Pink Revenge

By Elizabeth A. Miller

Doomed by Her Obsession for Revenge...

Hannah Webster was shrewd, charming, and ruthless. Once head of Allan Pinkerton’s Female Detective Bureau, she was now a fugitive from justice and a woman bent on revenge. Dismissed from the Pinkerton Agency when her former protégé, Amanda Brown, exposed her collusion in President James Garfield’s recent assassination, her only interest apart from self-preservation was to see Amanda punished.

Eager to rebuild her lost fortunes and thus finance Amanda’s downfall, Hannah makes plans to exploit the rampant speculation in Mexican Southern Railroad’s proposed spur line to America. Pursuing the demands of her clever investment swindle, Hannah travels south of the border, unaware Amanda is already there. Sent by the Pinkerton Agency, with her partner, Christopher Garrety, to settle a volatile labor dispute between Mexican Southern and is competitor, Nordeste Railroad, Amanda’s investigation soon converges with Hannah’s private interests.

Determined to stop one another, Hannah and Amanda’s private war is swiftly disrupted by a new and unexpected menace, demanding retribution of his own for a past betrayal. Swept into a high stakes game of cat and mouse, neither can hope to survive alone. Only fate could determine which woman must pay the ultimate price for revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth A. Miller
• Release date: Dec 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370356218

Elizabeth A. Miller

Elizabeth Miller lives and works in St. Louis, Missouri. A partner and writing director for Innovative Writing Works, with a B.A. in English and professional writing from Fontbonne University, she has had a lifelong interest in novel writing. In all Elizabeth has penned nine novels and two nonfiction trivia books, “The Reel Musical Fan’s Trivia Book” and “The Ultimate Party Games Book”. When she isn’t writing, Elizabeth likes to watch old movies and enjoys spending time outdoors with her family.

Book preview

Pink Revenge

The Pinkerton Detective Series

Elizabeth A. Miller

Innovative Writing Works

St. Louis, Missouri

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Elizabeth A. Miller.

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Photo: Shutterstock

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and entirely the product of the author’s imagination.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

More Books

Prologue

Texas

June 1881

San Palo de Carmin Prison appeared against the blackness of night like a forlorn silhouette in the desert. A score of guards stood sentry around the vast perimeter, illuminated by the hellish glow of bonfires burning in six stone watchtowers high above the compound. Inside the eastern wing of the fortress, the fetid air was stirred by the ominous progression of a single inmate down an abandoned corridor. With practiced precision, he slipped in and out of the shadows. His dark eyes glinted savagely as they focused on a bored guard standing sentry outside a small, unlocked door. Carefully, he reached into his pocket for the adobe fragments he’d collected from his cell’s crumbling walls. Keeping a watchful eye on the guard, he cast the pebbles down to the floor. They scattered across the empty hallway opposite him, echoing eerily in the dense silence. Roused from his stupor by the suspicious clattering, the guard moved off to investigate, leaving the weathered door of the jail’s kitchen abandoned. Pleased, the inmate waited for the right moment, then deftly crossed to the door and ducked inside, unobserved.

The kitchen was dark and cramped. But the inmate swiftly navigated the maze of dampened dish cloths hanging from ropes suspended across the ceiling. Careful not to disturb any of the metal plates or heavy cast iron pots drying on the long tables flanking his right and left, he proceeded to the counter lining the back wall. There, just beneath a tall window, a tray of newly sharpened knives glinted in the pale moonlight filtering through the casing. The inmate crowed inwardly at his good fortune. He helped himself to three of the knives from the tray, concealing two among his clothes, while he clutched the third tightly in his fist. The muffled sounds of the guard returning to his post alerted the inmate to retreat. He moved the tray of remaining knives to the floor and climbed up on the counter. Then he carefully forced the window open and made an easy jump down into an enclosed courtyard below.

Hugging the wall behind him, he proceeded to the back of the courtyard, watchful for any sign of an expected signal. Then it came, the abrupt sound of a match being struck followed by a tiny flicker of light. A guard stood just a few feet from the inmate and raised the small flame to his cigarette.

You’re late, Johnny, he grumbled, tossing the match and exhaling a pungent cloud of smoke.

It took longer than I thought to get here, Johnny whispered, closing the gap between them. Do you have the horses?

The guard scoffed derisively and took another drag on his cigarette. Outside, he answered. And the money?

"Outside," Johnny mocked.

Watch your tongue, pig, the guard warned, seizing the front of Johnny’s shirt.

I’d advise the same, Johnny returned, raising the knife in his hand to the guard’s throat.

Where’d you get that?

Never mind. Just remember, I’ll use it if you give me cause.

The guard nodded and released him.

You still have the key I gave you for the cell?

Johnny smirked. Worried?

Hand it over, the guard insisted.

Without a word, Johnny tossed the key at the guard. He fumbled in the darkness to catch it before it hit the ground.

What’s the matter, Johnny remarked, sneering at the guard’s clumsiness. Nervous?

I just want to get this over with.

Not until Miguel gets here.

We can’t afford to wait any longer.

We will wait for Miguel, Johnny stressed. "Or you won’t get a cent, compadre."

The guard exhaled in frustration and threw down his cigarette, grinding it out with more force than was necessary.

You’re certain no one will be waiting at the east gate? Johnny questioned.

No one. It’s my post and there’s no reason—

Johnny held up his hand as a sign for the guard to stop talking.

What is it?

Shhh.

I didn’t hear any—

Sanchez? Sanchez, is that you? a suspicious voice called.

Sanchez paled when he recognized the voice of one of his fellow guards, Carlos Delgado.

Get rid of him, Johnny uttered, ducking behind a pillar, as Delgado stepped into view. Sanchez hurried to meet him half way.

"Sí. Qué quieres?" Sanchez rasped.

Delgado was still looking around to see who Sanchez had been talking to.

What do you want? Sanchez asked again, impatience evident in his tone.

"Oí una voz." Delgado replied.

What voice?

Who was you talking to? Carlos pressed, reverting to his best broken English.

Nobody.

"Pero, sé que me—"

Don’t worry so much, Sanchez insisted, trying to block Delgado’s way. I tell you there’s no one here. So why don’t we both—

No, Carlos insisted, pushing Sanchez aside and continuing to move dangerously close to Johnny’s hiding place. I’m sure someone was—

Suddenly a knife sped out from the darkness and struck him in the chest, cutting off his words.

Carlos? Sanchez gasped, horrified by the grotesque sight before him.

Delgado did not reply. He merely slumped to his knees and fell forward at Sanchez’s feet. Blood was streaming over his fingers from the wound in his chest. Stunned, Sanchez looked up as Johnny stepped out from his hiding place.

Why did you do that? Sanchez demanded frantically.

I told you to get rid of him. You couldn’t.

You didn’t give me enough time!

The sound of gunshots intruded on their argument. Two, then three more shots reverberated against the thick stone walls around them. Shouts preceded thundering footfalls, as light came pouring down from the windows above them.

Miguel, Johnny realized. They must have seen him.

Johnny tried to run, but Sanchez grabbed his arm, still indignant over Delgado’s’ murder.

You aren’t going anywhere, Johnny.

Who’s going to stop me?

I am, Sanchez insisted. I never agreed to murder and I’m not about to hang for the likes of you.

Both men flinched as another man dropped down from the awning above them. It was Miguel.

Johnny..., he began. Confused by the confrontational stance of his co-conspirators, Miguel moved closer and asked breathlessly, "Qué pasa?"

Nothing’s wrong, Johnny answered. "Sanchez is merely more sentimental than I realized."

Affronted, Sanchez tightened his grip and shoved Johnny back against the wall.

"Hey, hey....Vámonos!" Miguel warned, trying to pull the two men apart.

Distracted by Miguel’s interference, Sanchez turned to push him away, but left himself vulnerable to Johnny’s blade. A searing pain radiated through his belly. He looked down. Blood was soaking his uniform. Another knife?

I don’t know why you should be surprised, Johnny replied coolly. "I warned you what would happen if you double-crossed me and I always keep my word."

Sanchez attempted to lash out in revenge, but only had enough strength to gasp his last breath before crumbling to the ground.

The clamor of running footsteps was closing in on them.

Now, how we going to get out? Miguel asked.

Over that wall to the east gate, Johnny replied. "Rápido."

Making a hasty retreat, they quickly reached the east gate, where three saddled horses stood waiting.

At least Sanchez was good for something, Johnny remarked, as they mounted.

"We are no safe yet, amigo," Miguel reminded him.

Securing his reins, Johnny stirred up the frightened beast beneath him and led the way as they rode off into the night.

They’d covered nearly twelve miles and it was dawn when they finally stopped to rest the horses.

Do you think they’ll catch up with us? Miguel asked.

No, Johnny guessed. They’re probably still too busy contending with those bodies we left behind.

Sanchez? Miguel tried to clarify. Why you kill him?

He didn’t leave me any choice.

"I guess he was no as codicioso as we thought."

"His greed lasted long enough to get us out," Johnny returned.

"Sí, Miguel nodded. y ahora...we are free."

Both men fell silent to reflect upon that thought. As the sweetness of their hard-earned liberty began to settle in, Johnny turned away from Miguel. Slowly, he wandered over to a nearby outcropping where his heavy thoughts urged him to reach inside his shirt and pull out a small tintype.

Unhappy to see his partner brood, Miguel crept up beside him and asked, What’s that?

A reminder, Miguel. Of some unfinished business.

"Eh?"

See for yourself.

In the pale morning light, Miguel instantly recognized the faded image of a stately, yet alluring woman. He glanced up at Johnny in shock. Why you keep this? I thought you hated her?

I do, Johnny replied, stiffening his spine. But seeing her face every day, through all the hell and torture we endured, kept the promise I made to myself fresh in my mind.

"What promise, amigo?"

Johnny took the picture from Miguel and closed it in his fist.

That someday I’d have revenge for what she did to us, Miguel, he answered. And now, that day has finally come.

Chapter One

New York

August 1881

Despite the late morning hour, a heavy haze still hung over the city. Yet, the humid curtain did not daunt Christopher Garrety as he hurried toward Number 37 Broadway Street where the Pinkerton Detective Agency housed its offices. Chris tugged at his dark green necktie in a feeble attempt to alleviate the suffocating heat radiating from the building at his entrance and deftly began climbing the stairs to meet with his employer. Mr. Pinkerton’s urgent summons had left him feeling agitated when he set out from his hotel, and the sweltering journey to the agency had done little to improve his mood.

Composing his dark, handsome features in a stony mask, Chris blindly passed colleagues in the hall, until he reached Allan Pinkerton’s door. Without knocking, he pushed his way inside. Mr. Pinkerton’s personal secretary, Deborah Meyer, instantly looked up from her desk.

He’s expecting me, Chris explained in answer to the lovely young woman’s surprised expression. Can I go in?

Why sure, Deborah replied sweetly. But what’s your hurry? I haven’t seen you for quite a spell.

I’m sorry, Deborah, but I shouldn’t keep Mr. Pinkerton waiting. Chris started toward the inner office door, but Deborah popped up from her chair and intercepted him.

Now, that doesn’t sound like the Chris Garrety I know.

Deborah, really. I—

It must be true then, she interrupted, crossing her arms.

What’s true?

You’ve given up women.

Chris frowned. Whoever told you a thing like that?

Deborah’s soft brown eyes twinkled with mischief as she asked, Then you aren’t spoken for?

Well, he hedged, uncomfortable to learn his latest romance had become office gossip. I wouldn’t say that.

Then what would you say?

Uncharacteristically tongue tied, Chris tugged at his collar and nosily cleared his throat.

Uh huh, Deborah uttered, interpreting his hesitation as proof of her claims. That’s what I thought. She uncrossed her arms and added softly, You’re sweet on that girl you brought back to the agency with you this spring—Amanda, wasn’t it?

Normally, Chris wouldn’t mind who knew about his feelings for Amanda, but the fact she was also a Pinkerton operative, as well as his new partner, gave him cause for concern. Any rumors about their personal relationship could be disastrous to Amanda’s position to say nothing of her reputation. The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt her, so he chose his next words carefully.

Miss Brown has come to mean a great deal to me. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have at my side.

Deborah smiled. "Nobly put, Lothario."

It isn’t like that, Chris protested.

I’m sure, Deborah replied sincerely, resting her hand on his arm. Your Amanda is a lucky girl.

You won’t say anything about this to anyone?

Not a word. Though in a place like this....

"I know. Everyone’s a spy," Chris finished playfully.

Suddenly, the door to the inner office swung open and a barrel-chested, bewhiskered man in his sixties stepped out. It was Mr. Pinkerton himself.

What’s going on out here? he demanded.

We were only—

Allan Pinkerton raised his broad hand, still rough from his earlier days as a cooper. Save your explanations, Mr. Garrety, we’ve already wasted enough time this morning. Please, step into my office.

Of course, sir.

Chris started to follow Pinkerton’s retreating figure, but made a quick detour to Deborah’s side. Thanks, he whispered giving her a wink. You’re a sweetheart.

Deborah dimpled pleasantly until Allan Pinkerton’s harsh Scottish burr forestalled her delight. Mr. Garrety!

Without another word, Chris scampered off, closing the door behind him and leaving Deborah no alternative but to return to the piles of paperwork on her desk.

*****

I apologize for the delay, Mr. Pinkerton, Chris began, taking a seat opposite the famous detective.

Never mind. I’m just glad you’re here at all. I’ve been keeping two gentlemen waiting in the interview room until you arrived.

Who are they, sir?

Clients, Mr. Garrety, Pinkerton snapped.

Naturally. I just thought you intended to be a little more specific.

No time for that now, Pinkerton insisted, moving toward another door behind his desk. They can tell you themselves.

Chris got to his feet and swiftly followed Mr. Pinkerton into the next room. Two distinguished gentlemen with grave expressions were awaiting them.

Both men were well-dressed. The taller of the two was middle-aged with thick-set features and penetrating, blue eyes that suggested a cunning sort of intelligence. He was clean-shaven, with a sprinkling of grey peppered through his tawny colored hair. It was apparent he possessed more patience than his younger companion who rose abruptly at Mr. Pinkerton’s entrance. His dark brown eyes, jet black hair and bronze complexion more than amply signaled his Hispanic roots. But if there was any doubt as to his origins, his speech more than amply confirmed the dashing caballero’s heritage.

"Señor Pinkerton, this is the hombre you have kept us waiting for?"

Yes, Pinkerton confirmed. "This is Mr. Garrety. Chris, I’d like you to meet, Señor Miguel Alvarado and Mr. Jonathan Kestner."

A pleasure, gentlemen, Chris replied, stepping forward to shake their hands.

Mr. Pinkerton has recommended you very highly to us, Jonathan Kestner commented.

Ignoring the compliment, Chris settled himself in a chair opposite Kestner and made a hasty appraisal of him.

You are an American, Mr. Kestner? Chris noted.

Born and raised.

"And you, Señor Alvarado?"

"I come from México, Señor. I am the fourth generation of Alvarados there."

And you’ve come to see us, why?

You have no told him? Alvarado demanded of Pinkerton.

For the purpose of discretion, I thought it best to allow you to relay the particulars of your case to Mr. Garrety personally, Pinkerton explained.

Alvarado fingered the end of his sleek mustache, as he considered the merits of Pinkerton’s explanation, before he made a muted grumble of agreement.

Gentlemen, please, Chris interjected. Won’t one of you end the suspense and just tell me why we’re all here?

Señor Alvarado glanced at Mr. Kestner who nodded and began the explanation. Mr. Pinkerton told us you were a forthright man, Garrety. I like that. You’ll need such a talent, if you’re going to get anywhere with our men.

Men? Chris prompted. You mean employees?

Peons are hardly the same as employees, Alvarado said.

Never the less, Kestner continued, these men do work for us or at least they did until....

Go on, Chris urged.

"Mr. Garrety, have you heard about the Mexican Southern Railroad’s plans to construct a spur line to the United States?"

Very vaguely. I believe our former president, General Grant, was involved some way with the financing of such a venture.

That, unfortunately, is correct, Mr. Kestner confirmed.

Why do you say that, sir?

Because General’s Grant’s prominence and tenacity combined with the perception of his unlimited wealth have made this new spur line unstoppable.

Should it be stopped? Chris asked.

Most definitely, Alvarado exclaimed. It is no more than a swindle!

Chris’ eyes widened in surprise. I find it hard to believe a man of General Grant’s reputation would be involved in anything underhanded.

We aren’t suggesting that he is, Mr. Kestner resumed. In fact, we believe General Grant is as much of a victim of this farce as we are.

You’ve invested in the spur line? Chris ventured.

No, Kestner hastened to reply. "We are what you might call the competition. Señor Alvarado’s family owns the Nordeste Railroad Line, which has been operating successfully in Mexico for the past thirty years and now has designs on expanding into the United States. I am their manager of business."

"And you all stand to lose a great deal of money if the Mexican Southern Railroad succeeds in building their spur line first," Chris interpreted.

"We already lose a fortune! Alvarado corrected. Everyday those buitres lure mas hombres from our work crews with their empty promesas."

What sort of promises, exactly?

Money, Mr. Kestner supplied. "The men have been duped into believing they are underpaid at Nordeste and everyday more flock to sign with Mexican Southern."

"Are Mexican Southern’s claims true? Chris ventured. Do you underpay your men?"

Alvarado shot out of his chair, but Kestner quickly got to his feet to circumvent a tirade. Easy, Miguel, Kestner cautioned. Mr. Garrety didn’t mean any offense. Did you, Garrety?

Chris arched his brow. You still haven’t answered my question, Mr. Kestner.

He should no have to, Alvarado replied. Any gentleman would—

Miguel, Kestner interrupted. "We didn’t come all this way to argue with Mr. Garrety. Did we?"

Still ruffled, Alvarado relented and returned to his seat.

We pay our men a living wage, Mr. Garrety, Kestner resumed, with a five percent bonus above Mexico’s average salary for railroad workers. We also provide limited medical care and housing options for the men and their families. Now, if that seems unfair to you, then I suppose we do mistreat our workers.

Not at all, Chris replied. In fact, it seems more than generous.

Alvarado grinned with satisfaction.

"But, Chris continued. If what you say is true, I can’t understand why anyone would leave your employ for another company that has yet to prove it can offer such favorable terms."

Neither can we, Kestner admitted, "which is why we have come to you. We know Mexican Southern cannot pay our workers the inflated wage they’ve promised."

How?

They declared bankruptcy more than a year ago.

Chris shrugged. Then I don’t see you have any problem.

"Don’t you, Señor?" Alvarado fumed.

No. When the first payday rolls around and the men’s pockets are still empty, you’ll get your workers back.

That’s what we thought, Kestner replied. "But you see, payday has already rolled around, as you put it...three times."

And, Chris prompted.

And each time the men have been paid, Kestner finished.

In full?

Kestner nodded. We can’t explain it.

"And in meantime, hombres still quit Nordeste to work for Mexican Southern," Alvarado added.

There has even been talk of a strike, if we fail to duplicate their unreasonable offer, Kestner finished.

Chris reflected a moment. Perhaps you should consider it.

"Qué!" Alvarado shouted.

"At least rumor it about that you will match Mexican Southern’s terms to counteract their strategy," Chris explained.

And when we don’t follow through, what good would that do, Mr. Garrety? Kestner reasoned. "It would only confirm the lies Mexican Southern has been spreading about our company."

Then disprove them and actually follow through. Give the workers a raise.

We can’t, Mr. Garrety. The funds just aren’t in the budget. All of our profits are currently invested in constructing a new line through Monterey.

"And even that will fail unless we can stop Mexican Southern from ruining us," Alvarado emphasized.

Aren’t you exaggerating a little? Chris asked.

"I don’t exaggerate, Señor, Alvarado asserted. Not where Nordeste is concerned. Such would be a slight to my honor."

Miguel is right, Kestner added. "This situation isn’t your typical struggle to control a monopoly. It’s as if someone at Mexican Southern is systematically trying to destroy our company."

To what end, Mr. Kestner? Chris asked.

That’s what we want you to find out, Mr. Garrety.

"And your Señor Pinkerton assures us that you are el mejor hombre para el trabajo," Alvarado continued.

The best man for the job, Kestner translated.

Chris looked over at Mr. Pinkerton. Sir?

This will be strictly an undercover operation, Chris, Pinkerton said. Your previous experience in Mexico and familiarity with the language will make it easy for you to blend in with the locals.

And then? Chris asked.

"You will apply for a job with the Mexican Southern Railroad, Mr. Pinkerton continued. Once you’ve been accepted among the ranks, you will gather all the intelligence possible about them. Who’s in charge, how they operate, all that sort of thing."

And if I find something?

"When you find something, Mr. Garrety, you are to report to me," Mr. Kestner replied.

Are you sure that’s wise? I mean, just one meeting between us could tip my hand.

I thought of that, Mr. Pinkerton remarked. "Which is why I’ve decided Miss Brown will go with you. She will act as a go between for you and Mr. Kestner until you’ve exhausted all useful connections with Mexican Southern."

"I should like to meet this Señorita Brown before I can agree," Alvarado interjected.

Certainly, if you wish, Mr. Pinkerton replied. However, I can assure you Miss Brown is a most capable operative. But more importantly, she and Chris make a superb team.

Has she ever been to Mexico before? Mr. Kestner asked.

Not as yet, Pinkerton admitted. But Miss Brown is most resourceful. She won’t have any difficulty adapting to new surroundings.

Of course, Kestner hesitated. But if—

Should Miss Brown require any assistance with local languages or customs, Pinkerton interrupted, anticipating Kestner’s objection, "one of her colleagues, Señora Vasquez is already on assignment in Mexico. She was raised among the Mexican people and would be only too happy to assist."

"And la Señora is on bueno terms with Señorita Brown?"Alvarado pressed.

Indeed, Pinkerton confirmed. Most recently, the two of them wrapped up a tricky kidnapping case here in New York that assisted in the capture of Billy the Kid a few weeks later.

"Ah, sí?" Alvarado replied in awe.

Pinkerton smiled. I’ll be sure to have Miss Brown tell you all about it herself. I could arrange for you both to meet with her this evening, if that’s convenient?

"Desde luego," Alvarado confirmed.

Chris? Pinkerton said, turning to his employee. Would tonight suit you and Amanda?

Still somewhat perplexed, Chris could only nod.

Fine.

"Won’t you be joining us, Señor Pinkerton?" Alvarado asked.

Regrettably, I cannot. Other agency business requires my departure on the four-thirty train this afternoon. But Mr. Garrety and Miss Brown will meet with you to answer any questions you may still have and finalize arrangements before they leave for Mexico.

Where would you like to meet? Chris asked.

Anywhere you say, Kestner replied.

I know a restaurant on 12th Street called the Wynnwood Arms. The food is quite good and the prices are reasonable.

Fine.

Amanda and I could meet you there around six o’clock, Chris finished.

"Ocho, por favor, Alvarado corrected. Such early hours for dining do no suit me."

Eight it is, then, Pinkerton asserted. And don’t you gentlemen worry, I’ll be in touch.

Thank you very much, Mr. Pinkerton, Kestner said, rising to offer his hand. Personally, I feel better already knowing your agency is taking charge of the situation.

Pinkerton nodded gratefully and rose to shake Kestner’s hand. But as he did, he had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. Some murky memory stirred in the back of his mind as he took his first close-up look at Kestner’s face. Unable to identify it, he shrugged off the notion and turned to offer his hand to Alvarado saying, My thanks to you, gentlemen, for your confidence in our agency. I promise you results.

"I’ll hold you to that, Señor, Alvarado warned, releasing Pinkerton’s hand. Señor