Guilt Kills

Chapter One

By Cory!! Strode

Blake Pulanski was a short, angry man who was not happy. He ran the "Diamond Nights" speakeasy, and for the last month, he had been getting his booze from someone other than Al Capone, which in Chicago used to be a death sentence. However, with Capone getting it from the press over the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, and his enforcer, Frank Nitti, trying to keep his business together, Blake thought it was a good idea to diversify his business. He'd been getting booze from people who had been scared to try and crack the Chicago market, and sold cheaper than Capone had.

For a month, no one noticed. Nitti must have smelled that something was up, because he had called Blake and told him that one of his men was going to come over and discuss the contract they had. He also said it would be a very good idea to listen to his man.

Which showed Blake that Capone was slipping more than any of the stories they had about Eliot Ness and his G-Men. Just a few months ago, Capone would have sent a crew over to torch the place, but Nitti was in over his head, and Nitti also knew that in the new world, things would be changing, Prohibition was on its last legs, the old Mob bosses were going on trial, and things were changing. That's why he took the chance to go with one of the Wisconsin bootleggers, partly to save some money and partly to make sure that he had more than one way of getting booze into his club if Capone's organization fell apart. It was just smart business.

Blake was dressed in a black pinstripe suit which was too big for his short, stocky frame, and was wearing a black porkpie hat, which meant that he was either too rude to take it off inside, or powerful enough that no one would tell him to take it off. He was seated behind his desk, which was covered in papers and picture frames to show that he was a very busy family man. The strange thing was that he was both of those things. He didn't spend a lot of time in the club, since he didn't care for jazz music, and he had married far above his looks and rarely thought of getting together with any of the showgirls in the club for a roll in the hay. He'd seen too many of the other club owners lose when they rolled those dice. Blake's two vices were intense cheapness and an addiction to poker, which he played three times a week.

None of that mattered as he looked across his desk at the man Nitti had sent. Not Men. Man. One. A single guy in an ill-fitting suit, no hat, but boots that looked like a master had shined them.

He wasn't tall, only about 5' 10". His hair was short cropped, gray and retreating from his face into a widow's peak, although by his face he looked only to be in his early 20's. His face was hard, and he looks lean, like a runner, couldn't weigh more than 175 pounds. His eyes were deep set, dark brown and hard with the beginnings of wrinkles at the edges, and he looked like he was always squinting at something. His face was lean as well, with a nose that looks to have been broken a couple of times and poorly set, and a mouth that was a grim line. His complexion was quite fair, and the most striking part of his face is his prominent cheekbones

He had introduced himself as O'Ryan, no first name. He had an air about him that caused a chill to run straight up Blake's spine and settle in to stay at the base of his skull. The kid had a voice as cold as granite and his grip was strong enough to grind bones.

He hadn't spoke since he had come in the office, and hadn't even acknowledged Blake's two men, who were standing by the door, with their gats in the pockets. The kid was armed, with two guns in holsters inside his blazer, and he didn't seem to be trying very hard to find them.

The office itself was on the second floor, a windowless little room toward the back of the hallway, so that Blake could work and make calls without having to put up with the improvisational music and loud conversation from the club below. The building used to be a warehouse down by the pier, but Blake had turned it into a club, and Capone had taken care of greasing the officials so that they left him alone. It was a middle class club, not attracting the high rollers, but keeping out the riff raff. On poker nights, Blake used a large common room closer to the club to his game, knowing that he could tune out the music, but other people he played would be distracted by it. Capone had even played here a few times, always winning, because you never took money off of Capone.

Not if you wanted to play again with both of your hands attached to your arms.

"My boss sent me here because it seems you didn't understand the contract you had with him. I'm to tell him that you apologize for your mistake, and that you will honor that contract," the kid said, after looking Blake over.

Blake put a hand under his desk and felt for the shotgun he had attached there. He'd seen it in a movie and liked the idea of having a shotgun where he could use it if someone was too much trouble to deal with. He'd even gotten to use it once, when he found that one of the bartenders was skimming from the till. Sure, he had had to get a new desk, but it was worth it to see the look on the lousy rat bastard's face. He saw it as "training"; like that Pavlov guy was doing with dogs. Instead of eating when you hear a bell, you'd shit your pants when you thought that Blake Pulanski thought you were stealing from him. The cold steel felt reassuring as he put his hand in position to shoot if the kid tried any rough stuff.

"I am not sure that the contract is still valid, kid," Blake said, smoothly, his rough polish accent making the words sound more guttural than he would have liked, "Your boss's boss is gonna be going up the river. Word is that even if he beats the rap, he's sick. Got something from one of his girls," he chuckled. Everyone was sure that Capone had the clap, and hadn't done anything about it. Word spread fast when money was involved, and if Capone went down, there would be a lot of money opening up for other people to take.

The kid didn't flinch. If he knew about Capone's problems, he sure didn't show it on his face. "You didn't sign a deal with Capone. You signed it with Nitti, and part of the deal is that you would only buy your merchandise from him. In return, you get the cops to leave you alone, you get a fair deal on merchandise, and you don't get visits from people like me. If you are going to go back on your deal, I'll have to let him know, and then let him decide what the price will be for breaking the contract."

Blake scowled, "I have a better idea. You tell your boss that I don't like that deal, and if he wants me to do any business at all with him, he'd better realize that it's a New World now. It's 1929, and the crap he pulled on his way up wasn't going to fly any more. He's stretched thin, and if he wants to keep his business, he needs to learn that." Blake stood up to make his point, taking his hand off of the shotgun, "Tell that son of a bitch THAT."

His two men, taking his cue, started to reach into their pockets to pull out their guns and help escort O'Ryan out of the door, and out of the club.

O'Ryan, oddly enough, didn't react to Blake's power play. He didn't move, just stood there, his face still a stone mask. "I don't think you want to give him that message. Especially since he told me that if I didn't come back with an agreement, I was to make sure you knew the price of breaking the contract."

"You were, huh?" Blake said, "Not only are you outnumbered here, but I got five guys in the hallway, and another 10 downstairs. You are..." Blake looked around, "just one guy, last time I checked. Tell Nitti he can piss up a flagpole. The old days, he'd have sent 15 guys with guns and shot the place up. Now, he sends a single kid to issue threats? He's done. Tell him that."

Blake waved his hand, as if to brush a fly out of the air, and his two men pulled out their guns and moved forward. O'Ryan didn't flinch, but kept his cold, dark eyes locked on Blake, as if to give him one last chance. Blake tried to match his intensity, but the kid was too much. Blake sat back down and put his hand back under his desk, feeling for the comfort of the cold steel of the shotgun.

One of his men reaches out to grab O'Ryan's shoulder, and the kid moved like greased lightning, grabbing the mans hand at the wrist and twisting, fast and hard. The man yelled in pain and dropped to one knee to try and take some of the pressure off of his wrist. The other man shot forward at that point, and O'Ryan seemed to lean forward and shot a foot out into the man's chest with such force that Blake could hear the sickening crack of a broken rib as his man flew backward into the wall of the office.

O'Ryan did all of this without letting up the pressure he was exerting on the man's wrist, and when he checked to see that the other man was down, he twisted again, harder, faster and making the man he was still holding howl in pain.

O'Ryan turned his head and glared at Blake. There was a hint of cruelty in his eyes that was being eclipsed by the sheer anger on his face, so much so that Blake was frozen. He couldn't have fired his shotgun anyway, not without shooting his own man, and Blake Pulanski would do a lot of underhanded things, but he would never shoot a man who was protecting him.

"Last chance," O'Ryan said, his voice not betraying the amount of force he was exerting on the wrist of the man, who was now sinking to the ground, desperately trying to lessen the pressure on his wrist.

Blake looked at his two guards, one in a heap, on the floor, his breath raspy and clutching his ribs in agony, the other one nearly face down on the floor, his face a mask of pain. How the hell had the kid done that? It was so quick that his men weren't able to stop him. He weighed his options, remembering that he had five men on this floor and ten more on the floor below. It was still early in the evening, so he didn't have much of a crowd there, so they might be able to gun the little bastard down without ruining business for the night.

But there was a look in O'Ryan's eyes that convinced him that it might not be as easy as he thought.

It was the look of a wild animal, barely able to be contained in that man's body.

It was the look that got Blake to finally say, "Fine, you win. Tell Nitti I'll drop the other distributors. He's got all of my business again." Blake couldn't let the kid have a complete victory, though, and added, "But tell him I want to renegotiate prices. He's killing me on cost, and everyone in town is able to give better deals."

O'Ryan jammed his hand forward, and the man who he was holding down screamed as his wrist broke with a loud, sick snap. When he let go, the man slumped to the ground and looked as if he passed out from the pain. His other guard was starting to get up, his hand on his gun, training it on the back of the kid. O'Ryan didn't bother looking at the guard, but kept his gaze fixed on Blake.

"I am not a businessman," the kid said, "I'm a messenger and a hunter. My boss told me to deliver a message and not to get hurt doing it. I think I have done my job. I'll let Nitti know what you said and have him send a negotiator if he feels its necessary. However, you had better not be feeding me a line, or my boss will send me back. Except he won't send me here. He knows where you live, and he knows you have to sleep sometime. And if you don't, your wife does."

Blake tried to keep his composure, but the kid had broken one of the few sacred rules in Chicago. You keep the wives and kids out of it.

He reached under the desk again to put his hand on the shotgun trigger, knowing that once O'Ryan's back was turned, he'd fill the bastard full of buckshot. "We're done," Blake said, dismissing him.

"Not yet," O'Ryan said. O'Ryan turned to turn around, but before Blake could react, the turn had turned into a half spin with a kick involved. O'Ryan's foot caught the desk and jarred Blake's hand, knocking it off of the shotgun. Blake heard the sound of wood breaking, and saw that O'Ryan's kick had shattered the front of his desk, exposing the shotgun, but also causing it to be jammed in the broken wood in such a way that it couldn't be moved, and if he fired it, it would kill his one awake guard. The guard was now up, and had a bead on O'Ryan, who completed the turn and kick in a way so that he faced the guard.

It was a smooth, almost poetic movement that was so fast it resembled magic. Before the guard could do anything, O'Ryan's forearm was shooting upwards and hit the guard's arm, causing his gun to go flying into the air. O'Ryan didn't pause as he shot out a quick fist to the man's already injured ribs, not causing a cracking sound this time, but a liquid sounding thud. The man coughed, blood spraying out of his mouth as one of the ribs had been forced into his lung. He started to crumple to the ground, and O'Ryan watched as the man slid down the wall, consciousness leaving him as he slid.

O'Ryan spun, pulling his guns out of his blazer and aiming them right at Blake's head. They both waited there a second, which felt like hours. Blake was so scared he couldn't even tremble as he watched O'Ryan glare at him, boring into him with his dark, cold eyes.

"Now, we're done," O'Ryan said.

He put one gun away and turned back toward the door.

Blake watched, unmoving, waiting for the door to open. When it did, he saw that three of his men had come into the hallway to see what the problem was. They were all big, beefy guys, former bouncers of fighters. They made O'Ryan look small by comparison. All of them had guns drawn.

It was easy.

"Get him!" Blake shouted as he dove under his desk for protection. He started pulling on the shotgun, trying to release it from the hooks it was mounted on so that he could join the fray.

O'Ryan, however, acted like he expected it all along. He dove forward, his gun blazing. He was able to take at the least two of the men by surprise, firing directly into their chests. They dropped and hit the ground right as O'Ryan has finished his dive. The third was able to get off a shot before he was hit by a bullet, but O'Ryan was moving too fast for him to get a bead on him before the bullet hit him in the head, knocking his body back and to the left.

Blake finally was able to get the shotgun out of its "holster" under the desk and peered over the desk. He'd heard gunfire, but was amazed to see that three men were dead in the hallway, and O'Ryan was getting up off the floor, completely unharmed.

He was about to yell for more guards, when one of the doors in the hallway opened, and caught O'Ryan in the back, knocking him forward and causing the gun to fly out of his hands. The two remaining upstairs guards were in the room behind the door, and came out with guns drawn. O'Ryan was recovering from being knocked forward, and spun around to face whatever had caused it.

Blake watched in awe as O'Ryan actually ran at the wall at the end of the hallway and leaped at it, using him momentum to flip backwards and turn around, facing the two men. They both tried to draw a bead on him as he struck an odd sort of pose, as if he was holding a hand out to them in friendship.

One of the guards aimed the gun at O'Ryan's head, but before he could pull the trigger, O'Ryan had made some sort of yell and had leapt in the air toward the guard with the gun. The guard fired, and while his shot was wild, he still grazed O'Ryan's leg. Blake thought that would have caused O'Ryan to stop his attack, or at least acknowledge that he was injured, but he didn't. He completed the kick and landed solid on the man's chest, knocking him backward, his gun flying out of his hand. The other guard, who was in the doorway, tried to aim, but O'Ryan was on him so fast that it appeared to be a blur. He hit the second guard four times in the chest, rapid-fire, knocked him backward into the room. O'Ryan stomped on the guard who was on the floor, and went into the room where Blake couldn't see him.

Blake stood up from behind the desk and held the shotgun out in front of him, as if it was a lantern.

He heard fighting from the room off of the hallway, and crept slowly toward that door. He heard a gunshot and winced, ducking as if that might keep a stray bullet from hitting him. Then, it was quiet. He could actually hear someone breathing, as the sound downstairs had stopped. They must have heard the gunshots and were waiting to see what was going on.

He took slow, measured steps until he got to the door of the meeting room and then he flattened himself against the wall next to the door.

He peeked around the corner and looked into the room, hoping that he wouldn't see O'Ryan there with a gun leveled at him. Instead, he saw his guard, standing there, near the poker table, with a dazed look on his face. Blake stepped into the doorway and said, "Karl? Are you all right?"

Karl then pitched forward, and Blake saw that O'Ryan had been standing behind him, holding him up, and now had a gun leveled at him.

Blake dove down the hallway as shots rang out. He hit the floor, hard, and turned over on his back, shotgun extended and ready to fire. He felt himself quickly to see if he'd been hit by any of the bullets, and when he saw that he wasn't, he shouted downstairs, "Hey Rube!"

It was the old carney cry for help, but it was also used in his speakeasies, since he'd gotten his start in traveling carnivals, and because most cops didn't know what it stood for, it gave his men a slight advantage. He hoped that O'Ryan hadn't been a carney, but he heard men coming up the stairs, and shouts from patrons trying to get out before the violence came down the stairs.

The men sounded like a pack of horses as they flew up the stairs, and they weren't kidding around either. All but two of them had Tommy guns, ugly machine guns that could fill the air with lead so that that didn't have to worry about being too accurate with their shots.

When the first man hit the top of the stairs, Blake yelled, "He's in the poker room!" and got out of the way. He watched as three of the men barreled past him and headed for the room. He was then helped up by another of the men as the rest waited on the stairs for their chance to come upstairs. The hallway was crowded, and Blake wanted to warn them.

What could he say? That the guy was magic? That he could bounce off of wall and beat people up with his bare hands? That he was able to flip around like a god damned gymnast? He was like some pulp hero, without all of the fancy equipment.

The three men with Tommy guns had made it to the doorway of the poker room and looked in cautiously. They waited a minute and then all entered the room, quickly, guns ready to go.

Blake waited for a second, and then told one of the men next to him to help the two guards in his office. The four in the hallway were dead, and he could see that the men who were left had ashen looks on their faces, wondering what the hell they had gotten themselves into.

"They were stupid and let this guy get a drop on them. Keep watching, be alert and don't let him do the same to you. He's just one guy," Blake hissed.

One of the men with Tommy guns came out of the poker room and said, "He ain't here, boss."

"He has to be there," Blake said, "There's no other door. Did you look everywhere?"

The guard nodded and Blake made sure his shotgun was ready to fire as he made his way to the doorway. He looked in the room and saw the body of the dead guard, and the other two men looking under the poker table and at the window.

The window was closed, and there weren't any other ways out of the room. "He's got to be here. I didn't see him leave, and he's not some kind of ghost," Blake said.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a shadow on the floor move. Before he could react he heard shots ring out from above, and he backed out of the room. The two men who were still in the room were shot dead from above, and Blake figured out where O'Ryan had to be. "He's on the ceiling!"

The last of the three men who had been searching the room and was in the doorway jumped into the hall, barely escaping the hail of bullets that slammed into the floor near where he had been standing. The only thing that saved him was the fact that O'Ryan had had to change his aim from one end of the room to the other, or he would have been gunned down as well.

Two guards knocked out, seven dead and eight left. The odds were shifting into O'Ryan's favor, but he was trapped in a room with only two ways out. One was a window with a two-story drop and the other was a door that now had every remaining man in the club watching it as if their life depended on it.

Probably because it did.

Blake whispered in the ear of the man, who had made it out of the room, "Get so you can see the window, so that if he tries to go for it, you can blast the son of a bitch."

The guard was pale, sweating and at first shook his head no. Blake glared at him and moved the shotgun so that it was pressed against the man's chest, and he moved.

The Man's name was Rich, and he was one of Blake's better men. He'd been with him for three years, had a cute little wife he'd met in the speakeasy, and talked a lot about wanting to have kids with her, once he had moved up in the organization a little more. Blake actually hoped that he'd be able to get his wish. Hell, at this point, Blake wished He would be able to stay around long enough to see his wife again.

The whole fight had been a bad idea.

His bad idea.

Maybe he could fix it.

It was quiet. Everyone was waiting for something to happen. One of his men was in his office, looking after the two who were knocked out. One was watching the window through the door, trying to stand in such a way that he could get out of the way if any bullets started flying again. The other six men were on either the landing or the stairs themselves, guns drawn, waiting to find out what to do. All of them had seen the bodies in the hallway and heard the other two men die.

It was silent, except for the breathing.

Time was holding still.

Blake realized he was holding his breath and let it out slowly.

What the hell could he do?

All of the normal things he would do, try to muscle the kid, try to have the kid gunned down, anything like that was a waste of time. He was stuck.

And it was just one guy. A punk kid who looked like he'd been through hell.

He saw that Rich's hand was tense on the trigger, ready to spray the room full of bullets at the first sign of anything, and then he got his idea.

"Hey Kid!" Blake yelled, "You win. Tell Nitti I'll go back to the old deal."

He waited, listening. His men looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, but he didn't pay any attention to them at all.

After what seemed like forever, he heard O'Ryan's voice coming from the room, but unfocused. He couldn't tell if he was still in the ceiling, on the floor or what. "I don't believe you. You have proven to me that you can't be trusted."

"You're right," Blake said, his teeth on edge. Damn this kid anyway. "What can I do to show you that I mean what I say?"

Silence again.

Blake could hear his heart beating in his ears, the blood slamming through his veins so hard he could almost feel his blood pressure shooting up as he waited."

"Come in the room, unarmed, and tell your men to let us leave here unharmed."

Blake thought a minute. It was not the way he would have wanted to do it, seeing as how O'Ryan had brutally killed seven of his men without blinking. He just wanted to lure the man out of the room and have his men blow him away. If possible.

He looked at the bodies on the floor and though to himself that that probably wouldn't be possible. If he could get the kid out of the club, he might be able to buy some time with Nitti, wait out the trial and not deal with any of it. Or, just do what he said he was doing and go back to dealing with Nitti and let the cards lay where they were.

In poker terms, the kid was going all-in, and all Blake had was a high pair.

Not worth betting his life on.

"Fine," Blake said, "But I want your word that I won't get shot when I drop my gun. Otherwise, I'll just have my men fill that room with so much lead, it won't matter where you are hiding."

"If you need my word, it is given."

Blake cleared his throat and leaned over to Rich. He whispered as quietly as he could, in case the kid could hear as well as he could shoot, "Let him get downstairs, but put someone on the roof with a rifle. I want him dead as soon as he lets me go."

Rich nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Blake walked slowly into the room, look in the direction where the bullets had come from before, and no one was there. He scanned the ceiling and saw no one. He started to turn around and felt cold steel next to his temple. Somehow, O'Ryan had gotten the drop on him and had a gun right at his head. He tried to turn a bit and found that the gun was pressed hard against his temple. Then, as suddenly as he had felt the first, he felt another gun against his other temple.

"Time to go by the rules," O'Ryan said, his cold voice seeming that much more frightening since it was almost whispering in his ear.

Blake nodded imperceptibly and slowly put the shotgun down. When it was on the ground, he raised his hands back up slowly and said, "All right, men, let him through. No guns! I mean it, no fucking guns! I don't want any mistakes!"

The guns at his temples moved and forced him to turn back so that he was facing the door. He saw that Rich was gone, but one of the other men was there, and he was putting his gun on the floor. Slowly, they walked out of the poker room, and Blake saw that Rich was gone, but the other men had all put their guns down, and were holding their hands out so that O'Ryan could see that they weren't hiding any guns.

Blake swallowed hard and said, "Don't do a damn thing, guys. He and I get out of here with no trouble."

A couple of the men nodded their heads, but most of them just stayed where they were, not moving. Blake led the way as they went down the stairs, into the speakeasy itself. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs, after a landing, and he opened it slowly, making sure no one was in the club itself. It was deserted, as if everyone had run out. There were still coats draped over chairs, and the room wasn't as big as one would think, with them being in a converted warehouse.

The room was arranged so that people would come in a single door, and the stage would be at the far end of the room. About 50 tables were set up between the door and the stage, with two to four chairs at each table. The tables still had drinks on them; the only reason the club existed in the first place. There were bars along the walls on either sides of the tables, and each of them was almost as long as the room, with bottles of liquor on glass shelves behind the bars. There were stools next to about three fourths of the bar itself. For people were either there alone, or didn't want to have to wait between server visits for another drink. That was where the real money was.

The whole room as lit in a such a way that it seemed dark, just barely bright enough to be able to find your way to your table. It was quiet with everyone gone, but most of the time was filled with people talking, even when the musicians played.

Blake carefully walked toward the door that O'Ryan was pushing him toward. He could only feel one gun pressed against his temple, and from the very careful way that O'Ryan was walking, he figured that he was hold the other gun behind him, in case one of the men ran down the stairs to get a jump on him.

Blake closed his eyes for a second and prayed that none of his men would try to be a hero. Except for Rich, and he prayed that Rich had made his way to the roof and was waiting on them. Blake wasn't religious, but having a gun to his temple being held by a man who had dispatched half of his men with only a wound on his legs. Blake noticed that while the wound was bleeding through O'Ryan's pants, he wasn't limping at all.

What kind of a man was this kid?

They made their way across the room, and suddenly it hit Blake.

He had three men in the next room. They were in a room that was the "cover" for the club, an office that you couldn't get through without giving a password or a bribe to men in the office. They never left their posts for any reason, since they were the ones who kept the G-Men from coming into the club. He didn't worry about the police; they were paid enough to bust someone who didn't pay as much in bribes.

When they got to the door, Blake said, "Hold up."

O'Ryan stopped and pressed the gun a little harder into his temple, "No more tricks."

"It's not a trick" Blake hissed, "I have three more guards in the next room. They keep people out who aren't supposed to be here."

Except for Nita's supermen, he thought to himself, wildly.

"Then I think you had better tell them to drop their guns and let you go. If we get into a firefight, you are the only thing between my bullets and theirs."

The image did not sit well with Blake. Having both O'Ryan and his guards shooting through him to get at each other? Not a pleasant way to die. Then again, Blake couldn't possibly think of a pleasant way to die at this point.

Blake motioned to O'Ryan to calm down, and then knocked on the door.

There was a sliding eye-level slot on this door; same as there was one on the other door so that they could see if someone trying to get in from the street was trouble. The one on the door into the club was so that they could keep order, and check the club without having to open the door.

The slot slid open and Blake saw one of his men open it quickly, his eyes wide and sweat on his face. "What the hell is going on, boss?" the man said.

Blake calmed himself and said, "All of you need to drop your guns and let us through. This is one of Nitti's men, and we made a deal so that he could get out safe, and we could go about our business."

The man looked at him confused, and Blake yelled, "Do it, god dammit, or I'll let this crazy son of a bitch kill you myself!"

The slot closed, and Blake could hear things being dropped. O'Ryan motioned for him to open the door, and Blake did, slowly. The room looked like a typical office in a warehouse, three desks with a bunch of file cabinets, paper in stacks, a girly calendar on the wall and a few grimy windows that hadn't been cleaned since Teddy Roosevelt was President. The men were standing against the wall, their guns on the floor where Blake could see them.

He tried to turn his head to talk to O'Ryan, but the gun at his temple stopped him. That made him even more tense and he could feel sweat starting to trickle down from his forehead. He tried to keep the stress out of his voice when he said, "They put their guns down. Once we get to the door, you're home free."

O'Ryan didn't say anything, just softly nudged him forward. Blake stumbled into the room and looked at his men, who were staring at him with questions in their eyes.

Blake stepped into the room and slowly went toward the other door, the one that would lead outside. Just a few steps and it all would be over. It was hard to keep from running to the door and flinging it open and screaming, "Good! You're done now! Go out there and get shot, dammit!" Instead, he forced himself to walk slowly, and when he got to the door he paused.

"I kept my end of the deal," he said, hand on the doorknob, "You tell Nitti that we're square again and I'll keep the old deal. Right?"

"Not so fast," O'Ryan said, his voice still flat and devoid of emotion, "I think it's a message you need to give Nitti yourself."

The sweat that had been a slow trickle now felt like it was flowing freely down Blake's face, "That wasn't our deal?"

"The only deal we had is that if your men dropped their guns, I wouldn't kill any more of them, or you."

Blake wanted to say something more, but with a gun to his temple, he couldn't very well start telling O'Ryan he would make sure he was dead and piss on his grave the first chance he got. Instead he just stared at the door and hoped that Rich was a good shot.

"Fine" Blake said through gritted teeth, "We'll go see Nitti. But if you are just doing this so you can shoot me down without my men around, they will hunt you down and they will kill you. They get paid for that."

Blake then turned toward his men and glared at them. It was at that point that he saw that he sure hadn't paid them enough, because instead of grim determination in their eyes, it was a bit of panic and confusion that lit their faces. Bastards, he thought, don't you know enough to back up your boss when he's talking tough? When he got back, he knew he was going to have to fire those three.

The door opened and he could feel the cold Chicago wind hitting him in the face. It was March, and while the days were becoming tolerable, once the night hit and the wind was coming off of the lake, it was winter on your skin. The street was dark, and there were only a few cars parked on the street. Having a speakeasy empty out due to gunfire was news that spread pretty fast. When he got out of this, he would have to make sure to drop by the houses of a few of his regulars and convince them that things were safe again.

The gun at his temple made him want to change that to "if he got out of this", but he resisted the thought. He had to get out of this. He'd outsmarted the kid for the past few minutes, and once they got outside, it was going to be all over. He'd be able to go inside and tell Nitti that his men had taken care of his special goon and it was time for them to sit down and talk about the future of Chicago. Maybe he could use this to get a bit of power in the new organization, showing Nitti that he was more than just a speakeasy owner, but a real player.

He stepped outside, O'Ryan tight behind him. Too tight. There was no way that Rich could pull of a shot and make sure that he didn't hit them both. This kid wasn't stupid, Blake thought, and he must know that someone would try to take him out.

Dammit, Blake thought, he's one step ahead of me.

Blake looked around, as if he was looking for O'Ryan's car, but was instead trying to get a look at the roof of his warehouse to see if Rich was up there, lining up a shot. He couldn't look up there without O'Ryan wondering what he was looking at, and instead he said in a loud voice, "Where's your car?"

He hoped that Rich had heard his voice and would call off trying to shoot. O'Ryan motioned toward a black flivver with a dog in the back seat. The dog was so big that Blake thought it was just a big person in the back seat at first glance. But in the dim moonlight he could see that it was a huge mastiff, just staring out the car window as calmly as if it were hired muscle waiting for someone to come out.

Someone he had to beat down.

Blake walked slowly, scuffing his feet on the pavement, trying to make more noise. He could hear cars on distant streets, but down here in the warehouses, they were all alone. He was walked over to the passenger side of the car and O'Ryan motioned for him to open the door. He did and O'Ryan got in first, sliding over the seat, still keeping the gun trained on his as he did.

In his mind, Blake saw himself diving for cover while shouting for Rich to shoot. He could see it all working out in his head, the bullets slamming into the car, killing O'Ryan and his dog while he was able to get away unharmed. He could even see the car exploding as the bullets riddled the gas tank, hot lead igniting gasoline and lighting up the street.

However, as he looked into O'Ryan's eyes, he knew that there wasn't a chance of that happening. If he tried to dive, he'd be shot before he even finished the move. The kid was quick, supernaturally quick, and even though Frank Nitti was known as a mad dog that loved to beat people to death with his bare hands, he'd still rather take his chances with Nitti than this kid.

He looked at the door where his three men had come out, guns in their hands.

He didn't even get to say, "Oh shit" before bullets started flying.

He saw his men come out and start shooting, stupidly, not even trying for cover. Blake fell down onto the ground, landing in the gutter, the water from the street soaking quickly into his wool suit.

He could hear gunfire, but he covered his head, closing his eyes and hoping it would all be over soon. He heard more gunfire and glass fell on him, he could feel it on his back and in his hair, and he tried not to move. He heard something hit the ground with a wet splat, as if it were a sack of meat.

Damn, he thought, Rich got shot.

He wanted to open his eyes and look, but with the sound of gunfire all around him, and car window glass covering his back, he didn't dare move. He wasn't shot, yet.

Then, as soon as it had started, it all came to a stop.

He waited, wondering if it was a pause, and still didn't move. He waited a few more seconds, and just as he was moving his hands from the back of his head, he felt the frighteningly familiar feeling of the gun at the back of his head.

"They didn't want to wait," O'Ryan said, "The sniper on the roof was actually a good idea. It didn't work, but it was a good idea. Do you have anything else up your sleeve?"

Blake shuddered and shook his head no. He felt himself being picked up by the collar and shoved into the car. Blake took a look on the street and saw four bodies, one of which was surrounded by a pattern of blood. It had to be Rich, and when he fell from the roof, he must have.

Blake felt his stomach roll and he got dizzy. He wanted to be sick, but before he could lean out of the car, the dog's muzzle was next to his face, sharp teeth bared and a deep, low growl rising from its throat. The feeling of nausea turned to one of vertigo, as if the whole world were spinning out from under him. He pressed himself against the door, and felt the seat was covered in broken glass. At least one of his men was a good enough shot that he got one of the car windows, he thought crazily.

O'Ryan got in the car and started it up quickly. Blake looked over and saw that the kid had another bullet wound, this one in his shoulder. He was actually wincing as he grabbed the gearshift and shoved it into gear, the car roaring out of the parking space and onto the street.

He'd been injured. He wasn't superhuman after all. Blake turned to look back at his speakeasy and saw his men coming out, too late to do anything, and seeing the bodies on the street.

O'Ryan looked away from the street and said, "Mercy, attack," and the dog slumped back in the seat, and instantly looked as if it was asleep. Blake had a mask of confusing on his face and when he wiped the sweat and water from his face, he found that there was blood on it as well. Must have been from the glass, he thought.

"Now what?" Blake said, watching as O'Ryan drove quickly and efficiently through the light evening traffic.

"Nitti gets to decide what happens. And I don't think he's as forgiving as I am to men who break their word."

Blake then turned and stared out the window at the lakeshore, wondering if he would ever see it again.

* * *

O'Ryan had gotten some medical supplies from one of Nitti's men, just cloth strips which he was making into bandages, and a needle with catgut so that he could sew up his wounds. Thankfully, neither of them were very deep, and the bullets had etiehr grazed him, or in the case of his shoulder, gone clean through, missing the bone. He would be able to heal up within a couple of weeks if he took care of them. Nitti had a few doctors around, in case one of his men got messed up while working for Capone.

O'Ryan didn't trust them. He'd been trained on how to tend to his own wounds, and seemed to know more than they did. His training was so that he wouldn't need to depend on anyone at all.

He was taking care of himself in one of the unused offices, and Mercy, his mastiff, was sitting as his feet, looking for all the world that she was asleep, except for her eyes, open, awake and alert. She looked to weigh in at about 185 pounds, black as night except for a white patch on her neck. She wore a simple leather collar, and the collar itself didn't have a ring for a leash. It wasn't ever needed. She would do exactly as she was told, and was trained not to leave his side unless he told her to.

She was staring at the door, and could spring into attack with a simple word. She'd been trained to go for the kill whenever O'Ryan said "sit".

It gave both of them an extra second of surprise, and he had needed that second more than once since leaving home.

The wound on his leg only needed to be dressed, and he wished he had some of the healing herbs that had grown back home in New Hampshire, but he didn't have any left. They were gone. Just like home. It was all gone.

He had sewn up his shoulder with a minimum of pain, and had put himself into a slight trance, just as he'd been taught, so that he could separate himself from what he was doing. Now, he sat, waiting, wearing a new suit. Nitti had given it to him when he brought in Blake. Nitti had wanted him to go to a hospital, but O'Ryan refused.

When he was all dressed, he looked at his reflection in the window, which looked out over the darkness of the city. There were very few lights on the street, and he had been here so long that most of the traffic had ended for the night. As many people as there were in Chicago, there was still a time when it slowed down and most of the people were either in bed, or where they were going to be for the night.

It was so different from home, O'Ryan thought.

His thoughts were interrupted by one of the man coming in and saying, "Nitti wants ya."

O'Ryan twisted his wrist in an odd pattern and Mercy leapt up and was instantly at his side. They went to Nitti's office, not paying attention to the people who were working around them. It was a big office building, and Nitti had the entire floor. O'Ryan remembered the first time Nitti walked him through the offices, going on and on about how he started as a barber and now he was a Big Man. A Businessman. A man of respect.

It had been the talk of a man who was trying to impress himself, since none of it impressed O'Ryan. It was a job, and in return for the work O'Ryan did, making sure people kept their word, Nitti gave him enough money for an apartment, weapons and access to a network of people who were looking for the man O'Ryan was here to find.

The trip to Nitti's office was short, and when O'Ryan got there, the door was open.

Nitti waved him in, wiping off his hand on a towel. Nitti's short hair was slicked over to one side, and he had taken to wearing a thick mustache. His eyes were large, almost too big for his face, and he had a look of satisfaction on his face. His suit was impeccable, and he had a presence that commanded the attention of anyone who came in. The office was the biggest on the floor, but still wasn't much bigger than someone's bedroom back home.

Nitti smiled when O'Ryan came in the room and motioned for him to sit down on the chair facing the desk. The desk itself was immaculate, Nitti didn't like to have work on it. It was more a method to show how powerful he was, and O'Ryan had heard him say more than once that the only man with a bigger desk in all of Chicago was Capone.

Nitti pulled an envelope out of one of the desk drawers as he sat down and tossed it across the desk. It was sealed, and thick. O'Ryan grabbed at and thanked him for it, as if he was a child thanking his grandmother for a piece fo candy. Nitti smiled at that.

"I like that about you, O'Ryan," he said, leaning back in his chair, "you got manners. Too many of these bastards think that they don't have to show any appreciation for what they get. On top of that, you do good work. Good job on Pulanski."

O'Ryan looked around the room and didn't see any blood on the floor, so he knew that Nitti hadn't killed him. When Nitti killed someone in his office, he left the blood stain there for a few days to let people know what he'd done, and that he didn't have any problem killing a man.

Nitti smiled again when he saw O'Ryan looking on the floor. "He'll live. I don't want to drive him out of business. If I kill him, then one of the out of town people may buy his speakeasy. Then we have to start all over. I just made it so he'll have to stay home a few weeks to heal up."

O'Ryan listened, Mercy sitting at his side, her head on her paws. Nitti didn't like him bringing Mercy up to the offices, but since she was so well behaved, and did so well when O'Ryan was working that Nitti allowed it. At least he didn't tell O'Ryan to leave her in the car. O'Ryan put the envelope in his pocket, not opening or counting it. It would be an insult not to trust his boss.

"What did you want to talk to me about, sir?" O'Ryan asked, politely.

"How many times to I have to tell you not to call me sir?" Nitti said. O'Ryan knew that he was saying that to be polite, but that he preferred it. It was a game that Nitti played, and it had taken O'Ryan a while to learn it. Nitti would tell you not to treat him with the utmost respect. However, if you didn't, he would let you know in other ways that you had best change your way of dealing with him.

It was confusing at first, but O'Ryan learned quickly. He had to. If he didn't, he would have been dead many times over.

Nitti let the smile leave his face, meaning it was time for business.

"My boss is getting a lot of heat in the papers. It seems that the G-Men want to shut him down for good this time. They're trying to tie him to a big shootout on Valentine's Day. The heat is getting pretty bad, so a lot of the smaller operators are thinking they can pull out of their deals. What you did tonight will let them know that while we aren't able to go in with a crew, we can still mess them up.

"However, your work tonight has made you a bit hot. I'm gonna have to find a place for you to lay low for a couple of weeks. Not that you didn't do a great job. Damn, kid, I heard you wasted half his men before they even got their gats out. You had Blake shitting his pants. I should have just told him I was gonna bring you in and let you beat on him, but," Nitti paused and wrapped the towel around his hand, and it was at that point that O'Ryan noticed his knuckles were bloody and raw," Sometimes you need the personal touch."

Nitti got up and looked out his window. He had the corner office, and a big window that looked out over the city toward the lake. It was an impressive view, if you liked lights and ships. O'Ryan preferred the look of a countryside, but that wasn't an option now.

"I'm gonna send you to take care of some business down state. There's one of our whiskey makers who is getting behind in his quotas, and he says that he's getting hassled by some of the southern bootleggers. They think that if they squeeze him out, we'll start buying their fuckin moonshine," he'd said the word "moonshine" as if it were some kind of disease.

"I wouldn't put that swill in this town. We're not in the business of making this town drunk on hillbilly swill. We are keeping a tradition going of giving people what they should have. The fuckin Bible talks about wine. The Germans and Irish wouldn't know what to drink with their meals if they didn't have that thick beer on the table. And the other stuff, well, you have to give the people what they want."

Nitti had explained it to O'Ryan when he first started working for him. The reason alcohol was illegal was because the government was in the hands of a bunch of thugs who wanted to put honest businessmen out of business. O'Ryan was confused by the whole thing, but he had grown up drinking wine with meals and he wasn't a "crazed killer" like the papers said that alcohol turned people into.

Yes, he killed, but only when he was required to by his superiors, as he was taught. And he never killed an innocent or made the first violent move. To do anything else was immoral and an act of evil.

The thing that had convinced him was how Nitti and Capone were greeted on the street by people. They were loved and respected the same way his elders at home were. So, he trusted them, partly because of the respect they were shown, and partly because they were the only ones who had tried to help him when he told them he was looking for a man.

Nicholas Heenan. The only thing that matter to O'Ryan was finding Heenan.

O'Ryan snapped out of his memory when Nitti started talking again.

"You need to head to Peoria and meet up with Mark Miller. He's a farmer outside of Havana, and he's the one who says he's having the trouble with the southerners. Find out what's going on, and then make sure he's not bothered any more."

Nitti turned away from the window, "Don't let the police know you are down there. They are in our pocket too, but they are a bit jumpy with the Valentine's Day thing. I also heard something about your man Heenan might have ties to this southern group."

"What?" O'Ryan said, confused, "He doesn't need money, he's working to try and get more power."

"What better way to get power than to try and take a cut out of Chicago?" Nitti said.

O'Ryan fell silent. Nitti hadn't lied to him, and while it was very confusing to think that Heenan would be involved in bootlegging, it seemed that all of the power in this brave new world he was in had to do with alcohol. Maybe there was a legitimate reason they called it "Devil's Water."

A literal reason.

"Either way," Nitti continued, "When you get back, my people will have concrete information on Heenan. If he's not involved down there, one the G-Men I have on the take will have information on him. This will be your last job for me. You get your information and I..." Nitti paused and smiled, a dark smile that made O'Ryan feel uncomfortable, "I'll have what I want as well. Everybody wins."

©Solitaire Rose Productions 2003

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