Shadow Hunt

by Don Pendleton

  “I think you’re a lying bastard,” Bolan said, and with a kick he took out Lacroix’s knee from under him. The man splashed into the water, then got to his knees, but froze when he felt the blade touch his face once more. The cut had opened wider in the short struggle and blood was dripping freely, while Lacroix’s face was about six inches from the water.

  “Okay, okay!” he said. “I killed Smythe. He was a problem and wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

  “Where’s the proof?” Bolan asked.

  Lacroix sagged as the confession ran out of him. “The body was moved in my car first. You can check it out yourself.”

  “Tell me about Costello,” Bolan said. “What’s his game?”

  “He moves stuff,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, drugs maybe.”

  Bolan pushed the chief’s head all the way into the murky water, then pulled him back up, sputtering.

  “You know more than that,” he said. “Guess it’s scalping time. Those bleed like a sieve.”

  “Guns! Guns!” Lacroix screeched. “He moves guns.”

  Bolan stepped back and dragged the man onto shore where he collapsed, then turned to the trees. “You get all that Agent Black?”

  Black stepped out from his cover and put cuffs on Lacroix. “I got every word,” the FBI agent said. “It’s a good start.”

  “It’s not enough,” Bolan said. “How long can you keep this quiet?’

  “Why?” Black asked. “Let’s just arrest these guys.”

  “If we move in now, then we lose Costello, and Rio will be dead for sure. Give me twenty-four hours.”

  Black shook his head. “I can give you twelve, but twenty-four is probably too long. I can try, but people are going to notice that the chief of police is missing.”

  Bolan thought about it for a minute, then said, “Have someone call in on his behalf. Tell his office that he’s helping in a federal investigation and will check in as soon as he can.”

  “That might buy us some time,” Black said. “I still don’t think we’ll get twenty-four out of it, though.”

  “Neither do I,” Bolan said. “But it will make some of the people likely to hear it very, very nervous.”

  The agent caught on and smiled at the man. “I like the way you think,” he said.

  “Me, too,” Bolan replied, then looked down at his watch. “I’ve got to keep moving. You can handle this from here?” He nudged Lacroix with the toe of his boot.

  “Just like any other sack of trash,” he said. “Except I’m bringing it in instead of taking it out.”

  9

  The news wasn’t good, and the longer Nick Costello listened to his informant over the phone, the angrier he became. Across the room, Victor Salerno’s face was impassive. Pushed to his limit, Nick said, “Just find the son of a bitch, you idiot! Find him and bring him in! You’re a cop, for God’s sake.”

  Then he turned and threw his cell phone across the room with all his strength. It shattered on the wall, littering the tile floor with sharp shards of plastic. The detectives who had attempted to take Marshal Cooper into custody with Lacroix had reported back the failed attempt and then idiotically left the chief unprotected. Several hours later, Lacroix was apparently in FBI custody, arrested by an agent Nick had never heard of. Of course, the official story was that he was assisting in an investigation, but Nick had contacts at the FBI office in the city and he already knew that Lacroix was being grilled and would likely be charged.

  He lit another cigarette from the nearly depleted pack and paced back and forth, leaving a trail of smoke as he went. This entire situation seemed outrageous to Nick. How could one man cause so much trouble? He took another drag from the cigarette, then crushed it out in an ashtray on the counter. He turned to Salerno.

  “We’ve got to get this situation under control immediately. I’ve got a feeling that things are spinning out of control, and I don’t like it. Rio needs to talk, and he needs to talk now. If we can’t get those weapons moved, we’re well and truly fucked.”

  “So let’s make him talk,” Salerno said. “And stop screwing around with it.”

  They moved quickly through the main house and back down to the game room. Rio remained chained to the table, the handle of the knife still sticking out from his knee. He saw them enter the room and turned his head away. Exhaustion marked his face.

  Nick stared at him for a moment and felt all his earlier rage return, and then it boiled over into an angry scream.

  “You’re going to talk this time, tough guy,” he said when he calmed slightly. “You’re going to tell me everything or the Devil can take you.”

  AFTER HE LEFT Black, Bolan returned to the city and picked up his vehicle once more. With Smythe dead, his next best source of information was Sandra. But he didn’t have the first clue as to where she might be. After giving it some thought, he looked up the address for the city morgue on the built-in GPS in the SUV. Smythe’s body was most likely there, awaiting a full autopsy, and if Sandra had been notified, he might find her there. Considering how his luck had run so far in this city, he didn’t hold out much hope, but it was the best shot he had at the moment.

  Bolan parked the SUV and crossed the busy street. The main city morgue was a brown nondescript facility. As he entered the main doors, he noted that it was also a busy place, with plenty of civilians waiting to begin dealing with the machinery of death. The staff looked overworked and overwhelmed, and Bolan guessed that there was still plenty of Katrina aftermath they were dealing with. He moved down a narrow hallway where people sat and waited to identify bodies. Not seeing Sandra there, he turned the corner and nearly ran into her coming back from an office down the hall. Her head was lowered, and she looked pale and ill. She didn’t notice Bolan until he was right in front of her.

  “Pardon me,” she started to say, then looked up, her eyes widening.

  “Hello, Sandra,” Bolan said, moving in close enough for the threat in his voice to be clear. “We need to have a talk, don’t you think?”

  She started to turn, and Bolan easily caught her by the arm. He didn’t like using violence or even the threat of violence with women, but whatever game this woman had been involved in had resulted in two attempts on his life, and he was running out of time and patience. Whatever she knew, she was going to talk.

  She struggled briefly in his grasp, still trying to run, and Bolan spun her around and up against the wall with enough force to stop her struggles. “I’ve killed people for less than what you’ve done to me,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” Sandra said, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “What does it matter anymore? He’s dead.”

  She started to cry and tried to turn away, but Bolan wasn’t planning on falling for any more ploys. Pretty or not, she was in this up to her eyeballs and he was going to find out what she knew.

  “I know Trenton’s dead,” he said. “That’s what happens when you get involved with the Mafia. Why don’t you tell me what you know so I can put a stop to them for good?”

  “I overheard a detective say that you killed him!” she gritted, her sorrow turning to anger in a split second.

  “If I killed him, why would I show up here?” Bolan asked. “Lacroix killed him.” He let go of her arm, and she yanked it away.

  As Sandra pulled a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her tear-streaked face, Bolan decided to try a different approach. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “Death is a hard thing.”

  She looked at him, then nodded and moved to a nearby chair where she sat down bonelessly. He could see the dark circles under her eyes and a faint bruise across the side of her cheek. “Talk to me, Sandra,” he said. “Please.”

  The woman was silent for a moment longer, then took a deep, wavering breath, nodded to herself and laughed weakly. “My brother is—was—an idiot. Once Costello got to him, Trenton couldn’t see that it would end badly. All he could see were Costello’s big plans and how muc
h money he would be paid to help out.”

  “What was Costello planning that had him so excited?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, “but Trenton kept saying that we were going to be rich and that he would be able to take me away from here.”

  Bolan watched her carefully, then said, “I think you’re lying to me. You know more than you’re saying.”

  “Think what you want. All we talked about was getting out of New Orleans. Trenton said we could go to the Mediterranean or the Caribbean and spend the rest of our lives soaking up the sun on some beach. He said we’d be safe there, and that we’d never come back to this horrible city again.” She sniffled once more. “He could only see the money Costello was paying him, but not the cost.”

  “You had to know he’d gotten himself into something criminal. He was in the dirt up to his armpits. Why didn’t you get involved or turn him in?” he asked.

  “He’s my brother,” she said. “You don’t rat out your brother.” She shrugged. “Besides, this is New Orleans, and there’s no such thing as clean. Not before the hurricane and certainly not after. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  “I’m getting there,” Bolan said, then stopped and looked at her. He thought about all the things he’d discovered about New Orleans and what he knew about the woman sitting in the city morgue after having seen her brother’s dead body with his brains blown out. Anyone could fall prey to greed, especially secondhand. Had her involvement been indirect until the warehouse scene?

  “Why did you help Costello and Salerno by leading me to the warehouse?” he asked.

  “I was dating Victor off and on for the past few months,” she admitted. “He’s very possessive, and he told me that if I helped him, then he would make sure Trenton was taken care of.” The implications of his words caught her, and she sobbed once. “I guess he kept his word. I really thought he would help us. I was a fool. Not that you believe anything that I say, and I really don’t blame you.”

  “I don’t trust you,” he said. “Not yet. But tell me what you do know, and I’ll do what I can to help your case.”

  “My case?” she asked. “What case?”

  “The case that will be filed against you when all of this comes out,” he said. “You’ll be arrested, and at the very least charged with conspiracy. And since people like Costello aren’t interested in helping out people like you, you’ll either die in jail or be sent to prison for years.”

  Sandra stared at him for several long seconds, then barked out a laugh. “Wow,” she said when she caught her breath, “you don’t pull punches, do you?”

  “I find it saves time,” Bolan said. “So, will you tell me what you know or should I just haul you in right now?”

  “I tried to get you killed. Why would you help me?”

  “Because sometimes people get into situations that they can’t see a good way out of, and I believe that’s what you did. So, do you know something that can help?”

  She blew her nose and then nodded. “The bank,” she said.

  “What about the bank?”

  “Trenton told me that if anything ever happened to him, I was to get the key for his safe-deposit box and take what I found there. He said it would help me. I always thought it would be money to help me get away, but maybe it’s something else.”

  Bolan reached down and pulled her to her feet. “If you’re lying to me or if this is another setup…” he growled.

  “I’m not!” she said. “What do I have to gain by lying? I’m scared, Marshal Cooper. I’ll help if I can. I think I’m a dead woman anyway.”

  Bolan watched her body language carefully, looking for signs that she was lying or hiding something, but didn’t detect anything. “All right,” he said. “My gut says you’re telling the truth, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be wrong. You don’t get another chance. The second you show that you’re still playing both sides, I’ll drop you like a rabid dog.”

  She nodded her head back and forth so fast it looked like she was having a seizure. “Yes, yes, I understand, I mean, I won’t, it’s not…” She was starting to babble.

  “Let’s go to the bank, Sandra,” he said. “Maybe what we find will save your life.”

  THE BANK Trenton Smythe used was close enough that they didn’t have to drive. Bolan left his SUV where he’d parked it, and they walked after Sandra admitted to having the key to the safe-deposit box in her purse.

  “You were headed there next, weren’t you?” Bolan asked. “Take the money and run, right?”

  “What would you do in my place?” she snapped.

  She had a point, Bolan thought, so he kept silent the rest of the way, watching her and keeping his eyes open for any hint of betrayal. This was a woman being pulled in multiple directions, so there was no predicting which way she’d eventually go. They reached the bank without incident. Bolan held the door open for her and they walked inside. The bank was fairly busy, with people coming and going, making it difficult to watch for traps. It was a risk he’d have to take, he knew. The Executioner was out of leads, and the safe-deposit box was the only game in town.

  The lazy late-afternoon sun was slowly setting, and the humid warmth of the day made people move with a languid pace that was almost infuriating. Sandra pulled the key from her purse and walked to the desk of one of the account executives. The man recognized her immediately and pulled her into a tight hug. Sandra cried briefly in his arms but finally pushed away.

  “So you’ve heard, Bradley,” she said.

  “Of course,” the man named Bradley replied. “It’s all over the news.”

  “I haven’t seen it yet,” she said. She held up the key. “Trenton said that I would need to get into his safe-deposit box right away if something ever happened to him and that I was authorized. I know it seems insensitive, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t have told me that unless it was important.”

  “Perhaps he updated his will,” the man guessed. “Or has some other documents that will help you in this difficult time.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m just doing what he wanted me to do.”

  “Of course,” Bradley said. “Right this way.” He paused and gave Bolan the once-over. “Does your friend want to wait in the lobby?”

  Bolan glared at her.

  “No, that’s not necessary,” she said. “I want him with me for this.”

  They followed Bradley into the vault after he’d retrieved the necessary master key. Then he slid his key into the lock, and Sandra followed with hers. She removed the box, and he led them to a small separate room for privacy.

  “If you need anything else or if there’s anything I can do, let me know,” he said, and when Sandra thanked him, Bradley left them in peace.

  Sandra opened the box, while Bolan looked on. Inside was a small stack of cash, maybe a total of five thousand dollars, and an envelope. He nodded and she pulled out the cash and the envelope. Before she could say or do anything else, Bolan reached forward and plucked the envelope out of her hand, opened it and a small flash drive slipped onto the table. It was marked as a two gigabyte drive, which was a lot of data.

  “What do you think’s on it?” she asked.

  “Hopefully something that will help get you out of this mess and give me the information I need.” He considered his situation for several moments, then said, “I’m going to have to go back to my hotel. I hid my computer there, and there’s a good chance the cops didn’t find it.”

  “Why not just use any computer?” she asked. “There’s an internet café right down the street!”

  “Because your brother wasn’t dumb enough to leave this information unencrypted,” Bolan said, slipping the drive into his pocket. “I’m going to need some special software to read the information that’s on it.”

  She looked like she wanted to protest, but before she could say anything Bolan told her they were done and it was time to get moving. Looking dejected, Sandra closed the box and zipped up her purse with the cas
h safely tucked inside.

  They walked out of the vault and saw that several police cars had pulled up outside the bank, their lights flashing. Bradley stepped up to them and smiled.

  “I think the officers outside would like to have a word with your friend, Sandra,” he said. “Maybe you should wait here with me.”

  10

  “Bradley, what have you done?” Sandra asked.

  “I knew something was wrong when I saw how this man was treating you,” he said defensively. “I suspected he was forcing you to open your brother’s safe-deposit box.”

  Bolan shot a look at Sandra. “Don’t blame me,” she said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Well, Bradley, it appears you’ve stuck your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” Bolan said. Without warning, he reached out with one long arm and grabbed Bradley by the back of his collar, turned him around and pushed him in front of them as they moved toward the bank lobby.

  “Come on,” he said to Sandra. “We’ve got to move!”

  “To where?” she asked, following in his wake.

  Bolan kept his own counsel until they reached the lobby, which had emptied out in a hurry. The last few customers were running for the doors, not knowing what was going on, but inspired by the sudden appearance of several police cars sprouting flashing lights, wailing sirens and armed law enforcement. Not even slowing, the soldier moved toward the exit.

  “Are you crazy?” she yelled. “We can’t go out there unarmed!”

  “Who said I was unarmed?” he muttered, then turned and added, “Stay behind me and keep up. If you fall behind, they’ll gun you down in a second.”

  Shoving the terrified Bradley out the door in front of him with his left hand, Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle out of its holster rig with his right. There were enough people around to create an almost perfect phalanx of bodies in front of him, and the cops hadn’t yet spotted him when he opened fire.