‘I doubt it. Never been much for honest folk.’
‘Are they problematic?’ Misu quirked a brow.
Franco accompanied her rise to leave. He spied Rosso feverishly devouring his breakfast with copious amounts of coffee on a nearby table, accompanied by the boy who timidly pecked at his food in comparison.
‘Slippery,’ he replied. ‘At least with the rough cut, you get what you see.’
Distracted, Franco manoeuvred himself around the bar and rummaged beneath the counter. Settling upon a distinctive glass bottle with a rather attractive label, he hoisted it out by one of the fixed glass handles and deposited it before their resident driver. The pair subsequently stopped their eating.
‘That is a pleasure,’ Rosso admitted, clearly relishing the thought of taking the cork from this beauty and draining it dry.
‘For making good time,’ Franco declared, ‘though please do show some restraint; you still have to get us to Windberg.’
Windberg
Windberg, from the outset, resembled a normal port town – only it was much grander. Unlike most of the other settlements, the sprawling docks were much larger as it sat upon one of the main shipping lanes across the Sand Sea, an expansive of desert that had been previously impossible to traverse. That was before man’s obsession with machinery ensured their domination over this natural void.
Massive ships moored themselves here, immense steam-powered boats adorned with giant caterpillar tracks that towered over the rugged buildings and heaved with cargo containers. When these pulled into dock, the ground violently shuddered under each heave of caterpillar tread. Goods, ore, oil – there was no cargo that the ships didn’t haul.
Naturally these were obvious targets for bandits as holding one to ransom could amass a fortune. It soon became common practice for the shipping companies to employ mercenaries, who would protect the transport from any bandits who tried their luck. Local bars attracted every kind of pay-hungry outcast from all around, who either had a talent for protection or became desperate enough to cut a living from such a dangerous profession. But this trade brought crime and with that, trouble.
The city of Windberg needed the law to be tough and assertive. The criminal element would have easily thrived unchecked if not for the swift motions of those in charge. To keep the public happy, elections were held for those who deemed themselves up to the task of keeping Windberg safe. For sure, some who offered their service were questionable in their dealings behind closed doors, but they were brushed aside by a population tired of gun-runners and back-alley thugs. The people demanded change and their wish came true.
The people got Sheriff Alex Juniper.
Juniper was not a man known for his compassion. Many ignored the rumours of brutality against criminals that found themselves thrown into cells on account of his results. Illegal fraternities were raided, back-alley trading crushed, and contraband impounded. Petty thieves, roaming thugs – these were now unheard of in Windberg. The streets were deemed safe for everyone and had been for the past couple of years. Of course, there still existed a handful of racketeers, but with the local difficulties, their operations were driven either underground or fronted by clubs or bars, the gloss of legitimacy thick and misleading.
Alex Juniper was one of those rare people who could not be bought. For him, being the sentry of order was a calling from the Holy Sorceress herself and no amount of kickbacks could encourage him to turn a blind eye to the unsavoury. Those messengers who hand-delivered plain, bound packages full of bribe money were spared jail so they could deliver his own. They were sent back, usually with an arm broken, to tell their boss that the attempt was a failure and would always be so.
Whilst Windberg was a relative sanctuary to those who abided by the government of man and the teachings of the Holy Sorceress, its outskirts were less protected. Rolling waves of sand and cliff ensured that bandits had too many caves to hide in, allowing them to ambush passing carriages, and no matter how many posses were sent out into the wilderness to bring in gang leaders, those returning were always fewer in number than when they left.
It was in these outskirts after a good couple of hours’ travel where a straggle of brigands tried to stop the Den’s arrival. They rode hard on horseback, pounding through the desert wastes, shoddily aiming pistols that cracked with every shot. Most were just for intimidation. It wasn’t the intention to hurt anybody, yet, as ransom on those possessing such a fine vehicle could be lucrative, though some shots did strike against the carriage sides.
Franco separated a window blind between thumb and forefinger, catching a look at these rogues thrashing their animals in the morning sun. Vermin, he cursed, deciding to rise from his seat and walk the length of his carriage to the telephone intercom. With sharp prods of his finger the trumpet receiver was brought to his ear and he waited for the crackling voice to come through.
The boxcar, nestled between the end observation car and the showgirls’ quarters, had come alive. Inside, a phone rattled in shrill alarm. Bustling within was the organized retaliation by the showgirls, who, in this instance, had the responsibility of returning fire. The top of the carriage had a section that swung over, revealing a rudimentary cannon that launched shells, shells that burst over the sand and tore through the unfortunate horse and rider caught in the impact.
Each shell was loaded into the cannon’s breech, supported by a drive mechanism; two of the showgirls slid one at a time into a stuttering belt loader, while another showgirl called directions as she stared into a lowered periscope. The carriage rattled with each boom – a tremendous kick that sent vibrations down to its floor. Between the feminine bodies, the train’s head of security pressed through, easing each aside to reach the ringing phone.
Jacques released the conical ear piece and spoke into the mounted receiver.
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Mister Jacques,’ Franco said, watching another rider fall from the carriage window. Sand erupted in heavy plumes with each shot. ‘There seem to be people firing at my train.’
‘That there is, sir.’ Jacques gestured to the women inside to continue the retaliation. ‘I would guess it be on account of the money we’re carrying, that with it being our lot and all.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Pay them no mind. We are already all over it.’
‘I’m relieved to know that is the case. I shall leave things in your more than capable hands.’
Capable they were indeed. For months now, Jacques had provided the protection that the Den had required. It was not his brawn that made him unique, though few could take a punch from him and keep composure. Nor was it his handiness with firearms, though his aim was keener than most who brandished weaponry. What Jacques brought was presence.
It would have been easy to hire someone to be brutish. With such desperation in the region, ask anybody to rough up another for a solid wage and there wasn’t a soul who would say no. It was pure luck that Franco met Jacques, emptying a bottle of Black Peanut glass by glass in one of the more respectable taverns.
He had been a young man born into wealth, though discovered the humility of scarceness when a fire took his belongings and family. Unlike most others in similar circumstances who either begged on the streets or worked in mills for a pittance, Jacques earned an honest trade working at the market. Although only twelve years old, his literacy and accountancy skills had made him an asset. When old enough, he had taken the running of the stalls day to day, shifting any goods that were offered by suppliers for a quick turnaround, before destiny interrupted.
By chance, Jacques witnessed a well-dressed gentleman being relieved of his purse by a pickpocket of impressive skill. Calling into the throng caused the criminal to escape