Brief Madness

Kydon Chronicles, Vol. 2

By Robert Legleitner

In WWII, Kydon Schmidt, a man with a secret, spies on Nazis and helps fugitives escape.... In this sequel to GOLDEN LEGEND, Kydon is seeking revenge on the men who shot his friend Val. If they want a spy, they'll get one! Book Two of what promises to be a very popular series!

ISBN 1-59431-020-3 Action-Adventure/ Gay/ Mystery

Cover Art by Maggie Dix

Also available in HTML and RTF formats.

Northern Spain Early Summer, 1943

Val's dead.

I saw him fall, oh, god! So long for him to fall, so long to hit the shale. It wasn't an hour ago I asked him to come with me. Not an hour and now he's dead. Falling …. Why did I promise Val to go on, to finish this damned mission …to leave him? My god, I want to kill somebody!

Kydon Schmidt, his mind murky with angry thoughts of death, could barely stand. He had lost blood, the ache from the gunshot wound in his shoulder spread over his chest, and he fought the vertigo threatening to engulf him.

Carlos Huerra, a Spanish agent, was at Kydon's side grasping an old leather saddlebag. "Before you go on," the Spaniard said, "do you remember what Señor Val told us?"

Weak from the loss of blood and with the pain sweeping over him in throbbing waves, Kydon Schmidt said, "I remember everything."

Carlos opened the saddlebag. He held out a packet of thin material. "Six parcels like this. Three for you, señor, and one each for us."

Manuel, a younger Spaniard coming from behind, said, "Kydon, you must finish the mission."

Kydon's face was cruel with grief. "I won't give those bastards the satisfaction of saying, 'Sorry he didn't make it.' You and Carlos take the damned stuff to them."

Carlos said, "You need a doctor, medicine, time to think." He held out the parcel with the flap of cotton thrown back. "Pebbles. Bright stones," he said.

Kydon had a saddlebag of his own given to him by Val before they left Mont D'Ancienne. He stared at the hand Carlos held out to him, then into his own saddlebag. Uncut diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies, jewels winking in the dying light, and gold, amber. A king's ransom. No, Kydon thought as he looked at the glinting stones, a knight's ransom.

"You meet our government man in Barcelona," Kydon said. "Keep Val's gift and damn the government. Damn Preston and all the bastards who got us into this!"

His anger melted into grief as Kydon saw Val in his mind again, and he stared into the deepening shadows.

Manuel gathered the horses carrying the canvas bags. "Val said the ones marked with red were yours, those marked with white go to your countrymen. Two bags for Don Enrico." The Spaniard spoke quickly with Carlos before turning to Kydon again.

Carlos, his flat black eyes on Kydon, said, "I will take them. Listen! From the sound of the shooting it is almost over. Manuel will take you and your horses to a safe place not far from here to the south."

Manuel and Carlos were scrupulous. Red tagged bags were together, white tagged ones on other horses. Kydon drew in his breath. Time to go, to leave Val dead among strangers.

"I saw him fall. He was shot." He was deliberately brutal as if it helped in some way.

"But, Kydon, it is not as you think," Manuel said.

"It's worse. Don't talk about it or about Val."

The pain from the wound in his shoulder was insidious, the weakness enveloped him, the vertigo almost more than he could fight. His horse followed the one ahead without urging from him. Kydon didn't look back, he was nearly unconscious.

The Baron von Steyr and his dozen loyal Germans, were out of the gorge and gone into the night. Val was dead, the Nazis wouldn't have him now.

Kydon could not concentrate. He followed the Spaniard in a stupor and even forgot the jolting of the horse as he rode down a rocky uneven trail.

* * *

The doctor in the small village had seen worse wounds, the bullet had passed through Kydon's shoulder and missed the bones. The old priest was astonished when the blond man spoke in Latin, his mind wandered but the priest caught a few words. Valerius is dead. The priest's own Latin was faulty beyond the limits of the mass, but he tried to tell the young man he understood the anguish.

Behind the church, Manuel hid the canvas bags under moldy straw and bits of ragged tarpaulin after stabling the horses. That done, he told the doctor and priest, "I'll come with a truck in the dawn. Explain as best you can, he has no Spanish."

In the morning, the priest tried to feed Kydon. The young man's eyes were much clearer, a good sign, and he took a few spoonsful of barley broth. The English words he spoke were unintelligible to the old man before he said in Latin, "I thank you, father." He drifted into a half-sleep before the priest could reply.

Kydon ranted in English against Preston and the task force in Washington, at the blackmailing tactics they had used to force him and Val to come to Europe. He raved in German against Hitler and what the man had done to Germany. He railed at the baron for not being the man they expected and for coming between Val and himself.

While the priest worried about the blond man's mind and soul, the doctor was taking pulse and temperature, and changing the dressings. The doctor's wife bathed Kydon and put fresh clothes on him, and burned his blood-soaked things.

Manuel arrived and spoke with the doctor. The American needed more attention, sulfa powder if it could be found, the doctor said, he had none. The man could be moved and should be moved before the local police heard of the skirmish on the border and came to investigate.

"There may be more bleeding but I think not so much," the doctor told Manuel. "Drive as carefully as you can but as fast as you can. The doctors at Gerona should have what he needs."

The canvas bags were loaded onto the bed of the truck, a pallet was arranged between them, and Manuel and the doctor got Kydon aboard. At first, Kydon tried to help but the pain and vertigo left him helpless. He was aware of the truck moving before everything blurred in his mind as the sway of the truck became hypnotic and he fell asleep.

At Gerona there was a doctor who knew Manuel. Kydon's wound was cleaned, sulfa dusted over the injuries, and fresh bandages applied. There was a small room with the shutters closed. A night passed and in the morning Kydon was able to tell Manuel what he wanted. Two leather-covered steamer trunks full of books once owned by an Englishman were found in a shop kept by a middle-aged woman. Perfect, Kydon said.

The length of gold chain and amber beads he used for payment was very old, far older than the woman thought, and both Kydon and Manuel assured her that she could get fifty times the worth of the books and trunks for it. Later that day, children playing in an alley found a heap of books and six empty heavy canvas bags they could sell. They ran into the street waving their treasures and shouting.

At Barcelona Manuel found a place not far from the outskirts where he could leave Kydon and the truck in relative security. "I'll contact Nesmith. He will get you to a safe place," Manuel said. "I must meet Carlos and deliver the rest of the bags."

"No matter how I tried to avoid it," Kydon muttered, "here I am in Barcelona. Sounds like an operetta. Christ."

"With your gold hair and height we cannot risk your being seen," Manuel said. "Someone is sure to report it to the OSS. I'll be back within an hour."