Blood Curse: Book 2 of the Blood War Chronicles Page 2

  Jake had never seen the man in such a state, not even when Forsythe’s wife passed on, but that didn’t keep the anger from flaring in Jake’s chest. He wanted to curse at the man, dress him down for playing politics and kowtowing to Cromwell. He wanted to blame Forsythe for the bloody, aching stumps that were all Jake had left of his time in the Army. But that wouldn’t change a thing, and he could no more blame Forsythe than he could the heavens. His luck had just run out.

  Instead, he pressed his lips together and turned his head away from the man. It was just too much for him, everything all at once like that. The silence dragged out.

  “I was talking to the doc yesterday,” Forsythe finally said. “He knows a man in Missouri who can help you. I’ve already wired Tinker Farris to let him know you’re coming.”

  Jake heard Forsythe step up to the cot but didn’t move. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the man’s voice. With one arm gone, he couldn’t even cover his ears.

  “I wouldn’t blame you for cursing me, Jake.” Forsythe’s voice was still hoarse, and his words broken by half-sobs. “I know what I’ve done, and what it cost you. No excuses. I’ll tell you I’m sorry, but that can never make up for … this.” Forsythe sniffed, and Jake could tell the man wasn’t holding back tears.

  Forsythe shuffled forward and placed something heavy upon Jake’s chest.

  Jake froze. He held his breath, staying as still as a corpse. He counted his heartbeats and tried to push Forsythe away from his thoughts.

  Finally, Forsythe whispered, “I’m sorry, Jake.”

  Jake heard him step away. The curtain whispered as it was pulled aside and back again. Forsythe’s boots disappeared amidst the moans of other fallen soldiers in the army tent. Jake turned his head and discovered Forsythe had placed a fine oak box upon his chest.

  The word “Colt” had been branded into the lid. Jake fumbled with the small, metal latch and opened it. There, in a sea of royal blue velvet lay the finest pistol Jake had ever seen. Dark-blued steel and polished mahogany gleamed against the velvet. Jake pulled it out of the box and noticed an inscription engraved above the trigger guard.

  Apologies can never make up for blood. ~ Forsythe 1864

  Jake nodded once and set the pistol back, closing the lid quietly.

  He thought about what Forsythe had said, and it troubled him. A part of him was still angry with the man, but he wished he’d said something … told Forsythe that he didn’t blame him.

  The curtain opened once again, and the doctor stood there, looking at Jake. He remained silent, inspecting Jake with narrowed, calculating eyes.

  Finally, Jake broke the silence. “Can I do something for you, Doc?”

  A few more seconds ticked by. “I’m trying to decide what sort of man you are, Captain.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “As you wish. I’ve known Forsythe a long time, young man. I’ve never seen him in the state he is in right now.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Let me finish,” the doctor interrupted, an edge in his voice. “Shortly after they brought you in here, Forsythe came in. He hovered outside the tent like you were his own son. When he asked me what could be done for you, I told him about a man who lives in your home state … a tinker by the name of Farris. He’s the best I’ve ever known, and if anyone can help you, it’s him.” The doctor stepped up to Jake and looked down at him. “You’re not a wealthy man, are you?”

  “No. I ain’t saved a penny in my damn life.” Jake said it as an admission of guilt. “And my father left me only a small inheritance, just barely enough to live off of when I needed a bowl of soup.”

  The doctor nodded his head. “I think you should know that Forsythe has resigned his commission.”

  Jake’s eye went wide. He couldn’t believe Forsythe would ever resign over something like this. The Army was all the man had left to live for. It occurred to Jake that if Forsythe had resigned, he couldn’t have ordered the doctor to do a damn thing. “But you said—” he started.

  “I know I told you he gave me an order. He needed to speak to you.” The doctor narrowed his eyes. “And frankly, you needed to speak to him.” Crossing his arms, he said, “I lied. It won’t be the last time I lie to a patient when I think it’s in their best interest.” The doctor’s eyes drifted to the oak box and then back to Jake’s face. “So, what kind of man are you? You can’t blame Forsythe for what happened.”

  Jake sighed. “I don’t blame him, Doc. I’m mad as hell at him for how things happened, but I don’t blame him for this. I just couldn’t talk to him, is all. Hell, the blood ain’t even dried yet. I didn’t want to say something that I would regret later. You know what I mean?”

  The doctor nodded, and Jake could see that he’d reached an answer to his own question. He turned away, and then stopped with his hand on the curtain. Turning back, he gave Jake a sad smile. “There’s something else you should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Forsythe didn’t just resign his commission. He sold his house, cleaned out his accounts, and wired everything he had to Tinker Farris. After a fashion, you’ll be getting your limbs back, young man.”

  The doctor closed the curtain and walked away, leaving Jake with a silence that closed in on him.

  Chapter Two

  The Calm Before the Storm

  Jake opened his eyes and watched dark clouds slide past his cabin. The phantom ache of his missing limbs and memories of Forsythe lingered. Jezebel’s rotors humming in the background had lulled him to sleep, and the dark of night beyond the window meant he’d slept all day.

  At least I didn’t wake up screaming, he thought, glancing over at Cole.

  He rubbed his left shoulder, flesh and blood fingers tracing a line between the skin and metal. He and Cole had hit their bunks shortly after sun-up, exhausted from the dust-up in San Francisco with Szilágyi’s soldiers and Ming’s assassins. He hoped Qi and Chung were alright. There was no doubt they’d have their hands full going up against Ming and his army of assassins, no matter how many they’d lost during the battle.

  Cole’s light snoring was a comfort to Jake, who hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since the night before Jackinaw Ridge. He took solace in knowing that the people around him didn’t share his nightmares.

  Remembering that last day with Forsythe made him wonder if the old man was still alive. Jake had written a few letters over the past few years, all mailed to Forsythe’s original address in hopes that someone would forward them along, but he never got a reply.

  In Jake’s line of work, dying young was an occupational hazard. He’d gone out of his way to make sure he didn’t have too many regrets, but not talking to Forsythe again would sure as hell be one of them.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his bunk, and something in his shirt pocket poked him. Fumbling with the button, he finally pulled out a folded piece of parchment. Realization hit him like a shot, and Forsythe faded from his thoughts. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten all about the mysterious page handed to him by the mad Emperor Norton.

  Jake unfolded it, and in the rapidly deepening dusk his eye traced over what looked like some sort of government document. He’d seen plenty of communiqués from HQ to Colonel Forsythe, and this had the same feel to it. But there was no official stamp, no indication that any government had created or endorsed it. It just looked and read official.

  TIER 4 CLASSIFIED – E’S EYES ONLY

  DRAFTED BY: N68-RIPSHOT

  SUBJECT: DEATH OF LASATER, MURDOCK (8473)

  APPROVED BY: NORTON

  DECODE: 3B-ACTUAL

  DATE: 06251866

  Lasater, Murdock (Subject 8473) pronounced dead in home on evening of 06161866. Cause of death identified by Moline Physician Malcom Fischer as natural causes, specifically: heart failure.

  Galley, Crowe (Subject 8246), arrived in Moline, Missouri in the evening of 06141866 via zeppelin. 8246 is a known assassin frequently in employ of Cromwell, George (Subject 7
943). 8246 also known to use medicinals which mimic natural death in his targets.

  06221866: 7943 closes deal on purchase of Captain Plat Brewing Co. through third-level subsidiary company Gant Holding Company. Purchase price is 1/3 estimated value and only enough to cover standing debts of company. All records sealed by Franks, Colin (Subject 6998), Moline Magistrate known to be on payroll of 7943.

  CONCLUSION: 7943 arranged for fatality to acquire company for reasons unknown.

  RECOMMENDATION: Task NS-1 with termination of 8246 as special dispensation protocol. Termination of 7943 is not recommended as it may jeopardize Operation T.

  REPORT ENDS

  Jake read the message three times, trying to wrap his head around it. He didn’t know what to believe, but even the suggestion that his father was murdered—and by the pig-butcher Cromwell—filled him with rage. Back in San Francisco, Cole had been convinced Emperor Norton was mad. Walking out of the Mexican Embassy, Jake had straddled the fence between thinking Norton was a complete raving lunatic or a dangerously intelligent and deeply involved manipulator in things Jake couldn’t possibly guess at. Now he was certain Norton was a manipulator.

  There were two possibilities, as Jake saw it. The first was that the document was real, which put Norton in charge of something large, and potentially sinister, and capable of ordering the execution of assassins. It also meant that Jake was going to track down one President George Cromwell and blow his brains out. Jake didn’t give one good go-to-hell about Operation T, or Norton, or anyone else when it came to his family.

  The other possibility was that Norton wanted to manipulate Jake into executing the President of Texas for reasons Jake wouldn’t guess at for love or money. And the whole goddamned thing smelled like rich man politics either way.

  “Shit,” Jake grumbled.

  “What’s up, amigo?” Cole asked. He hadn’t moved, and he’d been snoring a second before. Jake knew Cole was an even lighter sleeper than he was. Fighting raiders across the New Mexico and Arizona ranges taught you a thing or two about not losing ponies or getting stabbed in the dead of night.

  “Sorry,” Jake said a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Cole rolled over and stared at the paper in Jake’s hand. “I was only half asleep, and by the look of that dusk out there, we gotta get up soon anyway.”

  “True enough.” For a moment Jake wasn’t sure if he should show the document to his partner, but they shared pretty much everything, so he finally handed it over. Reaching up, he turned the knob for the light over his bunk.

  Cole’s eyes traced along the words a couple of times as he absorbed the implications. “Kinda hard to tell if this is bullshit or not, isn’t it?”

  “You read my mind,” Jake replied, nodding.

  “So, what do you think?”

  Jake pondered that for only a moment. There really was only one choice. “I think I need to track down that nutter Norton and find out what his game is.”

  “And here we are headed in the wrong direction.” Cole chuckled. “And with someone gunning for us.”

  “Yep.” Jake shook his head again. “Hell, we may not live through the night if Szilágyi comes at us, which I’m pretty sure he’s gonna do.” Jake looked out the window and scanned the distant horizon. They were only a couple hours away from the trailing edge of the storm.

  “Well, let’s get ready and go find Tyler. I’m just dying to meet that El Diablo he was talking about.”

  “Me, too.” Jake slipped the paper back into his pocket and stood up. “Let’s just hope the thing is enough to take Szilágyi apart when he comes at us.”

  Chapter Three

  Three Little Blackbirds

  “The best one for the job is the best one for the job. It ain’t got nothing to do with age, seniority, rank, or title.”

  ~ Jake Lasater

  “Jake is gonna be pretty exposed up here in this glass bubble if them assholes decide to shoot back,” Cole observed as he looked across the aft tail section of the Jezebel. Midnight sky and stars filled his view as he sat in the cockpit of El Diablo. Cold, biting air swirled around him, chewing at every patch of bare flesh. It would have chilled Cole to the bone, but the thick gloves and a lamb’s wool-lined jacket and pants presented by Tyler kept the cold at bay.

  Tyler chuckled, a smooth rumble from deep within his chest. “This here’s special glass, amigo.” It’ll take a fifty-cal round at anything past thirty yards. And if anything is that close, you ain’t lettin’ ol’ Diablo here do her job.” Tyler spoke into the receiver he held as he poked his head up behind the gun seat where Cole sat. Tyler’s voice came through clearly inside the cupped speakers covering Cole’s ears.

  “Now that does make me feel better,” Cole replied, the grin he wore coming through loud and clear.

  Tyler, standing on a metal ladder beneath the cockpit, reached under Cole’s arm and pointed at the control stick. “You just move that left and right to rotate the turret, pull it back and forth to raise or lower the barrels. Press the trigger to fire,” he added, making a trigger motion with his finger. “You ready to test her out?”

  “Hell, yes!” Cole shouted.

  Tyler slid down the ladder below as Cole adjusted the headgear and gripped the metal control stick that jutted up between his legs.

  Mounted on a metal frame, two pairs of Gatling guns poked through long slits in the canopy. The frame connected to the gun chair, and the whole housing squatted in a turret built into the top of the Jezebel’s dirigible. Each pair of Gatlings was stacked one above the other and close enough for Cole to comfortably put his hands on if he stretched his arms out.

  Tyler had explained that a brass feeder, a sort of boxy belt running from the base of the chair fed each Gatling gun. Long, flexible augers at the back of each belt forced rounds into the breeches of the guns, and each Gatling had a ten thousand-round magazine.

  Cole stared through a brass gun sight mounted just inside the glass bubble, and the ends of each Gatling stuck out through brass-rimmed ports set into the bubble.

  “What if I hit the tail?” he asked a bit nervously as he tracked left and right a few inches and then raised the barrels to point straight up. The whole gun chair rotated within the turret. Cole found himself staring skyward into a starry night dotted with puffy clouds outlined in silver from a nearly full moon squatting on the horizon to the south. He lowered the barrels to aim at a big star hanging just to the right of the moon and then started tracking toward the nose of the zeppelin.

  The southern edge of the storm front had grown steadily closer, and they would breach it soon enough. Everyone figured that Szilágyi would make his run shortly after the Jezebel entered the storm.

  “Good question,” Tyler said, raising his voice over the noisy whine of the motors rotating the turret. “The answer is, you can’t. There are brackets that’ll keep you from hitting any part of the zepp. You see that switch on the left armrest?”

  “Yessir,” Cole replied.

  “Flip it.”

  Cole did as instructed, and a ring of fans around the base of the cockpit whirred loudly. Cole felt a blast of cold, night air forced through the fans aimed at the barrels of the Gatlings.

  “What’re the fans for?” Cole asked, confused. “It’s plenty cold in here.”

  “You’ll see. Now fire that baby up!” Tyler shouted.

  “Yes, sir!” Cole screamed as he pulled the trigger.

  El Diablo roared, all four Gatling guns grinding out a barrage of flame and lead as the driving chains that spun them cycled through a hole in the base of the gun chair. The chain was mounted into a sprocket at the back of the chair, and drive chains stretched out to each side, connected to the hand-crank mechanism that had originally spun the barrels.

  Smoke poured from the breeches of all four guns, but the rushing air pulled it below Cole’s field of vision. The smoke rushed out of a series of ports set into the zeppelin’s envelope about ten feet away from the turret.


  Through the drone of the guns, and even with his hands over his ears, Tyler heard Cole’s maniacal laughter as it filled the turret. After about fifteen seconds, the guns cut off.

  “Shit! This thing is unbelievable!” Cole shouted.

  Grinning, Tyler hit a lever set just under the rim of the turret entrance and released a target balloon.

  “Port side, Cole!” Tyler shouted into the receiver, and he placed his hand on another lever. Cole instinctively tracked the turret to the port side and raised the barrels a few inches. A bright white balloon, glowing with an inner light, rose aft of the turret on the port side. Cole pulled the trigger and four streams of bullets caught up with the balloon. He watched the helpless thing disappear before his eyes, torn to pieces in a hail of fifty caliber slugs.

  “Got it!” he said as he released the trigger. The gun immediately went quiet.

  Tyler released the next lever. “Starboard, amigo.”

  The turret instantly tracked over the tail to the starboard side of the Jezebel, and another balloon popped into view. Cole started raising the barrels and then jammed down on the trigger. The chain drive spun and El Diablo hammered out a barrage of bullets that quickly intersected the balloon. The balloon evaporated, and Cole released the trigger.

  “Forward port!” Tyler shouted and pulled another lever.

  The whine of the turret and then Diablo’s guns roaring filled the inside of the zeppelin. Tyler took Cole through the same training exercise he had with Jake, calling out locations and flipping levers as Cole tracked and shot.

  Jake leaned up against the railing, casually spinning his Peacekeeper as he stared around the inside of the massive dirigible.

  A rigid frame gave the zeppelin envelope its shape, the interior lined with row upon row of thick hanging fabric sheets that looked like heavy canvas. From his time in the army, Jake knew the material was made of extremely tough fibers of some kind, heated and treated with chemicals to make them nearly bulletproof. Three or four layers draped together like rows of curtains would absorb a bullet’s impact, causing the slug to drop harmlessly down to the bottom of the zeppelin rather than piercing anything critical.