Seleste deLaney - [Badlands 02] (5 page)

They were too polished, like the wood and brass.

But at least there were only two.

For about thirty seconds.

Then a group of men—clearly not workers—swarmed into the hangar. Any chance of the
Dark
Hawk
taking off without incident disappeared. Tobias clenched his jaw tighter, watching as the mafiosos took position around the ship. As long as he made it onto the dirigible and it escaped the hangar relatively unscathed, they’d be safe enough. Too bad with the amount of heat packing into the area, completely unscathed had ceased to be an option.

Chapter Five

Just once, Carson wanted to catch a damned break. A voice in his head reminded him that finding out about Senator Mason and St. Clair in the first place
had
been a break, but he mentally slapped the voice down. Useless knowledge was worse than no knowledge at all.

But before he even set foot in the hangar, he knew he wasn’t getting that break today. The first pops of gunfire erupted amid scattered screams. While everyone else poured from the hangar, Carson rushed inside, diving behind the nearest piece of cover he could find. He peeked around the corner of the crates in time to see the bulk of a ship bearing the words
Dark
Hawk
on the side.

Damn
it
. They’d found her.

He spat into the shadows. As one of the mafia dons, Ignazio Lupo’s reach extended this far to be sure, but Carson hadn’t expected the man to have this many of his people on Henrietta already. Hells, he’d hoped there wouldn’t be any at all. Carson counted them. Twelve—no, thirteen. How many could he take out before they came down on him? Six? More? Not exactly decimating the mafia forces, but it would be worth it.

If the men in this hangar were the kind who stayed down when shot.

As the airship started to rise, one of the crew jumped into the gunboat, turning the weapon there on the assaulting mafiosos. The rattle and boom intensified as the larger gun joined the fight.

Carson drew his pistol, took aim at the nearest gangster and fired. The bullet found its home, piercing the man in the chest and making him stagger backward. But he didn’t fall. Instead, his head swiveled toward Carson, a brass optical twisting into focus.

No, he definitely wasn’t getting that break today.

The gangster with the clockwork face leveled his weapon, and Carson leaped toward a different set of crates just as his previous cover burst into flames. What the hell kind of gun... Not a gun. The man had a device attached to his elbow that blasted fire from the end. Not men, not machines, these were the killers William Mason had built for Ignazio Lupo.

The blaze swept toward Carson, but before he could dive for new cover, he saw a sight that chilled his blood. A tall and wiry man with strong, chiseled features and straight brows strode into the hangar and cuffed Flame-thrower across the face. Carson ducked below the edge of the crate.

This was very, very bad. If Lupo sent Giuseppe Gambini to Philadelphia, he definitely knew who Henrietta was and that she had moved all of her father’s possessions. It meant he’d sent one of his best bloodhounds into the field after the brilliant blonde.

Giuseppe, Joe to most of the world, was a ghost. Carson had already shot Gambini once himself. Further reports of his death had come from more than one reputable source on more than one occasion, but still the man lived and breathed...and killed.

Carson had the scar on his neck to show for his first attempt to take down Gambini. The bastard had nicked his jugular—a little deeper and he wouldn’t be here watching as the mafioso hunted Henrietta Mason. Pointedly avoiding the scar, Carson rubbed at his jaw, the scruff from not shaving scraping his skin. He hated hiding, but Gambini’s presence was too much. As many things as he’d hunted and killed in his time, Carson didn’t know how to fight someone who couldn’t die.

Scowling, he holstered his guns and slunk around to a patch of cover nearer to the
Dark
Hawk
—behind a damned crate labeled Danger: explosives. Maybe not the smartest place to stand, but at least here he wouldn’t be so obvious a second target. And maybe he could actually hit one of the mafiosos in something resembling a weak spot.

Bullets and other projectiles whizzed over his head as the firefight continued. The dirigible tugged at its moorings as it rose into the air. Only a few yards from Carson, one of the lines snapped, the rope twisting and swaying like some sort of serpent. He risked a glance at the ship, only to see a man with a blade between his teeth crawling like a spider along the ropes of the airbag. In minutes, he’d sliced through another of the mooring lines. The fool was going to get himself killed! Quickly, Carson realized the idiocy of the thought. If they didn’t take off, they’d all be killed—or worse.

Instead of worrying about the man overhead, Carson set his sights on the gangsters once more, reloading as he counted them again.
Damnation
. Though crimson stained the deck in places, he still counted at least eight of them upright, which meant there were probably others he couldn’t see.

At last, the final mooring line dropped to the ground and the dirigible rose higher. He glanced up, wishing Henrietta Godspeed. A figure clung to the outside of the gunboat. This one didn’t wear the rugged attire of the crewman who’d cut the lines. Carson would know that slick-haired son-of-a-bitch anywhere.

St. Clair.

The angle was off for shooting the lawyer down—not to mention he’d be lost to the mafiosos when he fell.

Carson stuffed his gun into its holster. He had one chance. Leaping onto the nearest carton, he clambered over crate after crate, climbing as high as he could. The
Dark
Hawk
, however, was gaining air faster. Already the mooring line that had broken in front of him was almost out of reach. Desperate, Carson ran along the top of his perch, jumping as it tipped beneath him. Time seemed to slow as the rope snaked away from him in the air. Bullets flew by. His peripheral vision caught a flash just as his fingers grazed the mooring line. Then a blast rocked the space beneath him as the explosives ignited. Heated air pushed him upward, and he snatched the rope as the airship lifted him away from the burning mess below.

Twining his leg around the line, Carson pulled himself toward the
Dark
Hawk
as it cleared the opening in the roof of the hangar. Noise from above drew his attention. St. Clair stood in the gunboat, an evil grin on his face.

“Sorry. There’s only room for one stowaway on this bird.” He reached out and sawed at the mooring line with a rusty blade.

Carson’s hands, already raw, slipped, and his eyes widened as St. Clair’s blade caught on the last of the rope, the jagged edge tearing through the fibers. Carson fell, his body weightless for a second. Then he hit the white canopy of the hangar and slid along the angled top. He scrambled at the fabric, clawing as the edge rushed toward him.

Just before he took a tumble that would permanently keep him from protecting Henrietta and fulfilling his vendetta against the mafia, his boot caught the canopy frame and stopped his descent with bone-jarring force.

His heart thudded as he lay there. Already, mafiosos poured from the hangar. They’d be long gone before the fire brigade arrived.

Snagging a ride on the
Dark
Hawk
would have simplified matters, but his goal hadn’t changed one bit. He needed to get to the Badlands, find Henrietta Mason, protect her and hopefully secure Tobias St. Clair. Before Gambini found them.

The plan was simple enough—except for that last part.

Because if Joe Gambini got to either of them before Carson did, they’d die. While the lawyer might deserve his fate, Carson couldn’t bear the thought of the butterfly being crushed beneath the boot of the mafia.

* * *

“So what we do now, Capo?”

Gambini watched the
Dark
Hawk
fade into the distance and didn’t bother turning to the boy who stood behind him. His silence should’ve been answer enough for the moment, and he needed the time to contain his rage. More than one of his men had fallen under the hail of bullets from the gunboat. Unacceptable.

Wise with knowledge only time on the crew could bring, everyone else hung back, waiting or towing away the bodies. The boy, however, was too stupid to follow their lead.

“Capo? Do you wants we should chase ‘em?”

Without uttering a sound, Gambini flipped the pistol over his finger and pulled the trigger. The boy’s body crashed to the decking before the echo of the gunshot had quieted.

Too stupid to stay silent meant he was too stupid to live.

He’d done the boy a favor. Don Lupo wouldn’t have been so kind when the kid screwed up later.

Gambini jerked his chin skyward, speaking to the rest of his troops. “Get one of Don Lupo’s birds. The boss will want to know what happened. The rest of you, load up on weapons and meet me back here in an hour.”

The pounding of feet on wood was all the response he required. Once all was quiet, he stuffed his gun into its holster and turned. The boy’s body lay in a heap, a dark pool of blood staining the bright decking beneath him. At least they hadn’t wasted many enhancements on him yet—Gambini could only see mechanized bits near one of the kid’s ears. Young, barely seventeen. Maybe wisdom would have come with age, but if he wasn’t smart enough to know his place he should have waited to join the family. His ignorance wasn’t Gambini’s problem. Unfortunately, his body was.

The potion was meant for St. Clair, but one dead fool was as good as another. Gambini pulled the vial from his pocket, the fluid inside cloudy and viscous. Holding it up to the light, the particles within sparkled as if alive. A grin spread across his face as he uncorked the tube. He loved to watch this particular innovation at work. It poured like glittery molasses over the boy, soaking into his clothes before it started to bubble and hiss.

The fluid ate at the flesh, devouring it and spreading as if feeding on the body. Gambini’s blood raced as he stared. Destruction like this drove him wild in ways no woman could anymore. And he owed it all to William Mason. The man had not only saved his life, he’d changed Joe Gambini’s entire world.

And now, Tobias St. Clair was trying to keep Mason’s research to himself. Gambini wasn’t about to let that happen. He’d spent too many years scraping by, inching his way up from life in the gutter to become Don Lupo’s right hand. Though there were others in the family like him, with Mason’s help, Gambini had become nearly invincible, his broken childhood nothing but a distant memory.

St. Clair should have known the rules when he first came to the family on Mason’s behalf. You don’t walk away from the job until it’s finished. A little thing like Mason’s death didn’t mean Ignazio Lupo would forget about being paid.

After all, thanks to Mason’s machines, death hadn’t stopped Gambini. The family was for life. St. Clair needed a reminder.

As the fluid finished its work, the reaction ran its course and the remainder of the chemical dissipated into the air. At Gambini’s feet lay a heap of clothing around a pile of dust, the latter already blowing away in the breeze. One little annoyance taken care of.

He capped the vial, knowing there was more than enough of Mason’s potion left in his stash to take care of any other trouble that got in his path. And then St. Clair would pay...one way or another.

* * *

Gunfire still echoed in Henri’s ears as she braced herself in the infirmary doorway, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory of the mountaintop. So much death...and all for nothing but greed.

“Hey, Henri, can you patch me up real quick? Cap’n needs me to go out and do some in-air repairs, and I’d rather not do ’em dripping.” Noah stood in the hall, hand clamped over his arm as blood seeped from between his fingers.

The sight sent ice coursing through her veins, and she shuddered as she waved him inside. “And here I thought without Ever on board, my medical supplies might last a bit longer.”

As he settled onto the cot, the
Dark
Hawk’s mechanic laughed, the sound more full of life than anything else on the ship. “I got a direct order from her to make sure you kept your skills sharp. She doesn’t want to come back and have no one but Spencer to stitch her up.”

Henri wasn’t even sure Noah was kidding. The way Ever’s mind worked was still so foreign to her. Needle, thread and antiseptic in hand, she moved to the cot. “Take off your shirt. Does Spencer really need to send you out to make repairs while we’re flying? It seems unnecessarily dangerous. Can’t it wait until we land?”

Shirtless, Noah exposed a two-inch gash on his left biceps and shrugged. “Too many of the bullets hit us. Cap’n doesn’t want to risk it. ‘Sides, I know what I’m doing. Don’t you worry. This is my one and only visit today. Ever can fill your time herself soon enough.”

He grimaced as she started stitching then began whistling a melancholy tune. She didn’t know where he’d picked up the habit, but he did it every time she tended one of his injuries. Still better than Ever who cursed and spat and generally made getting anything done near impossible. As Henri worked, she tried not to wonder who she would find to take over and if they would bother getting to know the crew as she had. If they’d care.

She shook the thought away forcefully. She didn’t belong here. That was all that mattered.

“Please, don’t remind me. I have more than enough on my mind.” In truth, she could never forget when Ever was coming on board. Never shake the reminder of what she’d done. It had been a while since the warrior princess’s last visit, and the delay was probably a large part of Spencer’s moodiness. “However, to be completely fair, I am glad you intend to stop injuring yourself just to keep me on my toes.”

Noah grinned through his obvious pain. “Never gotten hurt on purpose. Last time, one of your machines turned on and wasn’t too happy about me chasing it around the hold.”

Tying off the last of the stitches, she winced. “I’m sorry.”

“No worries. Just doing my job. Between us all going down in a hail of bullets or me cutting the lines, decision seemed easy enough.”

She nodded and wrapped a bandage around his arm. They were all good at their jobs—so much so their dedication got them hurt. Got Zeke killed. Maybe they’d all be better off if they were a bit less good at what they did. “Does Spencer know who they were? After...what happened before, I didn’t exactly expect to face another firing squad any time soon.”

“Cap’n’s got no clue, but as for the other, don’t think none of us expected it.” He pulled back on his shirt, heedless of the blood drying on the sleeve. “Thanks, Henri.”