Stop Angel! (A Frank Angel Western Book 8) by Frederick H. Christian Read Free Book Online Page A

the
accumulated dirt of his outdoor days. As he bathed, he let his mind
range over the things he had learned in the last few hours. The
supreme, almost contemptuous, confidence of the man who called
himself Hercules Nix, formerly Ernie Hecatt, trickster, thief, and
murderer. He was still all these things: he had virtually admitted
responsibility for the death of Tyrrell, and had indubitably had
Jaime Lorenz killed. This astonishing house, the awesome, casual
power of the Oriental, Yat Sen. The killing country that lay beyond
the safety of the stockade, with the Comanche camp at its heart. A
battalion of cavalry would have its work cut out making a
successful attack on Nix’s stronghold. One man, even if he were
free, would seem to have no damned chance at all. He cursed himself
for allowing Nix to take him with such contemptuous ease, like a
man catching goldfish in his own pond. He looked up as Yat Sen came
back into the steamy bathroom.
    ‘ Crothes
leady,’ Yat Sen said. ‘Want shave?’
    ‘ Leave
the razor on the shelf,’ Angel said casually. ‘I’ll do it
myself.’
    Yat Sen ’s face changed slightly, and Angel
realized that he was witnessing the nearest expression Yat Sen had
to a smile.
    ‘ Ah,
solly,’ the Oriental said. ‘Might cut Yat Sen thloat
instead.’
    ‘ Yat
Sen!’ Angel said reproachfully. ‘Would I do a thing like
that?’
    ‘ Bet you
ass,’ Yat Sen said. ‘Get out bath. I shave.’
    ‘ OK,’
Angel grinned. ‘But you turn your back, now.’
    Yat Sen ’s face contorted again in its
strange impersonation of a smile. ‘You damn blave,’ he said. ‘Or
damn stupid. Not know which.’
    ‘ Flattery will get you nowhere,’ Angel said.
    Half an hour later, immaculate in a
dark blue three-piece suit with wide lapels cut in the latest
style, and a fine cambric shirt with diamond studs and buttons
which fitted him quite well, Angel descended the ornate staircase
and followed Yat Sen into the drawing room. It was beautifully
furnished to disguise its main fault, a low, beamed ceiling, and
managed even so to appear light and spacious. The furniture was
very old and obviously very expensive. Angel knew very little about
antiques, but he knew when he was looking at them. There were not
many pieces in the room less than a hundred and fifty years
old.
    Hercules Nix came beaming to
meet him, as if Angel were an old and honored friend arriving in
his own coach at some Georgetown dinner. Nix handed him a glass of
Amontillado and as he did, the gentle music from the ornate rosewood
piano in the far corner of the room stopped. One of the most
beautiful women Frank Angel had ever seen stood up behind it and
smiled at him.
    ‘ My
dear,’ Nix said, smiling at Angel’s expression, savoring the
moment. ‘Come and meet our guest, Mister Frank Angel, who works for
the Department of Justice in Washington. Angel, this is my wife
Victoria.’

Chapter
Six
    ‘ Well,’
Victoria Nix said, rising from her seat at the table. ‘If you will
excuse me, gentlemen?’
    She smiled at Angel, who smiled
back as he and her husband rose and stood silently as she went out
of the dining room, the silk of her gown rustling, the piled-high
auburn hair catching bright highlights from the shining
chandeliers. She had hardly spoken during the meal, and it had
become immediately apparent to Angel that whatever her relationship
to Hercules Nix was based upon, it was not love. She had flinched
visibly every
time he turned toward her, the way an often-beaten dog will. Unless
spoken to directly, she had kept her eyes cast down, a dreamy
expression behind them.
    Angel turned to see Nix watching
him. ‘She’s
very beautiful,’ he said.
    ‘ Of
course,’ Nix said, offhandedly, the way a man will acknowledge a
compliment about the horse he is riding.
    ‘ Where
did you meet?’
    ‘ We
first met, ah, near her home. Her father owned a ranch on the
Brazos above Waco.’
    ‘ How
long was it after your escape?’
    ‘ Quite
soon, as a