House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

He moved across Beckman’s office and positioned himself against the side wall, staring up at the ceiling, holding the Colt with both hands, the hammer cocked. When the shooter let off his next burst, Hackberry began shooting through the floor, cocking the hammer with his thumb as fast as he could, the recoil jerking both his elbows like a jackhammer. Plaster and paint and bits of wood drifted down into his face; his right ear felt like cement had been poured in it.

He shucked his spent shells out of the cylinder with the ejector rod and reloaded. There was no sound from upstairs. He went to the outside door and pushed it open with his foot. He saw Darl under the live oak, a .38 revolver in each hand. Andre was nowhere in sight. How many feet was it to the motorcar? Maybe seventy. The night air was as dank as a cistern, the oak tree dripping, the moon little more than vapor, the blue patch on the horizon now purple with rain. A cup was just a cup. It was made of smelted minerals or carved stone. You didn’t lose your life for a drinking vessel. The Creator would not require that of him. But what if Andre had gone after it and lost his life? Could Hackberry do less? What was the value of honor if it could be negotiated? What value was life if you surrendered your beliefs in order to sustain it? Make your choice, Holland, he told himself. Take the easy way, then see how you like living with it.

He who dies this year is quit for the next, he thought. He opened the French doors. “Pour it on, Darl!”

“Yes, sir, you got it!” Darl said.

Darl began firing with both revolvers at the shooter’s window. Hackberry ran for the motorcar. He heard one burst from the machine gun and saw the rounds blow leaves out of the branches and chew into the trunk; he saw the streaks of flame from Darl’s revolvers and heard the rounds smack against the building

and break glass above his head. He felt shards of glass hit his hat and shoulders; his face was sweaty and cold at the same time, his breath as ragged as a broken razor blade in his windpipe. Then he was out of the building’s lee, in the open and within the shooter’s angle of fire.

The Lewis was momentarily silent, then the shooter shifted his position, forcing Darl to shift his, and zeroed in on Hackberry.

Hackberry saw the rounds hitting the ground in front of him and realized the shooter was leading him, now in full command of the situation, the burst of .303 rounds almost seamless. Hackberry had no cover. He leaped over a garden hose, a broken ceramic pot that contained a root-bound Spanish dagger plant, and splashed through puddles of water thick with yellow and black leaves. A spray of rounds hit the motorcar’s bumper and tore the headlights out of their sockets, and in an instant, the back of Hackberry’s head felt as bare and cold and soggy with sweat as that of a French convict waiting for the guillotine’s blade to roar down on his neck.

So this is how it ends, he thought. One more burst from the Lewis and your back will be tunneled with holes, your breath ripped from your lungs, your brainpan emptied on your shirt. All of it for naught.

Except it didn’t happen. The upstairs went silent. Hackberry turned and fired his Colt at the window. The sky flickered with electricity, and he saw the aluminum cooling tube of the Lewis and the flash suppressor on the barrel and the pistol-grip stock and the ammunition drum and the hand of the shooter frantically trying to clear the bolt.

The Lewis had jammed, even though Lewis guns never jammed, even in sandstorms or when they were caked with mud or snow or had been fired so long the rifling was eaten out and the barrel was so hot it was almost translucent.

Hackberry dove into the back of the motorcar while Darl opened up on the shooter again. Hackberry grabbed the cup, still bundled in the slicker, and ran for the far side of the building, where he saw Andre waiting for him, smiling ear to ear, blood leaking from a rip in his trousers across the top of his thigh.

Behind him, the motorcar erupted in flame.

YOU RETRIEVED THE cup,” Andre said. “In spite of the machine-gun fire you had to run through. Miss Beatrice said you would not fail us.”

“I didn’t get the sense she was all that confident,” Hackberry said. He was holding the cup under his arm, looking up at the windows on the second story. “How bad is your leg?”

“The wound is clean. I have no broken bones. There is no bullet inside. It is a nice night. I feel very happy.”

“How many men do you think are inside?” Hackberry said. He could see Darl reloading his revolvers behind the live oak.

“I have seen two in the upstairs windows and three downstairs. Briefly, I saw lights in a basement window that was half-buried in the earth.”

“Tell me about this barracoon.”

“The slaves were brought up the river after their importation was banned. A great deal of money was made on the sale of these poor souls. Your hero James Bowie was one of those who defied the ban and became rich off my people’s suffering.”

“We’re going to leave Darl out front. You and I will go through the back. I’m going to ask him to give you one of his revolvers.”

“I don’t know how to use one. I do not like firearms.”

“Bad time to tell me.”

Andre held out his hands. “Do you know what these have done? Where they have been?”

“We may not come out of this building, Andre. You know that, don’t you?”

“Look at the night, hear the rumbling like horses’ hooves in the clouds. Smell the river and the odor that is like fish. There are worse places to die.”

“You want to carry the cup?”

“No, it is yours. I was never meant to have it.”

“That’s the last talk of that kind I want to hear,” Hackberry said.

“The machine gun jammed. Is that coincidence?”