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  NIGHT CALL

  The Walking Shadows series

  Book One: Night Call

  The Walking Shadows

  NIGHT CALL

  Brenden Carlson

  Copyright © Brenden Carlson, 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Publisher: Scott Fraser | Acquiring editor: Rachel Spence | Editor: Allison Hirst

  Cover design and illustration: Sophie Paas-Lang

  Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Night call / Brenden Carlson.

  Names: Carlson, Brenden, author.

  Description: Series statement: The walking shadows

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190184353 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190184361 | ISBN 9781459745797 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459745803 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459745810 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8605.A7547 N55 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

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  For my grandparents, who made this all possible.

  Technological progress has merely provided us with more efficient means for going backwards.

  — Aldous Huxley

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  A NOTORIOUS WOMAN with whom I am well acquainted once told me, “Always strike a man when he is down. Give him no reason to think that he may stand and reciprocate.”

  As I lay on the asphalt, I considered myself lucky that no one was nearby, and luckier still that few people shared that principle.

  What should have been a simple drop down a garbage chute had ended badly. I’d been expecting to land in a pile of garbage — I didn’t mind what was in the bags, so long as it was soft — but instead, the curved handle of the trash bin had hit the right side of my spine, colliding with my ribs. Momentum had carried me farther, and I’d rolled to the left and tumbled out of the bin onto the asphalt.

  The sight of the Plate to the east, beyond the alleyway, indicated to me that I was still alive. There were worse things in this life, I supposed. The drop into the bin might have killed me, had the garbage chute not curved and subsequently slowed my fall.

  Something crashed and banged down the chute after me. My Diamondback revolver bounced off the overturned rubbish bin and landed square on my chest, reminding me to breathe as daggers of pain shot through my body.

  “Goddamn …”

  A few wheezy breaths later, oxygen filled my lungs once more. I forced my aching body to roll away from the building, away from the shouts of the men rushing down to find me. I wished there was time to relax, to look up at the night sky and the cathartic sight of the stars. That was the only good thing about being in Jersey.

  “He’s down there! Fuckin’ get him!”

  The screams brought my mind back to the now and my right hand to my revolver. An Automatic landed on the ground a stone’s throw from me, its legs screeching from the impact of the three-storey jump. It was a little over six feet in height, with gangly arms stronger than a man’s, a smooth humanoid body, and glowing red eyes that told me this wasn’t a factory-floor model. It was programmed to search and destroy. The Automatic straightened and ran toward me. Two pulls of my trigger made two fist-sized holes in the machine. Neural-Interface and servos fell out of its seared chassis.

  If these boys had one Red-eye, there was no doubt they had plenty more. I needed to get out of there. Fast.

  Even with my back in shambles, I found I could still walk. The passing cars didn’t quite drown out the sound of leather soles ringing against iron walkways: the hunters were on the move. I headed away from the sounds, down the alley to a small side street. I hoped it would prove to be a straight shot to the main street, where I’d parked my car. I needed a speedy getaway.

  I turned the corner and pressed my back against the wall, inching my way to the corner of the building. I allowed my head to leave the safety of cover for just a moment to scan the street. My senses immediately exploded: a car screeching, men screaming, and a cacophony of gunfire as .45-calibre rounds skipped across the concrete.

  “There’s the roach, get him!”

  I opened the chamber. Four rounds left and only God knew how many targets. I closed it and readied myself, puffing out my chest to try to crack my back. That fall had really affected my breathing. No using garbage chutes anymore.

  “You’re gunna pay for killin’ the boss, roach! Your little lady is next!”

  They wouldn’t expect me to start running across the road, I thought. They’d figure I would wait patiently for them to fill me with lead, perhaps.

  Switching the gun to my left hand and firing perpendicular to my path, I tried to lay down some covering fire for myself. The heated rounds were designed to kill Automatics, so they were overkill for flesh and bone.

  The traitorous mobsters were spreading out on the street; I had little time to aim. One round took out a leg, two hit the screeching car behind them, and the final bullet cut through a Tommy gun into an assailant’s chest. The others fired after me, unable to get a bead on me after I slipped into a nearby alley that ran between two apartment complexes. It was long enough to be a no man’s land between me and my pursuers.

  The job had called for only one corpse; the gunmen didn’t need to die, too. But neither did I need them following me around after tonight. I cracked the cylinder open and dropped the empties onto the concrete as I slammed myself into the wall for cover. The scattering shells sounded like wind chimes, though it was hard to hear with my deafened ears.

  The extra bullets were in my left pocket. Thankfully, I hadn’t landed on them during my fall — that would’ve hurt like hell. The Brunos’ footsteps got louder as I fed each round into the revolver. They were advancing slowly, firing into the alley now and then to see where I was, or maybe to intimidate me. But unlike them, I’d been in the War; being surrounded by machine gun fire was my bread and butter.

  Looking back over to the street, throug
h the buildings, I caught a glimpse of the Upper City. Its brightness was blinding even from here. Rotorbirds flew all around the mile-high buildings. The fluorescent and neon lights of the Plate glimmered above in contrast to the pitch black of the Lower City beneath. Jersey was a cesspit, but at least its sky hadn’t been stolen.

  The only illumination in the alleyway came from a lamppost a few yards away from me, directly in front of the building I had my back to. I pushed myself up tighter to the wall, hoping my body would disappear into the darkness and give me some edge in this fight. The single yellow bulb lit the frosted street and splayed light against the wall opposite me, guiding my eyes to where the Brunos would be coming from. A gust of cold wind hit my face and bare arms. I’d left my jacket at home … or maybe in the car? I wasn’t sure where I left things anymore. But adrenalin kept me warm.

  I carried my weapon in my right hand now, and I lifted it as I braced myself against the cool brick. All seven .38 rounds were ready to find places to park themselves. I pulled the hammer back, hearing the mechanisms inside switch. Just like a cowboy gun: single-action, built for speed.

  The three Brunos were well equipped, but stupid and blinded by rage as they appeared at the mouth of the alleyway. Maybe they were expecting to see me running farther down the alley, making it easy for them. They caught a glimpse of my gleaming steel a moment too late; my finger was faster than their arms. Moments later, they were lying on the bloody street, and another seven rounds were gone from my weapon.

  My head was rocking with the blasts, which had been amplified in the enclosed space.

  I walked up to the trio of corpses and reached down to grab the leader’s Tommy gun. The M1929 was a good advancement on the classic design of the submachine gun. Unfortunately for these boys, weapons had no loyalty. The gunman who’d been spitting out insults earlier was at my feet now. He looked like any Mafia Bruno — pale skin, thick beard, short hair, dark coat. His guts were spilling out, but he was still kicking.

  “You should be dead … asshole. You’re a roach, a bug to her. She don’t give a … shit about you. You killed your best chance … of getting out of this game …”

  “It’s Roche, you fuck.” I took the magazine out and used the last round to end his story with a period. Roach. The bastards were brave to be calling me that.

  I headed north to find my car. The sudden silence, calming and eerie, helped me to think as I walked.

  My burgundy Talbot was a bit scuffed up from the salt on the roads, but it still looked finer than any other car in this part of town. I opened the trunk, loaded my last seven rounds into my revolver, and threw it inside. I’d felt my trigger finger taking over, and I wanted to leave it to cool for a while.

  I got in the car, letting my body melt into the leather upholstery. Laying my head against the steering wheel, I felt the adrenalin pouring out of me, the heat radiating off my face. Pain came soon after, from the pulsing lump on my forehead. I heard a faint knocking on the hood of my car. Two knocks. Twice.

  I looked up, but there was no one there. Someone, however, had left me a gift in the form of a small envelope under the windshield wiper. It was unsealed, unsigned, and had some green sticking out of the flap. The street was well lit, but I didn’t bother looking around for the boys who’d dropped it; I knew that I wouldn’t see them. I reached out my open window and grasped the envelope tightly, then opened it to reveal a wad of cash: three thousand, as promised.

  “Damn, you’re fast,” I said to no one in particular.

  The Iron Hands had faith in me; that was why she was willing to pay big rainy day funds like this — or maybe she just didn’t mind paying extra to get traitors dealt with fast. Either way, job done, money paid. Since I was in Jersey, I had a friend to visit. Plus, I had to get far away from the Heights, else it wouldn’t be just the cops who would make my night hell.

  The Talbot was humming nicely as I rolled up to a small house on Palisade and parked near the front door. As I got out, I realized my back was still fucked from the fall into the garbage bin. I knocked, and seconds later, Patrick Sinclair cracked open the door, his brow furrowed.

  “El. You’re late.”

  “Had work to do. Scotch.”

  Sinclair opened the door wide and let me in. A couple boys from work were already there, sitting at the kitchen table. Sinclair placed a glass in my hand. Before drinking the amber liquid, I pressed the cool glass against my cheek, feeling the sting from the knuckle I took to the face.

  I kept playing the scenes over and over in my head to convince myself I’d gotten the job done: Getting caught and dragged in. Hiding my gun somewhere they wouldn’t look. Getting pulled up in front of the boss. Taking a bit of a beating while they pulled teeth for information — Bruno on the left, Red-eye on the right. Breaking Bruno’s arm. Throwing the machine off balance. Sending one bullet to the boss’s head. Getting out.

  The fire escape had been my first choice of exit, but because they’d been especially wary of me — I guessed they’d recognized me — the garbage chute had had to do. Boss killed, mess cleaned up, done deal. Still, I felt as if I was forgetting something …

  “Roach? You want a hand?”

  I lifted my eyes immediately at mention of the insect. The Blue-eye at the table brought me back to the present. I should take a sip from the glass that was soothing my wound.

  “Deal me in.”

  Every Sunday poker night was the same: I lost most of the pot, then I got it all back, if only just enough to make a buck or two.

  I sat with my glass of Scotch and a dart in my right hand, two cards in my left: King and Jack. To my left sat Paddy Sinclair, still antsy, tapping the tops of the two cards stacked together in his hand. Reynolds, a desk sergeant with too much time on his hands and not enough balls, sat across the table from me, trying to decide whether to fold or to stay in. And to my right sat our Automatic friend Tobias, Toby for short, the one Blue-eye I knew that could swear like a sailor. The metal man scanned the room and the cards with its blue bulbs, the lenses reflecting the light from the lamp hanging over us.

  Sinclair always had this wild look about him, though it was only in his eyes. Clean-shaven with side-parted hair, at first glance he looked like a pretty boy from one of those military posters. He’d served for long enough to earn that look, too. He had broad shoulders and a bit more beef than the average guy on the street. With his classic New York accent, he was the golden boy of the 5th Precinct, and one of the few people I trusted there. I wished he’d stop wearing that damn polka-dot tie, though. He looked ridiculous.

  “I ever tell ya guys what kinda case I handled on Friday night?”

  Sinclair always started a story when he had a bad hand, trying to get us to fold by acting confident. He thought he was clever, but I’d caught on. I couldn’t say the same of the other two at the table, though.

  We all sighed and groaned. The Automatic’s white pupils rolled in its blue eyes, and the buzzing electrodes of its voice box emitted a flanged, metallic voice: “Paddy, I couldn’t care less about who you locked up. Play the goddamn game.”

  “Well, ya should care, because we got a Blue-eye who was runnin’ some shipments across the border. It thought it could hollow out its carapace and slide in some bottles, sneak ’em over through the Lower City to Pennsylvania, and make a quick buck. That metal man is one of the reasons the politicians are getting wary of ya, Toby.”

  “Cute, asshole. You ain’t looking so high and mighty with that in your hand.” Toby pointed a metal finger to the snifter Sinclair held gingerly. He downed its contents and slid the glass under the table. “Don’t you be ragging on us Blue-eyes,” Toby continued. “There’s not many of us left who haven’t been turned off to be your little lapdogs.”

  “Easy, man, easy. Simple jab is all. Besides, ya can’t catch me with this here alcohol.”

  “And why not?”

  “No evidence, no crime.” Sinclair laughed, and I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. “Exactly the l
ogic the Blue-eye had when it got caught crossing from here to Penn. Except, unlike me, it didn’t have to try too hard to hide what it was carrying, seeing as the goods were already out of sight. But, eh, stereotypes aside, no one trusts Blue-eyes these days.”

  “All right, get on with it.” Toby looked at me with an expression I’d thought only humans could make in the face of something stupid.

  I stifled another chuckle.

  “Glassware, fine dinner plates — a lot of clutter, mostly covered in silver and gold. It was posing as a ‘shipment official’ for some tableware company near the docks. No idea where it got a story like that, since it was as far from a harbour as it’s possible to be.”

  “Let me guess,” Toby said. “They didn’t catch on that it had booze, no matter how many times they roped it back into a cell?” Toby had fallen right into another of Sinclair’s old tricks, getting caught up by the story.

  “They hadn’t a clue. It did this for months — until this Friday, that is, when it wasn’t so lucky. It had passed through customs fine, but I got roped into Automatic screening on the Washington that day. This Automatic rolled in, and maybe it forgot to put extra padding in there to keep the bottles from knockin’ around, because when it kept clinkin’ after it set its luggage down, we knew somethin’ was up.”

  “And what was the padding?” I had to ask. Lord knew if the Automatic was carrying something valuable, it would stuff as many illicit things alongside the booze as possible. I took a sip of Scotch and put the glass to my cheek again.

  “Silica beads and oil. The metalhead was runnin’ alcohol and cheap Automatic fluid over the border. Sounds like somethin’ Toby might start doing soon, eh?”

  “Too bad I couldn’t have gotten some of that before you locked him up. That shit’s expensive.” Toby rotated its arms, and a faint creaking could be heard.