Shadow Hunt

by Don Pendleton

  He slipped the drive into an open USB port and waited for his system to access it, and create a file folder on his desktop. Before Black even opened the contents, he made a copy and shipped it to an off-site server storage that he paid for out of his own pocket. He suspected that Costello had people on his payroll in the FBI office, and he didn’t want to risk whatever the contents were on a single system. Once he’d confirmed the transfer, he took a deep breath and opened the folder. There were about a dozen individual files, most of them spreadsheets. He clicked on the one labeled FINANCIALS and began to read.

  After several minutes, Black selected the most recent one, which was labeled SHIPPING. Once he’d scanned the contents of that one, he shook his head in disbelief. There was enough in the financials file alone to put Costello and Lacroix and almost everyone else connected to them away for a long, long time. Bribes, payoffs, account numbers, holding company names. It was all there in black and white, and the FBI agent wondered if Smythe was braver than anyone had given him credit for. If Costello had known how much Smythe knew… Black shook his head once more.

  The shipping file was the most worrisome. It was clear that Costello was not only stealing FEMA supplies and then charging the government for its own materials, but he was also doing a booming business in illegal weapons. There was a key on the bottom of the page indicating what each crate was labeled and what it actually contained. Almost all of the weapons were either Israeli or Russian, which seemed very odd, considering Costello’s Italian connections.

  Still, Black had more than enough to start making arrests. Lots of arrests. He closed the file windows and sat back in his chair. With a little luck, busting this case would be enough to get him a transfer to a better office—maybe someplace less humid. None of it would matter, he reminded himself, if he couldn’t actually make the arrests and get the bad guys and the evidence into court. The connections to Israel and Russia gave the whole thing international implications, too, and if he ever wanted a promotion out of here, he was going to have to get started. The real work was only beginning.

  He picked up the black phone on his desk and punched the button for his boss’s office. When he answered, Black said, “Glad you’re still in, sir. I have something very interesting.”

  “I was just about to go home, Agent Black,” Len Perotti said. “What is it?”

  “I just received enough evidence to put Costello, Lacroix and everyone connected to them away for the rest of their lives. This is the break we’ve been looking for in these cases.”

  “Are you certain?” he snapped. “I don’t want us going off on some kind of wild-goose chase. We’ve got enough real cases, you know.”

  “Sir, I know you’re mad as hell about my bringing Lacroix in, but I heard him confess to murder. And we’ve been looking for something solid on Costello for a long time. Trust me. There’s more than enough here to put them all away for good. I have financial information and details on their weapons smuggling. This is the real deal, sir.”

  “All right,” Perotti said. “Send it to my screen and let me have a look at it.”

  “Right away,” he said.

  “Oh, and Agent Black?”

  “Sir?”

  “Until I’ve had a chance to look at what you’ve got, you keep quiet and stay in the office. Until you hear back from me, I don’t want you doing a thing. If what you’ve got is as big as you think, we want to plan our next steps very carefully.”

  “I understand, sir,” Black said, then hung up the phone. He set up the file transfer on his computer and sent the decrypted files directly to his boss’s screen. Black took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his pinstriped dress shirt. He started pulling out maps and the other things he would need for the briefing. Hopefully, they’d be able to find a judge willing to issue warrants this night.

  REMY PULLED OUT a map of the New Orleans area and spread it on the table. Bolan propped a foot on the chair, sipping his coffee as he leaned in while Remy pointed out the two most likely locations where Costello could be holding Rio.

  “The main compound is here. It’s a large place, used to be an old plantation or something. He tore down the original house and built this one, with a fenced perimeter and plenty of guards all of the time. It runs right along the swamp, and then there is the main road coming in and out that can split off pretty fast,” he said, indicating an area several miles from Remy’s shack. “That’s the most likely place.”

  “What’s the other one?” Bolan asked.

  Remy pointed to another spot on the map. “There’s been a lot of traffic in this part of the swamp,” he said. “I think it’s just a shipping point for him, but it’s possible Costello’s got a building of some kind there. I’ve never checked it out close enough to be certain, but if I had to put money on it I would say your friend is at the compound. They say he likes to make people talk, and he wouldn’t want to make the effort of traveling out into the swamp every day.”

  Bolan considered it and nodded. “I’ve known a lot of mafiosi. They like their comforts, and appearance is everything. If Rio’s still alive, he’ll be somewhere in the main compound. My guess would be that Costello’s never even been to the other place where you’ve seen his men moving about. That would actually mean getting out in the muck, and he really doesn’t sound like the type.”

  “That makes sense,” Remy said. “He’s got a real advantage in this part of the world. There are a lot of places to hide. Of course, that’s a disadvantage, too. It makes sneaking up on him that much easier.”

  Bolan smiled grimly. “Then we’ll play to that,” he said. “With any luck, we can be on top of him before he knows we’re even there.”

  “You said that the weapons were in large crates.”

  “Yeah, why?’

  Remy looked down at the map again and traced out two routes.

  “Because those would need a pretty good-size boat, and most boats with any kind of draft don’t make it through the swamp, they get hung up. Even small skiffs get abandoned regularly because they get snagged. And there aren’t a lot of people who are willing to swim under their boats here to get them loose.”

  Outside there was a quiet thud and a splash from the water.

  Remy saw his reaction. “Probably just ol’ Gramps,” he said. “Big gator that I’ve seen around here, about sixteen feet long or so. He comes by for a visit every now and again.”

  “You visit with the alligators,” he said.

  “Mostly I just try to stay out of their way,” he said. “But it never hurts to be neighborly. Besides when he’s sitting on your front steps not a whole lot of folks are going to come knocking. He’s the best kind of guard dog—I don’t feed him, never had to train him and he’ll eat most intruders.”

  Another bump was followed by a splashing sound. “That wasn’t an alligator,” Bolan whispered.

  Both men moved toward the front of the cabin, and Remy peered through the small window. Through the heavy veil of moss and hanging trees, he could see three bright floodlights attached to the front end of airboats. They were pointed down, but it still allowed him to see that they had trouble. Several dogs started howling, and he ducked back down.

  “How the hell did they find us?” Remy asked. “Not that it matters. There’s at least three airboats that just made land-fall. Men and dogs.” He shrugged. “I can’t tell if they’re law enforcement or Costello’s men.”

  “We can discuss it later,” Bolan said. “Right now we need to get the hell out. Is there any other way out of here?”

  “Yeah,” the big man said. “Get your stuff and let’s go.”

  They quickly grabbed what they needed, then moved into the small kitchen area. Remy slid the table aside, and kicked the area rug beneath it out of the way. Bolan saw that he’d revealed yet another trapdoor, not unlike the one where he kept his extra weapons. But this one was a tunnel.

  “Perfect,” Bolan started to say, then looked closer. It was filled with water. “Okay, l
ess than perfect.”

  Bolan pulled open the door and leaned back when the water splashed.

  “It’s a water tunnel,” Remy rumbled. “Hope you’re a good swimmer.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Bolan asked.

  “Not really,” he replied.

  Remy moved away from the trapdoor and lifted a floor panel in the kitchen. Inside were two car batteries, a timer and a set of wires. Remy connected the wires and the timer to the batteries, then said, “I’m ready.”

  Bolan raised an eyebrow with the unspoken question and he added, “Just a couple of surprises for our friends.”

  THE HAZE THAT HAD finally and blessedly taken Rio into painless oblivion began to dissipate. His eyes flickered open and while a part of him desperately wanted to fade back into that place, he forced himself to open them all the way and wake up. He peered around the room and saw that it was empty, and he didn’t hear anyone on the steps or walking the floor above his head. Part of him was blissfully aware that the torture was not about to begin again, but the tired part of his soul wished that they would just kill him if that was what they were planning to do. Rio shook his head trying to physically remove the depressing thoughts. He was never one to sit and feel sorry for himself, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  The marshal tried moving his wrists, but found they were still tied. He twisted his left wrist, trying to adjust his position, and realized that hand was nearly loose. The sweat and blood and his thrashing had loosened and stretched the heavy binding. He moved the hand again to test the mobility, and with each movement the restraint seemed to loosen a little more. Finally fully conscious, he looked at the rope and began to maneuver his wrist back and forth, looking for the one motion that would free his hand. Finally the rope gave enough to slide his fist through. That gave him enough freedom to roll onto his side and reach his right hand, which he quickly freed.

  Suddenly desperate for speed, Rio sat up and untied his feet, then swung his legs off the table and tried to stand. He almost immediately crumpled to the ground. His head spun, and his devastated knee wouldn’t support his weight. He had to shake off the darkness that tried to ensnare him again. Over the past few days the blackouts had been a mercy, but this was not the time to succumb to oblivion. His clothing was in a heap on the floor, and he dragged himself over to the small pile and got dressed. He started feeling more human the minute the cotton touched his skin.

  Using the stainless-steel table he’d been tortured on, he pulled himself up, but couldn’t bear weight on his injured leg. Rio looked around the room for something to support himself with, but found nothing. Knowing he had no choice and that time was crucial, he eased himself back to the floor and began to crawl, dragging his leg behind him, each movement a special agony. When he reached the stairs, he was covered in sweat, but he forced himself to keep going. Using the handrail to support himself, he got to his feet once more and propelled his battered body up the stairs. At the top he paused, listening for any sound from his captors, but the house remained silent and still.

  Rio opened the door and entered a kitchen area, strangely pleased to find that there was a chair close enough to use as a pseudo-walker. He grabbed hold of it and made his way to the refrigerator. Inside, there was bottled water. He took one and drank it almost without stopping. His body was crying out for more, but he resisted, knowing that he’d already consumed too much, too fast. He dug through the refrigerator and found some sliced roast beef and cheese, both of which he took, along with another bottle of water. He ate quickly, gobbling down the food and more water as fast as he could. He knew he shouldn’t delay making his escape, but his body needed sustenance. Costello hadn’t been a very generous host and had little interest in feeding or giving a beverage to his game room guest.

  As soon as he finished, Rio used the chair to get to the back door, which led out of the kitchen and into a small patio area. There was a short spade shovel leaning against the house, and Rio grabbed it and used it as a makeshift cane. Keeping as much of his weight as possible off his injured knee, he moved away from the house and into the trees surrounding the property. Most of them were some kind of willow or Spanish moss and as soon as he reached cover, he stopped again to rest. Several times, his overburdened stomach threatened to rebel, but Rio forced himself to breath and keep everything down. He was going to need all his strength. The area looked remote and the trees quickly turned into swamp.

  Sudden shouts made him flinch. His absence had been discovered! His heart raced as he saw men running into the compound. There was no way for him to use the small, single lane road that led away from the property.

  His only choice was to go into the swamp and pray he could make it out alive.

  14

  “How long before they get here?” Bolan asked, just on the verge of going through the trapdoor.

  Remy walked back over to the window and took another quick look. “They’re moving pretty slow, being cautious. Five minutes, maybe a little longer. Why?”

  “We need time to get through the tunnel,” Bolan said. “And it wouldn’t hurt to thin their ranks a little either.”

  Remy grinned. “What’d you have in mind?” he asked. Bolan quickly sketched his idea and they agreed. Remy disconnected the timer from his “surprise,” and then they slipped out of the shack and into the darkness, with each of them taking a slightly different angle toward the men starting to spread out on the thin strip of land to begin their search.

  Bolan’s idea was simple. If he and Remy came at them from each side, taking out those on the edge of the search party, it would quickly cause chaos and confusion. They’d have to reel everyone in closer, which in turn would cause them to be more bunched up when they reached the shack. With any luck at all, there wouldn’t be anyone left to pursue them.

  Bolan crept through the trees, letting the hanging branches and moss do most of the work of keeping him concealed. He could hear the quiet whispers of the men as they tried to get organized to sweep the island. He moved in closer and paused, letting his eyes adjust and pick out the forms. They had three or four dogs, which could be a problem, but the air was humid and the swamp filled with swirling scents.

  He looked at his watch and checked the time. Bolan figured that Remy should be in position on the far right end of their line, so he moved silently down to the far left. As he moved in, Bolan realized that the men were a mix of off-duty law enforcement and typical Mafia enforcers, most of whom looked really out of their element in the swamp. A voice called from the center of the line for everyone to get ready.

  Bolan stopped. The voice was familiar, and it took him a moment to place it—Victor Salerno. He silently cursed that the man was in the middle of the line. Getting to him might still be possible, but more than likely, it would ruin the plan he and Remy had already agreed on.

  The man closest to Bolan was staring back toward the center of the line, waiting for the go order. The next closest was a good ten, maybe twelve feet away. Bolan moved down to the edge of the water. He heard a hiss and another splash, and turned to see ol’ Gramps slink into the water. Bolan then moved up and crept behind the man. In a flash, he yanked him backward, plunging the SEAL Combat Knife up and between his ribs. The man let out a soft, surprised grunt, but no more as the air leaked out of his lungs and the blade pierced his heart.

  With a final, savage twist of the blade, Bolan turned his nameless foe loose, dropping him into the water. Ol’ Gramps moved in and found his dinner, his large jaws wrapping around the man’s limp leg and pulling him underwater. Using the darkness as cover, Bolan moved away.

  The next man in line turned to the sound. “Tommy, you all right?” he whispered, taking several steps in that direction. His stylish clothes were out of place, and ruined by the swamp. With each step he looked back down at his feet mumbling about the injustice of his shoes getting ruined.

  When there wasn’t an answer, he moved closer to the water again. “Tommy?”

  Bolan moved once more,
this time coming in from the side. The blade flashed once, opening up a long gash in the man’s throat and severing his windpipe. He tried to scream for help, holding his hands up to his throat, his eyes wide with shock. Dispassionately, Bolan stepped away as his second victim fell dead into the water. Ol’ Gramps was going to have more than one course for dinner.

  That was two, he thought, and if Remy was making similar progress, they’d already cut the group down by four and possibly more. Bolan estimated that there were less than twenty total men in the search party, so the odds were evening up slightly. He moved in to the next closest man, but this one was more aware, and was already peering into the darkness, wondering what the splashing sounds had been and where his two missing allies had gone.

  The guy was backlit from the floodlights pointing at the ground. Bolan saw him open his mouth to shout a warning and decided that they’d run out of time. He drew the Desert Eagle, took aim and fired. The weapon roared his presence, the shot echoing over the water and into the swamp. The nameless thug made a brief squawking sound, his hands fluttering at the hole in his chest, then he fell dead.

  “What the…” someone nearby shouted.

  Salerno yelled out, “It’s them! Open fire!”

  Of course, there was nothing to see to open fire on, but those with Salerno gamely tried, shooting randomly and at shadows among the trees. Bolan thought he heard the sound of Remy’s MK23 mixed in, and wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised. He moved away quickly, making his way back to the shack. At the landing, he could still hear Salerno yelling and cursing, calling for the men to come in closer so they could do a head count.