Fraternity of the Gun Read online

  Command Performance . . .

  “Very well,” the man at the head of the table said, “we’re all here. Let’s get started. Henry Irving and Ellen Terry have arrived in New York. They have already performed this evening.”

  “Why were they allowed to perform?” one man asked. “That was not the plan.”

  “Plans change,” said the man at the head of the table. “Mr. Gray?”

  The man who had arrived late—and whose name was not “Mr. Gray”—said, “The United States government has assigned them a bodyguard.”

  “That was expected,” someone said.

  “In fact,” another man said, “it was assumed.”

  “Mr. White and Mr. Green are both correct,” Mr. Gray said. “However, there was no way we could anticipate who that person would be.”

  “We assumed they would want to assign their best man,” the man at the head of the table said. “We took steps to have James West assigned elsewhere.”

  “According to plan,” Mr. Green pointed out.

  “Yes, but what happened next was not according to plan,” Mr. Gray said.

  “Well,” Mr. Red said, “don’t keep us in suspense. Who is the bodyguard?”

  “His name is Clint Adams,” Mr. Gray said.

  Silence fell over the table as the men exchanged glances.

  “The Gunsmith,” Mr. Yellow said.

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  The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

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  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  FRATERNITY OF THE GUN

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove edition / October 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.

  Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-61195-1

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  TWO

  Clint cashed in his chips, then walked with Trehearn back to the bar. There they each got a fresh beer.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Since you have Jim West’s name, I’ll listen to you. What’s it about?”

  “The Department of State was contacted by the British government. Apparently two of their citizens are coming to the United States on tour.”

  “On tour?”

  “They’re actors,” Trehearn said. “Well, an actor and an actress. Henry Irving and Ellen Terry.”

  “I never heard of them.”

  “Well, they’re pretty famous over there,” Trehearn said.

  “Okay, so what does this have to do with me?” Clint asked.

  “They need a bodyguard,” Trehearn said. “They’re going to stop at some of the top theaters in our country and perform.”

  “What part of the country?”

  “All of it,” Trehearn said. “East to west, starting in New York.”

  “You want me to recommend a bodyguard?”

  “No,” Trehearn said, “State wants you to be the
bodyguard.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because,” Trehearn said, “West recommended you.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he was going to be their bodyguard, but something else came up. Something—”

  “Don’t tell me, of national importance.”

  “International,” Trehearn said. “So he’s going to be out of the country. State was going to assign another man, but they couldn’t decide on who it should be until West mentioned you.”

  Clint cursed to himself. Jim West was one of his best friends. He had never turned down a request from him, or a job that West had recommended him for.

  “What do you say?” Trehearn asked.

  “When will they be in New York?”

  “They should be arriving next week,” Trehearn said. “We can supply a private train to take you there.”

  Clint took a moment to drink some beer and think.

  “You can leave tomorrow,” Trehearn added.

  “I have . . . other obligations here,” Clint said.

  “This important?”

  “Perhaps not to you, or State,” Clint said, “but to me.”

  “So then when can you leave?”

  “I haven’t accepted this job yet.”

  “What more do you need to know?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Clint said, “is it a job? Am I being paid?”

  “You’re being asked to perform a service for your country.”

  “As a bodyguard to an actor and an actress?” Clint asked.

  “We don’t need an international incident,” Trehearn said. “These people are very important to the British. They are apparently both considered national treasures. We need to ensure their safety every moment they’re here.”

  “And they won’t be here for a week?”

  “At least.”

  “Okay,” Clint said.

  “Okay . . . what?” Trehearn asked.

  “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “When can you leave?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “When tomorrow afternoon?” Trehearn asked. “The sooner the better, Mr. Adams.”

  “Noon,” Clint said. “I’ll be ready at noon.”

  “No earlier?”

  “I have some loose ends to tie up,” Clint said. “But I’ll be ready at noon.”

  “All right,” Trehearn said, clearly unhappy. “I’ll telegraph Washington and let them know. And there will be a ticket waiting for you at the station.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?” Trehearn asked.

  “Are you going to be along on this little job?”

  “No, I can’t,” Trehearn said. “But I’ll be your contact in State. You’ll be able to contact me at any time by telegraph.”

  “What about supplies?”

  “Anything you need,” Trehearn said. “You’ll have carte blanche.”

  “Anything I need?”

  “Anything,” Trehearn said, “within reason.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I guess we’ll find that out when the time comes,” Trehearn said.

  THREE

  After they went over some details—most notably, expenses—Clint went up to his room. He had been in New Orleans for three days. The Lafitte Hotel and Gambling Hall was just outside the French Quarter. He had come there not to help anybody with their problem, not to hunt anybody, just to have some time to himself—with some gambling and women tossed in.

  Instead, it had become some gambling and one woman. Her name was Charlotte Temple, and she was waiting for him in his room. They had spent the previous two nights together, and this would be their third—and last.

  When he entered his room, she was still naked in his bed.

  “Did you win?” she asked.

  “I did,” he said.

  “Well,” she said, getting to her knees, “you’re about to win some more.”

  He had intended to tell her that he was leaving the next day, but he decided that could wait awhile . . .

  * * *

  Allan Trehearn left the Lafitte and walked a few blocks into the French Quarter. When he came to the Napoleon House Saloon, he stepped inside and took a look around. The Napoleon was small, but well furnished, a place people went to drink in peace and silence, with no gambling going on.

  Seated at a back table, he saw his man and walked over. He was tall, slender, bald, well dressed in a suit even more expensive than Trehearn’s. He was in his forties, and had an air of complete confidence about him.

  “Get us two brandies, will you?” the man asked.

  “Sure.”

  Trehearn walked to the bar, bought two brandies, and returned to the table.

  “Thanks,” the other man said. He finished the brandy he had, set the empty glass down, and accepted the new one from Trehearn. “Have a seat.”

  Trehearn sat down opposite the man and looked around. There were only four other people in the place, and none of them were paying them any attention.

  “Did he bite?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Trehearn said. “He’s going tomorrow at noon.”

  “On the government train?”

  “Right.”

  “Good,” the other man said. “That was easier than I thought.”

  “I told you all we had to do was invoke the name ‘Jim West.’”

  “And what about West?” the man asked. “Where is he really?”

  “He really is out of the country,” Trehearn said. “That’s what makes this work.”

  “All right,” the man said. “Tomorrow Clint Adams will be on his way to New York.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are on your way to . . .”

  “Philadelphia is my next stop,” Trehearn said.

  “Right.”

  The man sipped his brandy.

  “And where will you be?” Trehearn asked.

  “There’s a saloon in Philadelphia called the Delphi,” the man said. “I’ll be there.”

  “And where is it?”

  “You’ll find it,” the man said. “Just ask around.”

  “Okay,” Trehearn said. He tossed back his brandy and stood up.

  “That’s no way to treat a good brandy,” the other man said.

  “Sorry,” Trehearn said. “I’m a beer man.”

  “Have another and I’ll show you how—”

  “I have to go,” Trehearn said. “I have to make sure the train is ready for Adams.”

  “You have until noon tomorrow,” the man said. “Come on, Allan. Get two more brandies and I’ll show you the proper way to drink it.”

  Trehearn looked down at the bald man, who was staring up at him expectantly.

  “I tell you what,” Trehearn said. “I’ll get you another brandy, and me a beer. I’ll watch you drink yours while I drink mine.”

  “Well, all right,” the man said, “if that’s as close as I’ll get to my request, I’ll take it.”

  “Wait right here,” Trehearn said.

  He walked to the bar, bought a beer and a brandy, but when he returned to the table, the bald man was gone.

  FOUR

  Clint walked to the bed, where Charlotte was kneeling. She was totally naked, heat emanating from her body. He took her full breasts into his hands, rubbed his thumbs over the nipples. She moaned and bit her bottom lip.

  “You have too many clothes on,” she said, putting her hands on his chest.

  “Yeah, I do,” he said. “You think you could help me with that?”

  “Oh, I think so.”

  Her long, dark hair hung down past her shoulders in shimmering waves
as she slipped off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt. He had his little Colt New Line in his belt at the small of his back. He removed it and set it down on the night table next to the bed. Hanging on the bedpost was his gun and holster, which she had grown used to.

  She peeled off his shirt, ran her hands over his bare chest, then leaned over and kissed him there. She licked his nipples, then kissed his belly, went to work on his belt.

  When she had his trousers off and he was as naked as she was, she drew him down to the bed with her. From there they became lost in each other’s bodies, as they had done each of the last two nights . . .

  * * *

  Trehearn reached the private railroad train the government had provided and climbed aboard. He tried the back door of the rearmost car and found it unlocked. He entered.

  Two men jumped to their feet, both wearing uniforms of the United States Army. One was a corporal, and the other a sergeant.

  “Sir!” the sergeant snapped.

  “At ease, Sergeant,” Trehearn said. “I’m not an officer, I’m just with State.”

  “Yessir!”

  “Is this thing ready to go?”

  “Yessir,” the sergeant said.

  “Where are the engineer and fireman?”

  “Up front.”

  “And the conductor?”

  “Somewhere . . . sir.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “There’s a cook, sir.”

  “And are you the only two soldiers?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Are you assigned all the way to New York?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Okay, good,” Trehearn said. “Your man will be here at noon. His name’s Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?” the corporal asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “At ease, Corporal,” the sergeant said.

  “Yessir.”

  “All right,” Trehearn said. “Walk me through it, Sergeant.”

  “Yessir. This way, sir.”

  They walked through the car, transferred to the next. There was a dining car, a stock car, a coal car, and the engine.

  Trehearn met the members of the crew, and approved of them. He then walked all the way back to the last car with the two soldiers.

  “All right, men,” he said. “You have the rest of the night to yourselves, as long as you’re here at noon tomorrow. Got it?”