IRONHEART: The Primal Deception

Chapter 3

"The majority of the human population in the Grounded Realm is purposefully kept in abject poverty by the Emperors. Subjugation is disregarded when there is time for nothing but survival. Is it any wonder that the cities are rife with organized crime? The possibility of execution or banishment is acceptable to many a man in exchange for a full belly and a pocketful of schillings." – Excerpt from Freedom's Progress by Lady Liberty (pseudonym), blacklisted author

Jack shambled up the stairs from the basement safehouse into the common room of the tavern that served as a cover. Most everyone was already there, crowding round Fist, who leaned on the bar. Jack brushed past Gurney, and the rest made way when they recognized his short, thick, broad-shouldered frame.

Fist was waiting. Impatiently.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, Jack. Where the hell have you been?" The rough voice came across casual, but Jack knew a warning when he heard one.

"Thinking," he grunted.

Fist chuckled, and when he did, so did everyone else. "Thinking isn't a place," he replied, straightening.

"Dull Jack." A mutter came from behind, followed by muffled laughter. Jack ignored them.

Standing at full height, Fist towered a foot over Jack, and was every bit as broad. His thick arms and barrel chest had faded a little into fat with age, but he was still the largest, strongest man the gang had ever seen. His face had a blunt, stony quality that almost hid the cunning behind his eyes.

Jack grunted again, shrugging. "I'm here now. If we're going to kick a hornet's nest, let's get to it."

The room quieted but for a wave of uneasy shuffling. "We've already discussed this, Jack." Fist's warning was clearer this time.

Jack held his eyes for a moment before nodding in acceptance. "Fine."

The boss nodded, but Jack could tell he had expected nothing less than compliance. It rankled him something terrible.

"Listen up," Fist addressed the room at large, though it was already silent. "The shipment is near the airdocks in a warehouse on Wilshire. We'll split into three groups under Harry, Jack, and myself."

A flurry of motion swept the room as the oration began. Small revolvers emerged from cheap, filthy waistcoats; knives slid into boots and belts; thick, hardwood clubs slipped up sleeves and into trouser waistbands; and brass knuckles gripped over fingers as the ragtag gangsters checked and double checked their weapons. Dasher slipped through the sour, unwashed crowd and handed Jack his double-barreled coach shotgun.

"Wagon teams?" Jack asked, accepting the bag of 12-gauge shells Dasher provided. He broke the coach over his left forearm and inserted two rounds before closing the barrel breech with a snap.

"Harry will have the wagons for pickup," Fist replied. "I'll take the front entry. You have the back alley. I don't want anyone slipping by you to the coppers, understand?"

Jack gave him a slight nod.

"I've got Dasher and the other dippers working watch in a five-block radius around the warehouse," Fist continued. "I'm not expecting any crushers if we do this quick and clean, but they'll let us know about any problems. Jack, you'll send a man to Harry and his boys when we're ready for the wagons." Fist turned to the black-haired and whiskered man to his left. "Harry, roll it up near the Grelich Street warehouses like you're waiting for a pickup from the airdock. When you get word, split over to the back entrance on Wilshire through the east alley."

Harry grinned, his tobacco-stained teeth pulling tightly against his lips. "If it goes down crooked, you best save a man or three for me, Jack."

Jack's lip curled slightly, but he stayed silent, casually slipping a hand into his coat pocket.

"I don't want anything mucking this up," Fist warned. "Keep everything contained. No bloody gunshots unless we're already blown."

Harry shrugged. "Sure, Fist. Just don't want to miss all the fun if Dull Jack forgets why we're there."

A few chuckles came from the other side of the room, but everyone near remained silent. Jack slipped a small, rolled cigar from his pocket. He raised it to his lips, struck a match and lit it up, never glancing at the other side of the room. Fist was watching him with a slight smile, as if indifferently curious to see his reaction. Jack blew out a cloud of smoke.

"That all, Fist?"

The boss placed a revolver behind his waistband in answer and grabbed his shotgun on the way to the door.

"Five minutes in and out, boys. Let's keep this tight."