Brand 6 Read online

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  Infiltrating an organization dedicated to the resurrection of the Confederacy, and putting a stop to their planned uprising, places Jason Brand in the firing line on his new assignment. As Brand becomes involved with the fanatical St. Clair family, violence erupts and he has a fight for survival on his hands. Brand makes his stand against the rebels, uncovers an assassination plot — and suffers a very personal tragedy of his own . . .

  BROTHERHOOD OF EVIL

  BRAND 6

  By Neil Hunter

  First published by Bladkompaniet in 1978

  Copyright © 1978, 2014 by Neil Hunter

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: February 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.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Cover image © 2014 by Westworld Designs

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  Deputy United States Marshal Jack Doyle cursed silently, but with genuine feeling. He was cold, wet and damned uncomfortable. He wished he was back in Dallas instead of being stuck in Galveston. In Dallas there was that redheaded half-Irish girl called Kelly. The one with the body of an angel and breasts like ripe melons. Doyle groaned at the memory, and tried to push the image of the girl out of his mind. It took some doing and by the time he’d rid himself of her tantalizing picture he felt distinctly worse off. The rain felt even wetter and colder. The wind cut through his sodden clothing with sadistic force. He hunched further into the corner, blinking rain from his eyes and stared across the glistening street at the US Government warehouse. Beyond the dark bulk of the building the oily waters of Galveston Bay broke heavily against the sodden pilings of the wharf.

  Fishing his watch from his pocket Doyle strained his eyes to peer at the face. It had gone midnight and he was beginning to wonder whether his information had been false. There was only one way to find out. That entailed staying exactly where he was and waiting some more. These days it seemed he spent a great deal of his time sitting around waiting for things to happen. He dragged a thin cigar from his pocket and stuck it between his lips. It was only as he searched for a match that he realized what he was doing. Doyle snatched the cigar from his mouth and tossed it aside. He jerked the dripping brim of his hat lower over his face and pulled his coat closer around his neck. It failed to stop cold fingers of rain sneaking down his back.

  He saw the wagon before he heard the muted sound of its approach. Pulled by a pair of rain-slick horses it rolled slowly along the wharf. A dark canvas sheet covered the rear of the wagon. Doyle counted two men on the seat up front, with three more sitting near the rear.

  The wagon rolled right up to the warehouse and drew to a creaking halt. One of the men up front climbed down and walked straight to the doors of the warehouse. There was no hesitation or fumbling. The man produced a key and opened the heavy padlock securing the doors. He dragged the doors open and waved the driver of the wagon to move forward. The wagon rolled inside the warehouse and the doors were swiftly drawn to behind it.

  A bead of sweat rolled down Doyle’s face. His informant had been right. What he had forgotten to mention was that these people were professionals. Too professional. The way they had entered the warehouse spoke of men with a single purpose. The kind who wouldn’t allow anyone to get in their way. If a problem arose they would deal with it as easily as they had got into the warehouse.

  Jack Doyle felt his lips go dry. He was no coward. Neither was he reckless. He knew and accepted the dangers of his profession. That didn’t mean he had to like them. But he knew he had to overcome his feelings and get closer to these people. He had to find out what they were after.

  He pushed his coat back and reached for the heavy Colt holstered on his right hip. His fingers touched the cold butt in the same instant something hard was jammed into his back.

  ‘Leave it, bucko, or I’ll put a hole through you here and now!’

  The voice alone got the message across. Doyle took his hand away from his gun and felt someone lift it from the holster.

  ‘Seeing as you’re so interested we’ll go over and join my friends,’ the unseen man said. ‘Walk ahead of me and do it steady so’s I don’t get nervous on this trigger.’

  The walk to the warehouse seemed endless. Doyle found he was wishing it would never end. There was a growing feeling inside him that warned he would find nothing pleasant inside the place. He didn’t rule out the possibility of dying. These men wouldn’t want the knowledge of what they were doing being spread around. Once they realized that Doyle was a Marshal they would certainly want him kept quiet. The most permanent way of ensuring that would be to kill him.

  Doyle knew the risks of his business. He’d known from the day he pinned on the badge. His instructors had laid it on the line right from day one.

  ‘Don’t expect that badge to bring you anything but trouble! You want gratitude go join a Sunday School! You want fame join a circus! All this job will bring you is a boot in the crutch and a bullet in the back of your head up some dark alley!’

  That was what they had told him. And a great deal more. Like every other operative who joined the department Jack Doyle hadn’t been looking for gratitude or fame. Just the chance to do a damn good job for his own satisfaction.

  The problem was that right now that bullet in the back of the head was starting to look entirely possible.

  As Doyle paused outside the warehouse his captor rapped on the door. After a few seconds the door eased open and a man’s face gleamed briefly in subdued lamplight.

  ‘Inside, bucko.’

  Doyle stepped inside. The area close to the door was dark. A block of angular shadows. Beyond was a pool of light. Shapes moving around the parked wagon.

  Behind Doyle someone spoke urgently, the voice too low for him to pick out the words.

  ‘Go on,’ Doyle’s captor snapped, thrusting the gun against Doyle’s spine.

  Reaching the wagon Doyle saw one of the dark figures step forward. He got an impression of a tall, broad man, his shape muffled by a heavy topcoat. The face was obscured by the upturned collar. Only the eyes showed clearly. Cold and bright, they shone with a brittle hardness that was without feeling. Doyle sensed evil in those eyes and he knew there was nothing good in this situation for him.

  ‘Who is he?’ The eyes never wavered from Doyle’s face.

  ‘Let’s find out!’

  Another man pushed forward. He was tall and lean, with pale blond hair and a soft look to his finely chiseled features. He walked with a limp, favoring his stiff left leg. He glared at Doyle with ill-concealed hostility as his slender, woman’s hands searched through the Deputy’s pockets.

  Jack Doyle tensed. Nerves strung tight. Waiting for the moment when they discovered his identity.

  ‘Damn!’ The blond man stepped back. He held up Doyle’s badge. ‘Now what do we do?’ His voice was edged with the beginnings of panic.

  The man in the topcoat leaned forward.

  ‘Was he alone, Royce?’

  ‘He was, Colonel.’ This came from the man who had brought Doyle inside. He spoke with assurance.

  ‘How do we know he didn’t tell others where he was going?’ the blond said, his control slipping even more.

  ‘That might be true, Colonel,’ the one named Royce agreed.

  The Colonel was silent for a moment. He gaze moved t
o a spot beyond Doyle’s left shoulder. ‘It appears this is something you should handle, Royce.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Royce said.

  Hell no!

  Jack Doyle’s silent protest was followed by instant action. He knew exactly what the Colonel meant, and realized that he had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  He dropped to a crouch, taking him below the level of the gun at his back, twisting his body round. As he faced about he lunged forward, slamming shoulder-first into Royce. He heard the man curse, then felt the whack of Royce’s gun barrel as it slammed across the side of his head. Doyle stumbled, regained his footing, and pushed forward again, hammering his fists at Royce’s body. Royce spun away from him, crashing into a stack of crates and toppling sideways. Doyle heard the scrape of a boot close by and turned towards it. It was the blond, the gleam of steel in his hand. Doyle didn’t hesitate, and instead of pulling back he advanced. His swinging fist drove into the pale face. The blond man uttered a shrill yell as the blow landed. Stepping away from the moaning figure Doyle pushed past the muffled shape of the Colonel and made for the shadows beyond the spill of light.

  Doyle ran. There was nothing else for him to do. He could hear the others behind him, yelling to each other as they followed. He regretted not knowing the layout of the warehouse as he crashed into objects. Stumbling, falling, picking himself up again he felt blood streaming down his face and a sudden stab of pain from bruised ribs. But he still kept running. He had to if he wanted to stay alive.

  The voices behind him faded, then rose. Men swore in frustration. Doyle realized they were as confused as he was. The warehouse was unknown to them as well. It gave him an edge — albeit a slight one. Doyle stopped running and made an attempt at getting his bearings. He just wished he had his gun. At least then he would have had something to fight back with. Without his weapon he felt helpless. He edged his way along a stack of wooden crates, peering ahead of him.

  Where was the door?

  If he could get outside then maybe he could . . .

  Ahead of him he made out a faint lessening in the darkness. A pale outline. Was it the door? He moved towards it, relieved when he saw he was passing the wagon. No one seemed to be near it. Perhaps they were all still behind him. In the depths of the warehouse

  He reached the door. For a moment he was sure it was locked. But it swung open at his touch. Cold rain drifted in, chill against his face.

  Doyle stepped outside. The moment he was on the street he began to run, ignoring the driving rain. He had to get away from the warehouse. Away from the men who wanted to kill him.

  He didn’t hear the shot. Just felt something strike his lower back. A heavy, numbing blow. The force of it knocked him to his knees. He landed hard, a pained cry bursting from his lips. It was then he knew he’d been shot. Pain flowered inside his body. He struggled to stand upright, fighting the onset of weakness that threatened to cripple him. On his feet again he staggered drunkenly, slumping against a wall. He clawed at the rough brick to stop from falling again. Then he heard a sound and turned.

  It was the man called Royce. He stood in the middle of the street, a tight smile on his angular face. His flesh gleamed with rain and his black hair was plastered tightly to his skull. The big revolver in his hand rose slowly.

  ‘Nowhere to run, boy!’

  In that final moment Jack Doyle realized something that had been in his thoughts from the moment he had entered the warehouse. The man called Royce. The blond man. And the Colonel. They all spoke with the same accent.

  Unmistakable.

  A Southern drawl.

  A pointless revelation now because Doyle wasn’t going to be able to pass the information along. Nor would it save his life.

  With a defiant yell Doyle shoved himself away from the wall, reaching out for Royce.

  The muzzle of the revolver blossomed with flame and smoke. The sound of the shot this time was loud in Doyle’s ears. It grew and grew, filling his skull, even drowning out the final scream that burst from his lips in protest against the pain in his chest. Doyle felt himself falling. Then he was down on the ground. The rain on his face felt odd, he couldn’t move. Or make a sound. But he could still see.

  The image that was imprinted on his mind just before everything went dark was of Royce looming over him. The big-boned face glistened wetly. The lips curved in a cold smile. But it was the odd, shining wildness in Royce’s eyes that frightened Doyle even more than death in those final moments.

  It was the burning stare of the fanatic!

  Chapter Two

  Jason Brand crossed the tracks of the Galveston rail depot, making for the single, isolated Pullman coach standing in one of the sidings. The coach was painted in rich maroon and blue, every panel lined with thin gold-leaf gilding. It was a rich, impressive piece of exhibitionism. Brand wondered who it belonged to. Certainly not the man who was waiting inside for Brand.

  Not Frank McCord.

  True, he was using it to get to Brand, but the Chief of the Washington Law Department was not the kind of man to waste money on such a chunk of luxury.

  McCord’s telegram had come out of the blue, informing Brand that he would be arriving in Galveston the next day.

  The man himself was standing on the observation platform at the rear of the coach, watching Brand’s approach.

  ‘You’re looking better than the last time I saw you,’ McCord said.

  ‘I feel a whole lot better,’ Brand replied.

  McCord led the way inside. They passed through to the Pullman’s lounge. Part of it had been fitted out as an office, complete with oak desk and cabinets. Book lined shelves were fitted to the walls and a heavy safe stood in the far corner.

  ‘Belongs to the owner of the railroad,’ McCord explained. He eased into the leather chair behind the desk. ‘He owed the Department a few favors.’

  Brand tossed his hat down and stretched his lean frame into a comfortable armchair.

  ‘Very impressive,’ he murmured.

  Frank McCord leaned forward. ‘I don’t use things to impress people, Brand. Just to serve a useful function.’

  Brand glanced up from the cigar he was lighting. ‘That apply to people as well as furniture?’ he asked.

  McCord stared at him. Then a frosty smile edged his lips. ‘That rest has certainly perked you up,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Brand replied. He was thinking that the main reason for his full recovery had been Sarah Debenham. She had made all the difference. He glanced at McCord and knew instinctively that his vacation was over. McCord hadn’t come all this way simply to pass the time of day with him.

  ‘I have a copy of your latest medical,’ McCord said. ‘According to it you are fully recovered and fit for duty.’

  ‘I could have told you that without the medical,’ Brand said. As good as the relationship had been with Sarah, he needed the challenge a new assignment would offer.

  ‘Good,’ McCord said. He instantly became businesslike. A folder was produced and opened on the desk in front of McCord.

  ‘What do you know about an organization calling itself The Brotherhood of the Confederacy?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  McCord tapped the file. ‘When you have read this you’ll know as much as anyone outside the group.’

  He passed the file across to Brand and watched him study the contents.

  ‘Is this the St Clair?’

  ‘Ex-Colonel. Now Senator Beauregard St Clair.’ McCord leaned back in the leather chair. ‘As far as we can tell he’s the head of the Brotherhood. I don’t have to remind you of his political leanings. St Clair is dyed-in-the-wool Southern. The war may be over but St Clair is still fighting the battle.’

  ‘Twenty years on?’

  McCord smiled. ‘St Clair doesn’t understand the concept of forgive and forget. He’s as anti-Unionist now as he ever was. Maybe more so. He’s had a lot of time to let his hate grow. Watching his part of the country being drawn into the Union way of things.
r />   Seeing Yankee money and power taking over the Southland. Twenty years on and Beauregard St Clair still hates us. He’s a fanatic of the worst kind. The most dangerous to have to deal with.’

  ‘What does the Brotherhood have in mind?’

  ‘I believe St Clair wants to establish a Confederate power group. Even a fighting force. With him as leader.’

  ‘He might just do it,’ Brand said. ‘From what I know of the man he has a way with words. The kind that would appeal to sympathizers to his cause.’

  ‘Read the reports. You’ll understand what he’s already doing.’

  ‘Does St Clair know he’s under suspicion?’

  McCord shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. St Clair is no fool. Most of our information comes courtesy of the US Secret Service. They’ve been watching St Clair for almost a year now. When they were certain of their facts they took them to the President. He called me in and we both decided it was enough to go on.’

  Brand took another look at the reports contained in the file. Page after page of detailed information, telling of meetings, along with dates and times and places. And as much as possible about the people attending the meetings.

  ‘One or two familiar names,’ Brand observed.

  ‘All fine Southern gentlemen,’ McCord agreed. ‘You will of course have noted that they are to a man both politically and commercially influential.’

  ‘And not one of them short of a dollar.’ Brand closed the file. ‘Is there anything to add to what’s in the file?’

  ‘Three nights ago a Government warehouse here in Galveston, was broken into. I say broken. Actually the people who committed the crime had a key and simply let themselves in. When they left they took three brand new Gatling Guns, four cases of rifles and two of Colt revolvers. They also took ammunition for all three weapons.’

  ‘Is there a connection to St Clair?’

  ‘Yes. The same thing that connected the Brotherhood to a number of other robberies. St Clair was seen in Galveston two days before the robbery. He left the day after. I did some checking and the same applied to raids in EI Paso, Dallas and Austin.’