Savannah Swingsaw te-74

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan ran back into the room, picked up the two S&W .357's and stuffed them into his pants.

  Then he swung the bike pack of grenades over his shoulder, and yanked Dodge by the elbow, hauling him through the door toward the car. "Start it," Bolan said, tossing the keys to Shawnee. She jumped behind the wheel as the others piled into the car. A mobster stuck his head out the door and began firing a pump-action shotgun. The rear side window of the car blew out. Bolan squeezed off a round from the S&W .357, which caught the punk just below the elbow, smashing his arm. The man screamed, his arm dropping uselessly to his side, the gun tumbling to the dirt.

  A cabin window shattered as gun barrels popped out to take aim. The Executioner fired a couple of rounds through the window and the gunmen ducked out of sight.

  He heard Demoines's rabid voice desperately yelling to attack.

  "Mack!" Shawnee called. She swung the car around, braking it in front of Bolan and flinging the passenger door open. "Let's go, mister. This party's getting boring."

  Bolan dived into the front seat as a volley of slugs tattooed the Toyota's doors and fenders.

  Shawnee gunned the engine and the car kicked up dirt as it tore down the road. A tree along the narrow road bumped the door closed behind Bolan.

  "I didn't see their cars," Bolan said.

  "They must've parked them farther down the main road, then walked to the cabin. This is the only way in."

  "Good, they won't be following us too soon."

  "But they will follow us," Shawnee said.

  Bolan nodded. "Yeah, they'll be coming. No matter where we go."

  "Where are we going?" Dodge Reed asked. He was breathing heavy from the adrenaline, but his eyes were clear.

  "We're going to the point of origin of those shipments you discovered in that computer. We've got to find out exactly what it is they're shipping that they'd kill to protect."

  Shawnee glanced at Bolan. "Miami?"

  "Miami," Bolan repeated.

  Everyone was silent as they bounced along the bumpy dirt road. Most of them were thinking about Belinda, mourning her loss. Bolan understood this and didn't disturb the silence. What he had to say next could wait a few more miles.

  18

  Clip Demoines sat behind his desk and picked at the green alligator on the chest of his blue shirt. His feet, sockless and clad in deck shoes, were propped on top of his huge mahogany desk. The desk had been his uncle's, the very one he'd been sitting at the night Clip had shot him in the back. Things were arranged downtown and burglary was claimed. Someone was even arrested for the crime, though he was mysteriously stabbed to death in prison before he came to trial. Books were closed on Uncle Dominick's unfortunate demise.

  "I want them, Tom," Demoines said calmly into the telephone. He listened patiently, then interrupted his friend. "I don't have time for the excuses and bitching today. This one's important. You get the usual amount plus a $50,000 bonus. Agreed?" Demoines listened. "I don't care what excuse you use, Tom. You're the cop, think of something coplike. I gave you the car make and model and the license number. Now you find them. Today." He hung up.

  Clip Demoines leaned forward, ran his fingertips lightly along the smooth varnished wood.

  That made him feel better. The only flaw in the wood was a tiny chip where Uncle Dom's front tooth gouged out a nick when, after Clip had shot him, his head had fallen onto the desk. Demoines had left the little flaw in the wood unfixed. For sentimental reasons. Aloud knock at the door.

  "Come on," Demoines said.

  The door opened and Ron Thaxton entered.

  Thaxton was Demoines's lieutenant and adviser.

  It had been his advice that Demoines not go personally to see the Savannah Swingsaw last night. He had suggested sending an army of men to wipe them out while he and Demoines were seen at some social function. But Demoines had wanted to be there, to personally punish the scum who had busted up his places, who had cost him money.

  For Demoines could stand anything but the loss of money. That was personal, as if someone had raped him. For that there was only the ultimate punishment.

  Death.

  "So?" he asked Thaxton.

  Thaxton shrugged. "Word's out all over the state. Everybody's on the lookout for the car and they've got the descriptions of all the people."

  "Especially that big guy. The one in black. I want him, Ron, you understand that?"

  Thaxton nodded. He understood that there would be no other business until this matter was settled. That despite his Harvard MBA, Clip Demoines was still a hood at heart. He still believed in vendettas and all that stuff. Sometimes such things were good business, but there was a time, Thaxton thought, when it was best to cut your losses and run. You didn't need a goddamn MBA to know that much.

  Demoines rose and began pacing behind his desk.

  "That man, the big one, I want to know everything about him you can dig up. Check the fingerprints we lifted, check his story about jail. Check everything."

  "I will, Clip." "You'd better, Ron," Demoines said, stopping to face his lieutenant. "Because by tomorrow night he's a dead man. Or you are."

  * * *

  Though the voice on the phone was solemn, there was a faint hint of glee, as if he was secretly pleased at Zavlin's failure.

  "I will have to make a full report, Gamesman."

  Zavlin smiled into the phone. "Of course."

  "Detailing your failure."

  Zavlin winced. There it was again. That word — failure.

  Control had managed to work it into the conversation three times now. It was not a word he'd had occasion to hear before in regard to his own work. He did not want to ever hear it again.

  "Have you alerted our people?"

  "Yes."

  The control sighed, as if to say it was a hopeless gesture. "Every road, every town, every bus station, train depot, plane terminal to Miami is being watched. Seems a vast expenditure of manpower, a waste of time."

  "We must assume that the boy Reed told this Damon Blue what he saw in the computer."

  "But it is doubtful that the boy knew what any of that meant."

  "Doubtful, yes, but not impossible. Besides, whatever he knew or didn't know, he's undoubtedly told Mr. Blue by now."

  "But this Damon Blue is nothing more than a petty crook, a thief."

  Zavlin chuckled hoarsely. "Perhaps. But not likely."

  "His records say..."

  "Never mind his records. I saw him in action. I saw the way he moved, the way he handled himself. This man is no petty crook. He is much, much more."

  There was a thoughtful pause. When the voice spoke again, it was hesitant, a little frightened. "Now what, Gamesman? You know the importance of the mission. What we are doing now will erode the entire economic structure of the United States, possibly plunge them into the worst depression in history."

  "I know the stakes, Control," Zavlin snapped. "Our aim now is to locate and kill them before they leave the state. We don't want any violence to take place near the distribution warehouse. That might cause undue interest in our activities."

  "Yes. Yes, that is true."

  Zavlin grinned. Control was nervous, quite willing to relinquish all responsibility into Zavlin's capable hands. "All we must do now is wait for our contacts to report. Our network of paid informers is second to none. Once they are spotted, I will go there and kill them."

  "Indeed," Control said, gathering some of his courage again. "We can afford no more failures."

  That word again, Zavlin grimaced and hung up.

  He brushed a hand through his white hair. He would make the man in black pay with more than his life for allowing the word 'failure' to be spoken in the same breath as the name of Zavlin.

  19

  "Forget it!" Rita St. Clair said. "I'm not doing it!"

  Lynn Booker, holding her wounded arm, agreed. "Neither am I. It's stupid."

  "It's not stupid," Bolan said patiently. "It's good sense. They're going to be on the
lookout for us all through this state and Florida. Look at us. Traveling together we're not too hard to spot."

  Rita shook her head. "Okay, then we split up and meet in Miami."

  "No. You travel separately, each in a different direction. Except south. That's where they'll be looking for you."

  They were parked by the side of the road with a map of Georgia spread out on the hood. The car was a blue Nova they'd hotwired and driven off a used car lot a couple of hours before. They'd switched plates at a roadside diner.

  Shawnee looked up from the map at the two women. "Mack's right," she said sadly. "We have to split up for now. Rita can go up and visit her folks."

  "Swell," Rita said bleakly.

  "Lynn, you take off for San Francisco. Get lost in the Asian community."

  The Oriental nodded.

  "Let's get moving," Shawnee said, "we've got some plane tickets to buy. At different terminals, of course."

  Rita, Lynn and Dodge Reed climbed back into the car. Bolan folded the map and looked at Shawnee. "Thanks for helping me convince them. I can do this better alone," he said.

  Shawnee lowered her voice. "Like hell. You don't think I believed that crap, Mack? Sure, I think they should get to safety, but I'm still going with you."

  "Uh-uh!" Bolan said.

  "They won't be looking for a couple. It'll be an cinch to sneak by them."

  "You don't believe that?"

  She shrugged. "Maybe not, but I'm going along anyway."

  Bolan realized there was no point in arguing. She would do what she wanted and short of knocking her out, he couldn't stop her. Part of him was pleased.

  "What about me?" Dodge Reed asked as Bolan pulled the car back onto the highway.

  Bolan patted the folded paper in his pocket.

  "Is this page everything you can remember from the computer?"

  "Yeah, I wrote it all down."

  "You positive this is the right address?"

  Reed hesitated. "I think so."

  "Okay," Bolan said. "You better pick a state with a friendly climate, because that's where you're going until this is all over."

  "I've got a girl in Atlanta. Can I at least call her, tell her I'm going'? Ask her to get my class assignments?"

  Bolan laughed harshly.

  "I wouldn't, Dodge. For the next few days anyway, school is definitely out."

  * * *

  The car hissed and steamed, smoke snorting from the seams of the hood. "Damn, what now?" Shawnee said, pulling over to the side of the road.

  Bolan woke from his light nap, his eyes immediately wide awake. "Trouble?"

  Shawnee gave him a disgusted look.

  "Just the kind of trouble you'd expect from a car stolen from Sam Friendly's Used Car Lot."

  Bolan looked at the odometer. She'd taken them another 127 miles. This state seemed endless. But Bolan knew they were close to the Florida border, just outside of Waycross, near the Okefenokee swamplands. Down the road a quarter mile from their steaming car was a sign announcing the nearby Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge and Wilderness Area. Bolan popped the hood and jumped back to let the steam spray into the air.

  "How bad is it?" Shawnee asked.

  "Can't tell yet."

  "Looks like a hose."

  Bolan fanned away some of the steam and leaned over the engine. There was a rip in one of the ancient radiator hoses. Bolan loosened the clamp to examine the hose.

  "Not too bad," Shawnee observed. "Fixable."

  "Got a knife?"

  Shawnee shook her head. She patted her pockets and pulled out a fingernail clipper. "Will this do?"

  Bolan frowned. "It'll have to." He sawed the split end of the hose off and refastened the clamp.

  It would hold. But he was more disturbed by what else he discovered. Sam Friendly hadn't exactly gone all out on fixing up this used car. The wires were frayed and loose, the engine gritty, the hoses cracking.

  "Problems," he said.

  "What?"

  "Looks like this engine's been driven through the swamp a few times."

  "Maybe a'shiner's."

  "Moonshiner's?"

  "Yeah. They don't make the stuff much anymore, but they do their share of hauling booze and cigarettes up north without the tax stamps on it. Make a lot of money."

  Bolan pointed to a wire leading from the distributor cap. "The steam from the busted hose finished off what was already a pretty sad spark-plug wire. It'll run, but we've got to get it to a service station."

  "We passed Patterson a few miles back.

  "What's ahead?"

  Shawnee shrugged. "Blackshear, then Waycross."

  "Okay, let's drive into Blackshear, get this fixed, then get the hell out of there."

  "What if we're spotted?"

  Bolan gave her a hard look. "It's a chance we'll have to take. No other choice."

  Twenty minutes later they rolled into Blackshear. Bolan spotted a service station with a phone booth at the paved entrance. He told Shawnee to look for a mechanic as he slipped out of the car.

  Bolan stood next to the pay phone and played with the coin-return button. As soon as the phone rang he snatched it up.

  "Yeah?"

  "Can't a guy even go to the damn john without getting beeped?" Brognola's voice was gruff, but Bolan could hear the relief in it. "So, I guess you're still alive."

  "Most of us." He explained what had happened.

  "That's it?" Brognola asked, when Bolan finished speaking. "All this over some dumpy address in Miami?"

  "Apparently."

  "How do you want to proceed?"

  "Well, right now I have to assume both Zavlin and Demoines are after us, so we're trying to sneak past them into Florida."

  "Maybe I should just send a squad to that address and arrest everyone there."

  Bolan thought about it. "I don't think so. We can't be certain that what we need to know is there until we investigate. But even more important, can you guarantee no security leak to the KGB from your end?"

  Brognola hesitated. When he answered his voice was low. "No, I can't."

  "Then let Shawnee and me poke around first, see what we can find out. I'll call you afterward."

  "I could meet you there." There it was again, that hopeful tone, ready for action.

  "I've never seen anyone so anxious to get shot at."

  Brognola chuckled. "Things aren't the same without Stony Man Farm. I feel a million miles away from the action now."

  "Sometimes I wish I could say the same."

  Brognola snorted, not buying that. "Okay, guy, get back to the business of saving the world, huh?"

  "Sure, pal, as soon as the mechanic over there finishes working on the car."

  "Then what?"

  "Then we drive in to Waycross, which is a big enough town that I can switch cars."

  "Okay. Keep in touch."

  "Sure thing," Bolan said as he hung up.

  Shawnee was just coming out of the rest room as he walked over to the service station.

  "Can your phone pal help us?"

  "Not much. Not yet."

  She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We can handle it."

  "Like your attitude."

  Bolan walked over to the mechanic, who was just returning to the Nova after stopping to pump gas into a dusty pickup truck. "How much longer?"

  "Not much," the mechanic said. It was hard to determine his age because of the grease on his face, but Bolan figured him to be around fifty. He was stick-thin and chewed tobacco, occasionally pausing to spit some brown juice into the dirt.

  "Time enough for us to grab a bite?"

  The mechanic looked up at Bolan and Shawnee, then back into the engine. "Suit yourself."

  Shawnee took an angry step toward the man.

  "Listen here, buster," she said, her drawl becoming more pronounced the deeper into the South they drove. "We gotta get to my daddy's funeral over in Needmore in two hours. My mama needs us there to help out. Now me and Tucker here been on the ro
ad all day and we just...." Tears started to puddle in her eyes. "We just gotta make it in time to see daddy once more."

  The mechanic stopped chewing his tobacco, looked Shawnee over.

  "Thirty minutes, gal. Meantime you can catch a bite down the street at Rhonda's Cafe. Food ain't good, but it's hot and cheap."

  Bolan placed a comforting arm around Shawnee and led her away. "Thanks," he said to the mechanic.

  Shawnee sobbed quietly, glanced up, winked and returned to her sobbing.

  In the cafe she ordered vegetable soup and corn bread. Then she ate part of Bolan's chicken-fried steak, mopping up his gravy with her corn bread.

  "Help yourself," Bolan teased, spreading the map out on the counter. "Any suggestions?"

  "We could take 23 down to Jacksonville. Or 84 to 441 and cross over near the Suwannee River."

  "Pretty public either way. What about here?"

  She shook her head adamantly. "No way. We don't want to even go near the Okefenokee. Anything east of Jones Creek or west of Toms Creek is swamp, infested with 'gators. We get caught in there we'd be better off dropping in on Clip Demoines and handing him a new chain saw."

  "Okay. We'll go through Jacksonville, try to get lost in the traffic."

  They paid, left a tip and went back to the service station. The mechanic was adding a quart of oil to a station wagon. Bolan checked the engine, paid him and he and Shawnee drove away.

  20

  They were still a few miles from Waycross when Bolan spotted the dusty pickup truck in his rearview mirror. "Get the guns out," he calmly told Shawnee.

  She reached under the seat, dislodged the two S&W .357's and placed them both in her lap. She didn't look around. "You sure?"

  "He's been following us since the service station. Same beat-up truck that stopped for gas there."

  "Aren't many good roads around here. Maybe he's just going in the same direction."

  "Maybe." Bolan nodded. "But he slows down when I do and speeds up when I do. And those rifles in his rack probably aren't for show."

  "What's he waiting for?"

  "I suspect for whoever he called ahead to. My guess is there's a car or truck full of armed good ole boys on their way toward us right now."