Stop Angel! (A Frank Angel Western Book 8) Read online

  ‘Ernie Hecatt. Remember him?’

  ‘He’d be hard to forget.’

  ‘He escaped from Huntsville.’

  ‘I know. About two and a half, three years ago. Disappeared.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There have been some sightings.’

  ‘I know. I correlated them. Men who knew Hecatt. Said they’d seen him, called his name as he walked close by them, but he either didn’t hear or ignored them. Walked on past as if he was deaf.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Mistaken identity, maybe.’

  ‘Maybe,’ the Attorney-General said. ‘But you know my motto, Frank.’

  Angel nodded. The Attorney-General committed his department to action on a very simple set of precepts. Once, he was fond of stating, is mere happenstance. Twice, perhaps, is coincidence. But three times? Three times, gentlemen, means the bastards are doing it on purpose. And I want to know why!

  ‘How many sightings altogether?’ he asked Angel now.

  ‘Four. Five, if you count a “maybe”,’ was the reply. ‘One in New Orleans. One in Jackson, Mississippi. One in Shreveport, Louisiana, and another in St. Louis. The maybe was in Abilene. Abilene, Texas, not the Kansas one.’

  ‘That’s a pretty big area,’ the Attorney-General observed.

  ‘What I thought.’

  ‘Check it anyway,’ was the order, and Angel shrugged his agreement. The Old Man was handing him a nice easy number until he worked off the last lingering stiffness in his leg, giving him time to ease back into action rather than tossing him in, ready or not. It was damned thoughtful of the Attorney-General, but Angel wished to hell he wouldn’t bother.

  ‘Checking on Hecatt’ll only take me a couple of days,’ he offered. ‘What do you want me to do then?’

  The Attorney-General’s smile showed he’d been hoping for Angel to say just what he’d said. ‘Report to Kee Lai,’ he said. ‘For fitness tests.’

  Angel gave a theatrical groan and got out of there.

  Chapter Three

  The man known as Nix reined in the beautiful thoroughbred stallion and surveyed his kingdom. From Diablo Point, where he now stood, the tumbling land stretched away to the north, blurring to blue-gray on the horizons. It would not have mattered had it been pitch dark: Nix knew the country spread before him as he knew the contours of his own face, the shape of his own body. Better, perhaps, for he had created this place, which the Mexicans called Valle del Muerto.

  It was well named.

  To Nix’s left, tumbling along the western edge of the land like gigantic rocks strewn carelessly by some Olympian god, lay the Burrow Mountains, thrusting their bare, jagged peaks eight, ten, sometimes twelve thousand feet into the empty sky. At their foothills lay the jagged black basalt of the lava beds, endless serried rank after endless wicked row. Neither man nor horse could negotiate them: they would cripple the larger animal in an hour, reduce the stoutest boots to ribbons in another, and the feet of a man to bloody ruin in half that time.

  Below Diablo Point, which jutted out from the base of the mountains skirting the southern end of the valley, a long way below in the man-made clearing lay the hacienda. The land had been leveled, the L-shaped house built by thousands of sweating peons brought across the Rio Bravo for the paltry few dollars their labor commanded. They had been ferried back across the river when their work was done, unsure of where they had been, and warned never to speak of what they had created in the valley. One or two had: they had died ugly deaths that silenced all the others.

  The house would not have shamed a wealthy landowner in Virginia, but there was a major difference: this was not only a house but a fortress, a castle. Around it stood a ten-foot-high stockade of pointed foot-thick logs, and at each side of the heavy wooden gates were high wooden guard platforms, duplicates of the ones at three of the four corners of the stockade. Guards manned the platforms at all times when Nix was there. Inside the stockade, a man-made miniature lake lapped at the edge of a stone patio which fronted the northern side of the house, sited for shade and coolness, refuge from the relentless sun. From the house a man-channeled river ran northward, falling gradually away with the natural slope of the valley, widening as it went. It had not been there when Nix came to this valley, any more than the virtually impassable barrier of choke thorn, briar, bramble, and creeper that lay like a mile-wide caterpillar across the northern edge of the valley. He had seeded the breaks and watered them, adding and adding and adding until the rioting bushes formed a tangled barrier through which even the hardy javelinas, the native wild pigs, could scarcely force a path. Nix said no man could get through the breaks, and no man had proved him wrong.

  He turned now to the right, where broken cliffs backed by the plateaus that preceded the soaring San Miguel range lined the eastern skyline. Below them lay open prairie and scrubland—jackrabbit country, as one of his men had dubbed it—and to the north, desert as empty as the far side of the moon. Nothing good lived there: there was no water hole, no life support of any kind. Only at its southern edge did the land miraculously bloom, between prairie and desert. Almost in the dead center of the valley, between river and San Miguels, between desert and hacienda, a small wood stood. Beech, elm, some smaller deciduous trees and shrubbery clustered together, watered by a man-made tributary of the river which stemmed from the artesian well sited inside the stockade. Inside the little forest was a lake, around which Nix permitted the raiding Comanches who regularly visited his valley to camp. They came in through the narrow gap between the breaks and the San Miguels, empty desert that their own scouts constantly patrolled. No white man could have gone twenty yards in that country without being seen by the Indians. Nothing moves in the land of the Comanche that they do not see.

  There was an entrance into the valley, of course.

  Through the tangled barrier of the thornbreaks ran a track. There were guardhouses at both ends of it, and a signal system between both that made it almost foolproof. Even if some unwanted visitor were to overpower one set of guards—at either end—certain switches would infallibly be set, and the entire road be instantaneously turned into a murderous, booby-trapped defile of death.

  South of the thornbreaks, between the woods and there, lay a huge, swampy lake. This was as far as the man-made river ran. Here, the water became brackish, murky, smelling of old copper. Around it swamp plants flourished in the overheated dampness, and old trees drooped beneath the weight of hanging moss.

  When there was quarry, many of them headed for the lake. There were other options, all of them clearly signposted. Nix smiled a cobra’s smile at the thought: the Englishman, Tyrrell, had headed for the lake. He had almost made it, too. Almost was not good enough in Nix’s valley. Those who lived in it, worked in it, those knew how to avoid its perils despite the absence of any semblance of a trail. Others … others must fend for themselves. Nix’s riders were strictly instructed and as strictly checked to ensure that when they traversed the valley, they left no tracks. A tumbleweed tied at the end of a length of rope affixed to the pommel would effectively blur the marks of a horse’s hoofs. A spar of driftwood on an A-loop would flatten out tracks made during wet weather. The men used whatever would do the job, and always did it. They knew only too well what happened to anyone who challenged the will of their employer.

  Nix sat now, solid and powerful in the beautifully tooled California saddle with its silver conchos and tapering tapaderos. The beautiful black stallion stirred as the wicked spade bit touched its sensitive jaw, shivering slightly, ready to move when commanded. Nix leaned forward and patted its sleek neck. ‘Very soon, my beauty,’ he murmured. ‘Very soon now.’

  He was a big man, wide of shoulder, solid and heavy. His hair and brows were as black as a raven’s wing, and his deep-set eyes were dark, burning, almost fanatical. His physical presence made lesser men aware of their own comparative weakness. His chest was like a barrel, his thighs like hams. He stood well o
ver six and a half feet without the soft, expensive boots, and weighed well over two hundred pounds, not an ounce of which was fat. There was only one imperfection in this enormous frame, and that was his left hand. Over it, Nix always wore a black glove which concealed an artificial hand. Specially made for him by the leading skilled men of Vienna, it was as close in appearance to a normal hand as anything made by man could be, but there was a difference. Some of his men had seen Nix use the hand as a weapon. It had become a steel claw, irresistible, terrible, and they feared it even more than the silver-plated Remington he wore and could use with such unnerving speed, or even the plaited rhinoceros-hide whip he carried looped to the pommel of his saddle.

  His men feared Hercules Nix and he knew it, gloried in it.

  He knew what fear was and he knew how to use it. He had spent nearly four long years amassing enough money to have power, and he had cheated and lied and finally killed to get it. Now that he had power, wealth, and strength, he used all of them ruthlessly, without pity. He gave no quarter, felt no doubt. He had learned that survival meant life and that life meant war and he intended to fight that war as he did everything else, relentlessly and totally. And as he did everything else, he would win. He would have his revenge, and go on from there.

  ‘Thar he is,’ Des Elliott said. He was a small, fair-haired, almost cherubic looking man dressed in a black leather jacket and pants against which his silver-studded gunbelt and nickel-plated Colts made an almost flashy contrast. He could have been anywhere between twenty and fifty, and he was the most sadistic and vicious of all Nix’s hunting crew, the leader of his hired assassins.

  ‘Where?’ Nix said. His voice was throaty with anticipation. ‘Where?’

  ‘Way on up,’ a second man said. ‘Past the dry ford.’

  The dry ford was the only safe way to cross the river. There were other fords, of course. Quarry found out the hard way which was which.

  ‘He’s done well,’ Nix said, reluctantly.

  ‘Yup,’ the second man said. His name was Barnfield, but everyone called him Barney. He was long and lanky and he had a thatch of reddish-colored hair and three days of stubble on his chin. He scratched a match on the seat of his pants and set fire to a grubby-looking cigar butt.

  ‘Looks like he’s heading for the lake,’ Elliott said, venomous satisfaction in his light voice. ‘He ain’t crossin’.’

  ‘Good,’ Nix said, his voice like iron now.

  ‘Well, Boss,’ a third man asked. ‘How about it?’

  ‘One moment more, Hisco,’ Nix said. The skull-faced man who had spoken had the white hair and pink eyes of an albino. His mouth was like a razor-slash in the long jaw.

  ‘Git ready, boys,’ he murmured to those behind him. He’d been on a hunting party before, and he knew what happened next. Even so, he was still startled when Nix gave a screech like a drunken Comanch’ and drove the fine-tipped steel points of his Mexican spurs into the ribs of the beautiful black horse. The stallion contorted with pain and exploded into movement, going down the thirty-degree slope of Diablo Point as if it were a kitchen table, with Nix maniacally urging it to even greater speed. His cohorts did their nervous best to keep up with him but by the time they got to the bottom of the slope, Nix was already nearly half a mile ahead. Urging their animals to greater speed, they thundered in his wake, their dust rising behind them like a funeral pyre, a broad arrow of movement on the vast land whose point was Hercules Nix. The arrow was aimed unerringly at the tiny white figure moving slowly through the broken ground alongside the treacherous river.

  Jaime Lorenz saw the dust and swore.

  Men on horseback, that close, would be on him in less than half an hour. It didn’t give him a hell of a lot of time to make it to the screening timber around the lake up ahead. Maybe he could make it, but it was going to be touch and go. He lurched on, trying to ignore the agony of his bloodily tattered feet. Every pounding footstep was like a bright lance of fire through his entire body, but he had to keep going or die, and he knew it. The sun had broiled his naked body, and his tongue was already thick with thirst. His lips were cracked, and he looked longingly at the purling river on his left. He shook his head doggedly. He wasn’t about to risk that again. He kept on, his run hardly much better than a shambling walk, but moving on, a small defenseless speck in the hugeness of the land, ignoring the pleas of his overworked body for rest, water, and food. The timber up ahead was appreciably nearer when he looked up, and the sight gave him fresh strength. He caught the glint of water through the close-set trees, and dreamed for an instant of splashing in a deep, cool lake.

  He risked a look over his shoulder. He saw the dust off to the rear, easier to see now, appreciably closer. He ignored the clear trail of blood spots he himself was leaving. They could see him, he knew. There would be no need of tracking until or if he got into the timber. He ignored everything now except the need to survive. Everything they had taught him in the training school, every technique, every trick was vital if he was to survive, get out of this deathtrap, and report what he had discovered here.

  His brain checked, examined, and discarded idea after idea, trick after technique. He had to be realistic. He was naked, unarmed, and worn down by the exposure, minor wounds, and relentless pursuit. Until he reached the timber, he could not hope to make himself a weapon. He prayed to God he’d have the time. He could sure as hell use a break.

  ‘There is no escape from my valley,’ Nix had told him the night before. ‘No escape at all. But you will try. You must. You know you must and I know you will. I will give you your chance. It is only a small one, but it is at least a chance.’

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Lorenz had asked. ‘Why is it necessary? If you want to kill me, why not just stand me up against a wall and shoot me?’

  Nix had looked surprised and shocked. ‘Do you think I am a barbarian?’ he said.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Lorenz replied, ‘yes.’

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when Nix struck him down with the steel hand. It was a wicked punishing blow that numbed the entire side of Lorenz’s body, and he lay on the ground retching in agony and looking up at the giant towering over him, madness glaring in his yellow eyes. It was then he had realized that Nix was going to do exactly as he had promised: turn him loose naked and unarmed in the hostile land, and then hunt him down like some animal. Quarry, Nix had said. You are merely quarry. And we kill it without remorse or pity.

  They turned Jaime Lorenz out soon after sunrise. They told him he had a twenty-four hour start before they began the pursuit, but he did not believe that, although it was true. He moved away steadily eastward, away from the hacienda, heading for the long valley he had noted on his way into the area. It ran between the two lines of hills in the southeastern corner of the valley and Lorenz figured it might veer east even further, bring a man out above the Nueces country. He moved steadily, using the controlled jogtrot the Apaches used, the sun not unpleasant yet on his naked body. Later, he knew, he would have to find shade. He checked constantly for signs of pursuit, but there were none. Nor were there any trees or bushes big enough for him to fashion a weapon from. A bow and arrow, a spear, anything would be better than nothing. It would have to wait.

  The long valley had turned out to be a blind canyon, with a sheer rock face at its southernmost end. There was a wooden sign set into the ground and Lorenz stood with his head down like a tired animal as he realized that this was all part of Nix’s psychological warfare. The sign had a black skull and crossbones painted on it, and one word: WRONG! It was as if the big man was there in the canyon, jeering at him.

  He knew that he had lost a lot of the advantage they’d given him. By the time he retraced his steps, sheltering from the fierce midday sun, it would be late afternoon. He shrugged fatalistically. When there was no choice, there was no choice. He had to work north after all, he had to do what he knew they would expect him to do: work north, toward the Portal, as they called the entrance road th
rough which he had been brought in.

  Morning found him halfway up the length of the valley. He had worked his way diagonally across the width of it, skirting the wooded glade without ever seeing any trace of the Comanche camp. At the edge of the river was a four-armed sign. Northward lay the lake, it said. Westward, lava beds. Northeast, desert, and back the way he’d just come: Hacienda.

  Still no damned choice at all.

  With a bob of the head for decision, he’d set off then toward the lake. He moved between stands of willow where they were available, even taking the risk of a kicking, cooling run through the shallowest edges of the river, relying on his speed to cancel out the danger of doing it. His breathing was more ragged now, though, and his heart thundered in his chest like a trapped beast. His whole chest felt as if it was on fire, and he wondered again whether that steel claw of Nix’s had broken some of his ribs. There had been no time to fashion any form of defense, and now he knew that they were very close behind.

  He plunged into the woods, heedless of briars and branches that whipped and tore his unprotected skin. Deeper and deeper into the screening trees he thrust, feeling the ground grow swampy, squishy, and wet and deliciously cool beneath his torn feet. Once he measured his length in the slopping mud, and its clammy embrace cooled, chilled his burned skin. Chattering birds fled ahead of him in panic, and he realized that he was making a lot of noise. Panic, he told himself. He thought of the dour instructor who’d taught him survival, imagined him standing watching with that disgusted expression he always wore when one of his charges blundered about like a panicked pig.

  ‘That’s it,’ he would sneer. ‘Nice and noisy, so they can find you with their eyes closed. Go on, make it easy for them!’

  He stopped, poised like a hunted deer, letting his senses pick up the sounds of pursuit. They were close, but not closer. He tried to pinpoint them from the faint sound of their calls, but the dark dampness around him muffled sound. He moved forward again, but lifting his feet carefully now, setting them down warily, moving slowly and steadily through the darkening shadows where the swamp vegetation thickened. The earth gave off a damp, pungent, loamy smell and it was much cooler. He shivered slightly as he heard the eerie call of an unknown bird. Hanging moss brushed his naked skin like the finger of the dead.