El Casa Muerte.
It loomed before him. Dark and evil even in the bright sunlight. A faint shiver coursed through Brand’s aching body the moment he set eyes on the place.
The House of Death.
It was well named, he thought. He wondered idly just how many had passed through its great wooden gates never to be seen again. Just how many had screamed away their lives in the grim cells below the garrison. Over the years he had heard stories about the place. Once during the time he had been a US Marshal he had spent some time working undercover in Mexico, and he had passed a couple of days in the town of Prienti. There had always been the menacing bulk of the garrison looming over the place.
No matter where he went in Prienti he could always see the garrison.
Brand tried to erase the image from his mind by concentrating on other things. Like how had the Rurales known he was in Mexico? The only explanation was that Saul Hussler had passed the word. Brand had to admit that Hussler was keeping well ahead of the game. He had managed to foresee Brand’s course of action from the moment he had left Concho to meet Morgan Dorsey. There had been the attack in the canyon.
The one outside Sarita’s hut. The shootout at One Stop. And now this.
The appearance of the Rurales on the scene. Their sudden introduction had been a shock. He had been anticipating some contact with the law force during his stay in Mexico — but he hadn’t been expecting them to be waiting for him.
The only thing that gave him any satisfaction was the fact that he had hurt Chavez. The Mexican had spent the entire ride slung over his saddle.
Chavez had done a deal of moaning. Once Brand had caught sight of Chavez’s face. His mouth was in a mess. The lips torn and crushed, the flesh swollen and discolored.
As they neared the garrison the heavy gates swung open. Beyond the entrance the hard-packed earth gave way to stone slabs that echoed the sound of the horses’ hooves. They clattered across the outer courtyard, under a high stone archway and into the second courtyard. Around the walls stood the various buildings that made up the garrison proper. Barracks. Kitchen. Stables and storehouses. Administration block. High up on the walls guards patrolled the perimeter of the garrison. Their high position enabled them to look down on those both inside and outside the place.
Baptise led them through another archway. Here they came to a small walled in area. At the far side a flight of steps led up to an ornately carved door. Shaded windows were set in the walls. One of the windows on the first floor had a small, wrought-iron balcony outside. As Brand was hauled down off his horse and up the steps he was certain he saw a figure standing just inside the partly open window that led to the balcony. It was only a brief glimpse but Brand was left with the impression he had seen a young woman watching — and she wasn’t Mexican.
At the top of the steps Brand was taken through the door into a cool, tiled passage. Doors led off on both sides. At the far end a short flight of stone steps took them to the next floor.
Chavez had been left outside. Diego and Casca flanked Brand as they followed Baptise along the passage. At the far end Baptise knocked on a door and went through into the room beyond. Moments later the door opened again. Casca shoved Brand through the door. He found himself in a large, well-furnished office. Dominating the room was a huge oak desk. Brand focused on the man standing to one side of the desk.
He had seen some big men but this one would have dwarfed the best. Brand guessed his height at around six-five, and he was almost that much in breadth. Huge, powerful shoulders bulged against a thick shirt. The arms were long, ending in massive hands. The head was set on a short neck of solid muscle. The skull was bald, adding menace to the hard, brutal features of the man’s impassive face.
“Chino is a good man to have on your side, Senor Brand.”
Beyond the giant Brand saw a tall Mexican dressed in the immaculate uniform of a Captain of the Rurales. He was handsome, black haired and wore a neat mustache on his upper lip. He looked to be in his early thirties.
“I am Ramon Huerta. Welcome to El Casa Muerte. Sit down, Brand, we have much to discuss.”
Huerta moved to confront Baptise. “I will speak with you later, Baptise. About remembering to obey orders. Now get out.”
As the door closed behind Baptise and Huerta returned to sit behind his desk, Brand spoke for the first time since entering the office.
“And just what do we have to talk about, Captain Huerta?”
Huerta smiled indulgently. “As if you didn’t know. Come now, Brand, we both know why you are in Mexico.”
Brand spotted a wooden chair facing the desk. He sank into it. He was still aching from the rough handling he’d received from Huerta’s men, and he needed time to think.
What was Huerta’s connection with the Dorsey kidnapping? Brand had a feeling that Huerta was more involved than interested.
“Maybe I just like the scenery. Or it could be I enjoy the hospitality.”
Huerta sat forward. His darkly handsome face suddenly hardened. A soft whisper in Spanish passed his lips. It was too low for Brand to catch — but not for Chino.
There was movement to Brand’s right. He turned in time to see the giant Mexican lumbering towards him.
Brand kicked aside the chair and rose to his feet, but Chino moved fast for a man of his size. His huge left hand lashed out and clouted Brand across the side of the head, knocking him off his feet. Brand lay sprawled across the floor, dazed by the brutal blow. In that short time Chino caught hold of the back of Brand’s shirt and hauled him upright. Without pause Chino threw the American across the room. Brand slammed against the far wall with stunning force. He slid to his knees. He felt a shadow fall over him, saw Chino towering above him, then felt the solid crack of the Mexican’s great hands on his face. Brand’s head snapped back and forth, blood spraying from his lips. He wasn’t sure when the blows stopped. But he was aware of being dragged across the room and dumped back on his chair.
“I will ask you again, Brand, and this time I suggest you consider your answer.” Huerta’s cool tones reached Brand through a hazy mist. “Why are you in Mexico?”
“You know damn well why I’m here.” Brand raised his heavy head and caught Huerta’s eye. “Quit throwing all that horseshit around. Why don’t you just get Hussler in here and we can sit and chew this over.”
Huerta’s face paled for a moment.
“Very well, Brand, let us stop playing games. Tell me what you have found out about the kidnapping of Katherine Dorsey and who you have spoken to about it.”
Realization came to Brand why Huerta was so concerned. The Mexican was anxious to know who, besides Brand, had knowledge about Hussler’s part in the kidnap and whatever else had been learned. Huerta’s attitude had also convinced Brand that the man was involved in the crime himself.
Huerta needed to know what had been exposed so he could cover himself. He would keep Brand alive until he had that information, and once Brand had parted with it he would be killed — Brand accepted that without a shadow of doubt. All he could do was convince Huerta he knew more than he actually did. It would keep him alive, and while he stayed alive he had a chance to get out of the mess he’d walked into. The way things were going it might be a slim chance, but Brand had never been one to just lie and quit. It wasn’t in his makeup.
The one thing he had to keep from Huerta was the fact that he actually knew very little concerning the kidnapping. Brand had established the involvement of Saul Hussler. He knew the man had been instrumental in the death of Jake Thoroughgood and had been behind the attempts on Brand’s life. And it had been Hussler himself who had led Brand to Mexico and the prepared ambush by the Rurales.
“I ask you again,” Huerta said abruptly. His voice had lost some of its edge. “Tell me what I need to know.”
Brand dragged himself upright on the chair. “Just like that? After what I’ve been through? Hell no!”
Anger crossed Huerta’s dark face.
“Do you believe that wasting my time will help you? Brand, do not imagine that anyone is coming to help you. I am in charge of this garrison. If you ever leave it will be by my authority only.”
“Captain, that fancy uniform might make you look pretty good to some, but from here all I can see is a two bit greaser bandit.”
Huerta came up out of his chair, his face blazing with rage. He yelled something in rapid Spanish to Chino, and Brand knew that if he didn’t do something fast he was going to catch all hell.
He rolled off the chair as he sensed Chino’s bulk. Coming to his feet he turned and snatched up the chair he’d just vacated. As Chino came at him Brand thrust the chair into his face.
The tip of one leg glanced off Chino’s left cheek, tearing the flesh open to the bone. Blood spilled down the Mexican’s face. He shook his head, but kept right on coming, big hands snatching the chair from Brand’s grasp and hurling it across the room. Backing up Brand felt the wall stop him. There was no way to avoid Chino’s massive form, so Brand tried a swift evasive move, ducking under the man’s outstretched hands.
As he leaned in close Brand drove his clenched fists into Chino’s thick body.
It was like hitting a solidly packed sandbag. Chino didn’t even flinch. He simply sledged a huge fist across the back of Brand’s neck, driving him to his knees. Reaching down Chino caught hold of Brand’s thick hair. He yanked Brand’s head back and smashed a brutal fist into his face. Brand felt his lips tear, tasted blood. A numbness spread over the lower half of his face and he hardly felt the next blow, or the succession of blows that followed.
“Enough,” Huerta said finally. “Take him below. Let him recover. Give him time to think. Then we will talk to him again.”
Huerta left his office and made his unhurried way along the passage.
Reaching the flight of steps he climbed them and crossed the upper landing to the door of the room that overlooked the enclosure.
The door opened on a well-furnished bedroom. Thick carpet covered the floor and heavy velvet curtains framed the window with the small balcony outside. Huerta closed the door, his eyes searching the room.
“Well?”
“He’s stubborn. But Chino will make him talk.”
“Ramon, do you think he knows anything that could harm us?”
Huerta shrugged. He moved forward to confront the slim figure stepping to the center of the room from the shadows of the heavy curtains. As always his pulse quickened when he saw her. He had known women before, yet none of them could do to him what this one could. He felt like one of the old gods when he was with her. All powerful. Immortal. Unable to do wrong.
“He has told us nothing yet,” he said. “But I must be sure before I have him killed. Our plan depends on secrecy. If we fail to achieve that everything could fail.”
“Hush now,” she said, moving close to him. She laid her slim hands on his shoulders. The thin robe she wore was fully open, exposing the taut length of her pale body. “You will find out. We still have time.”
Huerta nodded, satisfied. “Yes. You are right. As always.”
She smiled and kissed him, her mouth soft and generous. Huerta slid his arms around her, drawing her warm, naked body against him. He drew strength from her, his worries slipping away as he plunged into the warmth of her passion. Without a word she led him to the bed that occupied a prominent place in the room. Her slim hands loosened his clothing, drawing it from his dark, muscular body, and allowing her own robe to slip to the floor. Drawing him down onto the bed she trapped him with her scented, silken flesh, and as he moved against her she stroked his naked back with long, slender fingers.
“Soon, Ramon, it will all be over. Then we will be free to go wherever we want.” She gazed coolly up at his taut face. “Soon,” she whispered. “Dear Ramon.”