by Neil Hunter
The gallery was edged by a waist-high balustrade. The crowded ballroom lay some thirty feet below. The music and conversation swelled in volume as Brand leaned against the balustrade, staying in the shadow of a marble pillar. It took him no more than a few seconds to pick out the President. He realized how easy it would be to target the man from here.
Why hadn’t McCord sealed off the entire upper floor?
Brand knew that this was technically British territory, and McCord was unable to use his customary clout. That would not have gone down well with the man. So they had to work within the confines of the concessions the British had granted them.
He decided to make a circuit of the gallery. He slipped the Colt Special into his hand. If trouble did show he wanted to be ready.
Before he’d taken a step he felt fingers pluck at his sleeve, pulling him round. A hard fist sledged into his face, driving him back against the wall and a cold gun muzzle was jammed against his throat.
‘Move and I’ll blow your head off right here.’
Brand recognized the voice straight off. It was Parker Royce.
‘It isn’t going to work, Royce,’ Brand said.
‘But it is working,’ Royce said. He moved into view. He was smiling.
Brand checked out the gallery and spotted a shadowy figure at the far end. Leaning forward slightly to reveal the outline of a raised rifle.
It was St Clair, preparing for his moment of glory. His one chance to strike at the President. It would be no more than a one-shot opportunity, because the second he fired the President would be swamped by bodyguards, covered and hustled away under a protective umbrella. St Clair would have to make his lone shot count. He would probably be dead himself very quickly after. His grandstand play for the Brotherhood had to be executed without any mistakes.
Which was why Royce was around. His job would be to allow St Clair his moment. Royce had to stop anyone reaching St Clair.
The flaw in the plan was that Royce needed to do it quietly.
He couldn’t afford to make any noise that might draw attention to the gallery.
And that meant Brand still had a chance.
‘Put the gun away, Royce. You know you can’t fire it until that crazy son of a bitch makes his shot.’
The frustration mirrored in Parker Royce’s eyes would have been amusing in other circumstances. Brand had been right. His gamble paid off and Royce found himself caught between a rock and a hard place.
Brand moved then, quickly, because Royce would use some alternative means of silencing him if he thought fast enough. It was up to Brand to prevent him reaching that course of action.
He twisted suddenly, reaching up to grab Royce’s gun hand, jerking the man’s wrist against the natural movement of the bone. Royce gasped as his fingers jerked open and the revolver flew free. Before it hit the floor Brand kneed Royce hard in the groin. The man’s breath escaped in a burst. Brand swept up his right hand, the stubby barrel of the Colt Special crunching against Royce’s jaw. He stumbled back across the gallery, crashing against the wall, blood gleaming in a dark smear on his jaw. Royce slithered along the wall, attempting to regain his balance. Brand closed in, wanting to end the confrontation quickly. He walked right into Royce’s wild kick. The heel of the man’s boot slammed into Brand’s knee, throwing him sideways. Royce followed him, slamming against Brand and sent him against the balustrade. For a moment Brand was falling into space, his body reacting to the shock. He threw out his free arm and wrapped it around a marble pillar, hauling himself back on his feet. As he faced about he caught a smashing blow from Royce’s fist that opened a bloody gash over one eye. The pain galvanized Brand into a powerful response. He flung both arms around the pillar and kicked out with his feet. He connected with Royce’s chest as the man rushed at him. The force of Brand’s kick pushed Royce across the gallery where he slammed the back of his skull against the wall. Royce grunted briefly as he crashed to the floor and lay still.
Brand moved round the gallery, ignoring the blood that was coursing down his face and soaking the white shirt. He was searching for St Clair, who seemed to have moved from his original position. The man had to be close by. Maybe even now taking aim again.
‘Stay away, Brand!’
St Clair appeared at the point where the gallery curved around towards the longer side of the ballroom. He was carrying a long barreled hunting rifle, fitted with a telescopic sight. The weapon was high-powered. Crafted to be deadly accurate and with the power to drop a deer in full flight.
‘It’s over, Colonel,’ Brand said, knowing his words were falling on deaf ears. St Clair was totally committed. There would be no turning back now.
‘Not yet, Brand,’ St Clair said. ‘This is a beginning. After tonight the Brotherhood will be triumphant!’
‘You crazy son of a bitch, can’t you see it’s over before it starts. There isn’t going to be any damned rising. No Southern victory. Do you think I’m the only one who knows your plans? We have a file on every member of the Brotherhood. The US Secret Service has been on to you for months. My job was to flush you out and by God I did just that!’
St Clair stepped into full view, his rifle fixed on Brand’s chest.
‘You are lying, Brand, I can see that. Do you think I’m foolish enough to fall for your scare tactics? It won’t work. I’ve been through too much to be frightened off by Yankee trash.’ St Clair chuckled dryly. ‘First a bullet for that bastard down there. Then one for you!’
St Clair swung the rifle over the balustrade, snapping it to his shoulder. He was sharp, and Brand knew he would have to be fast himself to counter the man’s move. St Clair had spent his life with guns. Knew them better than most. But this time he was matched against Jason Brand. No slouch himself where guns were concerned.
Brand snapped up the Colt Special, still hanging at his side, thumbing back the hammer even as the weapon came on line.
St Clair must have seen the move out of the corner of his eye. The rifle changed direction, the muzzle coming round to line up on Brand.
The two shots merged as one.
St Clair’s rifle lashed out a crack of sound and Brand felt the clean slice of the bullet cleave his left thigh. He fell back against the balustrade, still keeping St Clair in his line of sight.
He saw the Southerner falter. A spreading splash of blood showed on St Clair’s chest.
‘God damn you!’ St Clair whispered through gritted teeth.
He started to lift the sagging rifle again.
‘Damn you!’ St Clair spat again, blood trickling from his mouth.
Brand saw the rifle settle on him. He hauled up the Colt, using both hands to steady it and began to fire, emptying the weapon into St Clair’s body. Blood erupted from the ragged wounds in St Clair’s chest and throat as the heavy bullets punched him back across the gallery. He fell hard, the rifle bouncing from his limp fingers.
The empty Colt dropped from Brand’s hand. He heard it clatter to the floor. Then he was down himself. Looking down he saw there was a spreading patch of blood on the floor beneath his leg. More was pulsing out of the wound in his thigh. Now he could hear voices as people crowded up the stairs.
For Christ sake hurry! There’s a man bleeding to death up here!
Above the noise, the shouting and the confusion, Brand heard the band start to play again. Restoring order. Placating the disturbed guests. The music drifted up to the gallery and Brand tried to place the tune. He couldn’t. He wondered if the President was still dancing, then realized he really didn’t give a damn. His own day had been ruined, so why should anyone else have a good time.
McCord was the first to reach him. He clamped a hand over the wound to try and stem the flow of blood. His face was grim.
‘What a goddam mess,’ he grumbled.
‘A simple thanks would have been fine,’ Brand whispered, and just before he passed out he was sure he saw McCord smile.
Epilogue
Brand was glad to be away from Wa
shington.
The bullet in his leg had kept him in bed for almost a week. After that he’d said to hell with everything and sneaked away. He’d picked up his old clothes, saddled a horse and had ridden out one evening. He told no one he was leaving, especially McCord. He wanted nothing to do with all the fuss that was still going on in the wake of the fracas at the British Embassy.
It felt good to be back in the saddle, despite the ache in his leg as it healed. The weather was fine, the air fresh, and once clear of Washington he began to feel human again.
McCord could sort out the mess. Him and the politicians. The buck would be passed back and forth until it all got sorted. They didn’t need him for that.
Somewhere during all the confusion in the Embassy Parker Royce had slipped away. Free and clear. And so had Lucilla St Clair. She had been under guard in an expensive hotel until someone could decide whether she could be charged with anything. While they debated Lucilla had managed to trick her guard and lock him in the room before calmly walking away.
Brand didn’t give the matter much thought. He just wanted to reach a town called Blanchville and find a young woman called Sarah.
He took his time, stopping when he felt inclined and moved on when the mood passed. His leg stopped aching and he felt the strength returning to his body as his other, minor wounds healed. He felt his mood lighten as Washington fell behind. Too much had happened during the St Clair assignment. Death and violence seemed to have dominated the case. But McCord had got what he wanted. The Brotherhood was finished and there would be a lot of red faces around the capitol. Brand imagined there would be a number of rapid departures from Washington too.
That lay behind him. The days drifted and the miles passed. And now he was in Louisiana, with a warm sun filtering through the trees edging the narrow road. The scent of bougainvillea filled the air. Blanchville was no more than a couple of miles ahead. And that meant Sarah. He dug his heels in and felt the horse respond.
The town was small, with white houses and neat fences. Quiet and tidy. A nice place to live.
Brand found the surgery midway along the main street. The shingle hanging over the door read: William J. Tealer, M.D. Brand reined in and climbed from the saddle. He tied the horse to the iron ring set in the single hitch post. Stepping up on the boardwalk he went inside the surgery. A bell tinkled above the door.
‘Be right with you.’ The voice was deep and accented.
Tealer was a broad-shouldered man in his forties. Handsome, with dark hair and a strong face.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.
‘You had a patient brought in a few weeks back. Young woman with a bullet wound. Negro called Frederick, from the St Clair estate brought her.’
Tealer nodded. ‘I recall her.’ He seemed puzzled by Brand’s inquiry. ‘What can I tell you?’
‘How is she? And where is she?’ Brand asked. Didn’t the man understand his request?
‘Are you a relative?’
Brand’s impatience swept aside his manners. ‘Damnit, man, I’ve ridden all the way from Washington to find this town. If you need questions answered I’ll oblige — but only after I’ve seen Sarah.’
‘Then you haven’t heard? God, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . ’
A coldness struck at Brand’s stomach. ‘Heard? Heard what?’
‘I did all I could for her. The bullet had done too much damage. Miss Debenham died four days after she was brought here.’ Tealer paused, lost for words. ‘She did ask for someone named Brand. Jason Brand. Is that you?’
In the long pause that followed Brand heard a voice ask: ‘Where is she?’
‘The cemetery next to the church,’ Tealer said. ‘I’ll show you.’
Brand was already opening the door.
‘I’ll find it,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Be in to see you before I leave.’
He saw the tall steeple of the church above the trees at the far end of town and began to walk in that direction.
His mind was in turmoil, his body growing numb. He walked along the street, unaware of the curious glances that followed him. His style of clothing and the heavy gun strapped to his waist was out of place in this genteel town. At any other time he might have reacted. Now he was totally unaware. The only thing he saw was the church steeple, framed against the blue sky.
He imagined there would be a green place. Quiet. Dotted with neat mounds, each with its own stone marker.
And there would be one with a name he knew.
Sarah Debenham.
The doctor had said she had asked for him. But he hadn’t been there. Not when she really needed him. So she had died alone in a strange town.
Sarah, I’m sorry.
Too little. Too late. It wouldn’t matter how many times he said it. She was dead and buried. Nothing would bring her back.
He walked up the long slope that would take him to the cemetery. The white church towered above him.
Brand felt a sting of tears in his eyes. He wiped them away with a brusque gesture. Felt them rise again.
But then it was only the high bright sun flaming into his face as he rounded the side of the church.
That was all.
Wasn’t it?
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The BRAND series
By Neil Hunter
Ex-US Marshal-turned-gun for hire, Jason Brand was drifting through life, unsure of his future, until the day Frank McCord appeared to offer him a job entirely suited to the former lawman's talents. McCord headed a little known Justice Department operation. He needed men who were not afraid to go against the odds, to buck rules and regulations when it came to completing an assignment. With Jason Brand that was exactly what McCord got. Brand had no problem dealing with lawbreakers on his own terms. His critics said Brand was too fond of using the gun he carried. That was partly true, but no-one understood the compulsion that drove Brand. Nor did they realize the gun he wore was as much a part of him as walking, talking, and taking each breath. Brand had long ago realized he could not exist without the gun. It was his savior and his curse.
Titles in the series
1: Gun for Hire
2: Hardcase
3: Lobo
4: High Country Kill
5: Day of the Gun