Shadow Hunt

by Don Pendleton

  His first round boomed over Bradley’s ear and the man screamed again, trying to fall to the ground, but Bolan held him upright. The .44-caliber round slammed into the windshield of a police cruiser, spraying safety glass. There was a moment of pure, almost clean silence, before all hell really broke loose.

  The customers fleeing the bank began screaming and running in all directions, while the police tried desperately to find a target in the wave of people. Bolan was grateful they didn’t fire, but it was a calculated risk at best. Maybe his luck was finally turning for the better. They reached the corner of the building and went around it, then Bolan stopped.

  “Hold here one moment,” he said to Sandra.

  He yanked the nearly limp Bradley to his feet and spun him. “You nearly got a lot of innocent people killed,” he said. The man stammered an explanation, white-faced, and Bolan shook his head in disgust.

  “Get out of here,” he said, shoving the man back in the direction of the bank. Bradley stumbled, nearly fell, found his feet and ran like the Devil was chasing him.

  Bolan risked a quick look around the corner and saw several cops heading their way. “Time to go,” he said, grabbing Sandra’s hand. They’d almost made the end of the alley when the cops began firing. Bolan spun and fired several rounds of cover fire as they went around the corner, running for their lives.

  With Bolan leading the way, they quickly disappeared into the numerous alleyways in the French Quarter. He didn’t think the police would chase them for an extended period of time, and he was right. He came to a stop and told Sandra to catch her breath. Somehow, she’d managed to keep up and keep her mouth shut the whole time—Bolan’s assessment of her went up a notch.

  Once her breathing was under control, Sandra knelt and leaned against a wall. “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “We’ve got to find out what’s on that flash drive,” Bolan said. “Which means getting my computer back.”

  “And you’re sure we can’t open it on any other computer?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But like I said, your brother wasn’t an idiot. My guess is that he knew you’d want to use this as a bargaining chip with the authorities if something happened to him. He had to have known that there was no way Salerno or Costello would let you go, but he also had to protect what was on here in case one of them somehow got hold of it. I’m betting the files are heavily encrypted, which means we need my computer.”

  “How are you going to do that? Every cop in New Orleans is looking for you.”

  “I have a friend,” he said.

  Bolan pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number Remy had given him. After a few rings, the ex-Navy SEAL answered. Bolan quickly filled him in on the situation and the help he needed.

  “The sun goes down in about a half hour or so,” Remy told him. “I’ll need an hour, maybe a little longer, after that to get it done.”

  “That works for me,” Bolan said. “Call when you’ve got it and we’ll set up a meet.”

  “Done,” Remy said, then broke the connection.

  Sandra had heard only Bolan’s side of the conversation, but seemed satisfied that he’d arranged something. “What next?” she asked.

  “We eat,” Bolan said. “I’m starved.”

  “How can you eat at a time like this?” she asked.

  “Because I’m hungry,” he said. “Do you know a place nearby?”

  “Are you serious?” she asked. “We’re wanted. Everyone’s looking for us. Someone will see us and tell Costello, and then he will come and we will be dead.” She’d started babbling again, and Bolan sighed.

  “People see what they want to see,” he said. “What they expect to see. You don’t think they have wanted posters of us in the restaurant, do you? We’ll be fine. Now, where’s a decent place to eat?”

  THE RESTAURANT she took him to wasn’t particularly fancy, but the moment Bolan opened the door, he felt his stomach rumble. It smelled great. He picked out a booth near the back, and after brief stops in the restroom to clean up, both of them got comfortable. To any outside observer, they’d look like an ordinary couple having dinner. Bolan had learned long ago that skipping meals wasn’t something a man could do consistently and still perform at a high level. He also knew that what he’d said to Sandra was true. People saw what they wanted and expected to see. Sitting in a diner, people weren’t looking for fugitives from justice. Not even police officers typically did that, though they did tend to be a bit more observant than the average patron.

  Both of them ordered deep-fried soft-shell crabs, with a cup of crawfish-and-sausage gumbo on the side. The server took their order, brought out water and a loaf of bread and told them their food would be ready shortly. They remained silent, each wrapped up in his or her own thoughts, until their meal arrived. Bolan ordered a cold beer to go with his, and Sandra did the same, picking out a local amber brew she’d had before.

  “So tell me more about the old Mob Family that used to populate New Orleans.”

  “What else do you want to know?”

  “I want to know why you know. Are you a history major or something?”

  “No. I work in a bank downtown. I help people get mortgages. Very boring. I started researching the crime stuff when I realized that something was off. You see things on TV and they seem so glamorous. The reason I remembered the barrel murder was because it was about the most unglamorous way to die I had ever read. But the whole thing seems weird, you know?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Matrangas were in power for so long and had bumped their only rival. With them out of the way, you would think that the official activity would have happened sooner than Costello. I don’t know. I think the timing after the storm and the whole thing is interesting. Maybe he was just looking for an opening to start the business up.”

  Still, Sandra remained stiff and stopped talking while they ate. He thought about what she said. The timing of the resurgence was convenient to say the least. With the federal supports coming in, one would think it would be less likely for organized crime to rear its ugly head. Bolan finished his main course, then ordered a piece of key lime pie and coffee. As he finished, he noticed she was staring at him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You’ve got quite an appetite,” she said. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a grown man put away that much food in one sitting.”

  He’d noticed that her plate was still more than half-full when the server took it away. Now she was gingerly sipping at a glass of iced tea. “It’s been a long couple of days,” he said quietly. “Food is the source of strength and energy, and I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to eat again.”

  She nodded, but he could tell her thoughts were elsewhere. He let her work herself up to it, and she finally said, “So tell me about yourself Marshal Cooper.”

  “No,” he said shortly. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “You’ve dragged me through a shootout with the police and, however you spin it, my brother is dead because you were poking around down here. The least you could do is tell me something about the man responsible for so much misery.”

  Bolan sighed. “Look, Sandra. We aren’t friends, and I’m keeping you with me because until this is over, I’m your best chance of staying alive long enough to get out of the mess you’re in. I’m sorry about your brother, but he got himself killed by willfully getting involved with the wrong sort of people. And the only person causing real misery down here is Costello. This little organization he has going on is wrecking a lot of lives. And your brother—whether you admit it or not—was a big part of the reason that Costello has been able to terrorize as much as he has.” Bolan leaned back and sipped his coffee, then added, “Another thing. People keeping secrets when it might mean life or death, they’re only helping the bad guys like Costello. People like you.”

  “Me?” she asked. “I’ve told you everything.”

  “Not ev
erything,” he said.

  “So what is it you think I know?” she asked, the bitterness obvious in her voice.

  Bolan smiled grimly. “The files on that flash drive your brother left could have all kinds of protections on them—and probably do. At least one of them will be a password. I can take care of the encryption, but the password for the drive itself may be tricky. What is the password going to be?”

  “How would I know?” she asked.

  “Because he would make sure that you knew or could at least figure it out,” he said. “Was there a nickname he called you or a place where you went to camp, maybe a name that was special to the two of you?”

  Sandra blushed and took another sip of her tea.

  “See,” he said. “You do know something more. What is it?”

  “Beau Breaker,” she said, blushing furiously.

  “What?” he said.

  “Fine,” she said. “Back when I was in high school I had a lot of boyfriends. Most of the guys I dated were athletes of one kind or another. It seemed like every time I broke up with one they would, you know, end up broken in some way. But it wasn’t my fault. They’d get hurt in competition or at practice or even at home, but none of that mattered to anyone. It was just bad timing or bad luck. As I broke up with them, they’d wind up getting hurt. So I got labeled the Beau Breaker and it stuck.”

  “And you really think that would be it?”

  “Trenton wasn’t very popular, but I was,” she said. “It was a stupid kid thing. The reason I thought of it was because he used it on his work computer. He showed me last week when I stopped by for lunch to tease me. He was always a good brother even when I wasn’t a very good sister. I used to tease him in school, and I wouldn’t let him sit next to me at lunch. I don’t know, stupid thoughts on days like today.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right about the password. I don’t want to lose this evidence,” he said.

  Bolan looked at his watch, then picked up his phone and tried to call Remy. There was no answer. He hung up the phone.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Remy should have checked in already. He said an hour and a half or so, and it’s been two. I’m going to go look for him. Information travels faster than the plague in this town.”

  “Shouldn’t you give him more time?” she asked. “He’s only a half-hour late.”

  “That’s too long as it is. Guys like Remy and Rio they aren’t late…ever,” Bolan replied. “If he’s in trouble, the longer I wait, the worse things could get.” He looked at her over the rim of his coffee mug as he swallowed the last of the brew. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”

  “I’m not trying to get away,” she protested. “I already said I’d help you however I could. Why don’t you just tell me where to wait for you. That way you can focus on your friend and I don’t get shot at again today.”

  “Because,” he replied patiently, “if we’re being watched and I leave you alone, you’ll be dead, and I’d feel bad.”

  “You would not,” she accused, giving up before the argument really started.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he said, “but either way, you’re coming along.”

  11

  The alley behind the hotel was dirty and filled with trash. Rats skittered through the piles of refuse that contained everything from food to bottles to cast-off clothing and Mardi Gras beads. A rusted ladder ran up the side of the building to the roof.

  “This is where you’re staying?” Sandra asked. “Seriously?”

  “It’s cheap and anonymous,” Bolan replied, looking to the ends of the alley to make sure there weren’t any observers. “Not pretty, but then again, I’m not in a pretty line of work.” He gestured to a stack of garbage cans and pallets. “Go hide over there,” he said. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather go with you, thanks.”

  “Too bad,” he replied. “I can’t climb the ladder up to the roof, keep you from falling off when you get tired and protect us both at the same time.” He gestured in the direction of the garbage cans. “Get hidden. Now.”

  Sandra moved toward the appointed hiding place, and Bolan gripped the rusted rungs of the ladder and hauled himself upward. After seeing several likely thugs out front, he suspected his best bet was to try to reach his room from the roof. With any luck, he’d also find Remy and be able to get them both out of the situation alive.

  The building wasn’t particularly tall, but eight stories was still a long climb. Halfway up, he realized that the sounds of exertion he heard weren’t just coming from himself, and he stopped and looked down the ladder. Sandra was moving up behind him, a determined look on her face as she moved.

  “I told you to hide,” Bolan whispered.

  “I’d rather die up here than be eaten by rats,” she whispered back. “Get moving. If I stop, I’m screwed.”

  Bolan turned and kept moving—there was no time to waste arguing.

  He was almost at the top when he saw a silhouette move across the rooftop. Bolan froze, pressing himself against the ladder. Sandra had to have seen it, too, as she stopped moving and kept silent. Bolan risked a glance up and saw that the person had moved to the corner of the roof. He looked down at Sandra and said, “Stay.”

  She nodded, and he turned and slipped onto the roof. The Executioner crept behind the person and was nearly on him when the gravel under foot slid beneath his boot and gave him away. The person spun, raising a mini-Uzi from beneath his suit coat.

  Bolan didn’t hesitate. He drew the Navy SEAL knife from the sheath at his back, stepped in and drove the blade between the man’s ribs, angling it upward. His left hand moved up and covered the man’s mouth before he could utter a sound. The sentry twitched, but the struggle was almost over before it began. Bolan lowered the corpse to the roof, then turned and went back to the ladder.

  Looking down, he saw that Sandra was nowhere to be seen.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. “Where the hell is she?”

  Sandra jumped out in front of him and he leaped backward, only recognizing her at the last second. “What the hell are you doing?” he whispered.

  “Just trying to keep up—stay alive,” she replied.

  He looked at her worn face for a minute, then nodded sharply. “Come on.”

  He moved across the roof to the doorway that gave access to the building. A small pane of glass was set in the middle of the door, and Bolan risked a quick look. One short flight of steps down, two men were guarding the entrance to the floor his room was on.

  “There are two men inside on the next landing,” he said quietly to Sandra. “I’ll go through, take care of them, and you follow me.”

  She nodded in agreement and said, “Be careful,” as he braced his shoulder against the door.

  With one swift move, Bolan pushed the door open and leaped down the stairs, slamming full force into the closer man, knocking him into the concrete wall. The second man spun to face the warrior, and Bolan snapped the knife free from his boot and drove it into the man’s throat, cutting off his yell before he could voice it. The guard gurgled and clutched helplessly at his throat, dying before he hit the floor.

  The first man was getting to his feet, still trying to clear his head. Desperate to keep the noise down, Bolan moved behind him and wrapped one strong arm around his neck. The man jerked in surprise as his airway was cut off, and he thrashed back and forth, trying to escape. Tightening his grip, Bolan crossed his left arm around the man’s forehead and began to twist.

  Panicked, the guard shoved backward off the wall, using his not inconsiderable weight as ballast. Bolan held on, even as his back smashed into the concrete steps and pain ratcheted through him. He gave one final jerk and the thug’s neck snapped. The man’s bowels and bladder let go as he died, and Bolan pushed him away, grimacing in distaste.

  He turned and looked back up the stairs to see Sandra’s pale
face looking down at him.

  “You…you killed both of them,” she said.

  “Part of the job,” he said. “They would’ve done the same to me.”

  “I know that. It was just so…fast and brutal. And there were two of them!”

  “We’re not in the clear yet,” he said, stretching and rubbing the bruises he knew would be forming on his lower back. “Let’s get moving.”

  He waited for her to come down the steps, then opened the door into the hallway. His room was about halfway down, and the hall itself was empty. Bolan moved quickly to the door, motioning for Sandra to stay back and keep silent, then paused to listen. Inside, he could hear several voices, then the sound of a body absorbing a punch, followed by a soft groan of pain.

  In spite of the fact that he didn’t know Remy well, Bolan felt a wave of relief wash over him. Remy was in his current situation because he’d agreed to help him out, and dying should not have any part in that deal.

  “Stay out here,” he whispered to Sandra. “I mean it.”

  She nodded once in acceptance of the order, and Bolan had no choice but to take her at her word. Knowing a rush through the door might mean an instant death sentence for Remy, Bolan did the only thing he could think of. He knocked, rapping the heavy wood with his knuckles, then took a step back. Silence descended over the room.

  A moment passed, then an accented voice called out, “Who is it?”

  “Room service,” Bolan said. “I’ve got your order.”

  “What order?” the man said, opening the door. “We didn’t order any—”

  His words were cut-off in midsentence as Bolan stepped into the open doorway and slammed a kick into the man’s knee. He began to crumple backward and Bolan followed immediately, driving an open palm into the man’s nose, which had obviously been broken at least two or three times before. It cracked with an almost soft sound, but the blood poured freely anyway.

  “Son of a bitch!” the man shouted, his voice muffled by the hands he was holding up to his face.

  The room was too small to hide much of anything, and Remy was already on the move as soon as he saw that it was Bolan. Tied to a chair, he improvised by leaning forward, getting his feet under himself, then ramming the nearest Costello goon full speed. His head was his battering ram, and it had to have been hard because when it crashed into the man’s crotch he screamed in agony.