Ghosts of Manhattan

ISBN: 978-1-61614-194-3       

To Lou Anders, for boundless passion, enthusiasm, and friendship

I have no name.

I am the judgment that lives in the darkness, the spirit of the city wrought flesh and blood.

I was born of vengeance and I have no past. I am both protector and executioner I represent the lives of the helpless; those who will not or cannot help themselves. I show no mercy.

I exist only in the shadows. The alleyways and the rooftops are my domain. I feel the heartbeat of the city, like a slow, restless pulse; I flow unimpeded through its street map of veins.

I live to keep the city clean, to search out the impurities and deliver retribution.

I am Life and Death, Yin and Yang.

I have no name ...

And I know where to find you.

DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN, NOVEMBER 1927

Something stirred in the shadows.

"Fat Ollie" Day flicked the stub of his cigarette toward the gutter, watching it spiral through the air like a tumbling star. It landed in a puddle of brackish rainwater and fizzed out with a gentle hiss. Nervously, he rested his sweaty palm on the butt of his pistol and edged forward, trying to see what had made the noise. It was too dark to make out anything other than the heaps of trash piled up against the walls of the alleyway, illuminated by the silvery beams of the car's headlamps. The air was damp. Ollie thought it was going to rain.

Behind him, the car engine purred with a low growl. He'd left it running, ready for a quick getaway. Ollie had stoked it himself a few minutes earlier, shoveling black coal from the hopper into the small furnace at the rear of the vehicle, superheating the fluid in the water tank to build up a head of steam. It was a sleek model-one of the newer types-and Ollie couldn't help grinning every time he ran his hands over its sweeping curves. Who said crime didn't pay?

Now his smart gray suit was covered with coal dust and soot, but he knew after they'd finished the job they were doing, he could buy himself another. Heck, he could buy himself a whole wardrobe full if he had the inclination. The boss would see him right. The Roman knew how to look after his guys.

Inside the tall bank building to his left, the four men he'd ferried downtown in the motorcar were carrying out a heist-their third in a week-and once again he'd been left outside to guard the doors. It suited Ollie just fine; he'd never had a stomach for the dirty stuff. Being on the periphery didn't worry him-as long as he still got his share of the proceeds.

There was another scuffing sound from up ahead, like a booted foot crunching on stone. Ollie felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with anxiety. The pressure valve on the vehicle gave an expectant whistle, as if in empathy, calling out a shrill warning to its driver. Ollie glanced back, but the car was just as he'd left it, the side doors hanging open like clamshells, waiting for the others to finish the job inside.

"Who's there?" He slid his pistol from its holster, easing it into his palm. "I'm warning you. Don't you mess with Ollie Day."

There was a sudden, jerky movement as a nearby heap of trash was disturbed, causing cardboard boxes to tumble noisily to the ground. Ollie swung his pistol round in a wide arc. His hand was shaking. He couldn't see anything in the gloom. Then more movement, to his right. Something crossed the beam of the headlamps. He spun on the spot, his finger almost squeezing the trigger of his pistol ...

... And saw a black cat dart across the alley, scuttling away from the pile of boxes. Ollie let out a long, wheezing sigh of relief. "Hey, cat. You got Ollie all jumpy for a minute there." He slipped his pistol back into its holster, grinning to himself. "Man, I gotta learn to take it easy." He looked up.

Two pinpricks of red light had appeared, thirty feet further down the alleyway, hovering in the air at head height. Ollie stood silent for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on. For a minute he thought he was seeing things, and made to rub his eyes, but then the lights began to move, sweeping toward him through the gloom.

Footsteps running. Ragged breath. Ollie fumbled for his weapon, but he was already too late.

The man sprang at him from nearly ten feet away, hurtling through the air toward him like a panther, body coiled for an attack. Ollie caught only glimpses of his assailant as the man was crisscrossed by the headlamp beams: dressed fully in black, a long cape or trench coat whipping up around him, a fedora on his head. And those glowing red eyes, piercing in the darkness. Ollie thought they might bore right into him, then and there.

He got the gun loose just as his attacker came down on him, hard, causing the weapon to fly from his hand and skitter across the ground toward the car. It clattered to a stop somewhere out of sight. The man was fast, and Ollie was hardly able to bring his hands up in defense before he was punched painfully in the gut and he doubled over, all of the air driven out of his lungs. The man grabbed a fistful of Ollie's collar and heaved him bodily into the air. Ollie tried desperately to kick out, or to cry for help, but was able only to offer an ineffectual whimper.

Before he knew what was happening, Ollie felt himself being flung backward. He sailed through the air, his limbs wheeling, and slammed down across the hood of the car. He felt the thin metal give way beneath his bulk. But he had no time to lament the damage to his precious vehicle. Pain blossomed in his shoulder. He realized that his arm had been crushed and was hanging limply by his side. The back of his head, too, felt like it was on fire, and he could sense a warm liquid- blood?-running down the side of his face. He emitted a heartfelt wail, just in time to see the grim face of his attacker looming over him.

The man was unshaven and unkempt. His eyes-his real eyeswere obscured by a pair of glowing goggles, strange red lights shining bright behind the lenses, transfixing the mob driver as he struggled to inch backward on the car's hood, to get away from this terrifying apparition of the night. He had nowhere to go. He was going to die. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the fatal blow. Seconds passed. He peeled his eyelids open again.

The man was still hovering over him. After a moment, he spoke. His voice was gruff and filled with ire. "In there?" He gestured toward the set of double doors that the others were planning to use as their escape route from the bank.

Ollie nodded. He knew he was likely signing his own death warrant by giving them away, but all he could think about was getting free from this maniac, this ... vigilante. He could taste blood. If the car would still drive ...

The stranger grabbed the front of Ollie's jacket with both fists and hauled him into the air again. "Oh no. No, no, no ..."

Turning, the man charged at the double doors, swinging Ollie in front of himself like a battering ram. Ollie's shoulder connected painfully with the heavy wooden doors as they burst through, causing the hinges to splinter and the doors to cave inward with a huge crash.

Stars bloomed in his field of vision. His head spun. He couldn't remember what it was like not to feel numb with pain. He felt as if he was going to die, and realized that he probably was.

They were standing in the main lobby of the bank. The scene inside was one of utter chaos. Around thirty or forty civilians were scattered over the polished marble floor, lying prone on their bellies, their hands behind their heads, their distraught faces pressed to the ground. Another of the Roman's men was standing over them with a gun, keeping guard. Two further men were standing by the bank tellers as they stuffed cloth bags full of paper bills, and a fourth was up in the gallery overhead, surveying the scene below, a tommy gun clutched tightly in his hands.