The three boats roared across the river, water frothing against their bows, and Jerry’s hand tightened around his rifle. The trick to an ambush, they both knew, was to play dead. Be a rock. So Jerry hardened himself as he had so often before. He hunkered down as he’d been trained, but even then he couldn’t stop the nerves from zinging through him. He wasn’t the only one. John was leaning forward, scouting the water, concern tightening his expression. They were sitting ducks out here, and a big piece—in fact, the most important piece—of the plan was missing.
“Dutchie gonna double cross us?” Jerry asked, keeping his voice down.
John shook his head. “He wouldn’t. He hates Witless as much as I do.”
Willoughby’s men had almost reached them; Jerry could just make out the determined set of their faces when Bill pointed beyond the incoming trio. “Look! I count… eight boats.”
“What?” Al cried, but before he could race out of there, John grabbed his arm.
“Those are the good guys, Al! This is going to be legendary.”
Victory swelled in Jerry’s chest at the sight of a whole battalion of vessels coming in fast behind Willoughby’s men. There were Dutchie’sboats, but also representatives from the other rumrunners—and each one was loaded with men and rifles.
“Today is our lucky day,” John said, grinning as Willoughby’s boats split up to escape the oncoming naval bombardment. “All right, Captain, turn this boat around and show me what you did in the war.”
“With pleasure,” Al said, then he gunned the engine, giving chase.
Willoughby’s trio was no match for the charge, and within minutes, John’s battalion of boats had corralled them back together. Dutchie aimed his rifle at one of Willoughby’s captains, then he yelled at them to cut their motors. A hush fell over the water, and Willoughby’s goons glared sullenly at the enforcers surrounding them.
John was absolutely loving this, and Jerry had to fight hard to keep his smile hidden. His brother stood on a crate, rifle at his side. “There’ll be no more pirating of our liquor,” he announced, loud and clear. “The Bailey Brothers, Dutchie’s gang, the High Tides, the Green Boys, we’re out of bounds for all of you. You let Willoughby know what I said.”
“You don’t own the river,” one of the trapped men yelled.
“No, but we own this liquor, chump,” he replied.
“You can’t stop us!”
Jerry knew the next step in the plan, and he had to admire John for coming up with it. He didn’t think he could have done something so brash, but it was exactly what they needed.
He sat back and watched John nod at Dutchie, who raised his twelve-gauge shotgun, aimed it at the side of one of Willoughby’s boats, and fired. Two of his men followed suit, and the marble-sized, lead slugs they’d used instead of the usual pellets hit exactly the same spot, blowing a beautiful, four-inch hole in the starboard side. The men on board scrambled back, but nothing could keep them dry. The boat sank quickly, and the men toppled helplessly into the river. Sputtering and splashing in the cold, they swam as fast as they could to the other two, and yelled until their compadres hauled them in.
Once they were all out of the water, Dutchie looked them over, aiming the mouth of his rifle at every face in turn. “You heard what John Bailey said, right? Out of bounds.”
The man who had first taunted them shook visibly with cold, but his face was a furious shade of red. “You won’t always be here.”
Jerry cleared his throat. “Sure we will. We’ll be here every day and night until you get the message. And when others learn what we’ve done here today, I think they’ll join us.”
John waved a hand, dismissing the remaining two boats. “Run along home and tell Little Will the new rules, kids.”
“You’ll be sorry,” the man yelled.
They watched the two boats limp back to shore.
“He’s probably right,” Jerry said. “Willoughby’s gonna lose his mind.”
Dutchie pulled his boat up alongside Al’s. “I don’t know about you,” he said to John, “but I feel like a drink is in order.”
Al still had his route to finish, so the brothers climbed into Dutchie’s boat. The rest of the fleet would stay out all night, guarding each other as they made their deliveries.
They headed to Dutchie’s watering hole, the Dominion House, and Jerry had to laugh at the tavern owner’s expression as four of the more prevalent, competing gangs in Windsor, over two dozen hardened men, walked into his place, laughing like old friends. He doubted the man had ever seen anything like it. As Jerry watched, he turned to his wide-eyed barmaid and told her to start pouring and just keep going.
Dutchie, glowing with victory, slung an arm over Jerry’s shoulder. “Nowthatwas a good time.”
“You just did something good for other people, Dutchie,” John said. “Miracles do happen.”
“You know, if I learned anything in Europe, it’s that the men in charge are constantly underestimating everyone else. Didn’t matter what country we were from, if we banded together and used our headsandour numbers, we were able to change the rules. The more the merrier. Butit doesn’t always happen as spectacularly as tonight.” He threw back his head in a big booming laugh. The unexpected sound was contagious, and Jerry found himself laughing along with him. “Oh, boy. Willoughby’s not gonna like that.”
John was still chuckling, saying something to Dutchie as Jerry headed over to the bar and ordered a whisky for his brother.
