Savannah Swingsaw te-74

by Don Pendleton

"Not much of a job since everything we do is illegal," Lynn said, looking straight at Bolan. Her Eurasian features were accented by the shadows in the dimly lit room. She was short, barely five feet, with straight, shiny black hair chopped off at the shoulders. The angled eyes and thin mouth only enhanced her beauty.

  "Vietnamese?" Bolan asked.

  "Half," Lynn said with no trace of accent. "GI father, Vietnamese mother. They knew each other for one night, if that long. My mother disappeared when I was thirteen. I was adopted by Gerald and Martha Booker of St. Petersburg, Florida. Got my law degree and passed the bar exam last year." Her tone was clipped, businesslike.

  "Last and least," Shawnee said, "Rita St. Clair. Big-bucks Boston family. Banking or something."

  "Insurance," Rita said.

  "Whatever. Anyway, Rita chucks the whole debutantest Vassarst married-to-an-ambassador crap to become — get this — a cop."

  Bolan's jaw flexed.

  "Relax," Rita told Bolan, "I'm not a cop now. Not that I ever really was one. After all my Academy training in Boston, I get this job in Coolidge, Georgia. Five-person police department. In Boston I'd dragged bodies out of the river, been shot at, even stabbed by some junkie with a hunk of mirror. Here they make me a meter maid. Fine, I'm willing to pay my dues like anyone else. But every time there's a promotion, they give it to one of the men, guys with less experience, less seniority. I'd gone into police work because I wanted to make a difference, and I sought out a small town so I could at least see the difference. But it never happened. So I quit."

  "Well, not completely quit," Shawnee said, a huge grin arcing her lips. "She joined with us."

  "Us?" Bolan said. "Who's us?"

  "Us," Shawnee said, gesturing with her hand to include the four women. "We're the Savannah Swingsaw. And we, Mack Bolan, are gonna help you bust your friend out of jail."

  11

  The man with one blue and one brown eye walked among the dusty antiques, some authentic, some merely old junk. He picked up various objectsrusting swords, musty hats, carved ivory chess pieces — examined them carefully, then replaced them. Never making a sound.

  The shop owner, Giles Tandy, a native Atlantan whose father had started the store and tried to teach its intricacies to his unwilling son, had inherited the business two years before, following his father's third heart attack. By that time, Giles had already been an unsuccessful insurance salesman, unsuccessful swimming pool salesman and unsuccessful truck salesman.

  Since his father had always been successful, Giles decided to try his hand at Daddy's antique business. His mother, who helped out part-time, tried to argue with him to maintain the same business integrity as his father, but Giles was indifferent to integrity. He added shoddy garage-sale crap to the quality items his father had carefully purchased, making the store what it was today. A mixture of superb antiques and castaway junk. He thought the dust added an air of authenticity.

  "Help you, sir?" he said to the man with one blue eye and one brown eye. Hadn't even noticed the stranger sneaking around back here so damn quiet.

  He looked at the man's expensive suit, the quiet manner, figured him for some kind of banker or accountant and turned on the charm. "We got the finest antiques this side of the Mississippi, sir. Indeed, the best on either side." The man continued to browse, ignoring Giles.

  On the other side of the store an elderly lady was pawing through the cheap bric-a-brac. At most, she'd spend ten dollars. He decided to stay with the money man. Giles shivered slightly when he looked at the man's face. His eyes were spooky, not just because of the different colors, but just the way they looked at Giles, as if he wasn't there. As if Giles was a bug and he was trying to decide whether or not to squash him. Still, the man obviously had money. The watch and ring were gold.

  Giles was having trouble maintaining his smile while the tall thin man ignored him. The old lady had left, leaving just the two of them in the store.

  The browser ran his hand along one of the music boxes on the glass showcase that Giles had bought from a bankrupt bakery. He watched the fingers and shuddered. They were long and skinny, like the legs of a spider.

  "Now that's a hell of a choice, sir," Giles said enthusiastically. "That there music box comes out of France, made around 1683. A present from the French to, uh, Spain."

  The thin tall man turned his head and stared at Giles. It was like being slapped in the face. Giles swallowed nervously.

  "You are a liar, sir," the man said. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. His English was precise yet without tone, not American, yet having no identifiable accent. "The music box was not invented until about 1770, probably in Switzerland. Second, in 1683, France and Spain were at war." The man turned away and continued through the store, examining other items. Giles felt sweat trickle behind his ears. Hell, he'd been called a liar before, but never with such a menacing, threatening tone. Okay, so he'd made up a date and some history for the customer. He did it all the time. Was that such a crime?

  "Anything in particular you're looking for, sir?"

  The man looked up again. He smiled, his teeth small even squares. "Branding irons."

  Damn nuisance, Giles thought, wondering what the guy wanted with a branding iron. But then he smiled because he remembered they actually did have a couple of irons his father had bought from a ranch that had been plowed under into an eighteenhole golf course. "Er, yes, we've got branding irons. All kinds. Just take me a minute." Giles went into the back, rummaged through one of the storage lockers and returned to the display area with three rusty branding irons. "Quite a history here," he started to say, but stopped abruptly when the man's eyes met his with an unspoken warning.

  The three branding irons looked completely different. One had a long handle with a reversed K on one end. The K had little upward angles at the bottom, like feet. The second iron was much shorter, with an ornate heart around the letter N. The third iron merely had a curve or hook at the end, no symbol.

  Giles thought maybe the third one had lost its branding symbol. "I'm sure I can find the rest of it out back," he offered. "Just take me a second."

  The man's thin mouth curved downward in distaste. "You are not only a liar, but also a fool."

  "Now look here, mister..."

  The man raised the third branding iron and pressed it against Giles's forehead. Though the metal was cold, Giles winced as if it was glowing red. Still, he didn't dare move.

  "You see," the man explained patiently, "originally in this country, brands were used chiefly to punish humans. Runaway slaves, indentured servants who tried to escape. Not until the expansion into the West did branding cattle become common."

  "Well, uh..." Giles swallowed.

  "The brand..." he pressed it harder against Giles's forehead, cutting into the skin "...called a running iron, was used to draw a brand on a hide, rather than just stamp it on like these others. It was favored by cattle rustlers because it allowed them to change brands so easily. This branding iron has been outlawed in several states." He lowered the iron, stroked the metal.

  Giles took a deep breath. "Oh."

  "How much?" the man asked.

  "Sir?"

  "For the branding irons. All three."

  "Well," Giles drawled, figuring in his head, "lots of history here. Cattle rustlers and all. Worth a lot of money."

  The man with one blue eye and one brown eye opened his wallet, pulled out two crisp hundreddollar bills, laid them on the counter, picked up the irons and walked toward the door.

  Though he figured they might be worth more, something told Giles not to argue this one time. He rubbed the indentation on his forehead where the man had ground the branding iron.

  As he reached the front door, the man glanced at his watch, turned to Giles and asked, "Pay phone?"

  Giles pointed. "Half a block down, next to the grocery store."

  * * *

  Outside in the early morning sun, Zavlin blinked his sensitive eyes and quickly put his sunglasses on. He
glanced at his watch again. Still a few minutes before he was due to call in. He was in a good mood, having picked up three additional items for his collection of Western memorabilia. He had perhaps the largest collection of branding irons in the world. On more than one occasion, he'd had the opportunity to actually use his irons, firing them up over coals until they glowed a fierce orange. Then pressing them against the skin of a yelping man, woman or child from whom he had requested information.

  Eventually, they all spoke, begged to answer his questions. There was nothing like the stench of sizzling flesh to persuade a stubborn tongue.

  Zavlin found the public telephone, inserted his coins and began dialing. The voice at the other end was crisp, formal. "Identify, please."

  "The Gamesman."

  "One moment." The line crackled with static for a few seconds.

  Then another voice spoke. "Gamesman?"

  "Yes," Zavlin answered. "I am in position."

  "Strategy change. Your opponent has altered his defense."

  "What do you mean?" Zavlin demanded.

  His control sighed. "A prisoner escaped last night."

  "Who?"

  "No one to concern us. Someone named Damon Blue."

  "Did you run a check?"

  "Of course, Gamesman." The voice was insulted. "Petty criminal. No relationship to your assignment."

  "What is the current status?"

  "Security increased. Lock-down throughout. Some prisoners transferred."

  "The pawn?"

  "He remains. I have some contacts that I can pressure to make sure."

  "No."

  "What?"

  "No," Zavlin repeated, his voice whipping through the wire like an icy wind. "In fact, make certain he is transferred, it does not matter where. Just find out when the transfer will take place. While he is on his way, that is when I shall strike."

  "But the original plan, the one already approved..."

  "Impossible. This Damon Blue has ruined that now. They will be alerted inside. I would have to wait another week for security to ease."

  "That would be too late."

  "Exactly."

  There was a long pause as Zavlin's control went through the motions of making a decision. Zavlin waited patiently, knowing there was only one way to decide, that this pause was only a matter of saving face. A show of false power.

  "Yes, Gamesman. Play as you see fit."

  Zavlin chuckled into the phone, allowing his control to hear him as he hung up. He hurried back to his hotel room to prepare. Control would have the information as to when Dodge Reed would be transferred, undoubtedly this very day.

  By tonight, the boy would be dead.

  12

  "We're not feminist vigilantes, Mack," Shawnee said.

  "I didn't say that," Bolan said. The morning sun was bright through the kitchen curtains. The five of them were sitting around the table.

  Shawnee and Belinda were sipping coffee, Lynn and Rita were nibbling on peanut butter and crackers.

  Bolan dug with relish into the bacon-and-onions omelet Belinda had made for him.

  "We're not a bunch of bimbos, for heaven's sake."

  "I didn't say that, either."

  "Like hell. We managed to break you out of jail but you don't think we're good enough to go along with you on this one. What kind of bullshit is that?" The four women stared at him expectantly.

  Bolan held up his fork. "Listen, I appreciate what you tried to do for me. But the mission's going to be a lot tougher. By now they've got extra security all around the place. They've probably even gone to a total lock-down, no one out of their cells for a few days."

  "I can contact Lyle, find out for sure."

  Bolan shook his head. "They won't allow any communication except with lawyers. That's procedure. By now they've also found the bodies of Rodeo and his bunch. That will only make things worse." Bolan scanned each one of their faces. "How did you break me out anyway?"

  Shawnee smiled. "With a little help from one of the guards. For a lot of money."

  "Does he know who I am?"

  "Nope. I had to tell Lyle, though."

  "I owe you," Bolan said.

  "Damn right you do, fella," Shawnee said. "And this is where we get paid off. By going along."

  "I can't risk getting you involved. It's not just the cops I'm worried about. There are other factors involved. Professional killers."

  "The Mob? Hell, we've dealt with them before. Remember, we're the Savannah Swingsaw."

  "This isn't the Mob. This guy makes the Mafia look like a kindergarten class on a nature stroll."

  Shawnee flipped her long black hair over her shoulder. The sharp widow's peak at the top of her forehead emphasized her anger. She gestured with her head at the other women and they quickly filed out of the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

  "We gotta talk serious, Mack," Shawnee said. "You've known me for a long time, but in a lotta ways you don't know me at all." She stood up, took her coffee cup to the stove, poured more coffee and leaned against the counter while drinking it. "You may think this Savannah Swingsaw stuff is hokey or juvenile, but we take it very seriously."

  "Just what are you trying to accomplish?"

  "That's funny coming from you."

  Bolan chewed his omelet, waiting.

  "We're trying to make the Mob so uncomfortable around Georgia that they'll move out. We do it, not by randomly killin'g them — we haven't killed anybody yet — but by exposing them to the harsh light of publicity. We bust in someplace and break the joint up, that gets press. We keep doing it, keep Clip Demoines's name in the papers, the public will demand some action or Demoines's bosses will insist he close up shop. Either way we win. What have you got to say to that?"

  "A worthy goal."

  "Damn right. Thing is, Mack, I started this operation, got the girls together, me and Rita training them. And you know what gave me the idea?"

  "I think so, but I hope I'm wrong."

  "You aren't. You did. Especially when I read you were dead. Funny thing, you and I were buddies back in Nam, attractive tough-guy GI and a dumpy nurse. We never had anything romantic going, but I loved you like a brother. When you came back and started your campaign against the Mob, I think I loved you even more."

  Bolan nodded. He knew what she meant.

  They'd been pals at a time when friendship was more important than romance. The bonds made over in that hellground had been forged in a fire more intense than anywhere else. Those bonds could never be broken.

  "But why start attacking the Mob, Shawnee? Did you have some personal run-in with them?"

  Shawnee smiled. "No. Lynn Booker had. Her adopted parents used to manage an apartment house in Daytona. Turns out the government's Witness Protection Program had relocated one of their stoolies in this apartment house. Somehow the Mob found out and sent a couple of goons over to wipe the guy out. The Bookers saw them speeding away from the murder. Lynn's parents were all set to testify at the trial when their home was broken into one night while they were in bed. Lynn was away at college." Shawnee paused, took a deep breath. "They beat Mr. Booker, breaking his jaw, both arms. Mrs. Booker — she was fifty-seven then — was raped by both men, then beaten. They refused to testify. Lynn says her parents have never been able to live with not testifying, the shame of cowardice. That was worse on them than the beatings."

  "The others?" Bolan asked.

  "Oh, Rita's more like me. Idealistic, though you'd probably say naive. She's seen what they can do, but hasn't been touched directly by them. But she's fought more crime with me than when she was a real cop on that Mickey Mouse police force."

  "What about Belinda? The singer."

  Shawnee nodded. "Yeah, Belinda. A few years ago she and her boyfriend left Newark for Nashville. Trying to break into the country-music business. Scraped by on odd jobs for a year until finally getting a recording offer. Nothing major, but a start, a possibility. Along comes a so-called manager, tells them he's gonna take ov
er their act, make them stars.

  "Well, Belinda's fella, Tommy, was also their manager, so they refused. Belinda comes home from her waitress job two nights later, finds Tommy unconscious, a razor cut across his chin and a note saying it could just as easily have been his throat. They go to the cops, are told the "manager" is Mob connected but there isn't much the cops can do. Next night Belinda comes home, Tommy's packed and gone to L.A. to try the rock business." She rinsed her cup out and placed it in the sink. "So that's the story of the Savannah Swingsaw. We've been busting up joints for the past few months, making it hot around here for Demoines and his boys."

  Bolan shoved his empty plate away and looked up at Shawnee. Her story had touched him in a way he hadn't expected. He'd heard plenty of stories of lives scarred or ruined by encounters with the Mob, and he'd known a few people who were angry enough to try and get revenge. Most of them cooled down when they realized what they were up against. Others went about it rashly and got themselves killed. But Shawnee wasn't motivated by revenge; she was doing this because she thought it was right. Simple as that.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "I was thinking. I was just a soldier when this all started for me. And even then I was only reacting to what they'd done to my family. Pure revenge. What would have happened if my family hadn't ever come in contact with any of the Mob? Would I have come home from Nam just happy to have survived, get myself a regular job and occasionally shake my head when I read in the newspapers what the Mafia was up to now? This whole war of mine only started out of vengeance. But you," he said, standing and moving closer to her, his eyes boring into hers, "had the guts to risk everything just because it was the right thing to do."

  Shawnee placed her hand gently on his arm. Her usual husky voice was soft and tender. "Maybe that's how you started, Mack, but that isn't what's kept you going all these years, through all those risks. Okay, it started as a personal vendetta, but now it's bigger than that. It's a damn crusade."

  "Trouble with you," Bolan said, grinning, "is you know too much."

  "Sometimes," she said, "I don't know when to shut up." And suddenly she stepped up to Bolan and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her face tilted up toward his and he lowered his lips to hers. It felt so natural to him. They'd hugged many times before, giving friendly pecks on the cheek as they came and went. But this was different, more than friendly. Her body was hard and sinewy, sexy and insistent as she pressed against him and his arms pulled her even closer. For a moment, a vision of April Rose flickered through his mind. She was standing as she always stood, an expression of defiance mixed with concern on her delicate features. She was scolding him, but smiling at the same time.