Trouble Boys (White Lightning Book 5)

by Debra Dunbar

  Vincent released several whistles, trying to capture the attention of the Masseria men nearby. Those still able to move eased away from the wrecked Ford as violet arcs of energy slashed from Floresta’s hand, wrapping its forked fingers around the bridge cables.

  Floresta’s eyes clamped tighter as he released a long bellow. His body quivered. The air stank of ozone. And with a jerking spasm that rocked his body, a bolt of lightning flew from Floresta’s hand into the bridge.

  The air hammered with a clap of thunder. Vincent covered his eyes as his ears rang. When he blinked away the spots floating in his vision from the arc of electric fury, he found most of the Maranzano line twitching on the ground.

  A cheer rose from the Masseria line as the rear guard on the opposite side of the bridge began a slow retreat. Two of the Fords they’d used as cover were licking fire, fuel spilled from bullets ignited by Floresta’s lightning.

  Floresta slumped to his knees, sucking in ragged breaths. Vincent tapped his shoulder, testing for sparks, before wrapping an arm around Floresta to help him back to his feet.

  “You okay?” Vincent asked.

  Floresta nodded, his eyes still clamped shut.

  An explosion boomed from the Maranzano line as one of the cars went up from the flames. The slow retreat became a panicked frenzy as flames spread to the other cars.

  Vincent left Floresta to catch his breath, rushing forward to find Lefty and Buddy.

  “That was something!” Buddy shouted with a wide grin.

  Lefty shook his head. “Remind me never to underestimate that creep again.”

  Vincent squinted through the black smoke rising from the bridge, searching the far side for Lennie and Augustus. “Where are the others?”

  He spotted Lennie, patting the tatters of his clothes to put out tiny flames. He wobbled on his feet, punch drunk from the toll the magic had exacted on him.

  A line of spilled fuel took fire near his feet. He danced away from the flames to the edge of the bridge, stomping his feet as his trousers caught.

  “Lennie!” Vincent shouted. “Pull back!”

  Lennie turned to face Vincent and the others. The man was obviously spent magic-wise. His face was crisscrossed with red slashes. A full blossom of blood from a gunshot wound spread near his shoulder. Nodding, Lennie plodded back toward the Masseria people just as the car behind him exploded.

  The ball of flame knocked Lennie off his feet, sending him tumbling over the steel railing. He clawed for purchase, his hand grabbing the railing before he went over the edge.

  Augustus emerged from the choke of black fumes, sprinting toward Lennie with enough speed to blow the hat off his head. “Lennie!” he shouted, reaching for the other man’s hand. Before Augustus could reach him, Lennie’s eyes rolled back, his hand went limp and he slipped over the edge.

  Vincent rushed for the railing, peering down at the water in time to see Lennie’s body smack against the waves of the East River.

  A queasy shock ran through his chest at the sight. The man was tough. He was bulletproof. But even if he was still conscious from the blood loss, even if he’d managed to pull his powers up enough to absorb the impact, the cost of the magic, as spent as he was, would have killed the man. Even if he’d miraculously survived, he’d be unconscious and would drown by the time they managed to get off the bridge and to him.

  Buddy walked up beside Vincent, his face pale as he stared at the river below with wide eyes. Augustus slumped over the edge of the railing, knees weak. Floresta staggered toward them, breathing in short, rapid bursts. “We…gotta run.”

  Vincent turned, searching the Masseria men for some sort of leadership and finding none. Finally Lefty began barking at the foot soldiers, whipping them into motion as they withdrew past the wrecked glass wall and the ruined car, back to the remaining vehicles. There would be plenty of room left in those cars for the return trip, as they were leaving behind quite a few dead on the bridge.

  Floresta cleared his throat and approached Augustus. The two exchanged heated words as Augustus finally pulled himself away from the edge. Vincent collected the man’s Stetson from the middle of the bridge, offering it to Augustus as they made their way back to the cars and back to the hotel.

  Chapter 21

  From the other side of the stand-off, the violence seemed almost tame. Two lines of cars had blocked off an entire lane of the Brooklyn Bridge. Two or three shots had sung out over the East River, but otherwise the two gangs appeared to have stopped short of one another’s range. Hattie glanced over her shoulder at the crowd gathering along the street to gawk. To these New York City residents, it was yet another flare-up between gangs. To Hattie, it could mean the end of an era. Assuming they got close enough to actually shoot one another.

  A car whisked around the nearest corner, and Hattie stepped aside as its wheels locked, sliding to a halt several paces in front of her. She’d conjured the Brigid O’Toole illusion when she found Polizzi at Maranzano’s rail yard hideout and warned him about the incoming war party. The fact that the foot soldiers had made it to the bridge before Masseria could even get out of Brooklyn was indication that Maria had done a stellar job grinding them to a halt. But they had pinchers on their side, and without magic firepower, Maranzano was doomed on that bridge.

  Polizzi stepped out of the car, tipping his hat to Hattie.

  “I hope you’ve brought some motivation,” Hattie declared. “They’ve all got their hands in their pockets.”

  A second individual stepped out of the car, shooting Hattie a jagged smirk.

  “Betty,” Hattie stated. “I suppose that’ll motivate them.”

  Betty Sharp stepped past Hattie, glaring at the bridge. “Is that Lennie?”

  Polizzi nodded to the man marching to the center of the bridge, arms outstretched. His frame sparked with lead bullets spraying off his impenetrable skin.

  “He’ll have one or two behind him,” Polizzi replied. “Whoever’s brave or dumb enough to follow.”

  Hattie’s stomach twisted as she spotted the two men who were both brave and dumb enough. Vincent and Buddy.

  Betty turned to Polizzi. “Did you bring my glass?”

  He nodded and unbuttoned his jacket, fanning it open to expose his interior pockets.

  Betty reached for Polizzi and a stream of glass poured up and out of his pocket, sending shivers through his body. Hattie stared with wide-eyed interest. A veritable river of glass emerged from his endless pocket, surrounding Betty in several haloes. When the last had slipped free of Polizzi’s pocket space, he released a long sigh and shook his head.

  Betty twisted the levitating glass into a figurine the size of a car. Enormous glass wheels turned on axles as the glass block followed Betty onto the bridge.

  “How long can she keep that up?” Hattie asked.

  Polizzi shook his head. “Long enough to do some damage.”

  “Will it make a difference?”

  “Why do you think she and I are the last ones standing?” he replied.

  As he turned back for the car, Hattie asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Maranzano. I’m moving him to a safe location.”

  “You’re not helping?”

  He closed the door and spoke to her through the window. “Only a stupid man would commit all his pinchers to one fight.”

  Hattie nodded to herself as he pulled away. It was true. Masseria had lost his numbers in pitch skirmishes like this one. Perhaps Maranzano was winning the war of attrition after all.

  The view of the fight became obscured by gunsmoke, and Hattie trotted onto the bridge, sticking close to the side railing in order to catch a glimpse of Vincent. Betty’s glass sledge ground against the pavement behind her as she sauntered up to the rear of the Maranzano line. Hattie broke into a jog in order to close more distance, ducking her head as Buddy fired off three shots, dropping three men in the process.

  Buddy. The one who never misses.

  The glass sledge melted into a th
ick puddle against the pavement stones as Betty shoved men aside. The puddle splintered into several thousand daggers, all lifting into the air. Hattie’s ears filled with a thunderous rushing sound, like a waterfall of glass, as her weapons sliced out overtop the Maranzano line to plunge into Lennie’s chest. They shattered into dust and shards as they hammered into the man’s body, ruining his clothing.

  Hattie caught a glimpse of Vincent peering from behind Lennie just as Betty’s glass shard congealed into fresh blades, rising from the halo of dust surrounding Lennie, Vincent and Buddy. The jagged glass daggers hovered at throat level, advancing by inches toward Vincent.

  Hattie balled her fists.

  No.

  She couldn’t allow him to die like this.

  A wave of dizziness swept through Hattie’s brain, like an avalanche of fatigue overtaking her entire body. With a blink, the sky over the East River fell into darkness. Infernal clouds swept over the rooftops of Manhattan, all bearing a blood-red hue. Sulphur filled Hattie’s nostrils. The soul trap in her pocket blazed with sudden heat. The demon. It was lashing out. Enraged. It wanted to protect Vincent as much as she did.

  Hattie shook her head, and the image faded. Morning sunlight returned to her vision, as did the sight of a new face peering from behind Lennie. Buddy had his revolver cocked in hand, eyes searching for his target.

  If he fired at Betty, she would die. It was impossible for him to miss. Hattie struggled in a panicked second. Her heart pounded. A pincher was about to die at the hands of another. It would save Vincent, but…

  Hattie reached out with her powers, knitting an illusion over Betty. Light pinched around her, rendering her invisible. But that wouldn’t be enough.

  With a quick glance, she chose a gunman standing six feet to Betty’s left. It wasn’t a decision as much as a reflex. Hattie cast an illusion over him. He became Betty Sharp.

  And that was all Buddy needed.

  One shot.

  One bullet.

  And the thug dropped to the ground as Betty stood dumbfounded.

  Her daggers fell to the pavement in a rain of cracking glass.

  She needed to know what had almost happened. Hattie dug deep, pulling on as much of her personal power as she could muster. Both the charms dangling from her ear lobes and the soul trap in her pocket thrummed with magical heat. Hattie poured a vision into Betty’s eyes, drawing her into a single moment, fully immersed in the death she’d avoided. One shot. One bullet. Betty falling to Buddy’s gun.

  The drain overtook Hattie, and she fell to her knees. The Brigid O’Toole illusion melted away, rendering Hattie as she was. A red-haired woman, huddled against the side of the bridge railing.

  Betty turned and withdrew, first marching away from the front line. Then, running. She sprinted past Hattie with ragged breaths, her eyes wide and wild.

  Tears fell from Hattie’s eyes as blood ran from her nose. She killed that gunman to save Betty. She’d taken a gamble on Vincent’s life to save a woman she barely knew—one who she didn’t even like. Or had she? There’s no saying that if Buddy had aimed at Betty, she wouldn’t have slit Vincent’s throat before the bullet hit.

  Hattie shook her head. She couldn’t make sense of anything through the pounding headache and swells of nausea overtaking her. Pulling herself to her feet, she fought back a gag as she glanced toward the fight. A wall of glass separated the two warring parties. Betty’s last act before running off.

  She had to leave. As much as she wanted to stay and make sure Vincent was okay, she would be of no use to him physically and magically drained.

  Leaving the carnage on the bridge, she made her way back to the Manhattan side, hand over hand as she gripped the rail. Her legs found some strength by the time she reached the street. The crowd had tripled in size, and two men rushed to her side to help her to a curb. One pulled a handkerchief, offering it to Hattie. She took it and cleaned her face.

  “Are you hurt, Miss?” the other asked.

  She shook her head but didn’t attempt to speak.

  A rush of gasps swept through the crowd. Hattie twisted to glance back at the bridge. A brilliant violet bolt of light filled her vision. She blinked away the spots burned into her eyes as a clap of thunder sounded over the city. A second explosion rocked the bridge. Onlookers stumbled backward into the street as cars slid to a halt.

  A body fell from the center of the bridge, plummeting for several long seconds before smashing into the river. Hattie’s heart stuttered in panic.

  “Vincent!” she screamed as her vision swam, darkening into a murky black.

  Chapter 22

  Everyone inside the bank stood silent as Joe Masseria railed and ranted behind the double doors to his office on the second floor. Their eyes exchanged glances, filled with equal parts fatigue and trepidation. They’d just lost a pincher and a friend. Now, the math was equal for both sides. They were down to two pinchers, and casualties from the battle on the bridge which bled them to dangerous levels.

  Lefty hovered over Buddy, who had huddled up on one of the sofas beneath the stairway. He was pale and wide-eyed. Dread had overtaken his youthful excitement, and Vincent felt for the boy. He’d just seen a pincher die, he was fearing that his powers had failed him at a crucial moment in the battle, and a gangster leader, one of the very men Ithaca had taught him to unquestionably obey and serve, was furious and bound to make someone pay for the day’s losses.

  As for the boy’s fears about his powers, Vincent knew better. Buddy had hit his target. He just didn’t realize he’d been firing at an illusion and not the real thing. As Masseria’s voice continued in its muffled thunder, Vincent wondered what had possessed Hattie to save Betty Sharp’s life. Not that he begrudged her that. This fight for freedom wasn’t strictly personal. It was for all pinchers, even psychopaths like Betty. Whatever Hattie had done, it had clearly rocked Betty to the core.

  But there would be fallout from this, and Vincent hoped Hattie had thought it through.

  The double doors opened, and Catena emerged from Masseria’s office. The man was a pillar of calm despite the tongue lashing he’d endured. Luciano followed, less comported than Catena. Luciano rushed down the stairs, snapping his fingers at several attendees, including Floresta, to follow.

  When Catena reached the base of the stairs, he nodded to Lefty. “I wonder if we might have a word in my office?” He turned to Vincent and Buddy. “All of you.”

  The Baltimore boys followed Catena into his first-floor office. Catena motioned for Buddy to close the door behind them.

  Vincent pulled the single chair for Lefty, who took it. The formality of the moment felt natural to Vincent. This was Old World etiquette, and Lefty was the senior.

  Catena poured himself a finger of hooch, pounded it, then chased it with another. With a loud exhale and a tremble of the shoulders, he turned for his desk and calmly took a seat.

  “Well, this was a disaster,” Catena stated as he reorganized the papers on his desk from one neat stack to another.

  Lefty watched the other man with a steady calm. “It was a war party. No one expected it to be tidy.”

  “Regardless, we’ve lost an asset.”

  Vincent set his jaw at the comment. He’d come to despise these sorts of dehumanizing epithets for pinchers.

  “Have they found the body?” Lefty asked.

  “Not yet,” Catena replied. “We might never. From what I hear, we should expect the worst.”

  “My condolences,” Lefty offered. “Seems Luciano has marching orders.”

  “Yes.” Catena sighed. “Masseria’s put out an official hit on Maranzano.”

  Lefty leaned back in his chair. “It’s come to that, has it?”

  “He’s angry. It’s not often he’s goaded into extreme measures, but once he’s there he commits. Luciano has the lead on that, happily enough. I won’t be bothered with it.”

  Vincent asked, “Where does that leave us?”

  “In an even heat with Maranzan
o, regrettably. When it comes to magic, at any rate.”

  Buddy cleared his throat, then asked, “What about Ithaca? Can’t you get more talent?”

  Catena sighed, leaning back in his chair to rub the bridge of his nose. “Ithaca is understaffed and underfunded.”

  “Underfunded?” Lefty prodded.

  “Last year they fell victim to a burglary. Most suspect it was an inside job. One of their proctors is being…sought after.”

  Vincent bit back a grin.

  “In any event,” Catena continued, “with recent events shedding light on our weakened position, the other families are exerting their contractual claims. All of this to say, no. Ithaca is not the salvation we seek.”

  “Which brings me back to my original question,” Vincent stated.

  Catena shot Vincent a warning glance. “I am not without options, Mister Calendo. Which is why I’ve asked you here.” He leaned forward with a nod to Lefty. “I believe Vito Corbi is familiar with a contractor by the name of Brigid O’Toole.”

  Lefty tensed. “She’s a rum-runner. Works bay traffic for us shipping product in and out of the Chesapeake. What about her?”

  Catena shook his head. “She’s more than a simple trafficker.”

  Lefty shook his head. “Why are you asking about O’Toole?”

  “When our man, O’Donnell, suffered his moment of weakness and came to your city with guns blazing, she was the one who saved Corbi and the rest of you from certain death.”

  Lefty glanced over his shoulder at Vincent, who simply shrugged.

  “I don’t follow,” Lefty stated.

  Catena squinted. “If you’re protecting her, you needn’t bother. I know what she is. And I know what she’s after.”

  Vincent swallowed hard. “And what, might I ask, is she?”

  “She’s a power player,” Catena replied as he knitted his fingers together beneath his chin. “The woman’s been in this office, plying me for material support against Vito Corbi. I suspect she’s done the same with Maranzano. She has her eyes set on Baltimore, I’m afraid.”