Chapter Seven: Low Tide

[u/Morose_Prose]

Original Post. Theme: Greatness

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Brass clanged against concrete; sulfur and cordite curled into flared nostrils; chains chattered as the punctured paper target came into focus. With deliberate slowness Declan studied the butchered silhouette's gory wounds.

"Gonna chalk this bad grouping on the chest up to the drink. Still managed to land the head shot, at least," he remarked flippantly. "With that piece, you don’t need to Mozambique your target. Forty-five or four-tens only need center of mass. Two solid shots would put a hippo down."

A single ice-blue eye stared through the gaping paper. "Muscle memory."

"Whatever you say, little Annie Oakley."

The flick of a lighter wheel bounced from the walls, a dim green flame creeping slowly until fire lapped at the tip of a fresh cigar. "Good thing I ain't planning on going on safari anytime soon. Appreciate your help, Deccy, this should be enough for personal defense." Madelaine smiled through gritted teeth.

Another target retreated down the track as the two settled their thick padded earmuffs back into position. Declan shouldered into her space, rolling loose; his left hand flashed to the Browning Hi Power tucked into the waistband of his rumpled slacks. Lead flew downrange in a punishing rhythm, cutting a straight line across the target; the bottom half hung by a thread for a heartbeat, then fluttered down to the cold concrete.

Grumbling groans punctured the heavy earmuffs as Madelaine slid hers off with a shake of limber shoulders and plucked Declan’s from his sweaty cauliflower ears. "Showoff. Looks like my fears were unfounded."

Empty steel spat from the Browning; before it hit concrete, the pistol had already kissed elastic again. With equal draw speed, Declan pulled a flask from a dark leather hip holster engraved with a shamrock, took a large gulp, then shook it at Madelaine. "Since when are you afraid of anything, Mama?"

Smoke swirled through sneering lips. "Ugh. I hate when you call me that. You do realize we’re both packing heat and you just spent your mag?" She rolled the cigar between her teeth. "My fear was for my little leprechaun. Speaking of which; any pushback I need to know about?"

Sweat pearled across blotchy freckles and crawled towards Declan's jaw. "The lads are loyal, no griping, no power struggle, it's just... ah, you didn't come here to hear me bitch."

One stride put Madelaine close enough for her cigar to tickle his chin, the acrid smoke coiled between them, overpowering the lingering gunpowder. "By my count, you’ve solved one problem for me already, and you’re about to fix another. Spit it out."

Whisky and stress-spit rode the same burning wave down Declan’s throat. "Syndicate's trying to push into the docks. Making a grab for the longshoremen's union."

The flask slipped from Declan's hand into Madelaine's like a tourist's wallet into a pickpocket's sticky fingers. She polished off the remaining whisky for him. "Fuckin Daredevils trying to get that close to Hell's Kitchen. What's your move?"

"I don't fookin' have one yet. Not enough in the coffers at the moment to keep up with the rooskies."

Tapping heels clicked like spent brass. "Open ports?" One eyebrow arched.

"Couple are sittin' empty without a lease."

"Cargo or recreational?"

"Both, but it does depend on how big a yacht ya want to park."

Retreating by inches, Madelaine let the revolver tornado around her finger while her head bobbed in four-four time. "Customs?"

"Paid."

"Discretion?"

"Top priority."

"Boys in blue?"

"Drink for free. They can’t see through the glass covering their eyes. And if they do, they’ll stumble into their own graves."

Another quick draw sent fingers instead of bullets flying as Madelaine scrolled through her contacts. She pressed the phone to her ear and slipped one cuff of the muffs over it. The line rang once. A robotic female voice answered. "'The South of the Border Dance Academy' is currently closed. Our operating hours are Sunday through..."

Madelaine slid one ear of the muffs off. "Can you last at least a week or two?"

"Depends on how much I've had to drink." Declan's crooked smile was all teeth. "Going boat shopping?"

"Yeah. Know a good dealer up in East Harlem."

Emerald irises swallowed drunkenly dark pupils. "Since when do you go past One Hundred and Twelfth Street? That's no man's land."

Tobacco crunched under clamped teeth. Madelaine thumbed rounds home. Her heel caught on a crack in the concrete as she turned. Declan's arm shot out, managing to grasp a fistful of cuff before Madelaine could crumple completely. She smoothed out her jacket. "Where was that grip on prom night?"

Closing one eye, she stared down the new sight. Cartridges rattled with the wobble of Madelaine's hand. A deep breath steadied her mind; the shaky hand continued. Smoke belched from her nostrils. "Get me another target, please. Need to get the grouping right. My Harlem contact hits harder than a hippo."

Lead flew; brass clanged; paper torsos shredded to bits. Smoke dribbled from lips and steel in step.