Chapter 63 Chicago, 1927—Rick
By three o’clock, their last stop was completed at a barbershop where hot towels and straight razors left Tavis, Rick, and Clay’s skin smooth and tingling.
They slipped into impeccably tailored, charcoal-gray pinstripe suits, crisp white shirts, smart bow ties, gleaming two-tone oxfords, and Panama hats.
The scent of bay rum and fresh starch clung to them as they climbed into the Chevrolet.
Clay, having briefly shed his disguise for the shave, reapplied his fake mustache.
Three men—each six feet tall or taller, with powerful, athletic frames honed by discipline and training—arrived at the racetrack gates.
They paid their admission and accepted today’s racing form, a compact guide to the afternoon’s potential fortunes or losses. They surveyed the sprawling grounds, their polished oxfords kicking up light dust in the stifling heat as they pored over their cards.
“I want a look at the horses in the flesh before they run. Do either of you see a sign for the stables?” Rick asked.
“That way,” a man gestured, barely lifting his gaze from his own card. “But the next race is moments away. Go to the barn now, and you’ll miss the start.”
Rick’s eyes flickered to the man’s extended left hand, and he fought the impulse to let his gaze linger. “Thanks.”
The stranger tipped his hat—a quick, casual gesture—and melted back into the surging crowd.
Rick pulled Tavis and Clay into a huddle. “Did you catch the ring on his finger when he pointed toward the stables?”
“Clear as day. It’s emblazoned with the crossed keys,” Tavis confirmed. “Seems the brooch is trimming our sails.”
“When a Navy SEAL and a Marine wax poetic in sailing metaphors, I know I’m navigating uncharted waters,” Clay added with a grin, obviously pleased with his own metaphor.
“We realize you’re out of your depth, but it means we adjust course, so stay sharp,” Rick chuckled.
“The brooch pulled this exact stunt on me once before, when I was traveling with Erik. It’s easy to get caught up in events that happen quickly. I dropped my guard and almost got killed. Lesson learned. Don’t bite. If it seems too good, it is,” Tavis said, his gaze fixed on the bustling track.
“Are you saying we should ignore a connection to the Illuminati?” Clay asked.
“No, but be careful,” Rick cautioned, his gaze scanning the crowd as he lowered his voice. “The connection needs to be on our terms, not a trap laid by someone else.”
“Did you catch what he jotted down on his racing card?” Rick asked.
Clay fanned himself with his stiff cardstock as the heat pressed in. “I tried, but it was all chicken scratch.” His fanning slowed. “If we get separated in this crowd, meet back at the hotel lobby at six for an early dinner.”
“You don’t want us to find you?” Tavis asked.
Clay stopped fanning entirely, smoothing his mustache with a deliberate touch. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Rick and Tavis shared an exasperated eye roll.
“I mean,” Clay ducked his chin to his chest and kicked a clump of dirt. “I’ve already been here.” He lifted his gaze to look at his friends. “I might be the new kid on the block, and I’m not a decorated soldier, but I know my way around Chicago, and I’m not careless.”
“I didn’t imply you were,” Rick said softly, a hand landing on Clay’s shoulder. “It’s just that I want us to be careful. The stakes are high.”
“The same goes for you two,” Clay warned. “Capone is involved in the horse racing scene now. You might see him here.”
Tavis lifted an eyebrow. “And you’re just dropping this little nugget on us now because…?”
“I forgot,” Clay admitted with a grimace, “until I spotted one of his men loitering over there.” He pointed to the spot with a tilt of his chin.
“I nicknamed him Gap Tooth. He and another asshole guarded Skye’s house like a pair of junkyard dogs and loved nothing more than giving us a hard time.
He wouldn’t chew anyone up without direct orders, but he relishes the fact that you think he might. ”
“Stay away from him,” Tavis said. “You could mess up your next trip with one careless move.”
“You mean the trip I’ve already taken?” Clay countered.
Rick’s hands tightened into fists, fighting the urge to grab Clay by the scruff of his neck and rattle some sense into him. “I know I’m being overprotective, but I’ve seen the damage firsthand. History is easy to change.”
“Sounds like the Mallory effect,” Clay tossed out, a little too glibly.
Rick winced.
Tavis lifted both brows. “Let’s not find out the hard way. Okay?”
Five heartbeats later, the space where Clay had stood was empty. He was simply gone.
“Shit. Didn’t see that coming.” Rick made a mental note of the precise time. He’d give the risk-taking journalist four hours to chase his story before making a lateral jump to yank him back. “I wonder what fire he’s chasing now.”
“I don’t know, but if the tables were reversed, wouldn’t we chase it too?”
Rick shook his head sharply. “We’re trained to obey the rules of time, to follow orders. He’s a civilian running on pure Jack-Mallory-type chromosomes. The ones that scream you can chase a story through a temporal minefield without putting your life, and everyone else’s, in danger.”
A short, dry chuckle escaped Tavis, a sound devoid of humor.
“Come on. Let’s check the place out.” Rick scanned the chaotic scene, but Clay had vanished into the noise. While Rick’s senses didn’t scream danger, that didn’t mean it wasn’t there, hiding in plain sight.
Rick and Tavis pushed their way through the loud, dense crowd, the air thick with anticipation, searching for the man with the ring. They reached the wooden rail just as the horses were being coaxed toward the starting line.
“Where are the stalls for the starting gate?” Tavis shouted over the din.
“They won’t be invented and used for the first time until 1939,” Rick said. The horses shifted restlessly, lining up behind the rope barrier at the line.
“I guess that detail was in your notebook, too,” Tavis said.
“Trivial details galore,” Rick confirmed with a wry grin.
The grandstand was full of screaming spectators and the distant calls of vendors and bookies—all clad in near-identical suits and white Panama hats. From the top of the grandstand, it must resemble a sea of waving white flat-crowned hats.
The sky—oven-hot silver-blue—offered no relief, and the air hung in suffocating stillness. Sweat slicked Rick’s skin, and every instinct screamed at him to remove his tie and shed his jacket. But he was wearing a shoulder holster—and exposing it guaranteed trouble.
The air reeked of horse manure and damp mud, oily smoke from grilled sausages, and the unavoidable musk of unwashed bodies. Rick had endured the horrors of war zones, but here, far from the battlefield, the stench was enough to turn his stomach.
“Who’d you bet on?”
Rick spun around, scanning the faceless crowd to see who had tossed the question.
It wasn’t just some random voice. It was Ring Man, his eyes full of curiosity.
Rick met his gaze with an icy stare. “Just following your lead,” he said, his voice flat.
“Watching the first one. Getting the lay of the land, if you know what I mean.”
The man nodded.
“Name’s Rick O’Grady, and my friend here is Tavis Stuart.”
The man extended his hand, the gesture open, before dropping his own name. “Maurice Bowes.”
Rick shook hands mechanically until the name slammed into his consciousness like a physical blow.
He stiffened, snatching his hand back, a frantic urge to sterilize his skin with bleach.
This had to be the grandfather of the monster who had brutalized Penny.
A dark thought surfaced. If he ended this son of a bitch’s life right here, right now, perhaps his grandson would never come into existence to screw up her life.
The question swirled in his mind. Could he risk the blood on his hands, and would the consequences be worth it?
He didn’t have an answer.
“See a horse out there that catches your eye?” Bowes asked.
Rick reined in his impatience, forcing himself to play nice.
Too much hinged on this moment to let a slip-up compromise the long game.
“For starters,” Rick said, pointing with his chin, “that bay colt. The one with the burnished, reddish-brown coat and those black points on his mane, tail, and legs.”
“That’s Red Fox,” Bowes replied. “A choice pick. He’s heading to the post as today’s favorite.”
“He’ll take the win,” Rick stated with cold certainty.
“I doubt that,” Bowes countered. “The track’s slick with mud, and Red Fox runs a poor race on a wet surface.”
“He’ll defy the skeptics today.”
“Care to seal that sentiment with a wager?”
“Sure,” Rick said, turning fully to face him. “What are the odds?”
“Ten to one,” Bowes said simply.
“And how much are you willing to put on the table to prove me wrong—to bet against Red Fox’s victory?”
“I’ve got a hundred dollars that says you’re mistaken. If your horse eats dirt, I walk away with a grand.”
A thousand dollars was pocket change. The stakes needed to be higher. Rick’s strategy required leverage, not cash. If Bowes couldn’t cover the debt personally, he’d have to tap into his network—the very group of people Rick intended to infiltrate.
“Let’s make this interesting,” Rick suggested, pitching his voice to sound casual while hoping he hadn’t overplayed his hand. “How about we up that bet to a grand?”
Bowes paused, his eyes narrowing as he methodically scanned his race card. “And how do I know you’re good for it?”
“How do I know you are?” Rick shot back, matching Bowes’s challenge.
Bowes twisted the heavy signet ring with his thumb. “I have several business associates milling around here today. They’ll vouch for my liquidity. Who can vouch for you besides your shadow?”
“Tavis,” Rick said, his voice instantly dropping into the flat, perfected monotone of his former life as a detective. “Show this gentleman the depth of our friendship.”