Wooden Nickels: White Lightning Series, Book 1 Page 8

  She took a couple steps toward the shack, when her eye caught some movement.

  She froze.

  The shadows had grown long, and the cobalt sky was high overhead with the first stars popping into life above. If she didn’t move, she might not be easily seen. And so, Hattie stood stiff as a statue, her eyes glued to the shack.

  More movement, and a scurry near the eaves.

  Hattie released a breath and swore to herself as a fat raccoon bustled along the edge of the tin roof, clambering down the side of the front posts without any sense of hurry. Just as her heartbeat settled in her ears, she heard a new sound. She cocked her head to the water. The chug of a diesel engine inched into her hearing.

  The Solomons Island Boys had arrived early, after all.

  Turning, Hattie bustled back up to the fishing village, slipping inside the ice house. The cork lining in the walls proved to be a problem, as she couldn’t easily spy through gaps in the exterior siding. Stepping back out, she moved for the shack adjacent. Once inside, she breathed easier…literally. The fish odor was much milder here. As the darkness of night spilled into the clearing, she found she could see just fine through the wide gaps in the wood planking.

  Voices called from the waterside. Shouts of names, expletives, and grunts of exertion. At last, she spotted four young men doubled over, rolling barrels up the center of the gravel path. Most of the barrels had picked up enough mud to put any discerning customer off. But as they rolled them into a neat line not far from Hattie’s hiding spot, she spotted the heads of each barrel unsullied. All four bore a wood-burned brand. DF-WV.

  The brand was ornate in a folksy way, with swirls at the ends of each letter. Whoever had wrought the iron that made those brands was either very proud or incredibly bored.

  A fifth figure marched up the gravel path, a wide-brimmed leather hat still covering his face.

  “Someone wipe that shit off! These are city folk.”

  Hattie balled a fist as the face of Little Teague turned in her direction with a disapproving wince. So, Little Teague had come to this drop himself.

  The Solomons Island Boys busied themselves trying to clean off the barrels, serving only to spread the mud more evenly along them, as well as their clothes. One of the Boys stepped up to Little Teague, his head moving left and right.

  “Boss?”

  “What?” Little Teague spat.

  “Want me to clear the camp?”

  Hattie’s stomach flipped.

  Teague snickered. “What do you want to clear? It’s just a fishing camp. No one uses this site after hours.”

  “Word’s out that the Fed’s are—”

  “The Feds are chasing their tails down at the Outer Banks. Got word two days ago from Charleston. All kinds of headache down their way.”

  “You sure?”

  Teague cast an eye in a slow circle, taking in the buildings all around.

  Hattie eased away from the crack in the wall.

  “I’m sure,” Teague announced. “Bounce on up the drive. Keep an eye out for the Richmond boys.”

  Teague watched him leave then fished a cigarette from a tin in his shirt pocket and lit it. He smoked with a hand on his hip, turning his back to Hattie. The barrels stood in a neat line not far from an abandoned cart that was missing a wheel. The cart looked old, probably from the original site just like the flame-licked shack down by the water.

  Teague’s eye fell on the cart at the same time. He snapped his fingers and pointed to it.

  “Horace! Go check that buggy. Save us a heap of trouble if we can get these damn barrels outta the mud.”

  One of his men abandoned mud duty and inspected the old cart. He returned with a shake of his head.

  “Wheel’s busted. Wood looks dry rotted. No use to us.”

  No use to them, Hattie thought. But maybe some use to her.

  The gang lost their fervor for cleaning, and by the time Teague had finished his cigarette, they had all taken seats atop the barrels.

  “Get your asses off that hooch!” Teague bellowed.

  None of them budged.

  “Useless little beet-eaters, all of you!”

  One or two chuckled, and even Teague shook his head in silent mirth. This was so different from what Hattie was used to. They acted less like desperate businessmen, and more like…brothers.

  After a long space of waiting, Hattie crouched down and massaged her calves. There were no chairs or benches in this shack, and she didn’t want to drop her seat into week-old fish guts. Before long, a whistle called from up the road, and Teague snapped to life. He made a cranking motion with his finger, and they all got to their feet.

  In minutes, the thrum of a truck engine filtered through the wood planks. She could feel the ground vibrate. The thrum became a crunching of gravel. A wash of light swept across the space between shacks, and a truck eased into view. It made a half-circle, turning its tailgate to the barrels.

  The engine killed, and four men stepped out of the truck. Hattie recognized two of them from her business with the Upright Citizens the previous week.

  “Four?” the Richmond driver shouted. “Thought we were set for six.”

  Little Teague stepped up and offered a hand to shake.

  The driver shook it briskly, then nodded at the barrels. “So?”

  Teague answered, “Two barrels were busted in some sorta hanky-panky with Vito’s boys. They’re a loss.”

  The driver eyed Teague hard, then shrugged. “Fine, but we contracted for six.”

  Teague held up a hand. “The Crew says you contracted for four barrels, so don’t go shorting me.”

  The Upright Citizens turned toward Teague, postures stiff.

  Teague’s boys stepped around the truck, half-surrounding them.

  The driver coughed, then shrugged. “That’d better be some smooth as silk moonshine for what we’re paying.”

  “I don’t care what it tastes like, as long as you pay me,” Teague replied.

  The tension eased a little, and the Upright Citizens reached for the barrels to load onto the truck, swearing as their hands came away smeared in mud. A quick exchange of words ensued, but Hattie’s eyes were on the busted cart just beyond the barrels.

  They were expecting six barrels, not four.

  Hattie lifted her fingers up to the wood panels, testing out the distance to that cart. She pinched the light just a little…just enough to feel out the distance.

  She could barely make it.

  Had to get closer.

  Pushing lightly onto the shack door, Hattie eased it open. The loud conversation helped hide the noise, and she stepped into the darkness of night on cat’s feet. Foot by foot, she slipped in a wide arc down toward the water, and into the trees behind the fishing village.

  She had to hurry. There were only four barrels. If she didn’t get the pinch off before the Richmond boys got in their trucks, the opportunity would be lost. And they might not be in business long enough to see another.

  Hattie pressed her back against the shack nearest the busted cart. She sucked in several breaths, then reached into the air with her fingers.

  Pinching the light surrounding the shack and the wagon, she extended the illusion as far as she felt was safe. Often times she didn’t choose the specifics of her powers’ effects. But she’d learned how to test the cost of her power. Depending on how long these gangsters took to see the illusion she had spun, it could be very costly indeed.

  Hattie gripped the illusion with her fingers, sucking in breath after breath as the power tore her insides. Pain lanced up and down her midsection. A trickle of blood fell from her nose.

  And she listened for some sign that they’d even noticed that what had been an old broken cart just moments ago now contained a tarp that almost, but not quite, covered two barrels bearing a DF-WV brand.

  Nausea filled her throat. Her head spun in tiny starts.

  She bit down on her bottom lip and closed her eyes, just listening.

&nbs
p; “Alright,” Teague shouted as a tailgate slapped shut and bolted, “that’s that.”

  “Here,” the Richmond voice replied. “Do me the courtesy of counting it after we leave.”

  “I suppose I will.”

  A door to the truck clanked.

  Damn. They were leaving.

  Hattie whimpered as her fingers gnarled from the pain.

  “Hold on,” a voice said. It sounded close. Too close.

  Had she been spotted?

  Footsteps slipped through the mud nearby, and she nearly dropped her illusion to give herself at least two seconds’ time to flee.

  “What the hell are these?” the Richmond driver shouted.

  Hattie released a tight breath and sucked in another.

  Teague grumbled behind the corner of the shack, but she couldn’t hear what he’d said.

  The driver pressed, “Are…are those the two barrels, you side-dealing sonuvabitch?”

  A grin fluttered onto Hattie’s lips.

  They’d taken the bait!

  Teague coughed his way through several fits and starts before saying, “That cart was empty!”

  “Don’t look empty now, dammit!”

  “I swear to Christ God, there are only four barrels!”

  A grunt sounded, with some shuffling.

  Car doors clattered.

  And then, a noise that broke Hattie directly out of her light pinch.

  Gunfire.

  She released the illusion and dropped to her knees, covering her ears. War cries and pop-pops of gunfire filled the night air. A figure stepped past the corner of the shanty…one of Teague’s men. He held a revolver in an outstretched hand, squeezing off two shots before a whizz sounded, and he staggered backward into a pine trunk.

  His throat burst into a plume of blood, and he slid down the tree. His eyes swiveled toward Hattie, and he lifted a brow before his eyes lost all focus.

  Hattie slapped hands over her mouth, trying not to gasp audibly. She’d just watched a man die in front of her. The illusion was only supposed to complicate Teague’s drop, and best case scenario, his business. She knew the Richmond gangsters would be angry, but never expected it to escalate this far and this fast. She’d never wanted this to happen. People were dying!

  Pressing her back against the shack, Hattie blinked at the gunfire on the other side of the fragile structure. The wood near her face popped into splinters as a bullet flew directly through both of the shack’s walls. This was no safe hiding place. She needed to get out of the range of these bullets. Leaning forward into a crouch, she crawled on all fours into a tuft of tall grass between the clearing and the woods. Even as visions of the man’s dying gaze lingered in her mind, her instincts drove her to crawl on toward safety. She had to get the hell out of there.

  Hattie pulled herself upright with the aid of a tree trunk, then bustled toward the water’s edge. The woods remained thick as she made alarming speed through the darkened forest. The trees cleared abruptly at the shore, and Hattie took a quick look left and right to gain her bearings. She’d popped out of the forest just east of the near-burned shack. The gunfire had faded somewhat in her retreat, but the noise grew more sporadic…and closer.

  Hattie gambled on making a break across the clear space behind the old building, but jammed her feet into the mud to stop herself as three of the Solomons Island Boys appeared from the clearing at break-neck pace. Teague, himself, brought up the rear, gun blazing back toward the Upright Citizens.

  “Inside!” he bellowed, and the first of his two surviving companions rushed for the scorched oak door, gripping it and tugging hard. It flew open without resistance, and he waved the second man inside.

  Teague was peering over his shoulder to check on his men, then he spun to the left, lifting his arm in a painful shrug. A line of red sliced across his shirt sleeve where a bullet had just grazed him. He released a string of profanities, then fired back until his gun was empty. Tossing it aside, he turned for the shack.

  Hattie watched as he strode forward. The ground beneath her feet bubbled, and she pulled her boots out of the mire, hopping back toward the pine needles. But even the forest carpet seemed to shift. A low rumble met her ears, rising like a train approaching from the distance. But there were no train tracks here.

  She reached for the nearest pine, which shivered under her palm.

  Screams and gunfire erupted inside the shack.

  Hattie turned back to find Teague’s face bathed in a dull red glow. What was going on? What the hell was happening in there? She followed his shocked expression to the old fire-licked building. That red light seeped from between the cracks of the shack’s clapboards and the corners by the corrugated roofing. The rumble continued in earnest, making it hard to stand. A fire? Had someone been hiding in the shack this whole time?

  She moved out of the forest just a little, feet splashing back into the mud. The rumble faded rapidly, offering a brief second of absolute silence.

  Someone from the clearing shouted, “What the hell?”

  The silence melted in an instance as an earth-shattering roar thundered from inside the shack. A plume of flame mushroomed out the front door. Teague dropped to the ground just before the fire could catch his head. Hattie’s eyes shot wide. A bomb? What in the hell was going on in there?

  The two Solomons Island Boys tumbled out of the front door, their bodies aflame. They each shrieked and flailed, staggering away from the shack like flaming windmills. Their cries subsided as they succumbed, both dropping to the gravel dust lane leading back to the clearing. Teague pivoted on the ground, his eyes filled with terror. Footsteps pounded as the red glow advanced toward the door. Hattie sucked in a breath and watched from behind her pine trunk as a being—that was the only word that could describe it—emerged from the shack. It looked like an old man. He wore a wide-brimmed fisherman’s hat and a pair of overalls tucked into waders. He had a short white beard and wild salt-and-pepper hair that hadn’t been trimmed in ages.

  But his eyes… What should have been eyes were a pair of flaming pits. Yellow fire licked up from the sockets like under-trimmed candles. His hands were long and gnarled, and they too sported bright flames slipping from underneath the fingernails.

  Teague paddled away from the creature as it marched forward.

  The flaming being cocked its head at Teague, then threw back its head to release another roar. The sound echoed through Hattie’s mind, shaking her to the bone. It was loud enough for God to hear, even if he wasn’t listening.

  Loud pops rang out from the clearing, and the creature blinked and lifted its claws defensively. The Upright Citizens had gathered at the top of the path, their faces illuminated by the burning bodies of Teague’s men. They’d aimed their guns now at the creature instead of Teague.

  The bullets sprayed into the shack and against the creature’s skin. Tiny splashes of bright red dotted its face and torso, as if the bullets had melted in the air before they even made contact.

  The creature dropped to a bit of a crouch, its claws low to its knees, then swung them in wide arcs. As the claws sliced through the air, heat rippled and ignited within its clutches, producing balls of flame which flew up the path.

  The balls of fire tumbled into a long splash of flame, rolling across the mud and up one of the men’s legs. The others scrambled to the sides as the being hurled more fire through the night in their direction.

  Teague crab-walked backward to give more distance. Edging out from the trees, Hattie peered at Teague with the creature’s back to her. She gave Teague a wave, but he didn’t seem to notice her for the flaming monster standing over him. Hattie floundered. She couldn’t make a noise and risk capturing the creature’s attention. But with its focus on the gangsters up the lane, all Teague had to do was move to the woods, and the two of them could escape together.

  She crouched down, reaching to the high tide line to snatch a rounded stone. With a quick flick of her elbow, she slipped the stone toward Teague with the s
ame angle one would skip a stone on a pond.

  The stone slapped against a bit of gravel, tumbling into Teague’s lap.

  He gazed over, eyes growing yet wider as he stared at Hattie.

  The noise subsided. Teague’s face turned to look at the creature. It loomed over him, breathing hot jets of air from its nostrils. The creature balled a fist, and in a single furious motion, set the entire space before the shack aflame.

  Teague screamed in godless pain, rolling out of the ring of fire.

  The Richmond gang renewed their gunfire, and the creature pounded up the lane in a slow lope, sending balls of fire in their direction.

  Teague tumbled toward the water’s edge as his clothes smoldered. Hattie rushed toward him but stopped short of touching him. The water hissed and sizzled against his skin and what was left of his clothes.

  Teague gasped a wheezing breath. Splashing alongside him, Hattie reached for his head to keep it above the surface. The man’s face was charred, all his hair and eyebrows gone. The tip of his nose had smoldered flat, the skin crisping away. He coughed, and his lungs struggled to take in new breaths.

  Hattie’s tears fell onto his face like rain. “T—Teague?”

  He opened his eyes to her, shocking white and blue in contrast to his scorched flesh.

  “Malloy?” he whispered. “What…are you…?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  The gunfire subsided, replaced instead by screams up the lane.

  Hattie whispered, “I’ll get you to a hospital. I’ll…I’ll carry you. Get you fixed up.”

  He shook his head.

  “Yes,” she chided. “This is my fault. I’ll get you put straight. Just—”

  Teague lifted a shaking hand. His sleeve had burned away, leaving a red length of cooked skin.

  She followed his arm, and his hand…which was pointing at his own boat just a few yards away.

  Hattie bit down on her bottom lip, then nodded.

  “Alright. Let’s get you on your feet, then.”