Shadow Hunt

by Don Pendleton

  The sound of breaking glass and tearing metal filled the air.

  He yanked the wheel back to the right, forcing that pickup off the road and into a water-filled ditch. The truck on his left smashed back into Bolan, trying to force him off the road as he’d done to the other vehicle. Bolan finally got a look at the person driving and was stunned to see it was none other than the Chief of Police Duke Lacroix.

  His eyes were wide and mad, his mouth open in a strange, haunting grin. It appeared that the man had gone completely over the edge.

  Bolan fought to keep the SUV on the road, and waited for Lacroix to try to ram him again. This time when the chief moved in, Bolan slammed on his brakes. The thrum of the antilock braking system pushed against his foot, but he fought it as hard as he could. The smell of burning rubber filled the air, and Lacroix’s pickup shot into the gap in front of the SUV.

  The Executioner didn’t hesitate but immediately floored the accelerator. The SUV leaped forward, engine revving, and slammed into the tailgate of the pickup. Bolan could see Lacroix’s right arm waving angrily, but the warrior didn’t back off. In fact, he kept his foot on the gas, pushing the pickup more and more into the narrow space of shoulder between the semi and the edge of the road.

  Looking through the cracks in his own windshield and through the front of Lacroix’s, Bolan saw what he’d been hoping to see: a large concrete piling used to hold up an overpass. Lacroix had to have seen it, too, because he suddenly slammed on his brakes. But Bolan kept his foot to the floor, and the semi started to pull ahead.

  He glanced once more through the windshield and saw Lacroix pointing his gun out the window. The chief began to fire wildly, and Bolan leaned down near the dash, leaving himself just enough visibility to see.

  Bolan mentally counted down, then stomped on the SUV’s brakes. The seat belt cut into his shoulder and pelvis as his bumper disengaged from the pickup. Tires shrieked as they closed in on the pillar. Bolan stopped just in time, but Lacroix’s vehicle didn’t have enough room to make the stop and it ran into the concrete column going about forty miles an hour. The front end of the truck exploded, and Bolan could see the air bags detonate and fill the compartment with the silvery-gray powder they contained.

  The Executioner parked on the side of the road, got out of his vehicle and walked forward. The pickup’s driver’s door sprang open and Lacroix fell out of the seat. Somehow he got to his feet, but he was a walking mess. One eye was a bloody hole, and his left arm hung loosely, the skin shredded and the bones exposed. He dragged his right leg behind him, and Bolan could see that it was twisted at the knee. Bright bloody froth ran from his mouth, which typically meant internal bleeding.

  He should’ve been dead, but he wasn’t, and as he brought his pistol to bear, Bolan realized it didn’t matter to Lacroix in the least what should be. The soldier drew his Desert Eagle and fired once, taking off the top of the man’s skull just above the eyebrows. Lacroix flew backward, and when he landed he twitched once, then was still.

  Tired and aching, Bolan got back in his battered SUV, thankful that it was still in working condition. If he hurried, he might be able to catch up with Costello and put the last player in this game out of the way for good.

  20

  There was little point in a stealthy approach to Costello’s warehouses on the docks. As Bolan pulled up on the street outside, he could hear muted pops of gunfire from inside. In addition to his own SUV, there were a number of other vehicles parked on the streets, which appeared to be out of the norm for the area: a Hummer, four silver Mercedes Maybachs, a handful of black BMW sedans and a custom-painted Cadillac Escalade. Most of the plates were from out of state. Unless the wages had really gone up in this part of the world, none of these belonged to the dockworkers.

  Bolan moved to the back of the SUV and got fresh magazines for the two Desert Eagles he was carrying and dumped everything he didn’t need. As far as he was concerned, his only interest here was in finding Nick Costello, aka Nikolai Agron, and putting him in the ground. Once that was done, he could get back to his life and whatever mission came next.

  Random shots continued in the closest warehouse, and Bolan decided to start there. He jogged across the street, noting on his way by that the guard shack was empty, then to the door that he’d used when Sandra had first brought him here. The shots were louder now, and he eased open the door and slipped inside, using the surrounding shadows and crates as cover.

  Above him, men ran along the catwalk, diving in and out of offices and behind stacks of boxes as they took potshots at one another. Based on the shouting, it was a virtual melting pot up there—Israelis, Russians and Italians trading shots. Apparently none of the combatants had any sense of who was who, only that all hell had broken loose and they’d been sent here to stop it.

  Bolan had no real interest in these men, and wanted to avoid them if at all possible. If he were to guess, the Israelis had more manpower in place and better equipment—no doubt some of it their own recaptured from this very warehouse. He moved along a narrow row of crates, trying to get a better position to see the far end of the catwalk. That would be where the biggest office was located.

  His eyes were looking up, keeping watch on the ongoing battle above his head, which almost prevented him from seeing the man coming up behind him. Only a barely noticeable change in the shadows on the stacks of crates ahead gave the Executioner any warning at all. He dived forward just as the crowbar came crashing down toward his head. The sharp spike on the end grazed the back of his skull and raked a path down between his shoulder blades.

  Rolling, Bolan kept moving, trying to put some distance between himself and his attacker. He got to his feet and saw that the man was closing fast, still clutching his crowbar.

  “Time to die,” his adversary said, and Bolan marked the accent as Russian.

  “Not today,” Bolan said. “I’m busy.” He took another step back and moved to one side as the crowbar came at him again.

  The man overextended, and his momentum carried the full length of the weapon past its target. Bolan snapped out a kick at his wrist and caught the man directly on the protruding end of his ulna, breaking it. The Russian yelled out in pain, dropped the crowbar and yanked his hand back, cradling it against his chest.

  Bolan didn’t give him time to consider his next move, but closed in rapidly, throwing hard jabs to the right side of his body, making it harder for him to block. The Russian kept moving away, but was tiring. Finally, Bolan dropped low and executed a leg sweep, knocking the man to the ground. Lunging forward to finish him, the warrior saw that there was no need. Blood was running from behind the man’s head where he’d hit it on the concrete floor. He was out cold.

  Returning his attention to the fight on the catwalk, it appeared to Bolan that the Israelis were getting the upper hand, pushing both groups back toward the stairs. The office he’d been looking for was dark, and Bolan decided to look in the other warehouse for Costello. He took a step in the direction of the door, when he saw a tiny movement out of the corner of his eye and stopped.

  The door to the office had been closed, but now it was slightly ajar. Bolan pressed himself closer to the row of crates and crept forward, watching for additional movement. The door opened a bit more, and he glimpsed a hand as someone inside tried to assess the situation on the catwalk. Another pause, and then the door opened wide enough to allow three men to step through. One of them was Nick Costello. The other two were likely bodyguards. Considering how few men he had left, it was amazing he could spare two from the fight to protect his own precious skin.

  They moved out single file, but didn’t head in the direction of the fighting. Instead, they walked to the very edge of the catwalk and behind a stack of crates. Bolan peered into the heavy shadows there, but could see nothing.

  “Damn,” he muttered to himself, then he broke into a fast jog, trying to get to the other side of the warehouse before Costello vanished again.

  He managed to weave
a path almost directly underneath where the catwalk ended, and looked up, but Costello and his men were gone. Not ready to give up, Bolan moved closer to the warehouse wall and finally noticed a narrow set of stairs that led down to his level. The nearest row of crates provided cover and a space just large enough for a man to walk through. Assuming that they hadn’t gone past him in the maze of crates, they had to have gone that way. Bolan quickly set out after his quarry.

  The narrow path followed the wall all the way to the far end of the warehouse, where a single door, standing ajar, led out to a concrete pad. Bolan slowed long enough to check that the way was clear, then went through the doorway. Forklifts were parked along the far side of the pad, and the next warehouse was dark and silent. Deciding quickly, Bolan made a beeline for the docks, suspecting that Costello had figured that it would be better to run and live than to stay and die.

  He rounded the corner of the warehouse closest to the docks and saw the three men running down one of the long piers where private vessels were docked. Most of the boats there were miniyachts and speedboats. It would have been a tough shot, but Bolan silently wished he’d kept the Tavor assault rifle. Instead, he had no choice but to run after the escapees.

  He hit the pier at full speed and had to have made enough noise for Costello to hear, because suddenly one of the bodyguards stopped and turned, drawing a weapon. Bolan hit the deck, pulling his own Desert Eagle and squeezing off a round.

  Costello didn’t slow by so much as a step. He just kept running with his last remaining man, while the other bodyguard opened fire with what sounded like a Glock 22, a .40-caliber handgun with a lot of stopping power. If he hadn’t dropped to the ground, Bolan thought he’d probably be breathing through an extra hole in his chest right now.

  As it was, his movement caused the man’s first shot to go high. He adjusted and Bolan rolled to his left, firing his own weapon in an effort to force the man to change position. It worked, and he took cover behind hanging nets on a nearby post. This gave the Executioner time to get back to his feet and find cover of his own, ducking behind some wooden crates. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.

  Ignoring the fleeing Costello for the moment, Bolan concentrated on his current enemy. The netting was a thick, heavy rope, with open squares. He watched carefully, hoping to see a contrasting color or movement behind it that would give him a target. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see anything that would give away the other man’s position. On the far end of the pier, a boat engine flared to life.

  Costello was getting away—it was time to force the issue. Bolan adjusted his position slightly, then pushed over the top crate. It crashed down, splintering on the hard wood of the pier, but the Executioner kept his gaze on the netting. A single shot rang out before the shooter realized his mistake, but that was all Bolan needed.

  He fired the Desert Eagle where he’d seen the brief flare from the other man’s gun. There was a low grunt and a sigh, then a splash as Costello’s man fell into the water below. Bolan took off, not bothering to stop and check the results of his shot. He could see a small yacht pulling away from the pier, and Bolan knew there was no way he’d get to it in time to stop it from leaving. To go after them, he’d need his own craft.

  The Executioner chose a heavy looking speedboat to his left. Untying it from the cleats, he jumped in and headed for the driver’s seat. There wasn’t a key, and Bolan didn’t want to waste time looking for one, so he simply popped open the ignition module and went to work with a small bladed penknife. It took a couple of minutes to get the wires identified, but it wasn’t much different from hot-wiring a car. The engine roared to life, and Bolan put the vessel in reverse and began backing away from the pier.

  The motor yacht Costello had taken was moving fast and heading for open water.

  SNEAKING OUT of the office, Nick had spotted Bolan in the warehouse and cursed silently. The man was like some kind of killing machine, programmed to destroy everything Nick had built. Unfortunately, he was running out of men to throw at his adversary, and in a confrontation, Nick knew he was far more the kind of man to stab someone in the back than fight the person head-on. He’d run from the warehouse, hoping to get to the yacht before Cooper spotted him. Even then, luck wasn’t on his side.

  He’d heard Cooper hit the dock running, glanced back once and assigned one of his two remaining bodyguards to take him out. He’d kept an ear open as he jumped aboard and got the yacht running, listening to the shots exchanged. When it went quiet momentarily, he assumed the worst. At this point, it couldn’t possibly pay to be an optimist.

  Nick was headed toward open water when his last man, a good guy named Vegas who he’d hired straight out of PMC work in Africa, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. A speedboat was pulling away from the pier. “He’s not human,” Nick muttered.

  “What’s that, boss?” Vegas asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “He’s persistent.” Nick pointed to the main cabin. “There are weapons down below. Go and pick out something powerful and kill that crazy bastard, would you?”

  “Sure thing,” he said, and moved off to find a weapon.

  Nick swore again, wishing he’d thought to put a bazooka down there, instead of just rifles and handguns. His chances were waning, he knew, and he pushed the throttle forward, mentally urging the boat to go faster.

  A quiet voice deep inside his mind gibbered in fear, however, whispering that he could run to the ends of the Earth or down to the gates of hell, and when he got there, his pursuer would be waiting for him.

  ONCE HE WAS PAST the end of the pier, Bolan pushed the throttle forward on the speedboat. Its twin engines roared to full life and the boat shot forward, cutting through the water like a shark. He was closing the distance on the yacht and had pulled into its wake, when the first shot crossed his bow and took out the window to his left.

  Bolan yanked the wheel hard to the right. It was a challenge to steer the boat, chase the yacht and shoot back all at the same time. Another round came in, this one a little higher, making a high-pitched zing as it went past. An assault rifle, he thought, continuing the zigzag pattern with the boat to make targeting more difficult for the shooter. The good news, and there wasn’t much of it, was that shooting from a moving platform like a yacht, at a moving target like a speedboat, was incredibly difficult, even for a gifted marksman. Another bullet went by, this one hitting the glass to Bolan’s right.

  He yanked the wheel again, contemplating his choices, and then reached a decision. He swiftly went out to the starboard side of the yacht, pushed the throttle all the way up and took an angle, aiming for the center of the yacht. There was no other way that he could see that would result in the outcome he wanted.

  Bolan ducked behind the windscreen, keeping as low a profile as possible. Bullets came in at speed, breaking glass, cracking the hull and ricocheting off the deck. The shooter had seen what Bolan was doing and panicked, knowing that the yacht was the slower vessel.

  Bolan risked a peek over the glass, gauged the distance and began counting down the numbers. When he hit three seconds out, he jumped up, took two running steps and jumped over the side, arching out into the water as far as he could get.

  The horrendous crash echoed over the waves and down into the water. Bolan knew well enough not to surface right away. He slowly swam to the surface and saw that the speedboat had slammed into the side of the yacht and exploded on impact. Flames dripped down the sides of the hulls and wreckage floated on the water all around him.

  Bolan began to swim closer and looked up in time to see Costello standing at the bow of the yacht, blood running from his face. He appeared dazed and confused and though his eyes passed right over Bolan’s position in the water, nothing seemed to register.

  The Executioner swam to the back of the yacht, found the ladder and climbed aboard. The body of the last shooter was on the deck, almost cut in two. He stepped over the corpse and made his way to the front of the vessel, where Costello still stood st
aring out into the Gulf, like a man looking for something he’d lost long ago.

  “Costello,” Bolan said, kicking a piece of fiberglass wreckage out of his way.

  Nick turned in his direction, staring, but not saying anything—pointing a gun right at Bolan.

  “Nikolai Agron,” Bolan called, raising his voice. In the distance, he could see the flashing lights of Coast Guard cutters heading their way.

  For a moment, he thought the man had gone deaf in the explosion, but then he said, “You know me?”

  Bolan nodded. “Yeah, I do.” He moved closer. “Your name is Nikolai Agron, but here in New Orleans, you’ve been calling yourself Nick Costello.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I’ve been Nick for so long, I have a hard time remembering that I was once Nikolai.”

  “The game is over,” Bolan said. “You’ve lost, Nick.”

  “Call me Nikolai,” he said. “Are you going to arrest me, Marshal Cooper, or whoever you really are?” He began to laugh, waving the gun around. “I know enough to make sure that I’ll never go to prison, you know. Russian secrets, Israeli secrets, Mafia secrets.” He laughed harder. “I’ll still be rich, still be free, and maybe my next identity will be yours!”

  “There’s not going to be an arrest,” Bolan said, watching the laughing man intently.

  “You’re already prepared to make me a deal?” the man laughed. “So soon?”

  Bolan shook his head. “Yeah, I’ve got a deal for you.”

  “What?” the man asked, his eyes wild. “What’s your best offer?”

  “Death,” Bolan said quietly.

  Nick Costello laughed again, but this time he brought the gun up with control and aimed it directly at Bolan and began to squeeze the trigger.

  Bolan already had the Desert Eagle free of its holster and squeezed the trigger twice. “It’s better than you deserve.”