .”
Harawera held up a hand, as another Māori soldier wearing a white armband emblazoned with a red cross emerged from the halftrack and came their way, bearing a heavy medical supply pack. He set his bag down and began looking her over.
“Lot of blood, eh? Get your flight cap off for me, Lieutenant.”
Reluctantly, Flinder removed her cap and goggles, peeling the leather away from her skin where blood was congealing in the heat. Patua doused a white bandage in water from a canteen and reached for her.