Hannibal Rising

by Jon Sharpe

  Theodore Pickleman cleared his throat. “May I get on with the details, please?” He paused. “The conditions are these. Tomorrow morning at six a.m. the hunt is to begin. You will have twenty-four hours in which to succeed. No more and no less. By six a.m. Monday morning, if none of you have claimed the prize, all of you forfeit any right to the inheritance.”

  Tom started to come out of his chair. “What the hell? You never said anything about this.”

  “I was required not to.”

  “Forfeit?” Charles repeated in stunned amazement. “Father would deny us everything?”

  Samantha gestured to get the lawyer’s attention. “What happens to the inheritance? Who gets it if we don’t?”

  “All your father’s properties are to be sold off. All the money from the proceeds and all the money in his bank accounts are to be administered to the poor and the needy.”

  Now Tom did come out of his chair. He was so incensed, he pounded the table. “We’re to be deprived of what is rightfully ours to feed some dirt farmers? By God, I won’t stand for this.”

  “The will is ironclad,” Pickleman told him. “You can fight it in court but I can promise you that you’ll lose.”

  “A bunch of poor riffraff,” Tom said in disgust. “What have they done to earn it? Nothing.”

  Roland asked the question uppermost on Fargo’s own mind. “What are we to hunt? All this talk of the inheritance and you still haven’t said whether it’s a bear or an elk or some other animal.”

  “Your father calls it a hunt in his will. Given what’s at stake, and what you are to find, I’d call it a treasure hunt.”

  “Find?” Roland echoed. “We’re not to track and kill game?”

  “No. I’m afraid your hunting skills won’t give you an edge. You see”—the lawyer gazed at each of them in turn—“the object of your hunt is a small wooden chest. In it is the last page of the will, bequeathing everything to whoever finds it.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Charles said.

  “A treasure chest?” Tom swore lustily. “We’re to decide our fate with some silly child’s game?”

  Pickleman answered, “Believe it or not, your father was trying to be fair. He buried the chest himself. I am permitted to tell you that it is within half a mile of the lodge, but in which direction, not even I know.”

  “That’s a lot of ground to cover,” Charlotte said.

  “Which is why your father gave you twenty-four hours. He provided no other clues. There’s no mention of landmarks or anything else that would help you. All I know is that he told me he had buried it in a shallow hole and that whoever found it would have no cause to weep.”

  “An understatement if ever I heard one,” Tom spat. “And so like our father. God, I hate him as much now as I did when he was alive.” He glanced at Cletus Brun. “As for you, your hunting skills are of no use whatsoever.”

  “I can still be of help,” the big Missourian said. “Four eyes are better than two and my eyes are sharp.”

  Samantha smiled ruefully at Fargo. “I had you come all this way thinking you were the best hunter my money could buy.”

  “You don’t want me now?”

  “To the contrary. Mr. Brun is right. Four eyes are better than one. Besides, it’s too late to find someone else.”

  Pickleman tinged the glass again. “There are a few other conditions of which you must be aware. First, you must conduct the hunt on foot. No horses or mules allowed.”

  “Leave it to Father to make it as hard as possible,” Charles said.

  “Second, no weapons are allowed. No guns of any kind. No knives or anything else. All weapons are to be left here in the lodge.”

  Cletus Brun wasn’t happy. “The hell you say! I never go anywhere unarmed. Only a fool does.”

  Fargo didn’t like it, either. He would feel naked without his Colt or the Henry or the Arkansas toothpick. They were as much a part of him as his clothes, hat, and boots.

  “The third condition is one I argued against,” the attorney was saying. “I told your father that it is immoral and unethical. Inhuman might be a better word. He refused to rescind it.”

  “What is it?” Tom demanded.

  Pickleman coughed. “Should any of you come to harm, no charges are to be lodged against whoever is responsible.”

  “What?” Samantha said.

  The siblings sat there in silence as the full import slowly sank in. Finally Charles placed his hands on the table and cocked his head at the attorney. “Did we hear you correctly? Our father is encouraging us to attack one another?”

  “That would be illegal,” Pickleman said.

  Tom was livid. “Don’t try to hoodwink me. I’m no simpleton. What Father has done is set up a hunting contest where we are the game.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Samantha declared in horror. “Not even he would go that far.”

  “But he has,” Charlotte said.

  Cousin Amanda broke her long silence to say, “You’re going to try and kill each another?”

  “Only if we want to,” Tom said, and laughed.

  “There was no mention of anything like this,” Amanda said. “I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Nor do I,” said Charles’s friend, Bruce Harmon.

  “That is entirely up to you,” the lawyer told them. “In fact, the same applies to the principals.” He looked at each of the siblings in turn. “Any of you can bow out if you so desire. Keep in mind that those who do are eliminated from the hunt and won’t receive a cent of the inheritance.”

  “Our father,” Roland said. “The devil in disguise.”

  Tom turned to Cletus Brun. “What about you? Are you as cowardly as our cousin and Bruce? Or will you see it through?”

  “You’re payin’ me,” Cletus replied.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Samantha focused on Fargo. “And you, Skye? Please think carefully before you answer. I don’t want you to come to harm on my account.”

  Fargo fully realized the danger he was placing himself in as he said, “I gave my word I would take part.” He turned. “But there’s something all of you are overlooking.”

  “What would that be?” Pickleman said.

  “Emmett. Whoever hired the man who shot him isn’t done. Any one of you could be next.”

  “Which would please our deceased father no end,” Tom said. “Or haven’t you gotten it yet? He wants us to murder one another. He wants his own sons and daughters to kill one another off.”

  “Someone should report this to the sheriff,” Amanda said.

  Charlotte spun on her. “Don’t you dare. This is a family matter and will be settled by us, not the law.”

  “You can settle it without bloodshed,” Amanda persisted. “Each of you can give his or her word that you won’t try to harm anyone else during the hunt.”

  “We could,” Tom said, nodding, “but I won’t.”

  “Why in God’s name not?” Charles asked.

  “Because I agree with Father. This is the best way. We’ve been at one another’s throats for years. Fear of being thrown behind bars has always held us back but now we can give free rein to all the hate bubbling inside of us.”

  “You have a warped mind,” Samantha said.

  “As did Father.” Tom chortled. “Ironic, is it not, that I’m more like him than any of you, yet I’m the one he thought was the fruit of someone else’s loins?”

  “So Charles and Charlotte will hunt by themselves?” Pickleman asked to have it clarified. “Amanda and Bruce have dropped out?”

  Both their cousin and Harmon nodded.

  “Just so you know,” the lawyer told them, “you have until the actual start of the hunt to change your minds.”

  “I certainly won’t,” Bruce Harmon said.

  Pickleman gazed along the table. “At six o’clock tomorrow morning I expect everyone to be out front. I am to fire a pistol to start the hunt. Remember, no mounts, no weapons, and no food or water.”


  Samantha straightened. “Father made that a condition, too? Twenty-four hours without anything to eat or drink smacks of cruelty.”

  “Our father’s middle name,” Tom said sarcastically.

  Pickleman walked to the doorway. “I bid you good night. Since I am to oversee the hunt, I must remain awake the entire twenty-four hours. In order to do that I need all the sleep I can get tonight.” He smiled and left.

  “How can any of us sleep knowing what’s in store?” Charlotte played her part as the innocent.

  Fargo could use some rest himself. The lovemaking and the huge meal had left him sluggish and tired. He pushed back his chair and was about to excuse himself when Samantha placed her warm hand on his.

  “Does all of this trouble you as much as it does me?” She didn’t wait for him to reply. “We need to talk over our strategy for tomorrow.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not at the table. The others will overhear us. We need somewhere private.” Samantha’s cherry lips curled and her fingernail traced a delicate line across this hand. “Why don’t you come up to my room with me?”

  Oh hell, Fargo thought.

  11

  Samantha Clyborn was as attractive a female as Skye Fargo ever met. Her gorgeous hair, her piercing eyes, her hourglass figure were enough to make any male drool. But Fargo was tired and feeling sluggish from the big meal. He’d also bedded her sister not more than two hours ago. As he followed Sam’s sashaying form down the hall to her bedroom, he hoped to God his body could rise to the occasion.

  Samantha paused at the door. “Thank you for waiting at the table a couple of minutes before you got up and followed me. I didn’t want my sister and brothers to suspect.”

  Fargo looked at her bosom and at the swell of her hips, and nodded.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with me inviting a man up to my room,” Sam quickly added. She opened the door and motioned for him to enter but Fargo shook his head and gestured for her to go first.

  Her bedroom smelled of lavender. Thick purple carpet covered the floor. Her bed was bigger than Charlotte’s and covered with a purple quilt. The fringed canopy was purple, too.

  “Your favorite color?”

  Sam had stepped to a full-length mirror and was fluffing her air. “What? Oh, yes. I’ve liked it ever since I was little and learned it’s the color of royalty. I always thought that fitting.”

  Fargo didn’t savvy and said so.

  “I should think it obvious.” Sam smoothed her dress, then faced him. “In Britain and Europe the ruling class is royalty. Kings, queens, dukes, princes and the like. Over here the ruling class is the class with money. The class my family belongs to. We hold all the power. We control the conditions under which those who don’t have money live.”

  “You think of yourself as royalty?”

  “In a way, yes.” Sam went to the bed and ran a hand over the purple quilt. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think I’m better than those who don’t have any. Quite the contrary. I see it as a great responsibility. Although”—she stopped and bit her lip—“it’s a moot point since by Monday morning I won’t have any money or any power if I lose the hunt.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I have no doubt you will.” Samantha turned and walked up to him, her hips swaying, her hands clasped to her bosom. “But I didn’t really invite you up here to talk strategy.”

  “You said you did.”

  “I lied.” Sam placed a hand on his chest and bored her eyes into his. Her voice grew husky as she asked, “Do you have any idea how long it has been since I’ve been with a man?”

  “How would I?”

  “Let’s just say I rarely permit myself the luxury. But I’ll confess something to you.” Her breath warmed his neck as she quietly said, “I’ve wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “Do tell.”

  “There’s something about you.” Sam touched his chin. “It’s not just that you’re so damn handsome. There’s something else, some quality I can’t describe.”

  “Don’t get carried away.”

  “I’m serious.” A puzzled look came over her as she traced a finger from his beard to his cheek and over to his ear. “I’ve puzzled over it no end and I can’t explain why I feel the way I do. I’ve met other men just as handsome who didn’t affect me the way you do.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Please. I’m being serious and you’re being sarcastic.” Sam pursed her strawberry lips. “When a lady compliments a man the least the man can do is accept the compliment graciously.”

  “My manners aren’t what they should be,” Fargo enlightened her. “And I don’t give a damn that they’re not.”

  “Ah. The rough-hewn frontiersman. You don’t care for society or its rules. Is that how it goes?”

  “I don’t much care for buffalo shit no matter what others call it.”

  Samantha drew back. “I beg your pardon?”

  “All the airs that you and those like you put on don’t count for a hill of beans. Nothing you do will live on after you. You’ve spent your whole life thinking you’re special because your family has money, but in the end you land in the ground like all those who don’t have any.”

  “All is vanity, yes.” Samantha looked him up and down. “Frankly, I didn’t expect that of you.”

  “I’m too dumb to think?”

  “No, no, it’s not that.”

  Fargo noticed that she didn’t offer a better reason. “I’ll make it plain. I like you but I don’t like your airs.”

  Sam’s face colored and she fingered a button on her dress. “And I don’t like how you talk to me sometimes. But please. Let’s forget all that. We can’t help how we are. I didn’t ask for this life of privilege.”

  “But you sure eat it up.”

  Samantha turned her back to him. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I had other things in mind.”

  Fargo saw her reflection in the mirror; she looked sad. Walking up behind her, he molded his body to hers, reached around, and cupped her mounds.

  Sam gasped and arched her back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What you invited me up here to do.” Fargo squeezed and was rewarded with a soft groan and the grinding of her bottom against his manhood. He felt himself twitch, and smiled.

  “I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to.”

  “Airs or not, you’re female.” Fargo bent and kissed her neck and she twisted half around and cupped his chin.

  “Is that all I am to you? You don’t care for me even a little bit?”

  “I told you I like you. It’s not true love, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “It’s just that a woman likes to think she means something.”

  Fargo could have told her that the hunger she stirred in him was no different from the hunger that stirred him to eat or the thirst that stirred him to drink. He could have said that she was putting on yet another air. But he didn’t. He said, “Every woman means something in bed.”

  Sam blinked and cocked her head. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

  “You’ll talk it to death if you’re not careful.” Fargo drew back. “Make up your mind.”

  “I want to. I really do.”

  “Then shut the hell up.” Fargo kissed her, hard, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. With his one hand he squeezed a breast while with his other he caressed her thighs and cupped her mound of Venus. Another moan escaped her, and she sucked on his tongue as if it were honey.

  Pushing her back, Fargo eased her onto the bed. Her hair spilled about her head as she looked up at him in raw lust.

  “God, I want you.”

  “Don’t talk.” Fargo covered her mouth with his and sank down beside her. He ran his hands over her body, probing, massaging, stroking. She took off his hat and ran her fingers through his hair, then worked at his belt buckle.

  Fargo reached down, took her hand, and plac
ed it on his pole. She uttered a tiny mew and melted against him, her fingers wrapped around his member.

  “Oh my,” she breathed.

  Fargo began undoing the dress. A row of tiny buttons that ran from the nape of her neck to the small of her back took forever. He would as soon have ripped the dress off her. At last he slipped a hand underneath. A few tugs at the tie to her drawers and his hand brushed silken thighs. She squirmed as he kneaded them. Inching higher, he covered her nether lips.

  “Yes! Ohhhh, yes!”

  Fargo plunged a finger in. Her mouth became molten; she kissed and licked and sucked with abandon. A few moments more and he had her breasts free. Her nipples poked into his palms like tacks.

  Samantha raked his shoulders with her nails and pushed against him. Her legs parted in invitation.

  Fargo was so intent on their lovemaking that he almost didn’t hear the rasp of the latch. He was sucking on a nipple, and glanced over.

  A young maid had entered and was staring at them. She wore the usual purple uniform and was holding a silver tray with a pitcher of water.

  Fargo figured she would make a hasty exit but she stared at him with her lips curled in a strange sort of grin. He raised his head from Sam’s melons.

  “What’s the matter? Why have you stopped?”

  “We have company.”

  Samantha twisted around. “What the hell? I gave instructions I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

  Without looking behind her, the maid pushed the door shut with her foot.

  “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Samantha angrily demanded.

  The maid threw the bolt.

  “Are you insane? Leave this moment or you’re no longer in my employ.”

  There was something about the maid’s face that triggered sudden alarm in Fargo. She had her hair up in a bun and it took him a few seconds to realize where he had seen her before—it was the female assassin who had tried to kill him on the Yancy and helped her brother slay Tobacco Man. He pulled at his pants and started to roll off the bed, his member jutting like a flagpole.

  “What are you doing?” Sam asked.

  The maid exploded into motion. In two bounds she was at the bed. She had hold of the pitcher and before Fargo could duck or dodge she swept it up and out. The water caught him full in the face, getting into his eyes and his nose. Blinking and backpedaling, Fargo swiped a sleeve across his eyes to clear his vision.