Chapter 3 - Shadows on Bishop Street
The heavy pounding vibrated through the floorboards, rattling the fragile glass vials on Mara’s chemical workbench.
Owen stood pressed against the doorframe of the backroom, his pistol held close to his chest in a tactical low-ready stance.
The two younger sentries Daniel had brought along looked terrified, their hands sweating against the receivers of their weapons.
“That’s Julian Carrow,” Owen whispered, his breath shallow.
“Daniel’s cousin.”
“Martin’s personal pitbull on the docks.”
Daniel struggled to push himself up from the floor, his muscles twitching from the chemical assault inside his bloodstream.
Mara caught his arm, shoving him back down against the wooden base of the heavy workbench with absolute authority.
“If you stand up, your blood pressure will spike and the counter-agent will flush through your liver before it neutralizes the tropane,” she hissed.
“Stay on the floor and do not make a sound.”
She turned toward Owen and the two trembling guards.
“Take him into the cold storage cellar beneath that floor hatch,” Mara ordered, pointing toward a heavy iron ring in the floorboards.
“There is no ventilation down there, but the brick walls are two feet thick.”
Owen hesitated, looking toward the storefront where the pounding grew louder and more aggressive.
“What about you?” Owen asked.
“I am going to open the front door and explain why my shop is closed after business hours,” Mara replied smoothly.
“If Julian sees five armed men in the shadows, he will order his crews to spray this building with automatic fire.”
“He does not know Daniel is inside; he is only sweeping the neighborhood because Daniel missed his eight-thirty appointment at the shipping yard.”
Daniel reached out with trembling fingers, catching the hem of Mara’s cardigan.
“Julian… Julian never comes alone,” Daniel whispered, his voice hoarse from bile and blood.
“He travels with six shooters from the south terminal.”
“Then I will make sure those six shooters remain on the sidewalk,” Mara said, pulling her sweater gently from his grasp.
She waited until Owen and the guards lifted the heavy iron hatch and lowered Daniel into the dark subterranean space below.
The iron door clicked shut without a sound, perfectly masked by the worn Turkish rug Mara kicked over the seams.
Mara smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath of stale cedar air, and walked out into the front retail showroom.
The streetlights through the front window cast long, cage-like shadows across the linoleum floor.
Outside, three black luxury sedans were parked at odd angles against the curb, their high-beam headlights blazing through the glass.
Mara unlocked the brass deadbolt, turned the latch, and cracked the heavy oak door open by precisely four inches.
The cold northeastern rain immediately misted her face, carrying the stench of exhaust fumes and cheap cologne.
Standing on the wet concrete steps was Julian Carrow, thirty-two years old, wrapped in a black leather trench coat.
Behind him stood four broad-shouldered men with their hands buried deep inside their wool overcoat pockets.
Julian smiled, a flash of white porcelain teeth beneath a thin, arrogant mustache.
“Good evening, Miss Bell,” Julian said, resting his hand against the doorframe to prevent her from closing it.
“You usually keep the lanterns burning until nine o’clock on a Friday evening.”
Mara did not smile.
She allowed her face to register the mild annoyance of an overworked shopkeeper dealing with an entitled customer.
“The weather is foul, Mr. Carrow, and my rheumatism does not care about your smoking habits tonight,” Mara replied tartly.
“The register is closed, the cash drawer is in the safe, and I was about to brew my evening chamomile.”
Julian’s eyes drifted past her shoulder, scanning the dimly lit interior of the narrow retail space.
His gaze lingered for a second on the floor near the center display counter.
Mara had kicked the shattered cedar box behind the baseboard, but the faint scent of crushed belladonna still hung in the air.
Julian sniffed the damp breeze, his smile wavering for an instant.
“That’s a peculiar aroma coming from your humidor tonight, Miss Bell.”
“It smells like burnt resin and dried nightshade.”
Mara looked at him without a single flicker of panic in her pupils.
“I am burning dried sage and sulfur leaves to kill the mold in the Spanish cedar cabinets,” she lied smoothly.
“Unless you want your uncle’s private reserve to rot before Christmas, I suggest you let the smoke do its work.”
Julian took a step forward, his leather shoe crossing the threshold by two inches.
“We’re looking for Daniel.”
“His town car was spotted turning onto Bishop Street forty minutes ago.”
“He missed a very important dinner with my father at the waterfront terminal.”
“My father is extremely worried about Daniel’s health.”
Mara tilted her head, matching his predatory gaze with maternal condescension.
“Daniel Carrow has not darkened my doorway since last Tuesday, Julian.”
“If your cousin is missing, I suggest you check the private back rooms at the Starlight Lounge or the harbor hotel.”
“He rarely spends his Friday evenings discussing tobacco leaves with an old woman.”
One of the heavy enforcers behind Julian stepped closer, leaning down toward the younger man’s ear.
“The town car isn’t parked on the block, boss; Shaw must have dropped him and circled around the avenue.”
Julian’s jaw tightened.
His arrogance was slipping, replaced by the twitchy paranoia of a man executing a coup that had fallen behind schedule.
“Daniel has been looking unwell lately,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a menacing whisper.
“Coughed a lot.”
“Complained about his throat.”
“My father thinks Daniel might need to be admitted to Saint Vincent’s for an extended period of rest.”
“In fact, my father has already prepared the paperwork to assume temporary leadership of the Circle while Daniel recovers.”
Mara’s heart beat steadily against her ribs, but her expression remained as dull as lead.
“Then I will include Daniel in my evening prayers, Mr. Carrow.”
“Now, if you are not going to purchase a tin of pipe tobacco, remove your foot from my doorway before I call the precinct.”
Julian stared at her for five long, suffocating seconds.
He was trying to detect a tremor in her hands, a twitch in her eyelid, or a glance toward the back room.
He found nothing.
Julian let out a dry chuckle and took a step back onto the wet sidewalk.
“You always were a sharp-tongued woman, Miss Bell.”
“Just like your old man used to be.”
The offhand comment confirmed everything Mara needed to know: Julian knew precisely who she was.
He did not know she had cured the poison, but he knew the bloodline.
“Goodnight, Julian,” Mara said, closing the heavy wooden door firmly in his face.
She threw the iron deadbolt, turned the auxiliary latch, and leaned her back against the solid wood.
Through the glass, she watched the four men climb back into the sedans, their brake lights bathing the wet street in crimson.
Two of the sedans accelerated away toward the docks, their tires hissing against the wet asphalt.
The third sedan, however, reversed fifty feet and parked directly beneath the streetlight across from her shop.
A single man remained behind the wheel, his silhouette unmoving in the dim glow of the dashboard.
Julian had left a watchdog behind.
Mara walked back through the darkened retail shop and slipped into the rear room without making a sound.
She pulled the rug aside and hauled open the heavy iron hatch leading into the foundation.
Owen climbed out first, his gun still drawn, his eyes wide with adrenaline.
“Did they leave?” Owen whispered.
“Julian left,” Mara said, reaching down to help Daniel climb the wooden ladder.
“His perimeter sentry did not.”
Daniel emerged from the cellar, his breathing slightly easier, though his skin remained damp with cold perspiration.
The bleeding from his gums had slowed to a dark trickle, but his pupils were still dilated to the edge of his irises.
“He mentioned Saint Vincent’s,” Daniel said, his voice trembling with cold rage.
“He confirmed the paperwork is already drafted.”
“Martin is moving against me tonight.”
Mara locked the trapdoor behind them and walked over to a heavy wooden cupboard in the corner of the room.
She pulled out two leather travel satchels packed with medical instruments, dried botanical jars, and ammunition boxes.
“They are not moving against you tonight, Daniel,” Mara said, tossing one of the satchels to Owen.
“They have already moved.”
May you like
“By dawn, the city council, the harbor unions, and the police department will be told that you died of a sudden stroke.”
“And if we remain inside this shop for another thirty minutes, Julian’s sentry will call the cleanup crews to burn it to the ground.”
