The Austin Job (21 page)

She and Willy had been right. He wasn’t a special agent, despite the suit and gun. He was Jim Starr, jackass. Maybe Daisy needed saving, maybe she didn’t. Truth be told, he had no chance of stopping a submersible on horseback. But he could at least help a few of the people he’d sworn to serve. With spent coal in his heart he surrendered his rights to Daisy, or to himself for that matter. He instead offered his loyalty solely to the urgent demands of the situation.

“Come on, boy. You were right.”

Willy snorted and turned onto Sixth, heading toward the Grandview. At a lope they covered the span of three blocks in seconds, nothing but shadows and ghosts skirting their peripheral vision. A block from the pulsing madness at Austin’s center, Willy pulled up at a sight that struck Starr as disturbingly all too familiar.

The edges of a murky, fifty-foot-long hole in Sixth Street bristled with armed men. A creaking lift disguised as the road itself raised an Austin City streetcar coated liberally with gunmetal to the surface. A dozen other cars lined the rails around the bend onto Congress Avenue. Hands raised in surrender, Starr goaded Willy forward for a better look. Before the lift came to a stop Lickter jumped down from the cabin, a cruel smile slashed across his face. “Glad to have ‘ya, Senator.” He waved off his men, who quickly let Starr through.

Starr jumped down to greet the sheriff with a hand shake. “There was no one to listen. Hobby’s gone. Martial law’s coming.” He rubbed his scar. “Anything on Daisy?”

Lickter waved him off. “Change of plans. We’ll get her back, but first.” Both men knew what came next, but Starr couldn’t suppress a one-sided smirk. “What?” Lickter frowned.

“Nothing.” Starr hadn’t expected Lickter to care about the city when all the ugly got up close and personal.

Lickter ground a toothpick in his molars. “Just ‘cause I’m a pawn don’t mean I can’t change the rules.”

Starr wondered why anyone pretended there were rules to begin with. It seemed like Lickter’s playbook read something like, “Do unto others whatever the hell you can get away with.” Starr’s personal code told him rules mattered up until the gate opened—for the eight seconds after that only instinct and survival remained. The problem was that riding out the storm in politics took a hell of a lot longer than eight seconds.

A huddle of men closed in around them, each dressed in uniform and smudged with soot. Clearing his throat, Lickter addressed them. “There’s thirteen of these mad-fangled streetcars, twenty six of us and thirty-one towers. First priority, get ‘em put out. I don’t care if you gotta run people over to do it.” He growled. “Second priority, go back and pick up the people you done run down. Suppress fire, riots and general tomfoolery wherever you find it until we get this town back under control. Go.”

As the men dispersed toward the fleet of fire-suppressing, armored streetcars Starr caught Lickter by the shoulder. “Sheriff.”

“Don’t worry, Senator. I got other plans for you and your horse.” Starr wanted to like Lickter. He was a leader, even if a liar. “The Congress Avenue Bridge.” He backed Starr away from the others. “That’s where we’ll get him.”

“How are we going to stop a submersible from the bridge without hurting Daisy?” Starr had been over this already.

“All we have to do is get his attention. If he’s planning on making a secret get away via river, the fact it ain’t secret will make him reconsider. There’ll be no escape.”

“You said
if
.” Starr couldn’t trust the man. “What else would Oleg be planning?”

“Who knows with this guy. Maybe mechanical ants next.” Lickter grunted at his uncharacteristic attempt at humor. “I got something for you first.” The sheriff retreated toward the streetcar. The only thing Starr knew for sure was Lickter wouldn’t risk his daughter’s safety. There was no time to argue now. Starr would go along until Daisy was safe. Then he’d force the truth.

 
Lickter returned carrying a burlap sack slung over his shoulder. “Extra fire grenades. You’ll have to lob ‘em by hand, but the results will be the same. No oxygen, no fire. For God’s sake don’t crack ‘em. They ain’t eggs, and they ain’t in a carton.”

Starr accepted the gift along with Lickter’s parting words, “Take whatever route you can and help where you see fit, but I know they could use help as far as Red River Street. I’m heading straight down Congress Avenue. It’s blocked with riffraff, so I’ll have to clear it. See you at the bridge, son.” He took Starr by both shoulders. “We’ll get her, and about what I said before. She could do worse than a senator.”

Starr crested his saddle after lashing the fire grenades to the back. Lickter was right. They’d get her, and she could easily do worse. But the question that burned inside was whether she could do better. He had to prove the only possible answer to be no.

TWENTY-TWO

Let’s Make This Look Good

“Hyah!” Starr and Willy parted the crowd standing about the Grandview. Gawking at the brimstone calamity, they clutched loved ones close, forgetting everything else. What had started as a battle for civil rights had transformed into a scrap for the things most dear. It wasn’t until today Starr had known who that was. The memory of her in his arms rose like quicksilver in his blood.

Hurdling a barrier of debris strewn across Sixth, Starr gasped at what had become of the Antler hotel. A swirling firestorm lifted the cloud of smoke to reveal a bedeviling, three-story mansion of stone glowering down at him. Sandstone kissed with burning oil yet refusing to burn had become a monument of living fire.

A sizzling jolt stuck Starr in the chest with seizure, ripping the reins from his grip as Willy reared. Like a whip of lightning a detached power line lashed overhead, striking the building across from the Antler in a shower of sparks. Still jerking uncontrollably, Starr flailed from the saddle and landed flat on his back. Dazed, Willy staggered sideways into a parked Model T before collapsing.

Starr rolled onto his side. Regaining control of his spasming nervous system, he lifted himself onto Willy’s flank. “We’re okay, boy.” The words fumbled from his lips, tongue too big for his mouth. “But we gotta get going.” The power line continued to contort with serpentine motions, flickering back and forth across the greater part of the street. Fallen poles blocked the remainder. Fifty yards further the moonlight tower of Sixth and Brazos—a spigot tapping hell directly—lavished molten flame and shadow onto every surface.

He could never throw a grenade that far…
The grenades!
Starr soothed Willy, helping him regain his feet without tangling them in debris. Dangling from the lashing, the burlap sack had avoided catastrophe. Although Starr supposed neither of them would have regained consciousness if it hadn’t.

He fetched a single grenade, sloshed its contents inside the fogged glass. After securing the remainder, he lead Willy up to the smashed front door of the Antler Hotel and kicked down what remained. “It’s either this way or back the way we came.” Willy tossed his head, flaring his nostrils as Starr spun around the horse’s neck and back into the saddle. “I couldn’t have said it better.”

Surging through the lobby, horse and rider rose up the majestic stair as sulfur and smoke billowed out from around them in swirls. Gaining the landing they sped along the balcony, smashed through the doors of the conference room and bounded directly toward the panoramic window in the corner of the room.

Amidst scattering shards of glass and gusting hot winds Starr worried he hadn’t calculated the position of the wagon just right, or the pitch of the roof. Had they gone through the wrong window? The jarring succession of Willy’s hooves on shattering Spanish tiles reassured him, slightly. Skidding and pawing for traction, the pair lunged upward and over the ridge of the roof. Sitting on his haunches Willy slid down the backside as fragments of flaming ooze spattered about them.

They were almost close enough. Starr clutched the glass orb of chemicals close to his chest, the beat of his heart threatening to crack it.

“Jump, Willy!” Starr slapped the horse’s neck. “Jump!”

The animal dug his front hooves into the uneven roof and lunged with the back ones. Exploding shards of tile burst from the point of launch. The shockwave ripped cedar planks loose underneath, as the two friends carved an arching path through the throat-clogging smoke of Oleg Rodchenko’s wonderland.

Eighty feet from the tower and ten feet from the ground, Starr twisted in the saddle to take advantage of the closing window of opportunity. His pulse hammered inside his head. Never much of a baller, he had one shot to lob a three pound, glass sphere into a manmade volcano before it consumed him. Pushing down on the stirrups, he heaved the grenade—half baseball, half shot put— and instantly felt the splintering boards of the crash wagon explode beneath Willy’s hooves as they struck down with more force than either of them had anticipated.

Off balance and anxious to limit the burden on Willy, Starr tossed forward and to the side. After glancing off the horse’s neck, he collided face-first with a sideboard. Pitching into an awkward tumble to the pavement, he landed on his knees before being doubled over by the rolling wagon. Pinned flat by smoldering debris, oil seared his back as he struggled to free his arms from beneath him. With a panicked snort Willy’s teeth gripped his collar and tugged.

Gaining the leverage he needed to hoist himself up, he cast off the burning fragments of wagon. “You did it, boy.” Willy tossed his head and pranced nervously while Starr noticed a strange shift in their surroundings. “The tower.” He craned his neck upward. Not only had the fire been vanquished by the grenade, but the spew of black filth had gone. In its absence, the massive volume of oil released on the city of Austin struck Starr. The sheer amount staggered him. Thirty-one towers for how many minutes? Even the gusher at Spindle Top wouldn’t have rivaled it.

Willy nudged him. “Right.” Starr gave his trusty steed the once over for injury, along with checking the girth and burlap sack before swinging back into the saddle. The quick movement made his head spin. Remembering the blow to his face, he found decent amounts of blood trickling from his temple and ear. “Well that’s a bear.” He strained to focus his eyes on a distant object, then a near one, and back again. The images blurred and streaked. “Concussion. I hate concussions.” Willy shook his mane. “Well, let’s put out some fire on our way to the river. You’re gonna have to steer.”

Clutching a fire grenade in each hand, he gave Willy the reins. Snorting with each stride, they loped southward along a flaming San Jacinto Street, leaving an oxygen-less wake behind them. “We’ve got us a submersible to find. And a woman to win, if she’ll still have me.”

~~~

Lickter clutched the handle and braced himself as the streetcar collided with the barrier. The momentum drove his ample gut into the controller box, but he maintained a heavy hand on the accelerator. Thumping the dash with his fist, he struggled for breath. He’d gotten a feel for the armored cars’ capabilities, but his aging body remained the weak link.

The car inched through the jumble of wrecked autos and debris, most of it put there by his own men to secure the area. He lifted his head, adjusted his hat and fetched a new toothpick from the ones he’d snagged at the Grandview. Finally he assessed the situation and swore.

The streetcar had gathered the unwanted attention of a nearby mob with unclear intentions. Lickter didn’t care to give them the benefit of a doubt. Leaning across to the suppression controls, he shoved the handles hard to the right and jabbed the button he now knew to launch the grenades. With a rapid clicking and a
fwump
, a grenade lobbed over the head of the crowd and struck a burning building. An invisible shockwave rippled outward for thirty yards, swallowing every tongue of fire along the way. It washed over the rioters with a breath-stealing gust.

After a few coughs and gasps they scuttled clear. Lickter focused again on the blockade.
Too slow.
He stretched across to activate the saws. With a baleful grin, he breathed deep and watched the teeth tear away the jagged pile of rubble, now able to fully appreciate their functionality. The streetcars were the perfect urban all-purpose vehicles, created by someone who understood the blackness of the human heart. Someone who knew to anticipate the worst and prepare for it. Someone Lickter wished he could have met.

In a few seconds he had chewed through the blockade and burst through the other side. Retracting the teeth, he allowed himself a quick glance back. The hole he’d left was clean and even and beautiful. A son of a bitch Picasso in the devil’s gallery. He settled back in his seat and focused on launching fire grenades into the belly of the worst flames while on the short track to the Congress Avenue Bridge.

Each car had been loaded with a dozen grenades. He’d keep two just incase, and his machine guns were fully loaded. He knew the trick would be to lure Oleg to the surface. His bullets might as well been piss on a pond for as far as they’d penetrate. Plus he’d never risk hurting Daisy, and Oleg would know it. Lickter had to use that fact to his advantage.

The plan he’d been working on involved a back-up that’d be strengthened by the failure of the first. The bastard probably wouldn’t be expecting any resistance this side of the Grandview, but if he found it maybe he’d want to flaunt his position of strength—rub Lickter’s nose in it.
Then we’ll see who’s top dog
.

Lickter chugged within a block of the bridge and slowed to a stop. Gwendolyn’s portion of the map had shown an entrance to the tunnels nearby that he needed to double check. As he jumped down from the car a patch of clear sky rolled past overhead—enough to reveal the setting sun in the west. With a jolt of realization Lickter turned toward the Grandview. Looking back the way he’d come he confirmed the moonlight towers had gone out, run out of fuel. The source of the fuel would be more valuable than the fortune resting in Gwendolyn’s vault. Anarchist or socialist, or maybe a combination of both, Oleg had ensured the knowledge belonged to everyone now.