Creole Curse (A Jason Brand Western Book 11)

by Hunter, Neil

  From behind the collapsing figure Brand heard a rising wail of yells and saw a trio of garishly dressed figures rushing along the alley, brandishing more gleaming machetes.

  He leveled the Colt, taking swift aim and firing. His slugs were deliberately placed and punched into exposed legs. Two of the advancing men tumbled, clutching at their wounded limbs. The third man stumbled but came on, raising his machete, eyes wide and staring under the influence of something that had driven him forward. He would have kept coming if Brand had not calmly steadied his gun and put his last shot into the sweat-gleaming forehead. Momentum carried the figure on until his limbs collapsed and he pitched face down on the ground, the back of his head a ruined and bloody mess.

  Brand turned away, keeping moving as he ejected the empty casings from his pistol, pulled fresh shells from his pocket and reloaded. As he reached the end of the alley he paused, looking left and right, and admitted he had no idea where he was. He stood with his shoulders resting against the wall behind him. He could hear the moans coming from the two men he had put down and beyond that the ebb and flow of the Mardi Gras celebrations as the crowds surged forward. He decided, reluctantly, he was going to have to take the main street and merge with the crowds. There seemed little else he could do until he reached … he almost said safety … and a thin smile curled his lips.

  Safety seemed to be in short supply in New Orleans. The investigation he had started seemed to be falling apart. The only ally had had, Noonan, was out of action. Brand had no idea who he could trust so for the time being he was going to have to depend on the one person he could be sure of.

  Himself.

  He had been doing that most of his life. From the day when the Comanche had struck his family ranch and left him for dead. He had survived and it had been that way ever since. Brand had learned the lesson early and it had stayed with him, becoming that part of him that kept him going when times were hard – or threatening. Frank McCord had told him the day he recruited Brand he would need to be able to operate on his own. That had proved to be true on more or less every assignment he had been given, and his visit to New Orleans had simply maintained the status quo.

  ~*~

  He pushed the handgun out of sight and kept moving along the next alley where he could see the carnival crowd still filling the street. With the celebration well under way, losing himself in the crowd might give him the chance to get clear. He needed to get back to the police station where at least he would have some kind of protection.

  Brand had no qualms about making a retreat, dignified or not, if the need arose. Making a stand could be justified if there was a chance of walking away from it. Right now Lacroix had him outnumbered and making a stubborn fight that would lead to his death wasn’t going to make any sense at all. So his best bet was to distance himself from his pursuers and make a measured response. If he could take down a few of the opposition that would be enough for him in the short term.

  Somewhere behind him he could still pick up the strains of the Mardi Gras, the music rising and falling as he weaved his way through the alleys between the buildings. He caught the occasional glimpse of the cavorting crowds between them. At least his moves had drawn his opponents away from the celebrating crowds, leaving them to their enjoyment. They deserved that at least.

  He flattened against the side of a building, taking a few moments to allow his breathing to settle. In truth he could have used a longer break, but he knew that Lacroix's followers were not about to allow him too much of that.

  Sweat beaded his face, pulled damply at his clothing. He wanted nothing more than a chance to rest. To settle in some place where he could have time to figure out just what was going on.

  It wasn’t the first time Brand’s assignments had him working solo. Left to his own devices to walk through a case. McCord expected his operatives to be able to deal with any assignment purely on his own intelligence. Without involving others if it was possible and Brand was comfortable enough working that way. There were times when having official, or unofficial, assistance helped.

  Brand found himself thinking back to the assistance he had been offered by working with the man called Bodie. The taciturn bounty man had showed up a couple of recent times and walked side by side with Brand on tough cases. After a shaky start on the first assignment Brand had admitted having the manhunter at his side had been more than helpful. On the second team up, on a complicated case in San Francisco, Bodie’s partnership had seen them through everything thrown in their paths. Brand could have done with the man’s presence and his ready gun right now. Bodie’s direct way of dealing with situations would have been a real comfort.

  ~*~

  Brand caught the sudden intake of breath as someone braced themselves. It was enough to alert him to a violent movement. He turned half-around and caught the moving figure. A tall and lean dark shape, teeth gleaming in a mouth held in a wild grimace. Gleaming too was the flashing blade of a wild-swung machete. It cut the air as it swept in at Brand’s body, high enough to have severed his head if it had landed. He had no time for thoughts of what could have happened if the blade had landed. He simply let himself drop to a crouch. Felt the blade stir the air as it cut over him. Knowing the attacker might easily reverse his strike and bring the blade back at him Brand let his weight fall on his hands, then kicked out with his right foot, the heel of his boot slamming hard against the attacker’s left knee. Brand put all of his weight into the kick, felt it connect. The knee shattered, the limb bending against the natural joint and Brand even heard the soft sound of breaking bone. The attacking man let out a high, agonized scream as he felt his leg tear under the blow. The machete spun out of his hand as he stumbled, dropping to the ground.

  On the edge of his vision Brand saw a second man moving in. He had halted briefly when he saw his partner go down, screaming in agony, and it was that hesitation that gave Brand the chance to react. He thrust his arm forward, cocking the Colt, and without pause put two .45 caliber slugs in the man. They were both on target, thudding into the man’s chest and putting him down without a sound. Swinging the Colt around Brand targeted the first man and sent a slug that slammed into the man’s head over his left eye. The force of the slug kicked the man on onto his back, a thin mist of blood fanning out the back of his skull.

  In the background Brand could hear the raucous, pulsing beat of the Mardi Gras celebrations. Rising and falling, the sound rolled out over the streets, reaching him even as he rose to his full height, the Colt searching the shadows for any more of Lacroix’s brethren. Instinct told him they would be close by, still looking.

  Hungry for blood.

  His blood.

  Brand began to move in the direction of the music. Maybe he could lose himself in the crowds of revelers. In the mass of people. He took the moment to shuck out the empty shell casings, thumbing fresh ones from the belt loops. He felt a little better having a full load. Six .45 caliber loads – safety in numbers – he decided.

  Even then he was thinking about the dead and the missing. It was what his mission was about. Not him, but about the cruel death of Netta Delacort and the missing young women - and now three men.

  Brand dodged into a narrow alley that took him closer to the rising sound, shadow enveloping him until he cleared the far end and stepped out onto crowded, brightly illuminated main thoroughfare. He slid the pistol behind his belt, drawing his coat over it as he merged with the noisy revelers, feeling himself being pushed along by the exuberance of the crowd.

  He was surrounded by men and women, in their gaudy costumes, by moving floats of grotesque figures. He heard music close and far, heard the crackle of firecrackers and smelled the smoke as they burned. The noise swelled and swept over him. Brand let himself be pushed along, caught in the moving stream of humanity. Jostled, almost herded, he went with the flow, the raised voices and the pulse of music all combining to make it hard to stay on top of the threat he knew was still around.

  Lacroix’s people would st
ill be in the area, mingling with the Mardi Gras masses, working their way forward as they searched for him. There would be men on the fringe of the procession, looking to spot him if he broke free from the main crowd. Whichever way he moved they would be watching for him, searching. Just waiting for the moment when he tried to get himself clear. Brand tried to outguess them. To figure ahead as to what they were going to do.

  If one of them could get close enough it would be easy to use a knife. In the crush of bodies it would be a simple strike. A swift thrust and it would be over. Considering the mood Lacroix’s men were in, they were not going to be too concerned if anyone else got in the way. Brand understood he was dealing with men too ready to kill. Their own safety would not be a consideration.

  He scanned the surging crowd around him. The excited, smiling faces. Costumes. The bobbing and weaving floats. The constant pulse of music. Brand was surrounded by a kaleidoscope of color and noise, the atmosphere almost intoxicating. In a different place and time he could have enjoyed the spectacle. Right now all the Mardi Gras provided was moving cover as he tried to distance himself from Lacroix’s people.

  He barely heard the shot but felt the wind of its passing. It was only luck that prevented the slug from hitting anyone else, and Brand knew he could not stay with the crowd any longer. Putting others in danger was something he had no right to do. He plunged to the side, pushing his way through the noisy throng.

  He stepped into an alley, hearing shouts above the pulsating noise, and knew his pursuers were not giving up. Brand kept moving, his intention to lead them away from the Mardi Gras crowd. As he moved along the alley he saw figures at the far end as he was hemmed it.

  There was no place to go. There was a sudden rush of figures, some wielding machetes, others armed with guns. They blocked the alley, converging on Brand’s position and despite being armed himself he knew he didn’t stand a chance against so many. He backed against the wall, hands out from his sides.

  When a burly figure stepped forward, a harsh grin on his scarred face, Brand knew he was facing the man named Durant. The one who had sent the men who had tried to dump him in the bayou as alligator food. He held a large revolver aimed at Brand.

  ‘Coming to New Orleans was your first mistake,’ Durant said. ‘Second was killing my friends. I’ll wager right now you’ll be wondering if there’s a third coming up.’

  ‘I’m figuring you’re about to tell me.’

  Durant chuckled.

  ‘Better than that – I’m going to show you.’

  ~*~

  Brand was relieved of his weapon and surrounded by Durant’s crew was escorted back to the rear of The Creole Queen. As they crossed Bourbon Street Brand noticed that the casino was being emptied. Customers were being escorted out through the front entrance. This time there was no problem getting inside. He was taken in through the gates, then through the door on the loading platform and through the storage area. The door they then entered led into what Brand saw a well-appointed room, with card tables and comfortable, upholstered chairs. A door on the far side would be the one that Brand had been hoping to get through earlier. He was in the room now but he couldn’t see it was going to do him any good.

  There were four people in the room.

  A young fellow who looked as if he had undergone a hard beating. He was slumped against the wall, half-conscious. Brand took a guess this would be Lyle Kelso, Noonan’s missing officer.

  He recognized the smirking face of Julienne Dubois. The Frenchman was watching Brand with a look of I told you so on his face.

  And there was a young woman, reclining in one of the upholstered chairs, idly toying with a stack of ivory poker chips. Brand saw immediately she was beautiful. Dark haired and with, even sitting down, a lithe and shapely body. When she glanced up, fixing her steady gaze on him Brand saw the likeness to Victor Lacroix. This had to be the sister.

  Seraphina Lacroix.

  A gentle upturn of her full lips suggested she found the situation amusing.

  Beautiful, yes, he had to accept, but there was a look in those dark eyes that told him of inner coldness. She would not be a woman to trust. Not in the slightest.

  ‘This is the one who has been giving you problems?’ she said.

  ‘Another damned lawman,’ Durant said. ‘The one called Brand.’

  He was still holding his revolver, the muzzle unwavering as he watched Brand closely.

  Seraphina stood, moving to stand a few feet from Brand. She studied him, her gaze moving over his face and down his body.

  ‘It would be interesting to find out more about him.’

  ‘We will,’ Durant said.

  Dubois gave a gentle laugh. ‘I don’t think Seraphina was meaning that kind of information,’ he said. ‘She’s more likely to be interested in his physical prowess.’

  The woman glanced at him. ‘There are times, Julienne, when you surprise even me.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Dubois said, ‘we are unable to linger. Your dear brother wants us back at the house. To help him with Buckman. We are to take the men with us. Just leave a couple here to back Durant while he deals with these two.’

  ‘You think I need help?’ Durant said, a scowl on his hard face.

  ‘No point taking any chances,’ Seraphina said. ‘As soon as you’re done here the bodies can be given to the bayou. Only this time make it happen.’

  Dubois went out through the door and when he came back he informed them the casino had been cleared and closed. Seraphina turned and joined him.

  ‘A shame we didn’t get to know each other, Jason Brand,’ she said. ‘Too late now.’

  ‘Maybe you can work your voodoo and bring me back from the dead.’

  For a moment her face hardened as she stared at him.

  ‘You shouldn’t make fun of such things. It might be a mistake.’

  ‘Story of my life. I make mistakes all the time … but up to now I seem to walk away.’

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Durant said and lashed out with the hefty revolver, catching Brand across the side of the head.

  The blow put Brand on his knees, the room fading and seeming to sway in his eyes. When he was able to focus again he was alone in the room with Durant and Lyle Kelso.

  Durant’s big hands were wrapped around Lyle Kelso’s neck, cruelly digging in the young policeman’s flesh. Kelso was choking, his face suffused with blood, eyes bulging from their sockets. Durant shook the slim body like a dog with a rat. His revolver was jammed behind his leather belt.

  ‘This the one you want?’ Durant said. ‘One of Noonan’s tame coppers. Well, mister, you found him.’ He chuckled. ‘Only you left it too long.’

  He increased his hold on Kelso’s neck, the thick fingers buried deep in the flesh. Kelso’s tongue bulged from between his lips and a low breath of air came from his mouth.

  ‘Too damn late …’ Durant whispered.

  He squeezed a final time and Brand heard the crunch of bone. Kelso twitched a final time. Durant swung him aside, releasing his hold and Kelso’s slack body was thrown across the room, striking the wall and sliding down in a lifeless sprawl.

  ‘See, I let him go,’ Durant said.

  He had a crooked grin on his face as he closed in on Brand. The big man flexed his massive fists. His whole attitude suggested he was about to enjoy what was coming.

  ‘You want me to kill you quick too, or make you suffer a while?’

  Brand kept quiet as he sized the man up. There was no doubt Durant was big and hard. What Brand needed to know was the man’s fighting potential. Was he skilled? Or did he simply depend on his massive bulk and an ability to take punishment? There was no doubt he was built to take it. Brand was going to find out. Durant was between him and the door, so one way or another Brand was going to have to fight his way through.

  ‘I figured you would be dead already,’ Durant said. ‘Didn’t expect you would last this long. But you reached the end of the line with me, lawdog. I don’t figure to let you walk o
ut of here. They’ll have to carry you out…what’s left of you …’

  The man liked to talk. He was the kind who felt himself untouchable. Able to play his game by using his mouth.

  Brand recalled what his instructor, Kito, had told him many times.

  Let your opponent waste his time on chatter. You must concentrate on finding his weakness. Use it against him and do not throw away your chances. Use your strength to its best advantage and take your fight to him …

  Brand understood one of his strengths would be his speed. His agility to move in fast, deliver, then draw back before Durant could respond. He was going to have to overcome the knock to his head Durant had delivered because the man was working himself up to a killing mood.

  Brand pushed upright, stepping away from the wall without hesitation, launching left and right jabs, his fists smacking against Durant’s broad nose. He heard it break under the second blow, blood starting to stream down Durant’s face and drip from his chin. The moment he struck Brand stepped away, out of the reach of Durant’s large hands. Durant snorted, shaking his head as he absorbed the blows. Hard as he was the extreme pain made him pause. Brand followed through, slamming in hard punches to Durant’s stomach, then changed direction, punching in at the man’s exposed jaw. Durant’s head snapped back and forth, a low growl coming from his mouth. His big, clenched fists snaked out, lashing out but meeting only thin air as Brand stepped away again, out of reach. Durant’s frustration was making him reckless and he made a wild lunge forward that proved faster than Brand anticipated. Durant’s swinging left fist connected with Brand’s cheek, snapping his head to the side and giving Durant the chance to follow through, his right hand gripping Brand’s shirt, fingers curling to take a solid hold. He yanked Brand close, eyes suddenly wide with anticipation as he swung his left backhand around in a powerful arc. It cracked against Brand’s face and it felt as if his head was coming loose. In the next blurred seconds Brand knew he had to get clear before Durant beat him to a pulp.