Map of Sanguine Springs

  Sanguine Springs

  Tony Dalotto was drunk. Stinking, gloriously drunk. And for very good reason. His night had been a disaster—his sagra cut short, the guests leaving early after the Myles girl flounced away. A failed, flaccid affair. Wallowing alone, formal shirt discarded in favor of a ribbed wife beater and his bathrobe, Tony drowned his sorrows in the open bottles of wine.

  And now? Sinatra crooned away as Tony lay snoring on his overstuffed leather couch. Passed out, feet up, dreaming of life before Sanguine Springs. Dreaming of family. Of the Family.

  He was sitting at a table, large and wooden, its polished surface reflecting the gray skies visible through the late afternoon windows. His ex-wife was there, seated by his side. Matilda Fusco, chins wobbling as she smiled up at her father, ensconced at the head of the table.

  His father-in-law, and employer, Don Al Fusco. He was speaking, rattling on in a drone Tony could not comprehend. While he talked, the Don cracked walnuts, taking them in hand and squeezing until the shells gave way. Through it all, the older man looked at Tony, his gray eyes boring into Tony's soul, light glinting off his diamond-spangled fingers as they crushed the shells to powder.

  A shudder rolled through Tony's sleeping body. Only a dream, he knew it subconsciously. Matilda would just as soon plunge a knife between his ribs as smile at him. And the Don's language would not be so subtle as a pile of pulverized nuts. Not after his failed power play and hasty departure.

  He rolled on the sofa, the squeaking leather drowning out the stereo as he reached down to scratch his stomach. Another noise joined the chorus, a sound not in dreams, but in the real world. An unknown.

  Tony forced an eye open. His retinas ached, ablaze with light. The room spun. "Wazzgon'on?" he asked.

  The floor creaked.

  Someone was in his house.

  He heard it again. A footstep. Tony tried, and failed, to sit up. His head ached. It was too damned bright. Somewhere outside, one of his neighbors was using a nail gun. Had he slept until day?

  "Who's there?" he asked, his tongue slowed and slurred by the wine.

  The footsteps stopped.

  "Verdammt, dafür hab ich keine Zeit!" The intruder muttered.

  Matthias?

  With Herculean effort, Tony reached up, wrapping his fat knuckles over the top of the sofa. He pulled, hoisting himself upright, like Sisyphus summiting the hill. He squinted bloodshot eyes against the lights. There, beside his fireplace, he saw a shadowy form, arms outstretched, reaching up.

  "I said what's goin' on here?" Tony croaked.

  The figure ignored him, snatching something from its place above the mantel. A shotgun. Break action. Double barreled. Made in Italy.

  "Mitts off, Fritz," Tony growled. It was more bluster than bite. He started to rise from his seat, stomach lurching. Outside, a second nail gun joined the first.

  The intruder ignored Tony completely. He broke the gun open, examining the chambers. Both empty. He grunted, then grabbed a heavy red box from its place beside the stereo. Shotshells. Nine rounds of steel bearings per pull of the trigger.

  "Wise to leave it unloaded," the intruder said, plucking two shells from the box as he spoke, "but leaving the ammunition out beside the weapon is not so smart." He slid the rounds into the twin chambers, closed the weapon with a click, then strode past the still-rising Tony.

  His eyes finally adjusted, Tony saw the intruder's face. "Matthias?!"

  "I'd lay low," Matthias replied, drawing back both hammers of the shotgun. "Things are getting…kinetic."

  As if on cue, the nail guns sounded again, this time with greater intensity. Tony's gaze followed his departing neighbor through the high front door. He saw through his windows the darkness pressed back by intense floodlights.

  Not day, but night. Not nail guns.

  Gunfire.

  "Maledetto. She found me," Tony moaned. He rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand. A bad dream. A nightmare. Worse.

  Matilda.

  Tony glanced at the mantel, now shotgun free. Heard shattering glass amid the night-time gunfire.

  The past had caught up with Tony Dalotto.

  He was going to need a gun.

  Alone, Tony made for his bedroom, bathrobe flapping like a vengeful seagull. The wine messed with his balance. The hallway spun like a carnival ride. Ahead, the bedroom door lurched. Tony fumbled for the latch and bobbed inside.

  "It was a mistake," he muttered. "I didn't mean to keep it." Walking with an outstretched hand along the wall, brushing against his full-length mirror, till he came to the closet. The knob disagreed, the door sticking. Tony yanked. The door flew open with a bang.

  Tony closed his eyes, took a breath, and reached into the rack of hanging clothes. Metal rang as hangers slid along a steel bar, exposing a bulky case on the floor behind them.

  Tony's drunkenness faded. Not gone, but compartmentalized, crowded out by a recognition. Inside the closet, as in his dreams, Tony kept a piece of himself. Buried, purposefully forgotten, and gathering dust.

  He reached in, grabbing the case's worn handle with a now steady hand. With a whisper of cloth he pulled the violin case free from the shadows. Tony carried it to the bed, setting it down on the quilted moose-spangled sheets. His thumbs found the clasps, and flicked them open with a loose jangling noise. Tony opened the case. His face tightened into a smile as he peered inside.

  "Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about." he reached inside, right hand wrapping around the wooden broomstick handle, left hand supporting the forgrip. A Thompson, left by his father, a gun older than talking pictures. An elegant weapon from a more…organized time. Despite its age, the museum piece was illegal, barred not only by New York’s SAFE Acts but by the United States government itself. An original, the Thompson was fully automatic, capable of unloading a hailstorm of lead in seconds. It was also in perfect working order.

  “I’ll show’m.” He pulled back on the charging handle atop the Thompson, locking it in place, before reaching again into the violin case. Nestled inside were a couple stacks of crisp banknotes, a bundle of alternate ID cards, a diamond ring on a golden chain—and a hodgepodge of loaded magazines. Twenty round sticks. Forty round sticks. Another, heavier, round as a bundt cake. Tony grabbed the drum magazine. He hefted it,feeling all the weight of its hundred hollow point rounds.

  Hands steady now, Tony slid the drum mag into place, felt the solid click as it locked into place. The bald man flipped the fire selector backwards. Typewriter mode. The gun was live, ready to fire. So was Tony.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  He reached into the violin case, stuffed the cash and IDs into his pants pocket, then grabbed the golden chain. He held it close, staring at the diamond studded ring it bore, before slipping the jewelry around his neck. Time to go to war.

  He still didn't know what was going on. Not really. Didn’t know who had come to claim Matilda’s contract on him. But as he walked from his bedroom down the hallway, hearing the sound of gunfire outside and a bullet or two striking the exterior of his house, his blood boiled.

  “I don’t care if she’s the don’s daughter. I thought vows was supposed to mean something.”

  As Sinatra warbled on in the background, Tony Dalotto stalked through his living room, a diamond shining as it bounced on the ribbed cotton of undershirt. He wrenched open the front door and stepped into the night, bathrobe billowing around him. Cold air and floodlights slapped him in the face, forcing Tony’s eyes into a squint.

  He scanned the yard. Empty. No one visible, at least.

  Then the gunfire erupted again—sharp cracks splitting the darkness. His gaze snapped toward the tree line. Shadows flitted between trunks, quick, purposeful, and professional.

  A hit squad.

  Tony's lips curled into a grin. At least she wanted to finish him properly—a real team of pros. It was almost touching, like she still considered him a threat, instead of a pretender, snatching power that wasn’t his to take.

  A laugh bubbled up from Tony's chest, wild and uncaged. "C’mon, you bastardi!" he hollered into the night, leveling his Thompson at the last shadow he'd seen. His finger crushed the trigger. The Thompson roared to life. It chewed up the darkness and spat out flaming thunder.

  "Stand and deliver," Tony shouted, swinging the barrel toward another darting form. He squeezed again painting the yard orange with gunfire. “Give my regards to Matilda. Tell her this is what happens when you cross “Sweet Tony” Dalotto!"

  Again and again he fired. Laughing between bursts. Wine? What wine? The fog had burned away completely. Party? What party? The sagra and its failures meant nothing now.

  He wasn't sorry anymore. His head didn't hurt. For the first time in far too long, Tony Dalotto—disgraced soldato and former heir to the Albany Mafia—felt alive.

  Rigel blew steam. He sat cross-legged, resting his back against the side of the team's getaway van. Overhead, the moon drowned stars in its silver light. Rigel did not notice. He slouched, bored, his elbows on supportive knees, waiting.

  Just a few feet in front of him sat the Browning. The M2, known to grunts in the US Army as Ma Deuce, rested on her bipod, barrel pointed toward the center of the town. It waited too.

  Rigel tracked the movements of his comrades, peering into the woods with night-vision-capable binoculars.

  The night vision was turned off. Useless now, even before the firing started, ever since the floodlights came on. It irked him. The feature added weight to the binos, but they were all he had.

  Johansen's team fired again, splitting their attention between the armed resident and floodlights. Rigel watched as another light winked out. Once enough of the floods were out, the night vision might be useful again, but for now all he could do was watch and listen.

  He wore Peltors, snug to his ears. Not for hearing protection, but for communication. The electronic muffs had been programmed to Horus's trunked radio system. The right ear carried audio from Johansen's southern contingent, while the left remained tuned in to Lukas's command. A stereo-mixed feed of the private frequency the two leaders shared between themselves, separate from the channels they used to direct their squads. All of the commands, none of the chatter. So far, both team leaders seemed to be in chaos.

  The small town provided more resistance than expected. The floods had been one thing. Armed resistance was another. Controlled, precise fire. The shooter had killed one of their own before melting away into the darkness.

  Rigel's scalp itched. The defender was still out there. He imagined crosshairs centered on his own skull. He shook it off. Unknowns. Just another part of the job.

  Like the second gunman. Rigel watched him through the binos. Backlit by his open doorway—a bald, pudgy resident, round gut protruding from an open bathrobe. The man's face glowed orange with muzzle flash. From his hip the man fired a tommy gun.

  A Thompson. Wouldn't mind that. Rigel smiled. A worthy trophy. A fan of war movies, Rigel had a soft spot for vintage weaponry. It was why he loved his Ma Deuce.

  Since its debut in 1933, the M2 had been the deciding factor in more conflicts than any gun—save perhaps the Russian-made Mosin-Nagant rifle. Belt-fed. Chambered in .50 BMG. A heavy machine gun capable of chewing through engine blocks, reducing stone walls to gravel, knocking planes from the sky, or giving the enemy an all-around bad day.

  A call broke through on Rigel's right ear. "We're pinned down," Johansen said. "Some drunk who watched The Godfather too many times. This is not going the way we planned."

  "The plan didn’t include firing blindly like amateurs," Lukas retorted from the left.

  "Your men fired first. We were covering you."

  "I wish you hadn't," Lukas replied.

  "So do I," Johansen snapped. "Gavin is dead now."

  "It happens," said Lukas. "It'll happen again if we don't regain control."

  "This is more resistance than the target package indicated," Johansen countered. “I can’t confirm that the first shooter is dead with Brando out here taking potshots at our shadows.”

  Rigel whistled. He agreed, but would never have said it to Lukas's face. Their commander had a temper. He was doing his best, staying cool—but not as good as Matthias would've been. I wish he were here tonight, thought Rigel.

  "We need to pin down the Thompson gunner," said Lukas. "I'm at the edge of the target house, ready to round the corner and enter. Draw his fire."

  "Roger that."

  Three rifles on the town's southern side opened up. The operators leaned from their trees' coverage and fired pell-mell toward the man. Through his scope, Rigel could see the town's resident duck behind a stone doorway which shielded him from the blast of bullets.

  Meanwhile, two shadowy figures ran up the steps and across the wooden deck of the target's house. "I'm on the porch," Lukas announced. "Cobb is with me. We're breaching and entering. Johansen? After we enter, count to five, then get your men under cover from Rigel's position."

  "Sir," said Johansen.

  "Rigel." Rigel was startled to hear his name. So startled he did not reply.

  "Rigel, do you copy?" Lukas repeated.

  Rigel sat up straight. "Yes, commander, I am here."

  "Give Johansen and his team a moment to take cover, then I want you to open up."

  "Sir," said Rigel.

  "Soften the resistance. Put the target's neighbors to bed. Permanently."

  "Yes, commander," said Rigel. He shivered, and not from the cool air.

  A moment later a shotgun barked, then again. Deadbolt and knob. The two shadows trundled into the house.

  Rigel counted to five. Radio silence. Ten. Nothing, then a voice. "Dammit." Johansen.

  "What?" Rigel asked.

  "We still can't move. Not with Scarface over there." A pause.

  "Go prone. It will have to do." Lukas's voice ripped back into the channel.

  "Sir, I can't. Johansen's men are in range."

  "Keep the rounds above waist high," Lukas replied. "We're in the target domicile. I'll have your ass if I don't hear that fifty cal before we neutralize the package."

  "Wait, wait." Johansen's voice, frantic. Muted gunfire sounded from the town—covering fire to push back the defenders. A tense pause, then again. "Alright. We're low, against trees."

  "May the gods be with you," Rigel replied. A joke. An atheist, Rigel rolled his eyes at crucifixes and Saint Christopher's medallions. Feeble Galilean on a cross. If gods there were, then surely they were built like men, with passions and appetites to match. Olympus. Valhalla. Now those were gods.

  No, he didn't believe. But tonight, he hoped that whatever gods there were would watch his comrades, keep them safe from the impending onslaught of lead.

  Rigel grabbed the M2 by its paired wooden handles, crouching to draw a bead with the Browning's long-range sight. The whole town lay open before him—except the target house. The Tommy gunner was inside, out of Rigel's view. There were too many covering trees to simply target the house. He'd need to take play lumberjack first.

  Rigel lined the front post up with the center of a towering pine. First order? Clear some of the brush. Afterwards, he would rake the domiciles with lead. Holding the handles firm, Rigel pressed down on the butterfly trigger. A stream of thunder poured into the town, muzzle flash and echo bouncing off the surrounding trees. Rigel moved the Browning like a saw, focusing on the lodgepole's trunk. He smiled.

  It would fall soon. Timber! After that? He'd take out the bathrobe bum with the tommy gun. A clear shot.

  He fired, deaf to the roaring weapon. Deaf to the tine of brass, the clatter of spent links on gravel. He rode the wave. As the M2 shook his frame, a snatch of poetry rattled loose from Rigel's mind. Pithy, and ironic—an artifact of an eclectic education.

  Whatever happens, we have got the Maxim gun, and they have not.

  He smiled. Swap the African spearmen for armed yokels, and the pieces fit. Rigel craved the Thompson, but it was hardly an even match. It was a fight between Tommy and Ma Deuce—and she would rain hell on earth to save her boys. Even if it killed them.