Trouble Boys (White Lightning Book 5)

by Debra Dunbar

  “Good news, boys,” the driver declared. “Road’s clear.”

  Vincent pulled his gun and held it in his lap. Buddy watched, then followed suit.

  The hour of the fight was upon them. Could this work? Would each side pepper one another down to such low numbers that Vincent could draw a curtain on the entire apparatus? Maria had certainly bought them enough time to get Maranzano to the bridge. With any luck, he’d have spent the heist money on more muscle by now.

  Vincent could do it easily enough. With enough bullets flying, he could pinch time, squeeze off a shot, then slip back into the fray without anyone noticing. Except maybe for Lefty.

  The cars turned onto the bridge, rising the great arc over the East River. Oncoming traffic dwindled to nothing, and pedestrians ran past their cars in a panic. Their driver slanted the car into a herringbone formation behind the other three. Doors swung open. Men dove out of cars, taking cover behind steel doors.

  Vincent and Lefty wove around the rear of their car as the driver rushed forward to join the rest of Masseria’s goons.

  Buddy climbed to the top of the car again, shielding his eyes against the morning sunlight as gunshots rang out in the distance. He hopped back to the bridge’s concrete surface as the Masseria line returned fire.

  “What’s it look like?” Lefty asked.

  “They’re at the center of the bridge. About a hundred yards out.”

  Vincent shook his head as he lifted his Colt revolver. “Not much point popping shots with something like this.”

  “How about it?” Lefty asked Buddy. “How’s your accuracy from this far out?”

  Buddy shook his head. “I can do it, but I’ll only get two shots, tops, before it’ll put me down. We gotta close the distance if I’m going to do any good.”

  Augustus Henry sprinted around the side of the nearest car, pulling off his Stetson as he gave them a nod. “You boys ready for a dust-up?”

  Buddy released a quick shout, which drew a smile from Augustus.

  Vincent scowled, “How’re we supposed to do any good at this distance? Can’t exactly see the whites of their eyes.”

  Augustus nodded to the front line. “We was hoping you could give us a hand with that.”

  Vincent clenched his jaw, then nodded. “I can spirit two or three at least halfway.”

  “We’ll just need three,” Augustus replied.

  Lennie strolled around the cars, well wide of the cover the others were taking. A stray bullet sprayed off his shoulder without so much as a wince.

  “Right,” Vincent muttered. “Bullets aren’t exactly a problem for Lennie.”

  Augustus pointed to Buddy. “You get Lennie and the kid, here, to about forty yards or so. Lennie will cover him as he does some real damage. Sound good to you, kid?”

  Buddy nodded with a grin. “Let me at ’em.”

  Lennie pulled off his hat and checked it for holes. “Let’s get this done, if we’re gonna. Had to skip breakfast for this.”

  Vincent tapped Lefty’s shoulder, then ducked down to creep to the front of the Masseria line. “Alright, kid. I need you to tense up. Sounds ridiculous, I know. But it makes it easier to drag you when we’re inside a time pinch.”

  Buddy’s brows screwed together in confusion.

  Lennie stood up, turning to snarl at the Maranzano line. “Let me get to the middle. Then do what you have to do.” He nodded to Buddy. “You poke your head too far out from behind me, and it’ll get blown off. I ain’t your nanny, so get it right.”

  Buddy nodded and Lennie popped his hat back onto his head, turning to march directly up the center of the Brooklyn Bridge. The Maranzano line opened fire like a Union regiment, sending lead flying as Lennie closed the gap with a nonchalant stride. His hat flew off his head when he reached the accurate range of the incoming bullets, and soon his chest and head began to spray from slugs smashing against his impenetrable skin.

  Vincent shook his head. “That’s a sight.”

  Buddy lifted his revolver. “Now?”

  “Wait. Give him another twenty yards.”

  Lennie continued, pausing to wipe shrapnel from his eyelashes before reaching the midpoint of the bridge.

  He turned with a lift of his fingers to his lips and gave them a whistle that Vincent could barely hear over the gunfire.

  “Alright, Buddy,” Vincent shouted. “Let’s go!”

  Buddy pulled his arms close to his ribs and tightened his legs.

  Vincent pinched time. The gunfire dropped into a slurry of muffled pounds, dropping finally into silence. He reached for the back of Buddy’s jacket, giving it a tug. The youth was slight of frame, and much lighter than some others Vincent had pulled through a time bubble. The kid did a fine job of setting his muscles. He dragged Buddy heels-on-pavement toward Lennie, who had turned and spread his arms in a taunting gesture to the Maranzano line.

  Dodging the hail of suspended bullets took tremendous effort, and by the time Vincent had settled Buddy into the void behind Lennie, he knew he didn’t have enough power left to make the return trip. He shook his head in frustration, then did his best to crouch behind both Lennie and Buddy before releasing the time pinch.

  Gunfire filled his ears, now with almost deafening clamor.

  Buddy dropped to his rear, jerking from what seemed to his point of view to be a jarring moment.

  Vincent reached to steady him, guiding him back to his feet. “You good?” he shouted.

  Buddy trembled for a second, eyes wide as he oriented himself.

  Vincent pointed toward Lennie’s back. “That way.”

  Buddy released several breaths, then twisted at the waist. Bullets buzzed past Lennie’s frame, and Vincent was glad for the man’s ample girth.

  Buddy pulled back the hammer on his pistol, set himself, then reached around Lennie to squeeze off a shot.

  “Did you get him?” Vincent asked.

  Buddy lifted a brow.

  “Right,” Vincent grumbled. “Forget I asked.”

  Buddy checked his targets again, then aimed at angle, firing a shot against one of the thick suspension cables. The bullet ricocheted off the cable with a spark. Vincent made out a barely-audible yelp over the gunfire.

  Buddy reeled back behind Lennie, lifting a hand to the side of his face.

  “You hit?” Vincent asked.

  “Nah. Trick shots are murder.”

  Vincent regarded his young counterpart. Three shots in, and he’d already grown pale. A trickle of blood had seeped from his nostril. This was not a long-term plan. Buddy would kill himself before they’d laid out a significant number of Maranzano’s people.

  He glanced back down the bridge to the row of Masseria men just standing and watching. Though Vincent appreciated the spectacle they had created, this was in fact their job. They were supposed to be doing the shooting, and more importantly, the dying.

  “Pace yourself, kid,” Vincent urged.

  Lennie turned his head. “You boys gonna wrap this up, or what?”

  “What do you want us to do, Lennie?” Vincent shouted. “There’s two dozen of them and two of us.”

  “Hey, I’m not the brains of this outfit. I’m just sayin’ if I take many more bullets, I’m gonna give these fine gentlemen shooting at me quite a show.”

  Buddy squeezed off three more shots, then doubled over to wretch onto the pavement.

  “I said pace yourself. Take it easy,” Vincent snapped.

  Buddy composed himself, then reached for a quick-loader in his pocket. “Can’t you…time jump…or whatever you do?”

  Vincent considered it. He could, in fact, use the same tactic he’d employed against Galloway. Get behind the line and cause chaos. The problem wasn’t doing it. The problem was doing it too well and leaving Masseria’s people untouched. He needed to get them in the fight. But how?

  Just as despair crept into Vincent’s brain, the gunfire stopped.

  Vincent turned to check on the firing line, but Lennie swatted him back w
ith a meaty palm.

  “Down!”

  Vincent and Buddy huddled against the pavement as an eerie rushing noise filled the air. Instead of the spatter and spray of bullets slamming into Lennie’s frame, Vincent’s ears were tormented by a shrill, hellish twist of cacophony. Debris rained onto his back as he clenched his eyes shut. When the noise abated, Vincent shook his head and opened his eyes to find shards of glass raining down from his hat.

  Buddy lifted a tiny, jagged shard of glass with a curl of his brow. “What is this?”

  “Trouble,” Vincent grunted.

  Lennie rolled his shoulders and dusted off more glass shards from what was left of his suit. “Oh, you bitch.”

  The voice of Betty Sharp rose from behind the Maranzano firing line with a cackle. “Nice suit, Leonard!”

  “Thought you’d run off,” he shouted.

  “And miss a fight? Doesn’t sound like me.”

  Vincent craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the glass pincher. She stepped between two cars, hands on hips, a knee-high dress of fringe dancing in the breeze.

  Her eyes narrowed as she spotted Vincent. “Looks like you have a couple rats hiding in your shadow.”

  Lennie sighed. “You know you can’t cut me, woman. Why even bother?”

  “Maybe,” she replied. “But I can cut them.”

  Buddy lifted his gun and gave Vincent a nod. “I can thin them out, right now.”

  Several shards of glass lifted off Buddy’s clothes, joining the rest as they hovered in mid-air. The sharpest points turned to face the two of them.

  Vincent considered the situation. This could be it, the moment Betty made good on her threat. He hadn’t expected to lose to Betty Sharp today. He wasn’t even thinking about her. But now, as the thousand glass daggers pointed at his throat made it clear he should have thought about Betty Sharp, Vincent wondered if he shouldn’t just let the kid take the shot.

  Before he could decide, Buddy rolled onto his back, took aim between Lennie’s legs, and pulled the trigger.

  The report shook Vincent.

  The thousands of tiny glass daggers dropped to the pavement with a clatter.

  Vincent spun around Lennie’s legs to find Betty simply standing there, eyes wide. Betty ran a hand over her chest, abdomen, then forehead. She was unharmed.

  Several feet to her left, one of the thugs slumped against a car before pitching to the pavement with a tidy hole in the center of his forehead.

  Buddy shook his head. “That’s…not possible.”

  “You missed?” Vincent asked.

  “I can’t. I literally can’t miss.”

  Vincent hopped to his feet as the glass fragments surrounding them slithered along the bridge surface back toward the Maranzano firing line. They marched like ants back to Betty, pouring into a sheet of thick glass in front of the Marazano goons.

  “She’s walling up,” Vincent shouted.

  As Lennie turned to face him, Vincent finally caught a glimpse of the ruins of the man’s clothing. Lennie whistled to the Masseria crew, whipping his hand over his head. Cars rumbled to life, and soon their own muscle began marching up the bridge on both sides of the vehicles.

  Vincent crouched next to Buddy, still lying on his back, staring at the sky.

  “You okay, kid?”

  Buddy blinked. “How did I miss?”

  “You look like a dog chewed you up. Maybe you just ran dry?”

  “No. That’s not it. I…hit her. I hit something.”

  Vincent patted him on the shoulder. “Yeah. Some poor bastard whose number came up.”

  “I always hit what I aim at. Always. It’s not possible. I shot at her. She should be dead. She should be dead.” Buddy sat pale-faced, a sheen of sweat rising on his forehead. He seemed on the verge of an apoplexy, and Vincent knew this was the toll of his powers. The boy seemed panicked over this impossible circumstance.

  But Vincent had an inkling of what had happened. He’d felt a familiar tingle in the small of his back, one that lifted his spirits. He knew exactly what Buddy had aimed for—an illusion of Betty Sharp.

  Hattie was here.

  Augustus trotted up along with a handful of gunmen. “How thick is that, anyways?” he asked, nodding to the glass bulwark.

  Lennie walked up and gave it a rap with his knuckles. “Well, it ain’t champagne glass.”

  Vincent asked Augustus, “If we get a crack in that, do you think you can slip through?”

  “Son, getting through ain’t no problem. But I ain’t sticking my head over that ways to get it shot off!”

  Lefty came forward to collect Buddy, speaking to him as the youth sat bleary-eyed. The older man gave him a few exhortations with his typical lack of decorum, and it seemed to jar Buddy out of his paralysis.

  Vincent eyed Lennie as he wiped a streak of blood from his cheek. “What, you get a scratch from all that?”

  Lennie scowled. “Go to hell. I’d like to see you keep your magic up for a couple thousand rounds of bullets.”

  Vincent nodded. The man was, in fact, a pincher. Every impact he absorbed was a decision to use magic, and each time it cost him.

  Floresta approached with a chopper in his hands. “Let’s simplify the equation, shall we?”

  The other pinchers parted to give him a clear shot, Vincent ushering Buddy and Lefty toward the center of the bridge while Augustus and Lennie swept closer to the edge.

  Floresta cranked the gun and sent a single strafe of bullets against the glass, rising from road to top. A line of tiny craters erupted along the bulwark’s surface, millions of spiderweb cracks sweeping side-to-side. Floresta lowered his weapon, then turned to whistle at one of the Fords idling behind him.

  The driver gunned the engine as Floresta hopped aside.

  The Ford slammed into the glass wall right at the cracks. The wall shattered into fragments from the size of a window to a fine spray of sand. The car lurched past the glass wall, taking immediate gunfire as its radiator belched steam.

  The Masseria army released a war cry as they funneled through the breach, guns blazing. Vincent watched in slack-jawed dread as cries of pain rose above the gunfire.

  Lennie wiped the blood from his nostrils and sucked in several breaths, raising the will to plunge through a thinned portion of the wall to create a second breach. Augustus hung back, firing potshots over Lennie’s shoulder.

  Buddy braced his shoulders, but before he could plunge into the fray, Vincent gripped him by the arm. “Easy on the trick shots. Don’t kill yourself with your own magic, right?”

  Buddy nodded, then crossed the ruined glass bulwark.

  Vincent leaned in to Lefty. “You ready for this, old man?”

  Lefty rotated the barrel of his revolver against his thigh, checking his chambers, then pulled the hammer back.

  “Reminds me of San Matteo,” Lefty replied.

  “How’d that go for you boys?”

  “Just fine. Until it didn’t.”

  Vincent shook his head. “I had to ask.”

  The two stepped through the breach beside the car, nearly slipping over two fallen Masseria men before joining Buddy near the front of the ruined Ford. The driver’s blood coated the interior of the windscreen—the bits that hadn’t been shot clear of the frame.

  Lennie pressed forward with Augustus behind. The man was growing pale, and a stream of blood ran from his nostril. He wouldn’t take much more of this punishment. But they were almost to the Maranzano car line.

  Buddy took shots at the opposite line, emptying his revolver before pulling another quick-loader out. He didn’t appear to be using his powers. Vincent wondered if he’d lost his nerve, or if he simply didn’t bother with them at this range. The boy had a good aim even without his magic.

  “Where’s Betty?” Vincent shouted.

  Lefty shook his head as he squeezed off a couple shots with his army issue Colt. “Haven’t seen her.”

  “Think she took off?”

  “Possible. She’
s not the frontal attack sort.”

  Vincent peered over the heads of the Maranzano people, searching for Hattie. He couldn’t find her. Either she’d found a solid hiding place, or she’d withdrawn like Betty. For that matter, where was Maria? He peered over the railing at the East River below. No earth underfoot for her to pinch. This battlefield removed Maria from the equation.

  Lennie reached the car line, and Augustus took a diving slide beneath the nearest car while his companion held himself up to catch his breath. Arterial spray shot into the air behind the car as Augustus went to work with his Bowie knife.

  Buddy fired six more shots, then lowered his revolver. “I’m empty.”

  Vincent handed the youth his gun. “Here.”

  Lefty eyed Vincent. “What’re you planning?”

  “Need to take a quick head count.”

  Vincent pinched time, stepping out from behind his cover. Bullets hung midair, still twisting in their high-powered trajectories that Vincent’s time bubble couldn’t fully stop. He ducked beneath them, making sure not to make contact and send all of their force into his body. Near the middle of the bridge, he took a quick count. Despite the bold move by Masseria’s people, they’d taken far more casualties than Maranzano’s. The breach had funneled them into a kill zone. At this rate, Maranzano would prevail in this fight, even with Augustus going to work behind their line.

  Vincent took in the bridge, and its steel suspension cables running from the granite towers.

  Steel.

  Vincent withdrew, searching for Floresta among the Masseria men huddled around the breach, then released the time pinch.

  Floresta shook his head as Vincent materialized beside him. “Good way to get shot.”

  “How much power are you packing?” Vincent shouted over the gunfire.

  “Come again?”

  “Your electricity. How much can you create?”

  Floresta gritted his teeth. “Depends on how sick I wanna get. Why?”

  Vincent pointed to the arcs of cables beside them. “Think those’ll carry a charge?”

  Floresta grinned. “They might. That’s steel.”

  “So are their cars,” Vincent added.

  “I like the way you think, Calendo.”

  Floresta holstered his gun and sidestepped through the firing line toward the edge of the bridge. He stretched his hand toward the cabling, closing his eyes as he felt the charge in the air. “Better step clear of metal, boys!” Floresta shouted.