by Hunter, Neil
That knowledge gave Brand an edge. He could play that game with a clear conscience. There was a need to even the score and Brand was able to put himself in the frame of mind to do just that with good reason.
Netta Delacort was dead. Cyrus Buckman was dead. So was Lyle Kelso, the young police officer Noonan had assigned to the case. Brand didn’t even consider the dead from Lacroix’s side. Not even Seraphina. He didn’t give a good damn about them. For a fleeting moment he thought about the Creole curse. Voodoo and the long held belief that the dead could be brought back to life as Zombies. If that happened to Lacroix’s crew there would be a substantial number of them walking around. He shrugged off the notion with a mirthless smile on his lips. That would be the last thing he needed. He was still having enough trouble with the living.
He pushed against the gates and felt them give. As soon as there was enough room to let him through Brand stepped into the open yard.
Remember your enemies are only human as well. No man wants to die early if he can avoid it. If they face a man who shows his strength it will make them pause. Use that hesitation to your advantage.
Another of Kito’s observations. In truth it held because most men would take that second longer before they opened fire. Brand didn’t have that restriction. Once he knew a man was intent on doing him harm his survival instinct took over and he responded without any kind of hesitation.
Both handguns were cocked as he broached the yard, eyes searching, his body alert for any kind of opposition.
He recalled the layout from last time. The livery stable. There were no wheeled buggies present this time. He concentrated on the wooden loading platform and the door that led inside the building.
And a dark skinned, armed figure moving onto the loading platform. The rifle in the man’s hands already being raised in Brand’s direction.
No hesitation …
Brand’s right hand Colt lifted, armed extended. He held, then triggered his shot. Saw the rifleman fall back against the door frame as the big .45 slug thudded into his chest. He was pinned to the frame for a couple of seconds before his legs gave beneath him and he dropped.
Moving forward Brand made for the loading platform. Spotted a second would-be shooter emerging from the doorway. He brought both revolvers into play triggering shots from each weapon. As the solid sound of the shots faded and the man went down, he saw a third man slip into view from the doorway. Brand opened fire without missing a step and the man fell across the loading platform, the rifle he was carrying slipping from his grip.
Increasing his pace, Brand went up the steps and made for the door. He fired a couple of distraction shots through the opening, then ducked inside, moving quickly to the left and pressed his back to the wall.
He was in a storage area that had a door at the far side that would likely lead into The Creole Queen proper. Boxes and barrels displayed the casino’s liquor. Other cartons held foodstuffs. Everything was neatly displayed and Brand took a guess that the orderliness would be down to Julienne Dubois. He could imagine the Frenchman being well organized.
Brand dropped to reduce his bulk behind a stack of wooden casks. Saw muzzle flash, followed by the crack of a handgun. He heard the slug pound the wall overhead.
Then a chuckle of laughter.
‘Very commendable, Monsieur Brand. I doubt you will be able to avoid every shot. I suggested last time you were here that this part of The Creole Queen was not for you. You have chosen to ignore my warning. Ainsi soit-il.’
Brand heard a soft scuffle of sound. Saw a dark figure moving across the storehouse. Too heavy-footed to be Dubois so he decided the Frenchman was not alone. Which he had expected. It caused him to wonder just how many extra guns Dubois had with him. While he debated his next move Brand swapped the empty casings for fresh loads from his belt loops, reloading both pistols. He could feel fresh blood oozing from his shoulder as his rapid movements disturbed the wound,
To his left there was more movement. A pair of figures now, crowding each other as they made their move, and that brief clumsiness allowed Brand his moment.
He rose from his cover, threw a quick shot in Dubois’s direction, then swiveled and faced the hesitant pair as they broke cover. The pair of Colts crackled with sound as Brand opened up with a steady burst of fire, his shots delivered with accuracy as he set himself and picked his targets. One man went down in a flurry of arms and legs, slamming face down on the hardwood floor. His erstwhile companion, cursing loudly, triggered his own gun with what Brand regarded as total recklessness. The slugs were wide of the mark. Brand thrust out his right arm, saw the look on the other’s face as he touched the trigger and put a .45 slug between the eyes. The man went over without a sound and stretched out alongside his already dead partner.
The moment he put the second man down Brand turned and strode across the open floor, both guns up and cocked as he saw Dubois move from his own cover, still confident as he acknowledged Brand’s ability.
‘Make this your play,’ Brand said, ‘and you get what they did. I want Lacroix and if I have to I’ll go through you, Dubois.’
‘Each man chooses his own destiny. Mine at this moment is to stand between you and your choice.’
‘Hell,’ Brand said, ‘the last thing I need is any of your damned French quotations.’
Dubois let a thin smile curl his lips as he took in Brand’s words, but he was left behind when Brand’s guns swept into line and he put a number of .45 slugs in the Frenchman’s body before he even realized he was way too slow to match the American’s move. Brand walked on by the slumped body and kicked open the door Dubois had been covering.
~*~
The gunfire from the rear of the building alerted Lacroix. It came as no surprise to him. If he had admitted the truth he had been expecting it. He had experienced a feeling that warned him. He knew something was wrong. That events had conspired against him. Anticipation of a powerful challenge gripped him. A challenge that threatened his very life. He had closed The Creole Queen early, making sure the place was empty before securing the front doors and retreating to the gaming room, with Dubois and his men spread throughout the building.
It had been a long time since Lacroix felt insecure. Closeted in the room, surrounded by his possessions and though knowing armed men were looking out for him, the man understood fear. At this moment his wealth, the association with men of influence and power, none of it offered him any comfort. He could not understand why. He was Victor Lacroix. A powerful man with the strength of his beliefs in the darker world to bolster his confidence. With Seraphina at his side he wielded the mysterious influence of the voodoo craft. Together they drew in those weaker than themselves and used that weakness to gain control, while enjoying the salacious and forbidden desires that bound them together as more than brother and sister. It was something they had practiced for years and coupled with Seraphina’s almost unquenchable lust they had practiced the art, using it to ensnare others. Giving their jaded senses the needs they had held in check in frustration for so long. Once ensnared it allowed Lacroix and Seraphina to manipulate their compliant victims into positions where they would willingly pay whatever was asked in order to keep their guilty secrets from being revealed.
The young women they abducted were used to draw in the gullible. A miscalculation by Lacroix had come about when he had traded up from those who would be less likely to be missed by taking a higher class of girls for his clients. It had seemed to be working until Netta Delacort had defied Lacroix and his sister, and in a moment of rage Seraphina had attacked and killed her.
The death of the young woman had been the catalyst that had brought about the rebellion of Jerome Coleman and Henry Dalton. Until he could decide how to handle the situation Lacroix had imprisoned them, along with Cyrus Buckman. Seraphina - convinced she could deal with the problem - had attempted to drug and seduce Buckman in order to silence his concerns. Her plan misfired when Buckman defied her and broke out of the cellars under the house.<
br />
Lacroix had sent his paid assassin - Doctor Vallejo - to silence Buckman. Although he did succeed, Vallejo was confronted by the man named Brand and killed himself.
Too much had conspired against Lacroix from the moment the man from the Justice Department he showed up in New Orleans. He had resisted every attempt to silence him and Lacroix found himself losing men and credibility. In a moment of reflection he admitted that Brand was outsmarting him. The man seemed to possess a charmed life that enabled him to walk through fire and fury. For once in his life Victor Lacroix felt powerless. He was being backed into a corner and he did not enjoy the feeling.
Something had warned him matters were moving towards an end. He had closed The Creole Queen, closeting himself in the building while he took time to consider his next move.
He sat himself in the room off the main salon, at one of the gaming tables, forcing himself to go through the motions of a turn of solitaire. A distraction while he considered the matters at hand. This was the private space where privileged clients were brought to gamble and drink. Where Lacroix’s special girls were on hand to provide sexual stimulation. While it brought in money it allowed Lacroix to study each patron and decide who would be his next victim. Those with the best wealth and influence were the ones chosen. They were feted, indulged, and once chosen would be invited Lacroix’s home outside the city where they would be able to take the next step into depravity, unaware they were being deliberately selected.
The scheme had been extremely successful. Already a number of New Orleans’s elite were on the hook. Paying the price for their indulgences. It had seemed Lacroix might be able to play his games without pause. Until Seraphina’s wantonness had pushed her to excess and the death of Netta Delacort.
Victor Lacroix loved his sister - physically as well as with filial loyalty - and he was left with no choice but to attempt to cover up her reckless act that left them with a dead young woman and too many witnesses. It seemed everything was conspiring to drag them down and Lacroix was plagued with uncertainties …
Those concerns manifested themselves into the sound of gunfire coming from the storage area behind the room he was seated in. When the gunfire came closer Lacroix started with a jerk, raising himself from the stupor he had developed. His hand jerked and he spilled expensive whisky across the green baize tabletop.
He called out to his two remaining gunmen in the room with him. They kicked up from their chairs, hands snaking for the holstered revolvers they carried.
‘Deal with it,’ Lacroix said. ‘If it’s that bastard, Brand, I want him dead this time.’
The bought gunmen, who earned well being on his payroll, moved across the room.
They had barely taken more than a few steps when the door to the rear area was kicked open with enough force to smash it back against the wall, one set of hinges breaking free.
A moving figure was briefly framed in the opening, holding a weapon in each hand…and despite their expectations, the pair of gunmen were left standing as the pair of .45 Colts spat flame and smoke, filling the room with their thunder…the closest of the pair was dropped to the floor with slugs hammering his chest…his partner seemingly given more time, managed to loose off a single shot before he was hit himself. One slug in the body, a second that cored in above his left eye and sheared off the back of his skull in a shower of bloody gore.
Lacroix made a clumsy grab for the pistol he wore under his expensive coat, fingers clawing at the butt. The shot from Brand’s Colt went through his coat, mangling his gun hand and went through to dig into his chest. In sudden pain Lacroix pulled his hand free from beneath his coat and stared in horror at the bloody wound where the slug had taken off fingers and left behind dripping stumps. He sank back in the seat, moaning in pain and sheer fright.
Brand stood a few feet away, a pistol in each hand. He was in a disheveled condition. His clothing marked and there was a bloody stain, leaking fresh blood, in his left shoulder. But it was the bleak, taut expression on his face that held Lacroix’s gaze. His eyes were fixed on Lacroix. Unblinking and without a trace of compassion.
‘Too many,’ he said, ‘dead and suffering because of you and that damn sister of yours.’
‘It was only …’
Brand put a second slug into Lacroix’s other shoulder, the slug tearing a bloody hole as it exited. Lacroix screamed, slumping back.
‘You think Netta Delacort felt scared? When she realized she was going to die. What do you think Mr. Lacroix? What do you think?’
‘It was a mistake she died. Seraphina didn’t mean to kill her …’
‘Well she’s paid for that mistake. Seraphina is dead too. That’s how I left her before I burned down that house of yours.’
‘Dead? Seraphina? No …’
The words came out in a scream of despair as Lacroix pushed himself up off his seat, making a futile lunge across the table.
Brand steadied his hands, the muzzles of his pistols on Lacroix as he fired and fired again. Not stopping until the hammers dropped on empty chambers and smoke curled from the hot muzzles.
Victor Lacroix thudded to the floor, his body riddled and bloody from multiple wounds. As Brand calmly reloaded he watched the man go through his death throes, his blood seeping from the wounds until his heart stopped beating and he lay still.
On the table lay the cards Lacroix had been using. Speckles of blood had splashed onto the table and the cards.
‘Now that’s dead man’s hand if I ever saw one,’ Brand said to himself.
~*~
It took almost a week to bring matters to a close. Documents found in the safe in Lacroix’s office in the casino revealed a long list of names who had been blackmailed by the man and his sister. In the files were incriminating photos implicating members of New Orleans high society caught in revealing positions. There was also documentary evidence of financial arrangements for the money being paid to Lacroix to keep secrets under wraps. Inspector Don Noonan, once he saw this evidence, had everything destroyed, overseeing it himself, keeping names and faces out of the public eye. A number of the victims of Lacroix’s blackmail turned out to be members of the city police department. Without pointing the finger as such, Brand made certain that it was known that a number of his superiors were on the list. Suddenly all criticism over Inspector Noonan’s performance was gone. Those who knew their names had been identified fell silent.
Noonan could have made things difficult for the men above him, but he stayed silent. They knew who they were and that was enough for him.
The rescued girls, returned to their families, would have to make their own peace with what had happened. It would take time, but they at least were still alive. The family of Netta Delacort, after burying their daughter, would have their own healing to face. As would Lyle Kelso’s family who had lost their son in the course of his duty. Noonan made it his duty to ensure Kelso would receive the police department’s highest commendation.
When Lacroix’s crimes were made known across the city the people who had claimed to be his friends suddenly and collectively drew back, not wanting to find themselves in any way associated with the unsavory things he had been involved in. Human nature, Brand decided, always chose the less troublesome trail.
After Doc Marcellus extracted the small lead pellet from his shoulder and dealt with the other scrapes and bruises, Brand sent a telegram to McCord, detailing the events leading to the conclusion of the assignment. He received a reply two days later. McCord, with his usual brevity, told Brand the President had been informed and passed on his thanks. There was even a perfunctory acknowledgment from McCord himself, with the rider that at least Brand hadn’t managed to burn New Orleans to the ground, albeit one house, and a question as to when Brand would be returning to Washington as there was another piece of business waiting for his attention.
‘He sounds like a man with work on his mind,’ Noonan commented when Brand showed him McCord’s message.
‘Not one to let the grass
grow under his feet.’
Noonan managed a smile as he surveyed both his and Brand’s shoulder slings.
‘Damned if we both don’t look a pair.’
He put out his free hand and took Brand’s. ‘Come back some time. This can be a hell of a nice town when it gets the chance.’
‘But never too peaceful I hope.’
‘Wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Mr. Brand.’
That, thought Brand as he walked out of the office and made his way to the street, was less likely to happen than him ending up anywhere with peace and goodwill surrounding him. As long as he worked for McCord he was going to find himself up against the kind of situations that had become his stock in trade – and to be honest he wouldn’t have it any other way …
Jason Brand will be back in book # 12
And
Brand & Bodie # 3
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