she reminded him of his mother the last time he’d seen her.
“Where were you, Allister? We thought you were dead.”
“I’m sorry, Beth … I had to go.”
She nodded wordlessly, coming to his side. She looked down at their wheezing father, wiping her eyes.
“Why ...? Why did this happen?” he asked.
“Who knows?” Bethany sat down on the bed, putting Seamus’s withered hand in her own, stroking it slowly.
“Ma says he’d paid his debt to Boss Dakin. That should have been the end of it. But when Horace took over, he came for him, like he had a score to settle. He never said why. His gang strung Pa up at the marketplace, on the clock tower, for all to see. He was up there five minutes before anyone bothered to cut him down. Horace strung a dozen more like him all in one week. Everyone saw it, but no witnesses, of course.” Bethany looked back at him, but Caine looked away, his jaw clenching. Standing, he made for the door.
“Where you going? Ma will be home from her shift soon. She’ll want to know you’re alright,” she pleaded.
“I’m not alright, Beth. Not one whit.”
Caine walked the street, murder in his eyes. Despite the cold, the rage in him burned hotter than the power plant on the back of his armor. As it turned out, finding Horace was no challenge. A couple of wayward drunks were quick to point out he and his crew were at the Boiler Plate, as most nights, just as he had been when Caine had last seen him. Nearing the pub, he could hear the tune of a fiddler within, and a boisterous crowd singing along. Approaching the door, he drew his gun. Those few gathered by it marked him with fearful glances, and were quick to clear a path. All except one, that was. Even from his rage, he recognized Horace’s old enforcer, by the scarred hand he’d given him. To his credit, the big man stood his ground, even daring to reach for a weapon of his own.
Too late.
Three strides in, Caine exploded his rage forward. An arc of force threw the mobster back into the thick wooden doors, which in turn splintered like matchwood. Within the tavern, the fiddler stopped, and abruptly the roaring crowd fell silent.
Caine stepped over the shattered threshold and the unconscious gangster, passing stunned patrons that had been knocked back from the force of the impact.
“Horace!” He shouted over a bewildered crowd with eyes smoldering like embers. “I’m calling you out!” From the booth at the back, Horace sat, a serving girl on either arm. The mobster blinked, head cocked quizzically. In truth, Horace looked much as Caine had last seen him, no less the skull-faced villain than before. Yet somehow, he could not seem more different. Where Caine had once seen an adversary or a threat, he now saw only prey.
Gradually, Horace began to stir, his eyes squinting in recognition. “Sure, sure … I’m coming.” He shouted back peaceably, half speaking to the crowd. His crew watched him go, looking for the signal to act. He waved them off, stepping clear of the booth.
Caine nodded, and turned for the door. Across the hushed silence of the room, he heard the sound of a pistol being cocked.
He smiled.
Wheeling back on Horace in a blur, his weapon spat once, a thunderous roar in the enclosed space. Horace cried out in dismay as the shot knocked his weapon to the floor. Clutching his numbed hand, his eyes flashed darkly at Caine.
“You want to do this in here, eh? Right. Pick it up.” Caine holstered his weapon, crossing his arms as he did.
The mobster dove for the weapon, rolling behind one of his prized serving girls as she had hidden beneath an intervening table. Grabbing her about the neck, he pulled her up as a shield. Leaning out from behind her shoulder, he tried to put the gun on Caine once more.
Fire spat from Caine’s second pistol, followed by another thunderclap and a wreath of smoke. Horace released the girl and rolled on the floor in agony. His off-hand had been reduced to a tangle of ground meat, and spurted blood. Once again, Horace had dropped his pistol. Caine, meanwhile reloaded and re-holstered.
“PICK IT UP!” Caine barked, his rage boiling over.
Shaking with pain and anger, Horace reached for his pistol. Standing with great effort, he was panting with shock. Caine only watched him, arms crossed. A shaky arm raised the pistol to aim,