Everyone Has a Reason
Rattle.
Every pair of eyes in the alley snapped to the box scraping along the ground.
The biggest of the thugs stepped forward, a Bowie knife with a thirty-centimeter curved blade clenched in his fist.
“You the one who jumped our boys?”
I set the box down with a solid thud. The thug flinched and tightened his grip on the knife.
These idiots had no idea where I’d just come from. Otherwise they never would have been stupid enough to block a customer leaving a gun shop with nothing but knives.
Then again, if they were just street punks and not proper gangsters, they might never have heard of Gunsmith and his locked iron door.
I glanced around. A long iron spike, thick as a finger, caught my eye.
I was bending to grab it when the sound of a rifle being chambered cut through the alley from behind me—click-clack, click-clack.
The voice that followed was deliberately low, but there was no mistaking it for a man’s.
“Cut the crap and get out of this alley.”
The punks blanched and scrambled backward.
“Shit, it’s that crazy bitch again.”
“Just you wait. We’ll see how long you can keep hiding underground. When we catch you, you’re done!”
“She’s gotta be sick. Why else would she never come outside?”
“You know what’s good for you, then leave. Before I clear the whole lot of you out.”
The thugs melted away like the tide going out.
I turned.
A woman stood there, face completely wrapped in a scarf and hat, cradling a rifle—no, that was a machine gun.
No wonder the punks had run.
What she had set on the ground was a nine-kilogram French light machine gun designed to give heavy machine-gun fire some mobility. The Chauchat. Two hundred and fifty rounds a minute.
“Chauchat?”
“You know it. Caliber?”
Her voice had changed—clear and bright, about my age.
Come to think of it, she was the first woman I’d spoken to besides my mother and the neighbor ladies. Not that it mattered right now, but my throat suddenly felt tight.
“Eight… millimeter.”
“Wrong. Takes 7.62.”
“Modify it and you can feed it anything.”
“Well, true enough.”
America had invented the Gatling, but when it came to light machine guns it had lagged behind rifles and pistols. Then the country entered the European war and suddenly needed them. So it bought Chauchats by the shipload from its French allies.
Which meant the weapon in her hands had almost certainly been smuggled onto the black market not long ago.
Anyway.
“Those guys just going to leave it like that? If they’re gangsters this could get messy.”
“Opposite. If they were real gangsters they’d avoid this place. It’s the ones who don’t know anything that act brave. But what’s with your face?”
She asked as she lifted the machine gun.
I pointed at the scarf wrapped tightly around her own face.
“You’re one to talk.”
“I have a reason.”
“Everyone has a reason.”
Probably burn scars like her grandfather’s from some explosion. No need to pry.
She didn’t press either. Instead her voice turned light, almost amused.
“Anyway. Don’t know who you’re planning to assassinate, but good luck.”
So the old man had told her. About the IRA secret agent cover.
Clang.
The iron door shut and the brief conversation ended.
I dragged the box out of the alley.
I’d expected the punks to be waiting, but they didn’t even have that much spine.
Carrying weapons thirty minutes home on foot felt wrong, and a crowded streetcar was out of the question.
Expensive, but I flagged down a passing freight wagon.
“Seventy-sixth and Forsyth.”
“That’ll be sixty cents!”
Robbery. An automobile would have cost double, so ordinary folks never even dreamed of it.
I loaded the box into the cargo bed and climbed up beside the driver.
“Hold tight! Hyah!”
Clop-clop, clop-clop.
An age when automobiles and horse carts still shared the streets.
An age when you could haul a rifle and ammunition home in a grocery crate in broad daylight, and a woman could suddenly appear with a light machine gun.
“Pretty fine times, aren’t they?”
“Optimistic passenger you’ve got there. Hyah!”
It was past eight in the evening when I reached the tenement. Roa came barreling out and immediately inspected the box.
“Gro-ce-ries…? Big brother, Roa just ate but Roa can eat again!”
“Yeah, this isn’t food.”
“But it says grocery box right on it?”
“It’s not.”
“Open it. Roa only believes what she sees with her own eyes.”
This family. Nowhere to hide even one box.
We needed to move soon.
I shoved a book into her hands to distract her. She read the title and shook her head hard left and right.
“Roa doesn’t care about the internal situation of the German Empire.”
“You might change your mind once you read it.”
I forcibly nodded her head up and down.
Mother, peeling potatoes, looked over.
“By the way, son. Leo and Marcus were looking for you all day. You’re going to the company tomorrow, right?”
“I’ll be on a business trip for a while. It’ll take at least two days.”
Thud.
The potato Mother dropped hit the floor. Roa scurried over, blowing on the precious food and setting it carefully back on the table.
“Is throwing away potatoes allowed or not?”
“She just made a mistake.”
Mother turned back to me.
“It could finish early, couldn’t it?”
“No. Minimum two days.”
“All right. I understand.”
She answered while staring a hole through the box.
“Just a simple trip. Nothing complicated.”
“That’s a relief, then.”
If she opened that box she’d have a heart attack. Good thing the nails were driven in tight.
The old man had some sense.
Or maybe it was the woman who’d done it.
“Bro, stand right there for a second.”
“You try to put me in a headlock and you’re dead.”
Liam smacked his lips and tried to bait Roa instead.
“Little sister, come play with big brother.”
“Roa is reading. The internal situation of the German Empire is worse than our house, it says.”
Impressive. She’d only read the first page and already grasped the core of the book.
Anyway, Roa was the same as ever, and lately Liam’s shoulders looked a good deal lighter. The dark cloud that used to follow him around had cleared, and he’d even started joking more.
“What happened to the kid who was hassling you at school?”
“If you’re curious, stand over here.”
Looks like that particular problem was solved.
Next morning.
Mother left for the company, Roa went to the neighbors, Liam headed to school. And me—
“Your instructor has urgent business. Training is suspended for the time being.”
“Ohhh!”
“Yes!”
Day four of training, so only four remained: Gavin, Corey, and trainees Three and Five from the neighboring gang.
While we did PT in the empty lot, a sudden wave of existential absurdity hit me.
A basement shooting range two floors under Hell’s Kitchen. A place right in the middle of a dense city where you could fire as much as you wanted.
When would I ever earn enough to build a building with something like that underneath? Or maybe I’d have to rent space the way old Gunsmith did.
I finished the session lost in those thoughts. It was around noon.
Only Gavin and I stayed behind, eating bread for lunch.
“Boss Tanner’s got a boat ready for you at East River Pier 35. The one called the O’Neill.”
“And the captain?”
“River Grey. Navajo-Irish mix. He’s been working hand-in-glove with the Marginals for years.”
“Meaning they used to smuggle together.”
“Pretty much.”
After finishing lunch and the conversation with Gavin, I went home.
I packed for the trip, grabbed the box, and was stepping out of the tenement when Leo and Marcus burst up from the basement like they’d been waiting.
“Gotcha!”
“Lazy bum skipping work!”
“I’ve been working like a dog, what are you talking about.”
They spotted the box and immediately started making a fuss about me branching into the grocery business.
A wagon happened to roll past just then. I raised my hand. Both of them recoiled in horror.
“You’re not seriously about to ride one of those carriages the rich people use?”
“No way. Put your hand down, are you crazy?”
“East River Pier 35.”
“That’ll be fifty cents.”
“Whoa, he actually got on.”
I loaded the box into the cargo bed and climbed up next to the driver, then waved to Leo and Marcus.
“I’m off to make some money, boys. Listen to Mother and work hard.”
Clop-clop, clop-clop.
The wagon pulled away. Leo and Marcus flipped me off and vanished back into the tenement basement.
A short while later I arrived at Pier 35 on the East River in Manhattan.
Dockworkers hurried in every direction. I threaded between them toward the landing.
The boat marked O’Neill was a small fishing vessel used for hauling fish and seafood.
Carrying the box and my bag, I called the captain’s name quietly at the bow.
“River Grey!”
A man in his thirties appeared on deck, scrubbing his face with one hand.
Sun-darkened skin, curly hair, a scruffy beard. Captain River Grey. His mother’s Navajo blood showed strongly; he looked more Indian than Irish.
“Come aboard.”
I loaded the box and climbed on. River was already working the sail, shouting the whole time.
“Everyone thinks steamships and motorboats are the height of modern vessels! That’s talk from people who don’t know shit about boats!”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I didn’t even think steamships and motorboats were particularly advanced. Yet River, for reasons of pure pride, would not stop praising sail.
“How can coal and oil compare to the wind the Lord himself made? Wind is infinite energy and costs nothing! Breakdowns too! Engine goes, you bleed money and sit dead in the water till some engineer shows up!”
In short, sailboats were cheaper. That was the real point.
“Want the honest answer?”
River whipped his head around and glared. The look said he had just finished a grand speech and had zero interest in hearing any rebuttal.
I ignored it and kept going.
“Forget everything else. What’s the single biggest advantage of a sailboat?”
“What—what is it?”
“Almost no noise. Imagine moving at night in a motorboat or steamship. Even sleeping coast guard would wake up and come running.”
In other words, the perfect smuggling vessel.
Captain River Grey grabbed a hanging stay with one hand and walked over. He stuck out his hand, smiling broadly.
“First time anyone’s ever recognized what this boat’s really worth.”
The previous passengers must have been real assholes. Instant rapport with Captain River Grey.
The East River runs between Manhattan and Brooklyn. The O’Neill headed north along it.
“By the way, you loaded weapons and bombs onto my boat. Planning to fight a war by yourself? Even the White Hand boss who got you the bombs was thrown at first.”
Tanner Smith had been surprised twice by my plan.
First, that I was going alone.
You’re crazy. You’re going to handle the Italians by yourself? That even make sense?
Safer alone if I don’t want a knife in the back.
…I’ll give you points for guts, at least.
And the second time—
What really shocked Tanner was the extra hardware I asked for on top of my personal weapons.
Ten rifles, a hundred rounds, and bombs? You said you were going alone—what do you need all that for? You got helpers I don’t know about?
Exactly. If even you think that, you think the White Hand won’t?
To make sure, I told Tanner not to source the weapons and bombs himself. Make Dini Meehan provide them.
Then they’ll never believe I’m alone. Even if they want to double-cross me, it’ll feel too risky.
If they still tried something stupid, there would be no future partnership with Dini Meehan. Better to wipe out the White Hand entirely.
I told Captain River Grey to leave the weapons in the hold alone.
“So why load them at all?”
“Just in case. Keep them hidden until the job’s finished.”
The captain didn’t need the whole plan. His job was to load and unload people and contraband. Do that well and nothing else mattered.
Still, he seemed worried. He scratched his chin and offered advice.
“I’ve met the White Hand boss a few times. Dini Meehan’s got the savagery of a wolf and the cunning of a fox. Watch yourself.”
“I heard he’s got plenty of charisma too.”
“That he does. Other bosses just give orders. Dini works right alongside his men.”
Whether it was an armed truck robbery or a fight with another gang, he was there with the rank and file.
That kind of lead-by-example leadership was what held the White Hand together so tightly.
How long it would last was another question.
While we talked, we reached the destination—the junction of the East River and Newtown Creek, which cuts into Brooklyn. About a kilometer and a half south of the Italian gang’s smuggling warehouse.
The boat moored at a small landing that touched the shore, and we unloaded the cargo.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Good luck.”
Captain River turned the O’Neill around and left with the weapons the White Hand had supplied still aboard.
I took the box to a small hotel I’d already scouted—the New East Inn—and checked in.
Leaving the heavy gear, I pocketed a pistol and scope and headed for the Italian warehouse.
If I only wanted them dead I could do it right now.
But the real prize was the contraband inside the warehouse.
And I had to keep the possibility of betrayal by the White Hand firmly in mind. Tanner and I had already reconnoitered, but that wasn’t enough. I needed two full days watching how many men were there, how they rotated, how they moved.
I would study the warehouse and its surroundings and prepare the sniper nest in advance.
Two days later the preparations were complete. I collected the weapons from the hotel and moved to the position I’d chosen—roughly eight hundred meters from the warehouse.
I fitted the suppressor to the rifle, checked the men through the scope, and waited for the right moment.