Shadow Hunt

by Don Pendleton

  “So why are you here?”

  “Same as you, I guess—looking for my brother. Trying to save his life if he’s gotten himself in a fix. I thought I would see if I could find something in his office that would help me. I love my brother and I don’t want to see anything happen to him. There has to be some way I can help him.”

  “Well, why don’t we go and look together?”

  Bolan grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the car. Her foot slipped out of her heel as he was pulling her along, and he had to stop while she readjusted it. He was running out of patience and suspected that if he didn’t find Rio soon he would be out of time. They moved to the elevator, got in and rode it to the fifth floor, where the DA’s office was located. Before it opened, Bolan said, “Not a word or peep out of place while we’re here,” he said.

  She nodded her agreement and followed him out of the elevator, then paused. “If you keep dragging me around, people are going to ask questions…or call the cops.”

  “Do you really think that makes me nervous?”

  “If it doesn’t, it should,” she said. “They’re all on the same side around here, in case you hadn’t noticed, and I don’t want to be on anyone’s radar—especially not theirs. This isn’t a safe town, not here or anywhere.”

  “Fine,” he said, releasing her as they reached the entrance to the office. Bolan pushed her ahead of him, and she opened the door. They walked past Sally sitting at her desk in another low-cut dress, while she was desperately trying to hide the nail file and polish she was obviously using on her nails.

  “Hey, Sally, my brother asked me to pick up a couple of things for him,” Sandra said. “Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead, hon, you know where everything is,” Sally said, then added, “But you tell your brother to call the next time he’s not going to be in the office. I was getting worried.”

  “Will do,” she replied as they walked into the office. Bolan smiled and shut the door, then followed Sandra over to the desk, where he motioned for her to sit in the desk chair.

  “Now,” he said, “why don’t you show me what it is you were so eager to find.”

  “I don’t know what I thought I would find,” she said. “I just thought I might find… I don’t know, something that might tell me what’s really going on with Trenton.”

  “Then you better start looking,” Bolan said. “And hurry up.”

  5

  After a pointless search of Smythe’s office, Sandra came across a reference on an advisement memo to Chief Lacroix about a dockside warehouse that had been under investigation. According to the memo, Smythe had convinced the police that it wasn’t worth looking into. As far as Bolan was concerned, that screamed it was worth looking into. He wrote down the address.

  “Do you know how to get here?”

  “Well, yeah,” Sandra replied.

  “Good, we’re going.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “Well, I don’t want you to stay. So who do you think is going to win that argument?” Bolan asked.

  Traffic between the DA’s office and the docks wasn’t heavy, but it was still slow-going since the streets were slicked with rain. It took almost an hour to wind through the French Quarter and find a place to park close to the warehouse. Bolan might have left Sandra behind, but he was convinced she knew more than she was letting on, so he’d insisted she come along. She was obviously unhappy about it, but Bolan didn’t care. He intended on keeping her close until he figured out where Smythe had disappeared to, and more importantly, where this Nick Costello was hiding out. They drove around the last curve, and Bolan pulled the car over into a parking space near a garbage Dumpster. He put it in park, cut the engine and looked over at Sandra.

  “This is your last opportunity to tell me what is going on,” he said. “If this is another setup or a trap of any kind, then I promise you that not only will I get out of it, but I’ll hold you personally responsible for everything that’s happened to me up to this point.” He shifted in his seat and captured her gaze.

  She fidgeted but didn’t say anything.

  “All right, let’s go.”

  Bolan stepped out of the car and waited for Sandra to come and stand next to him. The area was quiet and they moved quickly down the side of the street. No one seemed to be watching them, and they reached the fenced area around the dock without incident.

  The gate was open, and there was a small security shack with one guard. Bolan gestured for Sandra to remain quiet and waited for the guard to turn his back. Moving as swiftly and stealthily as a cat, Bolan got behind him, wrapped one strong arm around his throat and took him to the ground slowly, waiting until the man was unconscious. Then he stood up and gestured for Sandra to come closer. He moved the guard’s jacket aside and showed her the small MAC-10 underneath. “Unless he’s guarding Fort Knox, there’s no way a regular warehouse security guard needs that,” he said. “Come on.”

  They moved closer to the edge of the warehouse. The main entry door was locked, and Bolan looked at the security keypad.

  “How do you propose to get in, Marshal?” Sandra whispered. “Got a Jedi mind trick to open it?”

  Bolan ignored the gibe. “Just need a little bit of luck,” he said, sliding a credit-card-sized object out of his wallet.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Magnetic scrambler,” he said. “Almost all electronic locks have a magnetic component. This little toy sends a series of pulses that disable a magnetic lock.”

  “All electronic locks?”

  “Not all of them,” he said. “There are sophisticated locks that don’t use magnetic codes, but anything like this, or hotel rooms, hospitals, even most airport initial access areas, this will work on. Saves time and beats having to call a locksmith on short notice.” Bolan slid the card into place, then waited a moment for the lock system to register it. He tapped a small raised portion on the card, and the scrambler immediately popped the lock. The soldier opened the door and put the card back into his wallet.

  “Come on,” he said, slipping into the building and pulling his Desert Eagle free, as Sandra followed him into the dark warehouse.

  Sandra looked down as they walked in, folded her arms across her chest and shivered from the change in temperature.

  They main floor was almost completely filled with crates stacked end to end, and high enough to reach well above Bolan’s head. Narrow walkways were left between the rows of crates, and he kept his back against the nearest stack, hoping for at least some protection in the event of an ambush. The warehouse wasn’t well lit, but there was enough light to see the markings on the side of the containers. He stopped to look at the stamped markings. Picking one at random, he saw that it bore a FEMA insignia and a label that read Interior Plumbing, Copper Lines. The next one was PVC pipes. Bolan realized that the entire warehouse was filled with supplies sent to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina to help the city rebuild—supplies that had been stolen and were likely being sold off or used in construction without cost.

  Apparently, whoever was running the new crime family in New Orleans had decided that the hurricane was an opportunity to make money, without the risks of money laundering, drug smuggling or prostitution.

  “FEMA,” he said quietly to Sandra.

  “So?” she asked. “After Katrina, the whole city was filled with construction supplies.”

  “Well, what the hell are they all doing here now?” Bolan asked.

  “There are a lot of FEMA contractors. In case you hadn’t noticed, there are still a lot of repairs that need to be done. What is it you think we’re going to find here?”

  “I think this is part of it,” Bolan said. “Federal supplies shouldn’t have come in this way, and they are usually utilized far faster than this. I think someone has been making money off hurricane reconstruction.” He glared at her. “I don’t suppose you know who has most of the reconstruction contracts in the city, do you?”

  “Trenton told me i
t was Costello Construction,” she said. “But this warehouse isn’t in their name.”

  “No, it’s not,” Bolan said, remembering the painted lettering on the side of the building as they came in. “A subsidiary then.”

  “I could make a guess,” she replied, “but you seem to like finding answers out all on your own. You don’t trust anything I say, so why should I bother to try and answer any of your questions?”

  “Look, Sandra, I’m not unreasonable, but I’m not stupid. I make my living by not getting killed, and I’m not about to start making mistakes now.”

  Bolan turned his attention to a set of crates behind Sandra. If he hadn’t spent so much time in the Middle East, it likely wouldn’t have jumped out at him, but he recognized the embossed stamping below the FEMA lettering on one of the crates. He moved forward, trying to remember the Hebrew he’d learned in the past and coming up short. Still the one word he did recognize was unmistakable—“rifle.”

  Bolan looked around and saw a forklift at the end of the aisle. He grabbed Sandra’s hand and pulled her to it. She jerked her hand away.

  “I’m getting real tired of you manhandling me. Where are we going now?”

  “I need to see what’s in that crate,” he said, pointing to the one at the top of the stack.

  “So go look, you don’t need me in that contraption. What am I going to do, sit on your lap?”

  Bolan looked at the one seat the forklift had and pointed at her.

  “If you move, I will shoot you, no warning. Got it?”

  She threw up her hands and backed up against a set of crates.

  “I’ll be standing right here. I’m as curious as you are.”

  Bolan climbed onto the forklift. He moved it into position and restacked the crates that had been hiding his target. He didn’t bother with a crowbar to open the package. He was pretty sure he knew what was inside. He put the forklift in reverse and lowered the forks, shifted back into drive and drove the forks into the box, knocking it off the other side.

  “Holy Jesus! Do you know anything about being inconspicuous?”

  “I figure that since people are already trying to kill me, inconspicuous is really overrated.”

  Bolan cut the engine and jumped off of the forklift. They both ran around to the other side of the crates to see what prize he had freed.

  The crate had smashed open when it hit the concrete floor, revealing a dozen or more Israeli assault rifles, Tavors from the look of them.

  “Let me guess,” Bolan asked her. “More reconstruction supplies?”

  “Hardly,” she said. “These have to belong to Victor Salerno. He works for Costello. I think we better get out of here. These aren’t the kind of guys that you want mad at you.”

  “Salerno,” he said. “Costello’s enforcer? Got a brother named Tony?”

  “I am,” a voice said, echoing in the warehouse. “And I’ve got a brother named Tony.”

  “Seems he’s gotten into a bit of trouble with the police,” Bolan called out, shoving Sandra out of the way, even as gunfire erupted around them. He pulled out the Desert Eagle but held off firing, knowing that with all the flashes, finding a target took more patience. “Stay here and stay down,” he snapped at her.

  He moved quickly between the rows of crates. The warehouse was so packed that some rows were difficult to move through.

  “Every warehouse has rats,” Salerno called out. “You’ve just got to flush them out and kill them.”

  The Executioner kept his silence, knowing that to reply would give away his position. At the same time, because of Salerno’s need for discourse, he knew that the man was above him, up near the offices. Bolan slipped around another stack of crates and waited.

  “Lou, turn on the lights,” Salerno said.

  Bolan fired immediately, the Desert Eagle sounding like a cannon in the dark. The overhead fluorescents came on just in time for him to see Salerno topple over, yelling in pain. It hadn’t been a kill shot, but a .44-caliber round in the shoulder was pretty attention getting all on its own.

  “Your brother’s dead, Victor,” Bolan called. “Guess who’s next?” He immediately changed position, running down a long, narrow row of crates.

  Gunfire followed his steps, and he knew that the shooters were up on the catwalks above. He found a shadowed area and paused, looking for a path back to the door, where he’d seen the stairs going up to the catwalk when they came in.

  “Marshal,” Sandra whispered, coming up behind him.

  Bolan spun and nearly put a round in her. “I told you to stay put,” he said. “Did you think they wouldn’t shoot you, too?”

  She shook her head. “I swear this wasn’t a setup,” she said. “Follow me and we can get out of here.”

  “How do you know your way around here?”

  “I’ve been here with Trenton before. He was looking at a FEMA contract and trying to get a mess straightened out. Really, we’re not all as bad as you think.”

  “What makes you think I want to get out?” Bolan asked. “I want to get up there.” He gestured overhead.

  “Fine,” she said. “The stairs are by the door anyway.” She turned and started moving down one of the narrow rows.

  Though he still doubted her, Bolan felt like his choices were limited. Letting Sandra go off by herself was probably the best choice, since he still thought she knew more than she was saying. On the other hand, following her was likely to end up with him getting killed. “Perfect,” he said.

  He turned to follow her, waiting for another round of gunfire. The silence was almost as bad, and he wondered how many men were up there. At least three or four more men judging by the shots fired. But Salerno was down, at least for the day, and maybe longer. Sandra turned down another row and Bolan followed, glancing back and behind, to make sure no one was sighting in.

  In front of him, the row of crates widened into a open area. Sandra had come to a halt in midstride as several men came forward pointing their weapons. “Don’t move,” one of them said. He was an obese man who was sweating profusely.

  Sandra turned to look back at Bolan, and the fat man said, “I mean it.” She froze and he laughed.

  Bolan took a few steps forward. “You don’t need her,” he said. “It’s me you want.”

  “You’re right,” he replied. “I didn’t mean you, you dumb broad. She’s Victor’s girl, so I’ll let him decide what to do with her. It was you I meant.”

  Bolan shook his head disgustedly as Sandra turned and began backing away from him. “Is Vic okay?” she asked.

  “He’ll live,” the man said. “Unlike your friend the marshal here.”

  Bolan didn’t reply, just looked and waited for his opening. It was coming, and he tensed, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  “I knew I should have left you behind,” he said to Sandra. “You’ve been in it from the beginning. You know they probably still killed your brother, right?”

  “I just help when Vic needs me,” she said.

  “And what about your brother?”

  “My brother is none of your business.”

  He ignored her. “What’s your story, tough guy?” Bolan asked the fat man. “Got a name?”

  “Several, but none you’d have heard. I work for Victor.”

  Bolan sneered. “I can’t call you late for dinner, that’s obvious.”

  The man laughed. “You’re funny, Cooper. A real comedian. You won’t be laughing so much when Mr. Costello gets done with you. He likes to play with his new arrivals. Plus, I figure he’s got to be tired of that other guy anyway.”

  “There’s not much to laugh about where Mr. Costello is concerned,” Bolan replied. “Killing is a serious business, and I plan to work extra hard to make sure he’s bankrupt. You should watch how much fun you’re having with the ‘other guy,’ it’s likely to come back and bite you in the ass.”

  A soft step from behind was all the warning he received, and Bolan tried to turn, but he wasn’t quite fas
t enough. The heavy rubber mallet slammed into the side of his head, and he saw stars as he went down. Standing over him was Salerno, blood still flowing from the graze on his shoulder. Bolan tried to lever himself back up, but couldn’t manage to find his feet.

  “You’re done, tough guy,” Salerno said, raising the mallet.

  Dazed, Bolan raised a hand to block it, but never saw the fat man’s booted foot as it smashed into his temple. The world went dark.

  6

  The Executioner woke to the hum of a mosquito swarm, the distant drone of an airboat, and the sure knowledge that he was in serious trouble. His head was pounding with every beat of his heart. His hands and feet were tied together, and he was strung up between two willow trees that were slowly bending with his weight. Blood dripped from the cut on his scalp into the water below, carrying his scent to the alligators that infested the area.

  Trying not to move, Bolan scanned the water, looking for the telltale ripples that would indicate an approaching gator. Sure enough, he spotted several slowly closing in on him. For the moment, he was high enough from the ground that he would be safe, but eventually the trees would give way and he’d either be in the water or close enough that it wouldn’t matter. Tied up as Bolan was, he couldn’t even try to fight them off with a makeshift weapon.

  Behind the veil of Spanish moss, the sound of the airboat grew closer, but Bolan didn’t know if this was a friend or, more likely, another enemy, either set on killing him or just arriving to watch the gator show. One gator was becoming more curious. From the soldier’s perspective the silhouette in the water looked about fourteen feet long. As the animal swam around the area that Bolan was hanging, a trickle of blood hit the water in front of it. The large jaws snapped out and slashed through the murky water. The tree limbs creaked under Bolan’s weight and movement as he tried to inch his body away from the reptile. The big American’s arms ached with the strain of his own weight.