Savannah Swingsaw te-74

by Don Pendleton

  The movement caught Tanner's eye. Bolan saw him swing his rifle around, eyes wide with discovery, struggling to warn the others and shoot at the same time.

  Bolan didn't give him a chance. Fearful that the swamp water might have affected the .357, Bolan just lunged at Tanner with the forked pole. Tanner took the fork directly in his chest.

  The sharp wooden prongs punched through the chest like a stapler and Tanner dropped into the water unheard by the others, who were running toward the boat, still shooting rifles and shotguns.

  Bolan wedged the pole sticking out of Tanner's chest under a rock, keeping Tanner hidden under the water. Then he continued toward shore.

  It had been ten minutes, maybe more, by the time he reached the sandy ridge near the Nova. Where was Shawnee?

  * * *

  "It's a goddamn boat, all right," Demoines was shouting at his men, "but where the hell is Blue?"

  "Maybe we hit him and he sank under the water," one man suggested.

  "Then find his body. I want to see the blasted body."

  "Hey, where's Tanner?" another goon asked.

  They all began to look around, calling Tanner's name. There was a long tense silence. Then Demoines shouted hysterically. "Go back! Back to shore. He's circled behind us."

  And now they were all charging toward Bolan, shouldering their rifles and firing.

  * * *

  Still no sign of Shawnee.

  Bolan dashed for the Nova, pulled open the front door and grabbed the bike pack of grenades that Belinda had packed for him. He plucked one out, yanked the pin and tossed it into the swamp. One man screamed as the water boiled in front of him, the hot twisted shards of metal scraping off his face as they spun by him.

  Honking horn. Growling engine.

  Shawnee skidded up to Bolan.

  He dived over the Jeep's door into the back seat, holding onto the roll bar as Shawnee whirled the Jeep around and gunned it out of there.

  Demoines's team fired at the fleeing vehicle, but no slugs scored. Bolan tossed the bike pack of grenades next to his feet and stretched his long legs out into a comfortable position. He closed his eyes. "Wake me when we reach Miami."

  22

  Zavlin lifted his eyes from the Wall Street Journal and watched the parade of muddy men stomping through the hotel lobby. He recognized Demoines's clothing before he recognized the dirt-encrusted face.

  "Give me the damn key," Demoines ordered the desk clerk. "I lost mine."

  The desk clerk immediately complied, offering to send up a bellboy to gather the clothes and have them cleaned and returned by morning. Demoines ignored him and marched to the elevator. Zavlin smiled. He counted men. Fewer.

  He studied Demoines's angry face.

  Loser.

  So, the man in black had won again. No matter, Zavlin thought, folding his paper. If the man was an agent working for the government, Zavlin's sources would have identified him as such by now. Or the government would have already raided the warehouse. Neither had happened, so it was safe to assume this man was a loner. Working on his own. Perhaps a mercenary who hoped to blackmail the KGB.

  Of course, as a loner he wouldn't even know that the KGB was involved, just that something illegal was going on. Good. Zavlin could deal with greed, but patriotism was something else, much more difficult to suppress.

  Zavlin tucked the newspaper under his arm and strolled through the lobby toward the door and a taxi to the airport. There could be but one place for the man in black to go now. Miami.

  And Zavlin intended to be there first.

  Waiting.

  * * *

  The sign on the chain-link fence read Seaway Chemical Corporation. Bolan stooped under the sign and began snipping the metal strands with wire cutters.

  There were still a good two or three hours of darkness left. Plenty of time to take a quick look around.

  From the outside the warehouse was just as dark as all the other warehouses in this industrial district. The difference was that while the parking lots of the other buildings along the street were empty, this one had more than a dozen cars.

  Security guards patrolled the perimeter, so Bolan had to work fast. Despite the patches on their shirts that said Protect All Security Services, Bolan had a hunch they were KGB'-TRAINED. That meant they would kill on sight. He severed the final link, peeled back the fence and wriggled through. He jumped quickly to his feet and ran, then pressed himself against the wall, until he was hidden in the deep shadows.

  The windows were all painted black so no one would know they were running a late shift here. Perhaps during the day Seaway Chemical Corporation was a legitimate business, filling the usual orders as part of its cover. But at night, its second shift was up to something. Something the KGB wanted to cover up by killing a hapless college kid. And the only way Bolan would uncover this secret was to penetrate the building.

  That hadn't been his intention. He'd told Shawnee it was just a little scouting run, to get a feel for the layout. She'd insisted on coming along, but he'd managed to talk her out of it for once. He'd given her Hal Brognola's phone number and told her to call him if she didn't see Bolan back at the motel in an hour. He still had plenty of time. His wounds ached a bit, undoubtedly from his high jinks in the swamp. As soon as they'd reached the motel, Shawnee had washed and redressed the wounds. Then she'd gone out and bought them both new clothes while Bolan had stayed in the room cleaning his S&W .357. Now he was here. Miami.

  The address Dodge Reed had witnessed on that record-store computer screen the night he'd tried to sneak in and do his homework. After coming this far, Bolan had to know what it was all about. A side door opened and the bright light from inside flooded over him. He scooted back along the wall, melding into the shadows. A man stepped out into the night air and stretched his arms and back. He was wearing a white surgical mask and cap, a long white lab jacket and disposable rubber gloves. He pulled the gloves off and threw them in a large cardboard barrel near the door. Then he pulled down his mask, let it droop around his neck and lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag, let out a long satisfying sigh and leaned against the wall.

  The door opened again, light bloomed and a woman stepped out. She peeled off her gloves, tossed them into the barrel, removed her mask and took a puff from his cigarette while she fumbled in her lab jacket for her own pack. They were both in their early thirties.

  "Damn heat," she said. "I can hardly breathe in there. Especially with these dumb masks."

  He shrugged. "It's a bitch. But it's better than getting any of that stuff in your lungs. You see what happened to Tulley last week when he took his mask off to scratch his nose."

  She nodded. "No great loss. He was a lech."

  "Yeah, but he worked fast."

  "Ha! Nobody works fast enough in there. They got Superbrain screaming at us all the time. 'Do this. Do that.' Shit, he may be some kind of genius or something, but he sure is a pain in the ass."

  The man nodded in agreement.

  "Well," she continued, "at least we've made the deadline. The first shipment went out today. The rest tomorrow morning."

  "Bonus time." He grinned.

  "And I know just how I'm gonna spend mine. Club Med in Playa Blanca. Lots of sun and gorgeous hunks."

  He laughed, stubbed out his cigarette. "Gotta get back. Already got a lecture about the evils of smoking from Superbrain."

  "See ya, Stew."

  "Right." He went inside.

  She lingered another minute, puffing on her cigarette. Bolan would have preferred the man to stay. At least then the lab jacket would have fit.

  * * *

  Five minutes later the Executioner entered the door with the woman's mask tied over his nose and mouth. Her hat had been extra large to accommodate her long hair, which she wore piled in a bun under the cap. It was still a little small for Bolan, but not as small as the damned lab coat.

  He pulled it on, rolling up the sleeves and not even trying to button it. He hoped they would
think he was merely on his way to the rest room or something. Besides, he didn't intend to be there very long.

  Immediately inside the door was a roll of disposable gloves. He squeezed his fingers into a pair and wandered down the corridor into the main plant area.

  People in similar outfits worked diligently, controlling huge vats, giant mixers, machines of all sizes and varieties. At the end of the production line a green powder was funneled into big cardboard barrels. The labels on the barrels showed a cluster of oversize vegetables and fruits surrounding the product's name: Eden-Plus. A chemical formula was printed beneath it.

  "Certainly you cannot see clearly from here?" the voice behind Bolan said in a friendly tone.

  Bolan spun around. The man wore a surgical mask too, but Bolan could see the one blue eye and the one brown eye. And in his hand, a 9mm Tokarev.

  23

  "Photosynthesis," Zavlin said.

  "Plants," Bolan said. "That's the process they use to convert sunlight and water into oxygen."

  "More or less," Zavlin said.

  "More," Subrov said. "So much more."

  They were sitting in one of the offices away from the main production area. A filter system cleaned and recirculated the air in the room to allow them to remove their masks.

  Bolan sat in a chair against the wall. Zavlin ran one hand through his white hair and used the other to hold his gun leveled at Bolan's chest.

  Subrov was in his early twenties, with gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes. He had a certain intensity that indicated obsession.

  "Dr. Subrov is only twenty-one," Zavlin explained with some annoyance, "but he is in charge of this project."

  "Exactly what is this project?" Bolan asked.

  "No need for you to know, Mr. Blue. If that is your real name. I will ask you several questions. You will answer them without hesitation."

  "And if I hesitate?"

  "I will kill you."

  "And if I speak?"

  Zavlin smiled. "I will kill you, of course. But there is death and there is death. One is much more uncomfortable."

  "I've been hearing that distinction a lot lately."

  Zavlin raised an eyebrow. "I suspect that is because you are the type of man who leaves his enemies no other choice."

  "What's all this got to do with plants?" Bolan asked.

  "It is not your concern," Zavlin repeated firmly. He was a professional all the way. There would be no bragging or explanations. Just interrogation and then death.

  But his young comrade was not so experienced. He was pleased to have yet another ear to explain his own brilliance. "It was my idea," Subrov said, pointing his bony finger at Bolan. He leaned up against the blackboard next to his desk. There was chalk dust in his black hair and some on his pants.

  So this is Superbrain, Bolan thought.

  "I discovered the process while in the university at Moscow when I was fourteen. But it took me another seven years to perfect." He was lecturing now, as if addressing a classroom of admirers. "How, I asked myself, could the proper nutrition be introduced into the masses who are basically resistant to anything healthy? How do we combat their stubborn ignorance and the stupidity of the individual for the greater good of the whole?"

  "Likes people, huh?" Bolan said to Zavlin.

  Zavlin's jaw was clenched. Bolan could sense the man bristling. Apparently this hundred-and-twenty-pound kid carried more weight with Moscow than even the great Zavlin.

  "Photosynthesis, that's the key," Subrov continued. His accent was British, with only a hint of Russian in the vowels. "If we could interrupt the photosynthetic process by which a plant produces carbohydrates..." He picked up a piece of chalk and attacked the blackboard, writing a complex chemical formula. "Then we are using the glucose units as they link together to form starch as pockets to hold these nutrients. If we also consider that in the light reaction, the energy of an absorbed photon of light is used during the enzyme-catalyzed transfer of an electron from an unknown molecule to a carrier..."

  "Which all boils down to what?" Bolan said.

  "Boils down?" Subrov said, annoyed at the interruption. "Ah yes, you mean what is the end result?" He dropped the chalk on his desk and stared contemptuously at Bolan. "You are a very rude man."

  Bolan waited. He knew the kid's arrogance would force him to tell, to show off to one more person.

  "It 'boils down' to this. We can now introduce certain substances into plants, merely by sprinkling the substance onto the leaves. Eventually, the plant absorbs it, transforms it until it becomes a part of the plant itself. Simple enough?"

  Bolan nodded. "You're saying that if you sprinkled nutrients on a tomato plant, that plant would add the nutrients to the tomato. The person eating the tomato would be healthier."

  "Yes. Something like that."

  "But somehow I have a feeling you aren't shipping nutrients around this country."

  Subrov hesitated. "Nutrients were only one aspect of my discovery. There are other chemicals that can also be introduced."

  "Like what?"

  The Russian youth smiled. His sunken face and oversize teeth made his head look a little like a skull. "Like synthetic heroin. Also a substance I created. We sell it as pesticides to your farmers. They spray their crops. The synthetic heroin is absorbed and reformed as part of the vegetables and fruit you eat. The physical reactions will not be immediate. They take years to develop, and even then only in certain body types.

  "But then those who are affected will have all the symptoms of heroin addiction. The excruciating pain, the epileptic fits. The physical and psychological damage will only be the start. Our scientists and economists estimate that the reduction in productivity by these people will cause staggering economic collapse. Not to mention the panic and mass hysteria of the rest of the country as they try to discover what this affliction is. But by then, of course, it will already be too late."

  Bolan's face was stone, the features chipped from some blazing comet. The eyes glared with anger. "From nutrients to help the masses to mass poisoning. Some leap for a genius."

  Subrov shrugged. "I do what is right for my country. And for science. What does your country matter anyway? Beach Boys and jeans, that is all they know."

  "Enough," Zavlin said. "You have had your say, Dr. Subrov. And you too, Mr. Blue. Now it is my turn." He walked over to the laboratory table where test tubes and flasks and chemicals were set up. There, leaning on a metal stand, directly over the blue flame of the gas Bunsen burner, was a branding iron. The tip of the iron glowed a fearsome red.

  Zavlin slipped a leather glove on his right hand, transferring his gun to his left hand. He picked up the handle of the iron and carried it carefully toward Bolan.

  The boy genius watched with a detached curiosity, as if interested only in how flesh might react when introduced to a glowing iron. Bolan sat rigidly in his chair, not moving.

  "You may scream, Mr. Blue," Zavlin said, coming closer. "But movement might be fatal. Any attempt to knock this away and I will have to shoot you."

  And suddenly he pressed the tip of the running iron against Bolan's thigh. The pants hissed and smoked as the iron burned through and sizzled against the skin. Bolan flinched, his hands gripping the side of the chair as if to crush it. But he made no sound.

  Zavlin pulled the iron away and smiled. "That was just a touch. Nothing like what will happen next. Are you ready to speak?"

  Bolan said nothing. There was no point. The truth would only make things worse.

  They'd kill him immediately. As long as they thought he was holding out, they'd keep him alive.

  "I have work to do," Subrov said with a bored expression. "Please clean up when you are finished." He started out of the office, but was stopped by a uniformed guard wearing a surgical mask. He was dragging Shawnee beside him. She wore no mask, so her curses were very clear.

  "Bastard!" she spit, punching and kicking at the guard. One kick caught him in the shin and he angrily threw her against the wall.


  "What's going on?" Zavlin demanded.

  "She was sneaking through the fence," the guard explained. "They'd used wire cutters."

  "I'm so sorry," Shawnee said to Bolan. "I couldn't wait. I had to help you." She saw the burn on his thigh. Her eyes widened with horror, then anger. "What have they done?" She fell to her knees to examine the wound.

  "Tie her to that chair," Zavlin told the guard. Then he smiled at Bolan. "Let's see if she is as indifferent to my branding iron as you are."

  The security guard grabbed Shawnee by the arm, yanked her to her feet, then threw her into the chair next to Bolan's. He reached to his holster for his cuffs.

  But when his hand came up, it was gripping an S&W .38. And the guard was spinning around, pointing the gun at Zavlin.

  "Move it, Mack!" Hal Brognola said to Bolan as he tugged his mask down. Zavlin was caught by surprise, but his reflexes were astounding.

  He jumped to the side just as Brognola fired. The shot gouged a hunk out of the blackboard. Zavlin fired back, the Tokarev kicking 9mm Tokagypt cartridges around the room. One sliced across Shawnee's hip, drawing a little blood but doing no major damage.

  Dr. Subrov, the twenty-one-year-old Superbrain, ran blindly for the door, saw Brognola with his big .38, spun and ran directly into Zavlin's scorching iron, impaling himself on the sharp tip. The hot metal seared through cloth and flesh, between ribs, and finally through the heart, boiling blood as it sank deeper into his chest.

  Zavlin released the iron and fired at Brognola. The big Fed dropped behind the desk and prepared to fire back, but Bolan had leaped across the room and had his hands around the KGB assassin's throat. One of Zavlin's security guards burst into the room spraying bullets, but Brognola cut him down with two rounds to the face. Bolan had his hand around Zavlin's wrist and was banging it against the floor, trying to shake the gun free.

  Finally the hand opened and the gun flew out.