“First, Sammy, now Dutchie,” Jerry said. “Willoughby’s getting rougher.”
John put his elbows on the table, looking his brother in the eye. “I have a plan, but we need reinforcements. I need you to talk with Dutchie.”
Jerry raised an eyebrow. “He won’t be interested in a partnership.”
“I bet he would. This would be a temporary thing. We get the High Tides and the Green Boys too. Band together. And we’ll keep it up until Willoughby gets the message.”
Jerry drummed his fingers on the table. “Let’s hear it.”
The following evening, Jerry and John headed to the docks to join Al, the retired-navy-captain-cum-fisherman-cum-rumrunner John had originally hired to pilot their boat. Al was an older, weathered man with a scruffy, grey-speckled beard. It was difficult to tell exactly how old he was, since the man looked as rough as gravel, but Jerry thought he was closing in on fifty. He could tell he was embarrassed to have the Baileys riding along with him tonight, though he tried not to show it.
“You didn’t have to come. I brought my son Bill, and we got guns,” Al told the brothers, gesturing to his son. “We wouldn’t let Big Will touch your booze. Not again.”
“You’re not the only one he’s stealing from,” Jerry reminded him.
The river was stirred up by the wind tonight, rising and falling beneath the boat. Jerry was trying to ignore the motion so he could concentrate on the job at hand. Both he and John had brought rifles, and they had known Al and his boy would have theirs. But considering the size of Willoughby’s well-financed little navy, those wouldn’t be enough.
He couldn’t get Adele’s face out of his mind.I’ll be careful, he’d told her.I’ll be fine.He wasn’t sure how this should go. Would a man in his position tell her about this later, or was this something he could safely keep to himself? He let his gaze travel over the cases of whisky and decided it was probably better if she didn’t know.
John’s big hand patted Al’s shoulder. “It’s a big night, Captain. There’s a plan in place. All I need you to do is get us across the water. Regular speed. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“What’s happening?” Al asked, unconvinced.
John gave him a wink. “It’s all under control. Trust me.”
Al gave him a glare, then he leaned toward his son. “Something’s up. Stay low.”
As the captain started up the engine, Jerry hunkered down beside John, out of sight of the Windsor shore. The boat began to motor across the Detroit River, and Jerry kept his eyes peeled for Willoughby’s men. When they were about a third of the way across the river, Jerry turned to John.
“See anything?”
John shook his head, disappointed.
“Maybe we need to cast a little bait,” Jerry said.
“Slow ’er down a little, Al,” John called over the wind.
“Eh?”
“Slow down!”
Shaking his head, Al cut the engine back, and Jerry felt the boat slow.
“There,” Bill said to his father, pointing toward the shore.
Sure enough, Jerry spotted the lights from three boats. They were headed straight for them.
“Those are Big Will’s boats,” Al said, one hand on the throttle. He was a tough veteran with years of experience behind him, but rum-running warfare was something completely different. He had good reason to be nervous.
“Hold steady,” John told him.
Jerry could see the disbelief in the man’s eyes.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” Jerry said, trusting his brother’s plan.
John brandished his rifle, his smile gleaming in the dark. “Let them come.”
