by Neil Hunter
Elmo screamed. A high, wailing sound. His hands released their grip on Brand’s throat, letting him fall to his feet. As Brand sucked air into his burning lungs he saw Elmo backing away, his massive hands clamped over the handle of the knife protruding from his body. Blood was pulsing between his fingers, soaking his shirt and pants.
There was an expression of pure terror on Elmo’s face. His fingers fumbled around the knife’s bloody handle, but he seemed terrified of trying to remove it. He stumbled suddenly, falling back against a table. Held there for a moment he began to slither along its length and fell to the floor, twisting so that he landed face down. The impact shoved the knife in deeper and Elmo screamed once, loudly, his massive body arching in a spasm. Blood spread out from under his collapsed body as he slumped. There was a moment when Brand thought the man was already dead. Then Elmo moved slowly, pushing up on one arm, the other dragging the bulky shape of his revolver into sight.
Brand saw the muzzle rise and threw himself to one side, hoping to move out of Elmo’s field of vision. The massive revolver boomed once, the bullet catching Brand’s left side. The impact spun him round, slamming him against the side of the compartment. He fell to his knees, then onto his face. Even lying down he could feel the coach twisting in ever-increasing circles. And then he blacked out.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious. He felt weak so he lay still, listening to the rattle of the moving train. Rain was drumming against the roof and windows. Brand sat up carefully, aware of the nagging burn of pain in his side. He leaned against the side of the coach, staring around the compartment.
Elmo lay where he had fallen. His eyes were open, glazed over. His slack mouth was bloody. The big revolver was still clutched in his fingers at the end of his extended arm.
Brand climbed to his feet, careful not to re-open the wound in his side where the bullet had torn a ragged gouge. He’d been lucky. Any deeper and it would have shattered his ribs. The congealed blood had staunched the flow and Brand didn’t want to start it again.
He crossed to the door of Lucilla’s compartment. She was still on the bed, but from the state of the sheet he’d draped across her she had been trying to move. All she had done was to expose herself. Her eyes blazed with hate as she watched him enter the compartment. He leaned over to stroke her silky hair and she jerked her head aside, muffled sound coming from behind the gag he’d placed across her mouth.
‘A while ago you couldn’t wait for me to sample your southern charms,’ Brand said dryly. ‘Something make you change your mind?’
He removed the gag, stepping back quickly as Lucilla spat at him.
‘One thing you St Clairs have in common. Every one of you is a fighting fool.’
‘Go to hell,’ Lucilla snapped. ‘Where’s Elmo?’
‘Lying out there making a mess all over the carpet.’
Lucilla stared at him. ‘Dead?’
‘I’d say so.’
He turned to leave.
‘Wait!’ Lucilla cried. ‘You can’t leave me here like this.
Brand’s eyes mocked her.
‘Don’t bet money on it.’
He took the key and locked the compartment door, ignoring Lucilla’s alternating rage and pleading. Brand paused beside Elmo’s body and took back his guns. Then he left the compartment and returned to his own and rang for the attendant. When the man arrived he took one look at Brand’s condition and shook his head sadly.
‘I sure don’t know what your business is, mister, but it’s the roughest I ever saw.’
Brand managed a lopsided grin. He was starting to feel weak. He peeled off his coat.
‘Can you get me something to clean this mess up. And some bandages. Could do with a drink as well.’
The Negro turned to go, then paused.
‘Maybe you need to talk with the conductor too?’
‘Yeah. Ask him to come see me.’
‘You be wanting breakfast?’
‘Sounds good.’
‘You will be around to eat it?’
‘Hell I hope so. Business is over for the day, you can go get some sleep after you bring me my stuff.’
The attendant shook his head. ‘Sleep? Mister, I’ll never sleep again after this trip.’
He left Brand alone. In the silence thoughts filled his mind. Of St Clair and his plans. Of Sarah and Lucilla. Of the wild violence that had erupted since his arrival at the St Clair estate and the turmoil that might still occur if he didn’t put a stop to the evil schemes of the Brotherhood.
Chapter Fourteen
McCord was waiting for him at the Washington depot with a closed carriage. On the trip back to the ranch headquarters outside Washington Brand gave a verbal report of the St Clair assignment.
‘Any sign of St Clair?’ Brand asked.
McCord shook his head. He didn’t like having to admit failure. ‘Not a sign. Or of Royce. The trouble is St Clair will have friends in Washington only too willing to hide him out.’
‘The President?’
McCord’s laugh was bitter. ‘He insists on carrying on as usual. Just what I expected. He refuses to abandon his duties. I’ve got our people shadowing him, but you know as well as I do the most difficult thing to do is to prevent someone being killed.’
‘What’s he doing tomorrow?’
‘The fourteenth? During the day normal duties. They’ll keep him in the office all day. In the evening he’s attending a reception given by the British Ambassador at the Embassy.’
‘That would be the most likely place,’ Brand said. ‘St Clair will need a public place. Somewhere his attempt will attract the most attention.’
‘It’s the way we’re looking at it. The problem is there are going to be over two-hundred guests, as well as kitchen staff and caterers.’
‘Add a couple more,’ Brand suggested. ‘St Clair and Parker Royce.’
‘We’ll worry about that tomorrow. I’d get some rest, Brand. You look like you need it. And have the doctor check that wound.’
‘By the way I left Lucilla St Clair trussed up in her sleeping compartment,’ Brand said.
McCord scowled at him. ‘I hate to ask what mayhem you created in Louisiana.’
Brand didn’t tell him. He preferred McCord find out for himself. That was his job. Smoothing over the rough edges.
When they arrived at the ranch Brand wandered down to the armory and had a word with Whitfield. He handed over both his weapons.
‘Lost my own Colt,’ he explained. Ticked this up on the way. Handles well but I’d like you to check it over.’
‘How’s the Special?’ Whitfield asked, reaching for the adapted Colt.
‘Fine. I’ll be needing it tomorrow night.’
Whitfield nodded. ‘They’ll both be ready.’
Brand visited the ranch medical office. The doctor checked him over and taped up the bullet gouge in his side.
On his way to his quarters Brand met Kito, the martial arts instructor.
‘You need work out. In morning before breakfast.’
‘Go to hell, you Oriental bastard,’ Brand grumbled.
Kito grinned. ‘If I do you will meet me at the gates.’
Son of a bitch is probably right, Brand thought.
He reached his quarters and decided to have a long soak before turning in. He fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. He slept right through the day, waking in early evening. He had a shave, dressed, and had a good meal. Later he took a walk out to one of the corrals where a sleek chestnut wandered over and stood patiently as he rubbed its neck.
‘I was sorry to hear about Lady Sarah.’
It was McCord’s voice.
Brand didn’t turn around.
‘Tell me something,’ Brand began.
‘I’ll save you the trouble of asking,’ McCord said. ‘I did know Lady Sarah was acquainted with the St Clair’s. That she’d met them a couple of times.’
This time Brand did turn around. His sun browned face had ta
ken on the look of carved mahogany. ‘Never miss a trick, do you, McCord.’
‘I can’t afford to.’
‘Even if it means people getting hurt because they shouldn’t be there?’
‘That’s something we’re both guilty of. Think about it, Brand,’ McCord said as he turned to leave.
Alone again Brand stared up into the night sky, seeing the cold sparkle of stars scattered across it. He felt empty. More alone than he had for a long time. Part of that was because McCord had been right. They both used people one way or another to get what they wanted. A truth he might want to ignore but one that refused to be brushed aside.
He saddled a horse and rode towards Washington. He felt angry. Bitter. His anger tinged with guilt. He needed a way to forget. The only thing that might do that was a full bottle of whisky.
Two hours later, his head aching from too much cheap liquor he found himself in bed with a striking redhead, striving in vain to prove something to her — though he wasn’t certain just what. To her credit the redhead was doing her best to help him out.
‘Hey, mister,’ she said, her voice reaching Brand through a haze of whisky fumes. ‘This isn’t doing either of us any good.’ She rolled him off her, letting her gaze travel down his body. ‘I think something just went and died.’
Brand followed her gaze, smiling crookedly. ‘I reckon you’re right.’ He reached for the bottle on the bedside table and took a long swallow. ‘Here’s to the dear departed.’
‘Mister, that ain’t going to help. You down any more of that and it won’t just be your pecker that won’t be able to stand up.’
Brand flopped over on her, his face pressed into the soft cushions of her full breasts. The girl was wearing a soft, delicate scent that reminded him of Sarah. He raised his head and stared at the redhead’s face. His eyes wouldn’t focus properly. Her face was blurred now.
‘Sarah!’ he mumbled.
The girl sighed. Her name was Myra. But for the money Brand was paying her she didn’t care what he called her. She stroked her fingers through his thick dark hair.
‘Honey, do you have a problem,’ she said softly, and then with the consummate determination of a professional she went to work on him, refusing to give up without a final try. If nothing else Myra liked a challenge.
Bright sunlight was streaming in through the dusty window of the room when Brand opened his eyes. He groaned. He felt terrible. His head was thick and his mouth felt pasty and sour. He gazed around the room, taking in the cheap furnishings. His clothes were scattered across the bare floor. He sat up, running his hands through his tangled hair.
The door opened then and a redheaded girl came in. She wore a wide smile and nothing else, and her young body was lithe and shapely. She was carrying a tray which she placed on the bedside table. Brand watched her pour coffee into a pair of thick china mugs. She passed him one, then perched her rounded behind on the edge of the bed.
‘You feeling better this morning?’ she asked.
Brand drank some of the hot coffee. ‘Should I need to?’ he asked.
Myra laughed, stirring her ample breasts. ‘Last night you weren’t the best company I’ve ever had.’
‘I give you a hard time?’
This time her laughter filled the room. ‘That’s the last thing you did.’
Brand emptied the mug and held it out for more coffee. He studied the girl. She was good looking. No more than twenty, with a firm, taut body. If he had been unable to perform to order last night he must have been in a bad way.
They talked for a while, draining the pot of coffee.
‘I’ll buy you breakfast, Myra,’ he said. ‘I owe you that much.’
‘You paid for more than that,’ she said, her eyes promising the delights he had failed to appreciate the night before.
Brand felt a warm stirring and drew the bed sheet aside. Myra gave a slow smile.
‘Now that’s more like it,’ she said as Brand drew her to him. ‘But I’m still holding out for that breakfast.’
Whitfield had both of Brand’s weapons ready on his return to the ranch. The armorer watched as Brand checked the two revolvers, loaded them both and fired off a dozen rounds from each. Whitfield’s skills had finely tuned the guns. Brand handled them as if they were part of him, squeezing off shot after shot with pinpoint accuracy.
‘The Peacemaker is a nice gun,’ Whitfield said.
‘Better now you’ve worked on it,’ Brand commented. ‘Thanks.’
He took an unopened box of .45 caliber ammunition and returned to his quarters.
McCord appeared a short time later.
‘Where the hell did you vanish to last night?’ he asked sharply.
Brand laid his weapons out on the clothes chest and opened the ammunition box.
‘I needed a break.’
McCord’s expression was smug. ‘Kito is waiting for you. And that’s an order. And don’t expect that graze in your side to get you out of it.’
The little Japanese laid into Brand as if he was a mortal enemy. He must have sensed the anger inside Brand and he played on it. He was testing his pupil, and though the instructor made no outward indication he was pleased with the way Brand held his anger in check, channeling his rage into the resistance he offered to Kito’s attacks. The session lasted for a full half hour and by the end Brand was bruised and stiff, the bandage on his side stained with blood.
He returned Kito’s ceremonial bow and stumbled off the mat.
‘Must practice more,’ Kito said. He was barely sweating, still smiling, hardly out of breath. ‘Improvement is slow. But you are learning.’ He gestured to a side door. ‘I give massage. Take away stiffness. Make you feel better. Last night too much drink and play with lady. Not good for long life.’
Brand regarded the wiry Japanese instructor.
The hell it isn’t, he thought. It hasn’t done me too bad this far and I’m damned if I’m going to change now!
Chapter Fifteen
Brand regretted not having Sarah at his side.
The official reception at the British Embassy was made for her. He could imagine her at ease amongst the elegantly dressed and bejeweled women. The men in their finery.
But it was not to be, so he pushed the images to the back of his mind and concentrated on why he was here.
He stood at the edge of the crowded ballroom, a slender glass of white wine in his big hand. He wore a new dark suit and boiled white shirt. His tie was neatly arranged, his boots polished to a high gleam, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable.
His eyes were constantly on the move, scanning the mass of people. He was surrounded by movement and noise. At the far end of the ballroom, on a raised dais, sat a British military band, specially brought down from Canada for the evening. Resplendent in scarlet and blue, they played tune after tune with the inborn precision of the British military discipline that was recognized the world over.
The longer he maintained his watch the more Brand realized how difficult his task was. It was hard just keeping track of the President himself, let alone watch out for any sign of impending trouble. McCord still believed in miracles and expected his operatives to bring them off.
The Embassy presented a thousand problems. There were just far too many places for a man to hide. Passages and stairways. Alcoves and quiet corners that simply begged someone to conceal himself. Beauregard St Clair and Parker Royce could be in the building now. Just waiting for the right moment. The precise time to step out start shooting. And McCord would expect, no demand, that Brand prevent it.
He drained his glass furiously.
Damn the man!
What did McCord think he was? Some kind of superhuman? Brand was nothing more than mortal. Able to use a gun maybe better than most, but that didn’t give him some higher advantage. Just the ability to kill people.
He spotted a liveried waiter passing with a silver tray holding more glasses of the white wine. He stopped the man and helped himself to a fresh glass.
/> Back in his position by the wall, watching the President’s movements, Brand flexed his shoulders under the restricting jacket of his suit. The Colt Special sat snug against his left armpit. He pondered on whether he would need to use the weapon before the night ended. He was pretty sure the answer would be yes. It seemed to be his destiny to go round shooting people. Brand lifted his wine glass in self mockery. Here’s to the next hundred dead men!
He watched President Cleveland go by, waltzing with the beaming wife of some minor Embassy official.
At least the President was enjoying himself.
Putting aside his wine Brand took a slow stroll around the perimeter of the ballroom, checking out the area. Was St Clair watching too? Hidden away in some quiet place. Maybe even now training a rifle on the President? It was impossible to know for certain. Brand raised his gaze to the galleries and niches that ran around the high walls of the ballroom. Too many places for a man to hide. He decided it was time to make another circuit. The President was as safe as he would ever be. Brand wasn’t the only one of McCord’s operatives watching over the President. McCord had a number of his people spread around the room. Brand knew none of them, nor they him. For all Brand knew McCord’s group might include women.
He made his way from the ballroom, almost colliding with a beautiful red-haired woman wearing a green dress. She gave him a fleeting smile as they passed, and he found himself remembering the girl named Myra.
He took the side passage that would bring him to the stairs leading to the gallery that ran around the ballroom. The music faded to soft background noise. Brand slowed his pace as he reached the stairs. He loosened his jacket and eased the Colt in the shoulder holster, climbing the stairs steadily. At the top he paused, checking the shadowed passage that would lead to the gallery, then walked through it.
