Twisted Cross

by Maloney, Mack;

  “They’ve been taking cruises all right,” Hunter said. “But not ordinary, down-home folks. From what I can see, the passengers on that boat are almost all drug dealers. And I’m not talking about the kind of guys who stand on street corners and begin every conversation with: ‘Psst, hey buddy…’”

  “So we’re talking about big-timers,” Tyler confirmed. “People with millions who want more millions…”

  “That’s the animal,” Hunter confirmed. “The passenger list is very exclusive, and, I’m sure, a ticket to Cokeville, Colombia doesn’t come cheap.”

  Each man took a long swig of coffee.

  “But how in hell do they make the trip?” Crockett asked. “Either they’re going around South America the long way or your old captain’s been at sea too long…”

  “Or they’ve been able to make a deal with the weirdos running the Canal,” Hunter said, stating a third option. “And that’s why I asked you boys to come down here tonight. I’ve scoped out a guy who can tell us everything we want to know. It’s just a question ‘convincing’ him to do it…”

  Tyler drained his coffee and poured himself another cup. “Well, we’re all ears, Hawk,” he said.

  The plantation was located right on the edge of the Segnette Bayou, about 15 miles south of the port of New Orleans.

  Earlier in the day, while he was still disguised as a baggage handler, Hunter had instinctively picked out one particular cruise liner passenger. For soon-to-be-obvious reasons, the man would have been hard to miss. When he required no less than six taxis to transport him and his rather large retinue of bodyguards away from the docks, Hunter tagged him as being one of the biggest rollers to get off the ship. Quickly flagging down a taxi, the pilot followed the suspect’s convoy of cabs out of the city and into the Segnette Bayou. After a 30-minute ride, the half dozen taxis turned into the front gates of an enormous plantation. The place was complete with an authentic-looking antebellum mansion, various farm buildings, many acres of land and the mandatory scattering of honeysuckle bushes and weeping willow trees.

  Hunter told his driver to keep right on going past the front gate of the plantation. Eventually, they made a U-turn and headed back to New Orleans. A few bags of silver unloosened the lips of the driver on the return trip, giving Hunter enough information to identify the bigshot passenger as one Jean LaFeet, a wealthy gambler/smuggler/criminal, who was well-known in New Orleans.

  A trip to the headquarters of the newly installed military governor for downtown New Orleans told Hunter that LaFeet was suspected of everything from mass murder to kidnapping and selling young girls. It was rumored that the man kept as much as a quarter ton of cocaine on his own premises, just for personal use, while dealing many more thousands of pounds of the stuff on a weekly basis. He was also widely known as a Circle collaborator, and it was said that more than a few Soviet and Cuban officers had passed through the gates of his mansion before the last war.

  The military governor told Hunter that it was just a matter of time before he and his militia moved in on LaFeet, but there were other more pressing concerns within his jurisdiction at the moment. Hunter told him he understood and, at that point, put in the call for the Cobra Brothers.

  The Wingman had continued his research by spending the afternoon drinking in some dockside bars and carefully asking the right questions of the right people for the right amount of silver. It never ceased to amaze him how a glass of whiskey and a few silver coins would get people talking and the phenomenon was especially true in New Orleans. He thought maybe that was one of the reasons they called it the Big Easy.

  Through several bottles of booze and a couple dozen games of pool, he learned that not only was LaFeet a ruthless murderer, drug dealer and sexual deviate, he also surrounded himself with a small army of criminals and wackos who shared his penchant for brutality, narcotics and underage sex objects.

  With a track record like that, Hunter felt no compunction about taking on LaFeet and his minions.

  It was just a few minutes before midnight when the two Cobras began a high and wide circling pattern over the plantation.

  Hunter was in the gunner’s seat of Cobra One, the seat left vacated by Baxter when he drew the low card. The fighter pilot was familiar with the two main pieces of hardware crammed into the cockpit. One was the Cobra’s personally designed early warning threat radar system. One punch of the button and Hunter knew that there were no anti-aircraft radar systems keying in on the two circling attack choppers. The second piece of equipment consisted of two triggers. One could unleash any one of the six TOW missiles locked under the Cobra’s pylons; the other operated the fearsome M197 cannon protruding from the Cobra’s chin.

  Also jammed inside the cramped cockpit with him was a half-gallon jar of honey which he had bought in town and a fine-strand, but sturdy fisherman’s net…

  The plan was simple. Cobra Two would make some noise to attract LaFeet’s henchmen while Hunter and Tyler in Cobra One did the heavy lifting.

  At the stroke of midnight, Cobra Two went into its act. While the pilot Crockett brought the gunship in low over the plantation’s mansion, Hobbs activated the chopper’s awesome flamethrower. The long stream of kerosene-fueled fire lit up the dark surroundings like it was daylight. Hobbs’s target was a hay barn about 50 yards from the main house. Two passes and the wooden structure was engulfed in flames.

  As predicted, the surprise attack brought LaFeet’s men running. To the man they were amazed to see a Cobra gunship wheeling out over the swamps and turning back toward them. Armed with rifles, shotguns and only a few dated Thompson machineguns, the 20 or so bodyguards squeezed off a few token rounds apiece and then sought the nearest hiding place as the chopper roared overhead.

  Hobbs unleashed a TOW missile on the next pass, guiding it by way of his NightScope glasses to a priceless 1932 Rolls Royce touring sedan that was parked outside the mansion’s elegant front entrance. The missile impacted just behind the driver’s seat, blowing the expensive vehicle 15 feet into the air. It came down in a shower of fiery pieces of metal.

  Only a handful of LaFeet’s men dared to crawl out of their holes and take a few shots at the Cobra as it roared over again, its powerful cannon blazing away at nothing in particular. Inside the mansion, several sirens were going off, and LaFeet’s collection of guard dogs—Dobermans and pit bull terriers mostly—were barking up a storm. Both Crockett and Hobbs noticed that lights were going on and off inside the huge house in crazy, panicky patterns.

  While Cobra Two continued its 130-decibel attack, Cobra One was being relatively quiet in setting down on the mansion’s roof. A flat deck, used no doubt by LaFeet and his friends to sunbathe and God knows what else, served as a convenient landing pad for the gunship. No sooner had Tyler put the copter down when Hunter popped his canopy and crawled out of the cockpit, his flight helmet secured on his head, his trusty, tracer-filled M-16 rifle up and ready.

  Like Hunter, Tyler was a man of gadgets. A lot of the functions on Cobra One were automatic, controlled by a powerful minicomputer in the pilot’s control panel. But a number of them, such as the engine starter, the oil and fuel pumps and, most importantly, the nose cannon, could also be operated by remote control. So before Tyler climbed out with his own M-16 in hand, he punched a pre-programmed set of instructions into the ship’s computer. Then he strapped on a small control box to his belt and raised its long thin antenna. Only then did he join Hunter on the roof.

  They had to shout to one another, so loud was the racket Cobra Two was making with its once-every-ten-seconds strafing passes.

  “How do you know that we’ll be able to find this guy so easy?” Tyler yelled to Hunter.

  “Don’t worry,” the fighter pilot hollered back. “I guarantee he’ll be the only one still left inside the house.”

  Tyler shrugged and nodded. He was a good friend of Hunter and trusted him to no end. They had been on many missions together, some quite similar to this one. He never once doubted The Wingma
n’s instinct, intuition, smarts, and just plain guts and he wasn’t going to start now.

  They picked the lock that bolted the door to the deck and quietly crept inside and down a set of stairs. This brought them to a third floor set of bedrooms, all of which were deserted. They moved down an ornate, curved staircase to the second floor, their ears starting to hurt from the obnoxiously loud, never-ending siren blasts.

  Suddenly, from down the hall, Hunter heard a very nasty sound. Both he and Tyler whirled around to see three attack dogs—a Doberman and two pit bulls—heading straight for them.

  “Jesus Christ!” Tyler yelled out, at the same time squeezing off two long bursts from his M-16 at the dogs. He caught the Doberman in mid-leap, the force of the bullets slamming the mutt against the wall. The two pit bulls got it from ground level, though it took about a dozen bullets each to knock them down.

  “Damn!” Tyler cursed. “I hate killing animals…”

  Hunter looked at the three bleeding carcasses and nodded. “Yeah, me too,” he said.

  They continued the search down the long hallway. At the end of the corridor they saw a room with two large wooden doors, one of which was partially open. A stream of light was coming from the room.

  “I’ve got a feeling…” Hunter whispered to Tyler.

  The chopper pilot nodded and together they inched their way toward the doorway. All the while, the noise outside from Cobra Two’s repeated attacks had gotten even louder.

  Hunter was first to reach the open door and he carefully peeked through the crack. Then he turned to Tyler and said one word: “Bingo…”

  One more look, and then Hunter stepped back and suddenly kicked the door in. Tyler was at first surprised at Hunter’s quick action. But once he got inside the door, he instantly understood.

  The room was a large “playpen.” From its ceiling hung a variety of leather straps and chrome chains, most of which ended in handcuffs of some kind. The walls, too, were decorated with holding devices and manacles, all used, no doubt, in connection with weird sexual practices.

  There was also a scattering of liquor bottles and drug paraphernalia lying about, as well as several tables of uneaten or picked-over food. The floor was covered with women’s—or more accurately—girls’ underwear. Overall it looked as though the place hadn’t been cleaned in weeks.

  But it was in the center of the room, lying propped up on a massive bed that Tyler got his biggest surprise.

  There was a man on the bed, his face wearing a ghost-white mask of terror. But he was no ordinary man. Tyler estimated that he weighed at least 550 pounds.

  “Jesus, is that him?” Tyler asked Hunter.

  “It’s him,” Hunter said, walking over to the man and sticking his M-16 right up to his nose. “Be hard to mistake this cupcake…”

  Instantly, Tyler knew why Hunter had brought the fisherman’s net along.

  “Who… who are you?” LaFeet asked, trying to control his bladder as he sat paralyzed at the sight of the two armed men.

  “None of your business, Tiny,” Hunter told him harshly. “Now get up. You’re coming with us…”

  “Where?” LaFeet asked, his voice barely above a terrorized whisper.

  “We’re going for a ride,” Hunter said, jabbing the man’s chubby cheek with his M-16 barrel. “Now, get the hell on your feet…”

  With great effort, LaFeet managed to roll over and off the bed. He was dressed in what could only be described as a mu-mu, the front of which was covered with stains from dropped food and drink and who-knows-what else.

  “You got any women locked up around here?” Hunter asked him sharply. “Anyone you’re holding against their will?”

  LaFeet was taken back by the question. “No…” he said. “I just got back today…”

  “In other words, you haven’t had time to round up—or should I say, kidnap—anyone,” Hunter growled at him.

  The man’s face turned beet red. “Who are you people?” he whined, raising his voice to be heard over the continuous racket outside.

  “I said that was none of your business,” Hunter shot back at him. “Now start walking…”

  The man took a deep breath and looked as if he were about to cry. Just then two of his bodyguards appeared at the door.

  “Boss!” one of them cried out, letting loose a wild barrage from his semi-automatic rifle before Tyler put a burst into the man’s shoulder, knocking him out. His companion immediately dropped his own gun, ducked out of the doorway and was heard quickly retreating down the hall.

  “Let’s get the show on the road, Hawk,” Tyler said. “Crockett and Hobbs can’t keep these clowns occupied forever.”

  Hunter shoved LaFeet hard on the shoulder and the big man reluctantly started walking. Out of the room, down the hallway and up to the stairs to the third floor, it was slow going because LaFeet was forced to stop every few steps and take a few gulps of air. Meanwhile, Tyler had turned a switch on his remote-control box which sent a radio signal to the Cobra One’s computer, ordering it to start the chopper’s engines.

  “If everything’s working right, we can take off in less than a minute and half,” Tyler said checking his watch.

  Once on the third floor, both Hunter and Tyler had to literally push the man’s substantial backside up the narrow staircase leading to the sun deck. It was the hardest either of them had worked in months.

  “Jesus, I can see being overweight,” Tyler drawled. “But this guy is ridiculous…”

  They finally made it to the roof, LaFeet exhaustedly dropping to his knees and rolling over involuntarily. As promised, the rotor blades on Cobra One were turning, its engine warming up.

  “Come on,” Hunter said to Tyler, wiping his brow. “Let’s get him into the net…”

  Now LaFeet felt real terror strike his heart.

  “You’re not going to carry me with that thing, are you?” he screamed.

  “You guessed it,” Hunter said, retrieving the net and beginning to wrap it around the huge man.

  “No! I won’t let you!” LaFeet screamed. Then he started calling out the names of his bodyguards, adding: “Help! Save me!”

  Hunter reached inside his pocket and came up with a squirt gun. Without hesitation, he squeezed one long stream into LaFeet’s face. The man went out like a light.

  “Chloroform,” Hunter said to Tyler as they finally managed to wrap the net around LaFeet’s ample frame. Then the pilot added: “What’s the lift capacity of your bird?”

  Tyler had to think a moment; it was a rare occasion for him to lift anything.

  “I’m not sure,” he finally had to say.

  “Enough to lift lard-ass here?”

  Tyler looked at his chopper then back at the prisoner. “Well, I guess we’re going to find out,” he said.

  Chapter 7

  IT HAD STOPPED DRIZZLING and the bayou air was heavy with swamp flies when the two Cobra gunships returned to their original meeting place.

  Cobra Two set down first, Crockett and Hobbs quickly leaping out of their cockpits to help secure the human bundle swinging from the bottom of Cobra One. Once the fisherman’s net was unhitched from the hovering chopper, Tyler landed the lead ship and he and Hunter climbed out.

  LaFeet was conscious, having come out of his chloroform nap about halfway through the 30-minute flight. He was shaking with fear while the airmen unwrapped him, certain that he was the target of a rather unorthodox underworld rubout.

  Actually, all Hunter wanted was information.

  “Okay, we can make this simple or we can make it complicated,” Hunter said to the man. “But either way, you’re going to tell us what we want to know.”

  They had secured the fat man to the ground spread eagle, using utility cords and part of the fisherman’s net. His face was red and puffy, aftereffects for the chloroform shower Hunter had given him. His bizarre evening gown-like outfit was now further soiled with grease and oil and swamp mud. Yet he was studying the face of each of them, a very odd loo
k in his eye.

  “I won’t tell you anything,” he said suddenly, his voice shaky. “Why should I?”

  Hunter shook his head in disgust. “Now he decides to be a hero,” he said to the others.

  LaFeet suddenly became enboldened. “Heroism has nothing to do with it, Mr. Hunter,” he said in his odd, squeaky voice.

  “Damn, he knows who you are…” Tyler said.

  “I know who all of you are,” the fat man said. “It took me a while, but now I’m sure. I finally get to meet Hawk Hunter. And the famous Cobra Brothers. Your faces gave you away, gentlemen. And your flag-waving, idealistic, law-abiding reputations precede you. And I know there isn’t a chance in a million that you would kill me. It’s just not your style, as they say.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Crockett said. “This big slob is giving us a hard time…”

  LaFeet laughed. “Do you really keep forgetting you’re such well-known heroes?” the rotund criminal asked mockingly. “I’m surprised at you. Torture? A burning stake perhaps? Ha! I know the worst you will do is turn me over to the proper authorities, and believe me, I’ll buy my way out of that before you can bat an eye.”

  “Maybe we can starve him,” Hobbs offered.

  “That would take too long,” Crockett replied, swatting away a swamp fly. “Let’s face it: He knows we’re the good guys and that we won’t grease him under these circumstances.”

  Tyler looked at Hunter. “It seems like this poor excuse for a human being has us over a barrel.”

  Hunter, who had been quiet all during LaFeet’s bragging, now stepped forward again. In his hands was the half gallon jug of honey.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not…”

  He unscrewed the honey jar lid and stuck his finger inside.

  “Good batch,” he said, licking off a portion of the sticky sweet stuff. “And I have a feeling that our pal here isn’t the only one hungry out in this swamp…”

  To make his point, Hunter held up his honey-dipped finger and within seconds it was covered with dozens of the pesky swamp flies.