by Neil Hunter
There was no time to see how Hunt or Rumboy were faring. There was no time for anything but trying to stay alive. Firing and firing again, Brand kept glancing out to where the two rowing boats were moving slowly towards the waiting ship. He thought of the gold on those boats, and all the misery and suffering it had caused. Too many people had died because of it to allow it to vanish again. He turned his attention back to the wagon. Two more of Kwo Han’s Mexicans were down. Even as he looked another fell back, blood squirting from a wound in his throat.
From the wagon came a heavy burst of fire. Brand drew back into the shelter of his boulder, bullets striking the hard rock. Stinging chips of stone peppered his face. He rolled to the other end of the boulder, peering round the edge. Three Chinese were coming along the beach. They were moving fast, in a zigzag pattern that presented a difficult target. Brand saw movement off to his right. He saw Richard Hunt, up on one knee, his revolver gripped in both bands, taking steady aim. The Britisher ignored the bullets coming his way. He held his ground for long seconds before he fired. His single shot took one of the running Chinese in the head, the impact of the heavy bullet seeming to tear the man’s skull wide open.
While the Chinese was still falling Brand dropped a second man with a bullet through the leg. The Chinese fell heavily, his body twisting in pain, but still tried to use his rifle. Brand shot him again and the man became still. The remaining Chinese reached Brand’s boulder before he was stopped, bullets from both Hunt and Rumboy ripping into his body.
And then Ruiz and his band of Rurales came galloping into view, pushing their horses hard and firing as they came. The Mexican bandits turned to engage them and the beach area erupted with the harsh crackle of gunfire. Men and horses were screaming as bullets found their mark. There was no distinction in the thick of battle. Bullets carried no conscience when it came to inflicting damage.
The violent exchange of fire, the swirl of powder smoke, the reek of death was a frantic panorama for everyone involved. It was not a place for the fainthearted. The lack of compromise was absolute. Each man, from whichever side he came, struggled to the same end. His own survival and the death of the enemy. In that frame of mind there was no room for good intentions, or staying the hand, or voicing concern over the other. Blood for blood, bullet for bullet, the opposing sides waged their isolated little engagement until the final bullets were fired and the churned sand was dappled with spilled blood and the wretched bodies of the dead. Although the main victory went to Ruiz and his Rurales, his force was not without loss. Two men were down and would not be standing again. Three more were wounded. Kwo Han’s own Chinese and his mercenary Mexicans were all dead, scattered around the wagon they had been defending.
As the firing came to an end it became very quiet. Brand tossed aside the empty rifle and took out his Colt. He stood up slowly, his eyes on the empty wagon. He could see only one figure behind it now. A broad, erect shape. Bareheaded and wearing a brown suit.
Kwo Han.
Brand approached the wagon. He sensed Hunt and Rumboy just beyond him. The sun was warm against his body and he could feel the heat from the sand burning through the soles of his boots.
Kwo Han’s figure stepped out from behind the wagon. Brand tensed, his finger easing back against the Colt’s trigger. But Kwo Han was not even looking at him. The Chinese had turned to face the water. His words when he spoke rang clearly out across the placid surface of the bay. Brand couldn’t understand the language but he was made quickly aware of the meaning.
The two Chinese in each of the rowing boats rose to their feet, abandoning their oars. They began to rock the heavily laden boats from side to side. Water spilled over the sides.
‘What the hell,’ Brand yelled.
‘They’re sinking them, boss,’ Rumboy said. ‘Capsizin’ the boats.’
The first boat tipped to one side as the heavy cases of gold shifted. The two Chinese dived clear and began to swim out towards The Gulf Queen. Already the clipper had begun to raise its anchor. The calm water of the bay foamed as the dead weight of the cases slid from the overturned boat. They sank immediately. The second rowing boat sank stern first as water surged in, the weight of the cases dragging it beneath the surface.
Rumboy sighed. ‘Hell, boss, it’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’ Brand demanded.
‘Ain’t nobody goin’ to get that gold now, boss. Too damn deep here. I talked to people about this place. This bay, she go down twenty, maybe thirty fathoms most places I heard. Bottom, ahh, she full of big holes. Ain’t nobody been able to find out how far down.’
Jason Brand stared at the blue water of the bay. Already the disturbance had vanished, the foaming water settling, leaving the surface as placid as it had been before. He felt a momentary anger at the loss of the gold, but it faded just as quickly. There was nothing he could do about it. If McCord wanted his gold he was going to have to come and get it himself. It was ironic. The gold had been lost at the start of his assignment and now it was lost again. For all the good it had achieved it might as well have stayed where it had been back in New Mexico. If it had a number of people might still be alive. The Confederate gold had cost a great deal in human suffering and spilt blood.
Had it been worth it, he wondered?
‘Well, old chum, at least we put a stop to Han’s empire of crime,’ Hunt said. ‘Once we get him behind bars the rest of his organisation will fall apart. That should keep both our governments happy.’
Brand drew his attention back to the waiting figure of Kwo Han. The Chinese returned his stare with stony indifference. It seemed strange to be finally face to face with the man who had engineered this whole episode. Brand could see why Kwo Han’s employees had been so fiercely loyal. The Chinese made an impressive figure, silent and still as he was. It was easy to see why he’d been able to instil such fear in those who worked for him.
‘I congratulate you, Brand,’ Kwo Han said in perfect English. ‘Now I can see why you have survived for so long. It is unfortunate that we are on opposite sides. If you had been working for me and not against me there would have been a different outcome.’
‘Yeah? You’ll have plenty of time to think about that,’ Brand said. He gestured with the barrel of his Colt. ‘Move.’
Kwo Han hesitated for a fraction of a second. When he did move it was with a terrible speed and a deadly purpose. He took a short step to one side. His right hand slipped inside the open jacket of his suit, and when he withdrew his hand it was grasping the handle of a small hatchet. Kwo Han moved with the agility he had always possessed, and though it had been many years since he had practised the art he found he had lost none of his skills.
Only Brand’s acute reflexes warned him of Kwo Han’s attack. Even so he was slow in putting up any kind of defense. In the split-second left to him he pulled his body away from the downward slash of the gleaming blade, believing he had avoided it. Dimly he heard Richard Hunt’s warning yell. By this time he was bringing up his Colt, lining it up on the angry face before him and jerking back on the trigger. His mind was full of the horror conjured up by the sight of that glinting blade, its keen edge already so close. The reflection of the blade against the bright sun hurt his eyes and he saw images flash into view.
Bare sandy beaches and blue water. Green foliage and the rich red of blood. There was a stunning roar of sound – his Colt going off. Kwo Han’s face disintegrating into a bloody mask. And then Brand felt a stunning blow to his skull as the back haft of the hatchet slammed against his skull. Pain exploded inside his head and there was pain so acute it numbed him. He opened his mouth to yell but nothing came out. He knew he was falling. It didn’t seem to stop. He sank into a silent, dark void…and after a while he found it wasn’t so bad after all…he gave up resisting and let the darkness claim him…he didn’t care…it didn’t seem important any more…
Epilogue
The Confederate gold that had started out from California was never recovered from its resting place on the bed of T
he Bay of Caves for well over a hundred years. During that time a minor legend grew up around the story of how it found its way to Yucatan, but only a few knew the truth.
Three attempts were made to raise it before the end of the century. They all failed, and those early failures cost four more lives.
The East-West criminal syndicate died along with Kwo Han and the loss of the gold, the impetus draining away. And as Richard Hunt had predicted, Han’s organisation also came to an end. Those who evaded arrest soon fell to arguing amongst themselves as to who should take over from the dead Tong Master. They created the seeds of their own destruction.
Major Ruiz rose through the ranks of the Rurales and became the youngest ranking officer to command a large district in the Province of Yucatan. His defeat of the bandits who had hired out to Kwo Han had a great influence on the criminal element in and around Agua Verde. The strength of the gangs was considerably weakened and never managed to rise again.
For four days Jason Brand lay unconscious in a small hospital at Agua Verde. Busy as he was with tedious reports he had to compile concerning the Kwo Han affair, and the American and British involvement, Richard Hunt found time to call each day to see how Brand was. So did a young Mexican girl called Angel. On the morning of the fifth day Hunt met the doctor attending Brand outside the American’s room.
‘I was about to send for you, Captain Hunt.’ The doctor was a small, precise Mexican who wore steel-rimmed spectacles and spoke excellent English.
‘Has something happened?’ Hunt asked.
The doctor nodded. ‘Si. He has recovered consciousness.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘As long as you do not stay too long. He will need a lot of rest. The blow from that axe is not the only wound I found. Señor Brand has been struck a number of times recently. Too many severe blows to the skull can damage the brain. He’s lucky to be alive. That final blow he took came near to killing him. If that blade hadn’t been deflected slightly and had struck him as intended. He needs plenty of rest to enable him to recover.’ The doctor shrugged. ‘Well, I do not think I need to explain.’
‘Has he said anything yet?’
‘No. He was still very tired when he came round. But he has been left alone for a while. Shall we go in?’
Hunt followed the doctor into the small, white-painted room. It was bare save for a single bed and a couple of chairs. An open window looked out onto the neat, quiet garden surrounding the hospital.
Jason Brand lay staring out of the window. His face looked pale and gaunt against the white bandage covering the top of his bead. Dark rings circled his sunken eyes. He looked utterly weary.
‘Hello, Jason,’ Hunt said. ‘How are you feeling?’
Brand turned to look at him, and Hunt was shocked at the empty expression in his eyes.
‘Who’re you?’ Brand asked his voice a low monotone.
Hunt glanced at the doctor. ‘Doctor?’
The doctor had already moved to Brand’s side. ‘Señor Brand, what is wrong?’
‘What did you call me? Brand? Who’s Brand?’
Hunt felt a coldness form in his stomach. He moved to where Brand could see him.
‘Jason, don’t you know me?’
Brand touched his hand to his head, his face twisting with pain.
‘Know you? Hell, why should I know you? I don’t even know who I am. Or where I am. So if you know, mister, you’d better tell me.’
The Jason Brand Series:
1: Gun for Hire
2: Hardcase
3: Lobo
4: High Country Kill
5: Day of the Gun
6: Brotherhood of Evil
7: Legacy of Evil
8: Devil’s Gold
Piccadilly Publishing
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DEVIL’S GOLD
JASON BRAND 8:
First Published by Hunter Books in 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Michael R. Linaker
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: December 2014
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.