Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (34 page)

The pale figure’s posture changed immediately to something more relaxed, he did not even appear to be out of breath.  The detective’s contraption whizzed as he aimed it at the man’s chest, hoping the bullet would not simply pass through this spirit-like being.  The acrobat ignored it and helped Amber Rose to her feet.

“Thank you,” she said.

They both looked over at Simon, who started shaking, but said nothing.  Tributaries of blood covered his face.  He got up slowly.

“Put your weapon down,” the acrobat said.

The detective stuttered, “Who . . . who are you?”

The man approached Simon and calmly pushed down the detective’s weapon.  “Please,” he said. 

The detective noticed something dark underneath the white powder makeup.  It was too dark to be skin.  Simon reached over and wiped away the powder on the man’s shoulder.  A cloud of white dust rose into the air and a tattoo could now be seen.  It was a very large tattoo with intertwining blue and green ink. 
My god.  My god.

A closer inspection revealed tattoos all over the acrobat.  The colorful, writhing animals muted under a thin, granular layer of alabaster. 

Images came back to him.  A room similar to this.  A particularly nasty fight like the one he just witnessed.  His withered arm burned.  “I know you!” the detective shouted, pointing to his arm.  “You did this to me!  Didn’t you?  Didn’t you!”

“Did you become a disciple?” the man asked softly.

“What?  You mean the stone?”

An open palm flashed to and prodded the detective’s chest.  The acrobat smirked.

“Neither one us sowed our stones on—seemed like madness,” Amber Rose said.

The acrobat said nothing and blinked slowly. 

“Tell me, man!  Did you do this to me?” the detective asked, holding up his mechanical arm.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The man did not answer.

“Who are you?” Simon demanded.

“My name is Monomi Mono.”  He bowed slightly.  “And yes, we have met before.”

“A man, Victor Mamba, he told me—”

“Yes,” Monomi interrupted.  He turned and walked to the door.  It once again opened with a loud creak and flooded the room with more orange candlelight from the hall.  “I killed you once, detective, and if the time comes, I will kill you again.  Tell The Witchdoctor that I will see him soon.”  And with that, the man formerly known as The Shinobi vanished.

“Simon, my love,” Amber Rose said, holding her head once again.  “Can we get the hell out of here?”

The Baron

August 27, 1914

Carnegie Hall

Manhattan, New York

“I love magic,” the Baron said, watching Suleiman the Unnatural.  The magician vanished common objects, conjured other objects from nothing, and with a flourish of the hands, amazed the small crowd gathered there.  “What do you think, Jules?  Do you like magic?”  The Baron asked, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“It’s deceptive,” the boy said.  “But I believe in science.  I don’t believe in magic.”

“No?” the Baron said.  “We will have to work on that.”

“There is a reasonable explanation for how he is able to make things disappear and reappear at will,” Jules said.

“Really?  And how does he do it?”

“Not entirely sure, but there must be some mechanical process to it all.  Some device that, combined with misdirection and well-practiced sleight of hand, simply gives the audience the illusion of disappearing materials.”

Wage stood fuming behind the Baron and the boy.  He concocted plan after plan in his head, but they all ended in the sacrifice of his own life to be able to take the Baron’s.  He cursed to himself.  He willingly came down here and had anticipated them removing his weapons.  And now what?  His window of opportunity seemed to be closing.  He cursed again, and then he thought about Sergeant 1
st
Class William Macdonough.  Black Vomit Bill. 

Warwick stood directly behind Wage, pointing Ol’ Snapper at his back, the revolver shrouded by a large white napkin. 

The Baron turned around.  “What about you, Captain?  Do you like magic?”

Wage said nothing.

“Spare me the dramatics,” the Baron said.  “I suggest you enjoy the amusements while you still can.”

“I once saw a man in Boston escape 16 different types of handcuffs and shackles behind a curtain,” Wage said finally.  “But it didn’t look like no magic to me.  Like the little boy here said, must have been some kind of mechanism he used.  Probably had a lock pick hidden on him somewhere.”  Wage wished he had something hidden on him, another weapon, anything to exact his revenge.  And then, his shiny red metal flower caught his eye.  With adequate force and the right strike, it could down a man—more specifically, a Baron.  Now he would simply wait for his opportunity and try his damnedest not to forfeit his own life.  This would be his catastrophic emergency plan. 

Applause erupted as a Vietnamese man clad in blue robes spun his tenth plate atop a green bamboo pole.  “I would like to watch that now.  Can we move closer?” Jules asked.

“Of course,” the Baron said.  “Warwick, continue to watch the good Captain.”  The Baron and the boy set off to the front of the stage about 20 yards away.  The entertainer continued to spin plates, and 13 now spun atop poles of varying height. 

Wage faked a cough and brought his hand up to his face, and with one fluid movement he snatched the flower from his lapel.  He closed it tightly and felt a small, painful nick on the palm of his hand.  He turned around to see Warwick, limply holding the hidden gun, and then quickly turned his gaze to the performer.  A 14
th
plate now spun.  He clutched the flower tighter now, so tight that he could feel a faint stream of sticky blood run in the channels of his palm.  He turned again, his eyes flashing to Warwick, still steadfast.  Wage narrowed his eyes on the stage again and spoke. “I’m going to get a closer look . . . while I still can.”

Warwick did not respond. 

“I said,” Wage turned, “I am going to take a closer look.”

Warwick gazed at the first balcony that horseshoed around the wall behind Wage.  Blackened figures paraded down the first row.

Wage waved his free hand at the Baron’s servant.  “Hello?”  

The timid little man’s eyes sprung back to Wage and his face hardened.  His wrist was no longer limp, but comfortable and confident.  He winked.  He held the napkin in place as he fired a round at Wage’s feet.  Wage recoiled and nearly fell over, dropping the metal flower from his hand.  He could hear the bullet ricochet of the polished floor.

The gunshot created instant calamity.  Three more shots at Wage’s feet and the calamity turned to chaos.  Two
more
shots and chaos turned to exodus.  Wage fell over onto a Persian rug unharmed, but his legs were trampled by screaming patrons, some of them tripping over him onto the floor.  Warwick stood only a few feet away, and when the swell of people had nearly passed them, he threw the spent revolver back to Wage and grinned.     

Wage yelled out in confusion, but Warwick wove through the remainder of people down to the stage.  The Baron and the boy stood still together, the Baron holding his Luger Parabellum pistol at his side, scanning the theatre.  Warwick spoke and gestured toward the exits that were backstage before helping the boy to the top of the stage, while the Baron continued to scan the remainder of partygoers.  Wage grabbed Ol’ Snapper and hid it behind him, tucking it in his belt before playing possum. 

With surprising athleticism, the Baron hopped up onto the stage.  Another shot rang out.  Wage knew it was a Colt revolver, the same as his own.  The bullet, fired by a man with a black derby hat and bandana covering his face atop the first balcony, bored a hole in the stage near the Baron.  The Baron whirled and aimed his own gun at the elevated shooter.

“Baron DeLacy,” a gruff voice yelled.  Three men sat next to the standing shooter in the plush red balcony chairs.  They all wore tall stovepipe hats with small black shrouds hanging from the brims.  The shrouds looked like curtains that might enclose a bathtub or window, but with two holes for the eyes.  One of the black figures was lanky and somewhat hobbled over, another was stout and portly, and the one in the middle, with the gruff voice, sat with impeccable posture.

“Put your weapon down,” the man in the middle continued.  “Our man here is a crack shot and we have you from an elevated position.”

The Baron kept his gun raised.  “I’m afraid we haven’t met,” he said in a raised voice in the now-quiet theatre.  He reached over and grabbed Jules by the back of the collar and with freakish strength hoisted the boy in front of him, now aiming his pistol over the boy’s shoulder.  Warwick stood behind the Baron.

“Really, sir?  You would use a child to shield yourself?” said the portly masked man with a booming, slightly Scottish brogue.

“I do what it takes, gentlemen,” the Baron replied over the protesting boy.  “Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling me just who the hell you think you are, and what you intend to do?”

The gruff middle man spoke again.  “You may call me Mr. Vault.  My associates and I are here for you, Baron.  We’ve come to make you an offer.”

“I’m afraid I’m not entertaining offers at the moment,” the Baron replied.

“Mortimer,” Mr. Vault whispered to the shooter.  He fired another round that whizzed by both the Baron and his hostage’s ear.  “Your man, Kasper, he said the same thing, and as a result, died a very slow, very painful death.”

“So you have him then?” the Baron asked.

“We
had
him,” Mr. Vault corrected.

Slowly and quietly, Wage plucked bullets from the bandolier that ran along the back of his belt and loaded his revolver blindly so as not to alarm the two armed parties on either side of him.  With one eye open, he surveyed the theatre.  Only a few patrons remained, some cowering behind the wooden booths, some still passed out on large, frilled pillows.  Suleiman the Unnatural had buried himself in the bosom of one of the belly dancers, both of them hiding behind his narrow magician’s stand.  In the quiet hall, Wage also heard a faint humming sound, the source of which was the large, silver chandelier above them all.  He ignored it and waited to see how the situation unfolded, waiting for a clean shot at the Baron. 

“Ah, so you are the men I’ve been sent here to find,” the Baron said.  “And here I thought it was the Illuminati that had him.”

“The Illuminati,” Mr. Vault said with a laugh. “Do not insult me, sir.”

“So Kasper is dead then?  That’s it—you killed him?” the Baron asked.

“We did.  And you will suffer the same fate if you fail to cooperate.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you gentlemen, but I must formally reject your offer.  I can, however, assure that you have all just signed your own death warrants.”  The Baron nodded to Warwick to start inching toward stage left.  “Khalid!” he yelled.  “Khalid!”

“You are making a grave mistake, Baron,” Mr. Vault called.

  “Am I?  Surely, the men who criticize me using a child as a shield would not shoot through one to kill me.”

“We will do what is necessary,” Mr. Vault said.

The Baron laughed and took precise aim at the shooter 20 yards away.  “Gentlemen, I bid you good eve—” The Baron suddenly lurched forward and dropped the boy to the ground as the point of a large blade erupted from his chest.  The boy scrambled off the stage and made for the main doors, but Wage grabbed his ankle and hauled the boy down.  They both lay supine on the Persian rug. 

The Baron stumbled and then turned to see Warwick, his assassin.  Blood bubbled from his mouth as he grabbed Warwick’s shoulder.  “You?” he whispered, shocked at the betrayal.  Buried in the middle of his back was the golden hilt of the blade.  His hand moved from Warwick’s shoulder to his face.  He grabbed a bushy sideburn as his legs began to give way.  The sideburn peeled off with an unpleasant sound.  Warwick barely caught the Baron and hoisted him up again.  The Baron’s tinted glasses fell to the stage, revealing the formless pink scar in the hollow of his eye.  The Baron could no longer speak, and he could feel the blood inside him cascade toward his feet, his heart barely beating.  He reached again for Warwick’s face, but instead grabbed his turban in dying haste.  His one good eye rolled back, and an ungodly sound, a gurgling from the depths of him, echoed through his throat.  He fell straight down, expired, and took Warwick’s turban with him. 

  Warwick stood there in the spotlights with oddly disheveled hair and a lopsided turban.  He reached up and unfastened the pins on his turban.  Long black hair fell to his shoulders.  He peeled off his remaining sideburn and thick mustache, leaving behind red marks on his skin.  He took some kind of wooden prosthetic from his mouth, creating a jawline much less square, and threw it on the stage.  Finally,
she
loosened her ascot.

  “Outstanding work, Estella!” Mr. Vault yelled.