Carter Slade vanished into the abyss.
Chapter I
Violet Cambridge lay in bed, her nude form hidden by the crisp white sheets. In her left hand was a lit cigarette, the scent of cloves wafting from its tip. In her right hand she held a Smith & Wesson Hand Ejector II. The revolver had been introduced a few years before World War I and was Violet’s favorite type of handgun. Chambered for .45 caliber rounds, the Hand Ejector II normally had a five or six inch barrel but Violet’s gun had a modified barrel that had been cut down to four inches in length.
Violet took another hit off her smoke and watched as the shadows visible beneath her door grew closer. She counted at least two men in the outer room of her apartment. They were professionals, too, by the way they moved and how silent their break-in had been. Violet had keen ears and she’d barely heard them. She thought about trying to get dressed before they burst in but figured that it would only waste time. If they caught a glimpse of her, what did it matter? They weren’t long for this world anyway so why not give them a thrill on the way out?
The door suddenly shattered inwards, a heavy boot having been driven right into the wooden center. Two men pushed their way in, both dressed in identical gray suits and felt fedora hats. They were broad-shouldered types with square jaws, cold eyes and poor shaving habits. One had a patch of unruly whiskers on his chin, the other suffered from a perpetual case of razor burn.
The obvious leader of the two — Mr. Razor Burn, Violet dubbed him — moved closer, brandishing a revolver. His friend was more of a hands-on type: he was holding a ligature of rope.
Mr. Razor Burn hesitated, his eyes falling on the Smith & Wesson that Violet had trained on him. “Put down the gun, you crazy dame,” he said. His voice was hoarse and Violet pegged him as a hardcore smoker.
“Why would I do that?” Violet asked, looking completely nonplussed by the turn of events. Her raven-black hair was only slightly mussed from sleep, the bangs falling evenly over her dark eyes. “I’d say that you two gentlemen aren’t here to ask me out on a date. Am I right? So forgive me if I’d prefer to stay armed.”
“You give us the money you stole and Mr. Armitage says we can let you live.”
Violet took one last puff on the cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray on her nightstand. The motion caused her sheet to drop on one side, allowing a pale white breast to come into view. Her rosy nipple hardened in the night air and she knew that both men had caught sight of it. Mr. Razor Burn suddenly sounded even huskier than before. Men, she thought to herself, are such idiots.
“C’mon,” Mr. Razor Burn said, taking two steps closer. “I don’t want to hurt a good looking dame like you.”
“Good. That makes two of us that are concerned about my safety.” Violet moved the barrel of the gun slightly, focusing it on the guy holding the strangulation weapon. “I want you to tell Armitage that I didn’t steal any money. He’s the thief, not me. He had his boys raid the charity fund for the orphanage. Who does that? Not even Hitler, I’d bet. So all I did was take it back for them. And in the morning I’m going to drop it off at the orphanage… and all those happy little boys and girls will get to have Christmas this year.”
“You make yourself sound like a saint,” Mr. Ligature said. When he spoke, he revealed a set of teeth that were badly in need of dental care. “You’re nothing but a whore, showing off your tits like that. You need a man to put you in your place.”
Violet smiled coolly. “Pity you won’t get the chance.” She fired twice, both bullets striking Mr. Ligature in the throat. Blood flowed quickly from the wounds and Mr. Ligature’s eyes bulged in shock. He dropped his weapon and reached up with both hands in a vain attempt to staunch the flow of blood. He looked at Mr. Razor Burn in desperation, staggering back until he bumped against the wall. He slid to the floor, making gurgling sounds all the while.
Mr. Razor Burn didn’t seem distressed over the loss of his partner. He kept his own gun pointed at Violet but hadn’t fired it yet. Violet had been right: he was the smarter of the two and the one more easily reasoned with. Smart men were in no hurry to die, especially if they could prolong their life while staring at a beautiful woman’s breasts. “You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered.
“No, I didn’t. But it felt damned nice.”
“Look… I’ll go back and tell Mr. Armitage that you don’t have the money anymore. That you already gave it back.”
“You think he’ll buy it?”
“Dunno. But it’s worth a try.”
“That would be real square of you. I’d appreciate it.”
“Enough to let me see what else is beneath that sheet?”
Violet laughed. “No. I’m afraid not.”
Mr. Razor Burn shrugged good-naturedly. He started to turn, stepping over his friend’s body, when he stopped suddenly, as if something had come to him. “Oh. One more thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
Mr. Razor Burn shook his head, smiling. “That jerk-off that you killed when you took the money…”
“Yeah?”
The smile faded. “That was my brother.”
The shadows of the room were suddenly gone as both guns belched hot leaden death. Violet had fired her gun while simultaneously throwing her body to her left. She plummeted to the floor, her lower body wrapped up in her bed sheets. She hit the carpet hard, sending pain racing through her hip. Mr. Razor Burn’s bullets missed her easily, tearing chucks out of the headboard instead.
Violet’s aim, however, was far better. Even though she fired while in motion, she caught Mr. Razor Burn in the stomach with her first shot and in the wrist with her second. He fell to his knees, gasping in pain.
Violet stood up, testing her hip. It hurt like hell but nothing seemed broken. She checked to make sure she still had bullets remaining. Her gun’s chamber held six shots and she’d spent four of them so far. She walked to where Mr. Razor Burn was crouching, kicking away his pistol with her toes. She then placed her foot on his shoulder and sent him onto his back. He landed with a grunt, one hand holding his guts together.
He looked up to see a sight that under other circumstances would have been a lovely one: Violet Cambridge was a stunningly attractive woman. She stood five foot, four inches tall when not in heels and she had a wondrously fit body. It was firm in all the right places but retained the softness that men found so appealing. Her dark hair was matched by the midnight quality of her eyes, which spoke of secretive whispers and fiery romance.
Violet knew that the other residents of her apartment building were probably frightened out of their wits by the gunfire. At least one of them had probably already placed a call to the police.
She knelt at Mr. Razor Burn’s side, placing the smoke barrel of her gun at the side of his head. “Be sure to tell your brother I said hello.”
“You can’t keep killing people, Violet. The police get real touchy about that.”
Violet smoothed out her black dress and offered up a glittering smile before buttering a biscuit and taking a bite. It was a lovely Atlanta morning, with just the right crispness to the air that made one think that Christmas was just around the corner. But it being the Deep South, it was still warm enough at this time of year to enjoy a breakfast at a sidewalk café. Peachtree Street was abuzz with activity, the thoroughfare being filled with businessmen and holiday shoppers. “It was self-defense,” she said. “Even Chief McKenzie had to admit that. Those brutes broke into my apartment with the obvious intent of killing me.”