Free The Red Ripper by Kerry Newcomb

not?” He shrugged and cut the deck, turning up a nine of diamonds. He scowled and waited for his companion to make a move. Carlos glanced at Felix, who looked alarmed and was staring past his partner toward the doorway leading out to the parade ground and barracks. Carlos turned and discovered for himself what had captured his friend’s attention.
    Sergeant Obregon, his uniform streaked with blood, stood off to the side, allowing the individual behind him to fill the doorway. William Wallace towered over the men at the table. He tilted his hat back from his features, flipped aside his serape to reveal a brace of heavy-bore pistols trained on the jailers. The lust of battle had left him; what remained in that sun-bronzed face was an expression of implacable resolve and deadly purpose. Then he spoke.
    â€œI’ve come for Mad Jack Flambeau. Any problems from either of you boys and I’ll blow your damn arms off.”
    Â 
    The door at the rear of the guardroom opened onto a cheerless hall whose thick adobe walls radiated the dank coolness of the tomb. Indeed, the prisoners here had suffered a kind of burial. Behind rows of barred doors the miscreants, criminals, and others unfortunate enough to earn the enmity of the local authority endured long hours of punishment. Perhaps some had earned their fate. Wallace didn’t care. He only brought release to one prisoner. Carlos Pilar needed little prodding from the pistol jammed between his shoulder blades to walk the gringo
right to Flambeau’s cell. The jailer’s hands trembled as he worked the iron bolt and slid it free. The door swung open, and lantern light spilled into the narrow confines of the cell.
    Mad Jack Flambeau eased himself from his cot. Shielding his eyes, he stumbled toward the light. His finely tailored coat was stained with his blood. He had torn away the front of his shirt and bandaged his head where one of the guards had struck him a vicious blow. Despite his blurred vision, he could make out the identity of his rescuer. The hulking physique and red hair were impossible to mistake. The voice helped, too.
    â€œYou gonna stay for breakfast?” Wallace asked. His friend had suffered a grievous head wound. Mad Jack’s features were caked with his blood. He looked dazed and unsure of his steps. Color crept to Wallace’s cheeks. Now he had another score to settle with the governor and his kin.
    Flambeau grinned, winced as pain stabbed through his skull, then gingerly felt beneath his crude bandage and prodded the lump above his right eye. “I think not,” he said, staggering from the cell, “much as I appreciate the governor’s hospitality.”
    Once the freebooter was clear, Wallace motioned for Obregon and the two jailers to take the Frenchman’s place. The guards hurried inside. Obregon hesitated and started to object. A glance from Wallace warned him against such a mistake.
    â€œYou’ll never leave Veracruz alive,” the sergeant muttered, his own wounds giving him grief.
    â€œSay hello to the devil, you tub of guts,” William snarled and shoved one pistol into Obregon’s side.
    The sergeant hurried inside the cell. “And if you do escape, Juan Diego will come for you. Hear that, you old butcher? Captain Guadiz knows where you live, and he will come.”

    â€œI am counting on it,” Mad Jack replied.
    Wallace slammed the door shut and slid the bolt home.
    â€œFree me, señor,” someone pleaded from one of the other cells. A chorus of entreaties echoed the muffled cry: “Free us. Don’t leave us, amigo!”
    Wallace ignored the outcry. He caught Flambeau as the man sagged against him and allowed him to sit for a moment to catch his balance. The delay permitted Wallace to hear his name called from the rear of the dismal corridor.
    â€œIs that William Wallace?” a familiar voice called out, struggling to be heard above the other prisoners clamoring to