Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2) Read online

  Warmongers

  By Sean Michael O’Dea

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters (including historical ones), and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book should not be confused with, or mistaken for, true historical events. Really, I can’t stress this enough—it is fiction.

  Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2016

  Edited by Lindsay Ross-Hazel

  Cover Illustration by Kelly O’Dea

  Peacemaker Logo by Sean M. Powers

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of this material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  First edition e-book: April, 2016.

  For Rachel.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PART I: Operatives & Outlaws

  The Judge

  Mr. Vault, Mr. Steel, and Mr. Black

  The Peacemakers

  Mr. Black

  The Judge

  The Peacemakers

  Nikola Tesla

  Colonel Roosevelt

  Amber Rose

  Colonel Roosevelt

  Quincey Gartrell

  Mink Callahan

  Wage W. Pascal

  Simon Hum

  FIRST INTERMISSION

  PART II: Poisoners & Predators

  Wage W. Pascal

  The Peacemakers

  Estella Blake

  Quincey Gartrell

  Quincey Gartrell

  Wage W. Pascal

  Dominic DeFelice

  Mink Callahan

  The Bandit

  Nikola Tesla

  Amber Rose

  Wage W. Pascal

  The Witchdoctor

  Amber Rose

  Nikola Tesla

  Wage W. Pascal

  Simon Hum

  Wage W. Pascal

  Mink Callahan

  Private First Class Wilhelm Gertz

  Mr. Steel

  SECOND INTERMISSION

  PART III: Lovers & Losers

  Wage W. Pascal

  Simon Hum

  Mr. Steel, Mr. Vault, & Mr. Black

  August P. Nash

  Peacemakers Incorporated

  Ada Lovelace

  Peacemakers Incorporated

  Quincey Gartrell

  Amber Rose

  Mink Callahan

  Amber Rose

  Simon Hum

  Wage W. Pascal

  Simon Hum

  Wage W. Pascal

  The Witchdoctor

  Wage W. Pascal

  Wage W. Pascal

  Wage W. Pascal

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Nikola Tesla

  August 31, 1914

  Houston Street Lab of Nikola Tesla

  Manhattan, New York

  The suspended metal wand encased by metal rings started to buzz. Moments later, the large beaker of water it pointed up at began to boil. Tesla adjusted a nozzle and, with the aid of gravity, the boiling water careened down a translucent glass pipe and swirled into a funnel filled with what looked like coarse brown dirt. Slowly, the water filtered down through the brown heap and dripped into a small porcelain cup, filling the room with the scent of fresh Arabica coffee. With his enormous thumb and forefinger, the Gulliver-sized Tesla plucked the steaming Lilliputian cup by its handle. “Sugar?” he asked Amber Rose.

  “No thank you,” she replied, taking the cup from him.

  “How about honey? I have a hive in Central Park.”

  “It’s fine, darlin’. Thank you.”

  Nearby, Simon Hum sat shirtless in a chair, resting his mechanical arm on one of the many shiny metal trestle tables in Tesla’s third-floor loor laboratory. Simon stared out the open window, watching a flock of pigeons on the outside ledge peck at bread crumbs. Tesla threw dried bits of bread out there every morning at 9 a.m. sharp. “I sincerely appreciate you helping us out, Nikola, and letting us stay here until … well … I’m not really sure.”

  With abnormally long strides, the lanky scientist walked to the table where Simon rested his arm. Grabbing a 3/8-inch wrench, he began to tighten various components on Simon’s arm. The former detective winced as the few active nerves still left responded to the clamping of leather and metal on his emaciated arm.

  “Nikola? Do you think they will come back here?” Amber Rose asked, cradling her warm cup. Simon and Amber Rose had spent the last three nights in Tesla’s colorless lab among all his tools, inventions, and prototypes. Both of them had been too paranoid to sleep. They took shifts watching the only entrance, Amber armed with her Derringer pocket revolver and Simon with the eight-cylinder revolver that rested within the metal scaffolding that encased his arm.

  “I am afraid I cannot account for their whereabouts,” replied Tesla with a tempered Slavic accent.

  “It matters not, we don’t know where else to go,” Simon said with the faintest of English accents. He placed his good hand on the scientist’s arm. “Nikola, I cannot thank you enough for helping us.”

  Tesla looked at Simon with subtle and rarely observed emotion. He patted Simon on his shoulder. “There is a strange woman crawling in the window,” he said dryly.

  Simon laughed slightly. “Let me guess. This is one of your jokes.”

  “Uh, Simon, honey,” Amber Rose stuttered.

  “It is not a joke,” Tesla added.

  Simon turned around and saw a barefooted women skirting the worktable by the open window. She moved silently and slowly, like a sinewy lioness across the tall savannah grass. She stared at the trio through stringy black hair that hung like jungle vines in front of her face. She stopped suddenly about 20 feet away and crouched in such a manner that she could easily spring at them if she so decided. She let out something between a human sigh and a cat’s purr.

  Amber Rose’s cup shook in her hand as she slid behind the tall scientist. Simon stood abruptly, his black suspenders dangling about his waist, and the hidden revolver deployed from his metal arm. Revolving cylinders spun with a high-pitched whine and locked into place, feeding the polished barrel that now pointed directly at the feral woman. “Don’t make another move!” Simon yelled. “Tell me who you are!”

  The wild woman tilted her head.

  “Now that is a strange sight,” a booming voice said from the entrance behind them. The startled Amber Rose fumbled her cup, which shattered on the laboratory floor. Amber Rose, Tesla, and Simon all turned to see an ox of a man with a walrus mustache and thin round spectacles. His leathery skin was a shade somewhere between winter pale and summer tan, and his coarse, toffee-colored hair was parted to one side with a near solid ounce of Brylcreem. But even his wide, gap-toothed smile couldn’t ease the tension in the room as he strolled, bowlegged, into the room.

  “Theodore Roosevelt!” Amber Rose exclaimed.

  “In the flesh, my dear. In the flesh. And don't worry, she's with me.” Roosevelt pointed at the wild woman. The NYPD commissioner-turned-Rough Rider-turned-president of the United States grabbed Amber Rose's hand as delicately as he could and kissed it politely, his whiskers tickling as they brushed her skin. “And who might you be?”

  Amber Rose stuttered. “My … my … my …”

  “Well, ‘My my my,’ you can call me Teddy.” Roosevelt moved to the towering Tesla. “Nikki! How the hell are you?” The two men shook hands. Although Tesl
a’s hands were bigger, Roosevelt had a bone-crushing grip.

  “I don’t like being called that,” Tesla replied.

  Roosevelt released his grip and stepped in front of Simon, whose augmented arm still pointed at the strange woman. Roosevelt inspected it carefully, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he did so. “A strange sight indeed.” The imposing former president finally lifted his hand. “Theodore Roosevelt. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The former detective took a moment to analyze the situation, which some might have confused for dumbfounded hesitation. “Simon. Simon Hum,” he finally said. Simon’s arm whizzed as it lowered and slowly moved around, his revolver simultaneously retracting. He gripped Teddy’s hand. Simon’s arm droned quietly as small currents of electricity pulsed through his forearm, giving him the necessary grip strength to compete with Theodore Roosevelt’s. A joint in Roosevelt’s hand popped, but the Bull Moose gave no indication that he was in pain. The two men finally released their respective grips. “You are extraordinary,” Roosevelt said.

  “It was Nikola’s doing,” Simon said. “I suffered an accident that left my arm mostly inoperable. He was able to fix it. With this.” Simon lifted his augmented arm, but before he could get it above his own midline, something cold and unforgiving pressed on his neck. Amber Rose gasped. The wild woman held a large hunting knife uncomfortably close to his jugular.

  “Careful, now,” Roosevelt insisted with a smile. “Pani here doesn’t like sudden movements.” Roosevelt gave a brief, reassuring whistle. She lowered the knife, but remained poised to strike. “Especially said movements in my direction.”

  Given the events of the last month, Simon maintained a surprising calm. He caressed his own neck in reassurance and looked at Roosevelt. “I hate to be rude, but I haven’t the faintest clue as to who you are and what you are doing here.”

  Roosevelt looked at him curiously.

  “I lost the better part of my memories in the accident,” Simon said.

  “Simon, darlin’. He was the President of the United States,”Amber Rose said. Her interjection caught the attention of the feral woman, who twirled her knife and placed it in the back of her belt that held up her khaki trousers. With a feline grace, she approached the strawberry-blonde Amber Rose. Dressed in a simple, white cotton dress and worn stockings, Amber Rose hesitantly backed up into the tool bench behind her. Pani came within inches of her. The wild woman adjusted her moss-colored button-up shirt, then ran sharp fingers through her matted black hair and grabbed a piece of it. She held it straight up, mimicking Amber Rose’s hair, which was held up like a bouquet of sun-kissed wildflowers. Pani curtly whistled.

  “I will be brief,” Roosevelt said. “I am here on recruiting business.”

  “Recruiting business?” Amber Rose repeated, slowly moving away from the feral woman, who was still holding up her hair. She approached Roosevelt. “Recruiting for what?”

  “Do you remember the Rough Riders, ma’am?” Roosevelt asked.

  “Of course I do,” Amber Rose said. “My father used to tell me about them.”

  Roosevelt reached into his pant pocket and withdrew a photograph. He handed it to her. It was finely developed but already worn from spending too long in the man’s pocket. Amber Rose arched her eyebrows. Simon walked around and joined her. The picture had been taken four days ago. It was of the two of them. They were walking down the petal-strewn carpet in Carnegie Hall’s lobby that led to the engagement party of the century. All-too-fresh memories ran through both of their minds. The bright colors, warm scents, and exotic tunes. Flame jugglers, acrobats, and sword-swallowers. The miraculous transformation of the world-renowned music hall into an eclectic, Oriental bazaar.

  “How did you …?” Simon started.

  “The Hand threw one of the grandest parties this city has ever seen. Did you really think I wouldn’t keep tabs on them? The photographers at the party. They were all mine. One in the lobby and two in the concert hall. I received all the original exposures.”

  “So what does this have to do with the Rough Riders?” Amber Rose asked.

  “I imagine he intends to resurrect the initiative,” Tesla predicted.

  “Not resurrect it,” Roosevelt replied. “Remake it. But better. Bolder. Brasher. More … secretive. I call it the Peacemakers. I have already done my research on you two, and I believe your abilities,” Roosevelt flicked Simon’s metal arm, causing a tuning fork-like twang, “make you uniquely qualified to join my outfit.”

  Amber Rose put a hand on her hip. “And what makes you think I’m qualified?”

  “The revolver you have in your garter belt, for starters,” Roosevelt replied with a smile.

  She blushed slightly.

  “So with his wonderarm,” Roosevelt hooked a thumb at Simon, “and a genius scientist,” he pointed to Tesla, “I’d say you are all perfect candidates.”

  “And what makes you think we want to join you?” Simon asked.

  “How much sleep have you had in the last few days?”

  Simon’s tired eyes gave the answer.

  Roosevelt leaned over and said in a hoarse whisper, “Do you know how many hours a day a lion sleeps?”

  “The average Panthera leo sleeps between 18 and 20 hours a day,” Tesla interjected as he retreated to his personal workbench on the other side of the room. “Males sleep longer because females do most of the hunting.” Amber Rose smiled wide at the remark. She glanced at Pani, who was now testing a medley of outlandish hairstyles in a mirror atop one of the trestle tables.

  “Thank you, Nikki,” Roosevelt said.

  “I don’t like being called that!” Tesla yelled back. He sat down, grabbed a pencil, and began scribbling equations.

  “As I was saying,” Roosevelt continued, “Lions sleep soundly all day. They sleep because they are the ultimate predators. And that is what I am offering you. A chance to turn the tables on The Hand and all those who seek that kind of power from the shadows. A chance to be a predator. Not the prey. And a chance to sleep soundly once again. How does that sound?”

  Simon looked at Amber Rose, who shrugged in affirmation.

  “Initial calculations indicate that joining his outfit would lengthen your current life expectancy,” Tesla called over.

  “Well, you can’t argue with science,” Simon said, returning Amber Rose’s shrug.

  “You would, however, still live a considerably shorter life compared to the average New Yorker,” Tesla added.

  “Nonsense, Nikki,” Roosevelt said. “You are forgetting a variable to your equation.”

  “I don’t like being called that. And I haven’t forgotten a variable,” Tesla replied.

  “You! You are the variable,” Roosevelt said. “How much longer would we live if we had your intellect, your inventions, behind us?”

  Tesla boiled quietly, then quickly reworked his figures. He corrected himself. “Slightly longer than the average New Yorker.”

  “So, Nikola. Are you in?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Join us, Nikola,” Simon said.

  “Absolutely not,” Tesla replied, stunning everyone in the room. He rose from his stool, strode past a now-alert Pani, and stopped in front of Roosevelt.

  “Are you sure?” Roosevelt pressed.

  Tesla lifted his hand. Roosevelt gripped it before Pani could spring. “I am kidding,” Tesla continued, “It was joke.”

  PART I

  Operatives & Outlaws

  The Judge

  December 1, 1914

  Danvers State Hospital

  Danvers, Massachusetts

  The unmistakable howling of those committed to the lunatic asylum at Danvers Hospital rarely subsided. The sound of snow-dampened thunder, however, gave the orderlies and nurses who worked the night shift a brief reprieve as their patients listened to the rare meteorological phenomenon seldom heard in the Northeast. E.J. Delacroix brushed off the layer of snow that had accumulated on the shoulder of his wool top coat as he waited for someone to u
nlock the main entrance to the Neogothic hospital that loomed above him. Snow swirled around the main spire and vaulted roofs of the red stone building, the whole scene looking like an eerie setting for a doomed protagonist in an Edgar Allen Poe story. Delacroix’s impatience warmed him more than the rabbit fur that lined his jacket, lending bulk to his otherwise skinny frame.

  Inside the building, a potbellied young man with stringy, flaxen hair and a curved spine fumbled with the locks. He finally opened the windowpane door and squinted at the incoming cold. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in a Bostonian accent, “but visiting hours are over. You’ll have to come back in the morning.”

  “Do you know who I am?” the recently disbarred Judge asked.

  The white-clad orderly looked the visitor up and down, taking particular note of his straw boater. “Nah. But I reckon the hat is a little out of season, eh?”

  E.J. Delacroix always wore a finely woven boater with circumnavigating red and navy ribbon regardless of the region or climate. It had come to be his trademark, along with his golden wire-rim glasses and pencil-thin mustache. “How much do you make an hour?” Delacroix yelled over a sudden gust of wind.

  “Eleven cents,” the orderly replied.

  Delacroix reached in his inner pocket and withdrew three one-dollar bank notes. He folded them together and put them in the orderly’s shirt pocket. “There is someone I’d like to pay a visit to. Why don’t you take the night off,” he said in his refined Southern drawl.

  The orderly shrugged and stepped to the side, letting the mysterious man enter. “Take as long as you want, but be outta here before the shift change at six.”

  Once in the lobby, Delacroix checked his polished gold pocket watch. It read five minutes after midnight. “More time than I need,” he reassured the orderly.

  E.J. Delacroix did not bother heading upstairs to the various patient wings innovatively designed by Thomas Kirkbride—a design meant to keep patients calm with its echelon design that increased airflow and sunlight. Instead, he found his way down the hall to a door marked “Maintenance.”