The two men began walking again, reaching the man at the door just as he found the right key and twisted it in the lock. He turned to look at them, then leaned to the side and spit a long stream of chewing tobacco onto the concrete. The thick brown liquid hit and exploded like a miniature bomb, splashing dangerously close to Kunkle’s shoes. The gray-haired man turned toward them before pushing open the door. “We not never open for another hour,” he said in a thick Cajun accent.
“You will be today,” Bolan said as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a money clip loaded with bills. Peeling off ten hundreds, he shoved them into the man’s hand. “There’s another thousand waiting for you when we get back,” he said in a low voice.
The man didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the proffered money and jammed it into one of the chest pockets of his dirty, fish-smelling denim overalls. “You know exactly where you want to go?” he asked.
Bolan reached into his other pocket and pulled out a hand-held Ground Positioning System. “Exactly,” he said.
“Then let’s be go,” the man in the faded denim overalls said. “And don’t you be tellin’ me no more. Don’t want to know what we about to do. Don’t care. I just drive the airboat.”
Bolan nodded. He suspected the man believed they were about to make a drug pickup of some sort, which was fine. The less the boatman knew the better.
Bolan and Kunkle followed the man down a set of cracked concrete steps to an airboat. On the way down, Kunkle lagged back slightly, then whispered into the Executioner’s ear. “Please,” he said. “I deserve it. But not this guy, okay?”
Bolan turned toward the detective and saw the worry lines covering his face. “I don’t intend to hurt him,” he whispered back as they caught up to the boatman at the bow of his airboat. “And as for you, do you really think I’d have given you your guns back if I was going to kill you?”
Kunkle stared at Bolan, his eyes full of confusion. He could tell the detective didn’t understand about the guns being returned. From where he stood, it was a complete contradiction, and none of what they were doing made any sense to him.
“We take this one for sure,” the Cajun said as they reached the dock. “Got’s it a 454 Chevy Engine and it go up to thirty-five mile an hour. Go anywhere there an inch of water, too. Any place you want go in the swamp.” He stepped off the pier onto the deck. “But somehow, I no get the feelin’ you boys here to see gators.”
“No, we’re not,” Bolan said.
“Well, that okay,” the boatman said as he untied the line from the dock cleat. “This time a year, we see plenty gator whether you want or not.”
Bolan and Kunkle boarded the airboat and took seats in the first row of the six passenger stadium chairs bolted to the deck. The boatman revved up the powerful Chevy engine, and a moment later they were blasting air back toward the shore.
“You gimme that GP-thing,” the boatman said, extending a hand behind him as he manned the wheel with the other. “I get you there to get whatever you gettin’.”
Bolan handed him the GPS.
“This tim’a year,” the Cajun said, “water not so high. Not so many shortcuts.” He stopped speaking, reached into another chest pocket of his overalls and produced a small halfpint bottle of some kind of clear liquid. Taking a long swig, he held it behind him. “You boys want drink?” he asked. “Got plenty. Best stuff your tongue ever wrap around. Made by my Uncle Pierre.”
“It’s a little early for me,” Bolan said.
“I’d better pass, too,” Kunkle replied.
The fumes of whatever sort of moonshine was in the bottle drifted back to the men in the chairs. “Whatever it is,” Kunkle whispered to Bolan, “it’s strong enough to give you a contact high.”
The Cajun boatman heard him and laughed. He increased the speed of the boat, weaving in and out of the marshy swampland as if he’d done it every day of his life. And Bolan suspected that wasn’t much of an exaggeration. Here and there, the hungry eyes of alligators appeared above the water and, like a man driving a car and trying to avoid dogs, the boatman swerved this way, then that.
“You boys want a gator long as you here?” the Cajun asked. “Good eatin’, them.”
“Just get us to the coordinates on the GPS,” Bolan said. “Then, when we get back, you’ll get your other thousand.”
“Fair enough for me,” the man said, shrugging at the wheel of the airboat.
Fifteen minutes later, after they had skimmed across the water at breakneck speed, the Cajun let up on the gas and let the boat drift in the water.
Thirty yards away—just outside the swampland and in the Gulf of Mexico proper—Bolan could see the pontoon plane floating. Squinting, he could even see Jack Grimaldi—Stony man Farm’s number one pilot—through the glass, behind the controls.
“I be guessin’ this be the place,” the boatman said. “Want me to float ’er on out to the plane?”
Bolan just nodded.
Thirty seconds later, they came alongside the pontoon plane. The passenger’s door opened, and a man Bolan had never seen before—undoubtedly one of the blacksuit trainees from the Farm as he’d requested—extended a small plastic ice chest.
Bolan took it, then set it on one of the unoccupied chairs next to him.
“Hello, Sarge,” Grimaldi said from inside the plane.
Bolan could barely see his old friend, but he nodded anyway, and said, “Good morning, Jack.” Turning back to the chest, Bolan blocked the boatman’s view with his body, then quickly opened the lid of the ice chest . Frozen beneath a thin layer of ice cubes, and on top of even more ice, Bolan could see a pair of severed men’s hands.
Grimaldi leaned over the blacksuit as Bolan closed the lid. “That what you needed?” he asked.
“That’s it. I assume the Bear ran them and they were clean.”
“Clean as a hound’s tooth,” Grimaldi said. “An expression I’ve never quite understood, since I’ve never seen a dog yet who brushes his teeth or flosses.”
The blacksuit spoke again, his eyes on Kunkle. “This the man we’re to take back?” he asked.
Bolan hesitated a moment. That had been his original plan—the one he’d run by Kurtzman. They could blindfold Kunkle, and keep him sightless until he was secured and under guard in one of Stony Man Farm’s main house bedrooms. But the soldier’s gut now told him that what he’d thought of earlier—having Kunkle to watch his back—might be a better approach to the next phases of this mission.
Should he alter his battle strategy and keep Kunkle with him? The man certainly knew New Orleans, and the bayous around it, better than he did.
The question was, could Kunkle really be trusted? Many a criminal had tried to pull what was known in law-enforcement circles as the Christian Hustle. They pretended to have had a spiritual awakening when all they were really doing was attempting to get a lighter sentence or impress their parole board.
Then again, there were the rare times when the bad guys really did experience a conversion and a change of heart.
And Bolan’s instincts told him that Kunkle was one of those rare birds who was sincere. But he would have to extend his trust for the man little by little, just to make sure.
Finally, Bolan answered. “This was the guy,” he told the blacksuit, “but I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to keep him with me a little longer. He can be of more use down here than he can be locked away.”
The blacksuit shrugged.
Grimaldi—whose head was still visible as he leaned across the plane—said, “Whatever you think, big guy. As always, it’s your call.”
The Executioner turned toward Kunkle. The man looked even more confused than he already had been.
“He stays with me,” Bolan said. “Take care, Jack.” He motioned to the boatman to turn the airboat around and take them back, and saw a deep frown of confusion on the Cajun’s face, as well.
Bolan knew where the expression came from. The Cajun had watched Bolan take possession of a con
tainer that he would just naturally believe held drugs or some other kind of contraband. But he had not seen any money change hands. Of course, Bolan knew, some drug deals were done in two places at the same time with the money being kept separate to hold down evidence should there be a bust. But that usually entailed at least a cell phone call during the simultaneous procedure to make sure each party was holding up its end. And there had been no such communication here.
In any case, they were soon speeding back into the swampland and the pontoon plane could be heard taking off behind them.
“Don’t know what you got in that box,” the boatman said above the sound of the wind. “And don’t want to know. I take you on back now, and you give me more money, right?”
Bolan wasn’t so sure the man was being truthful when he said he didn’t care what was in the cooler. He had picked up on a shifty, nervous feeling that emanated from the boatman. But he played along with the game anyway, and he decided he might as well use the drug smuggler cover to its fullest. “That’s the plan,” Bolan said. “And you keep your mouth shut about ever even seeing us. You’ll stay a lot healthier if you never saw us.”
“See who?” the Cajun said. “I don’t see nobody so far today. He glanced at the wristwatch on his arm. “Fact a’ matter be, I still not even open for business.”
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled back into one of the slips at the dock and the Cajun boatman tied them off to the same cleat. Bolan and Kunkle stepped up onto the dock with the Executioner carrying the ice chest by the handles on the ends.
Kunkle continued to look confused. But as soon as they were alone again, Bolan planned to tell him the rest of the story. And then they would see just how sincere Kunkle’s sudden conversion to Christianity really was.
Bolan and Kunkle started up the steps from the dock toward where they were parked. The Cajun fell a step or two behind on the narrow walkway. Bolan glanced around. There was still no one around this early in the morning, and what came next he suddenly realized he had half-expected.
“Stop your walking now and turn around,” the boatman said from behind them.
The Executioner and the New Orleans detective stopped in their tracks, turning slowly toward the water. There, three steps down and just out of reach, stood the airboat man, aiming an old, blue-worn Smith & Wesson Model 10 .38 at them. He grinned, showing two rows of yellow-brown teeth. “I thinking now you owe me more money even,” the boatman said.
Bolan looked at him. “I agreed to pay you the other half,” he said. “You don’t need the gun to get it.”
“You got wrong-thinkin’ there,” the boatman said. “I thinkin’ I like a take all the money you got. And the dope inside that cool box. My brother-in-law, he sell it for nice profit.”
Bolan saw Kunkle out of the corner of his eye. The man didn’t look afraid. And, since he was suddenly dealing with a situation he was familiar with, it had temporarily taken his mind off the confusion of what they were doing. Then, he even spoke. “And what do you plan to do with us?” he asked.
“My cousin got alligator farm not far away,” the Cajun answered, giving an even bigger and more spectacular show of his lack of dental work. “You make nice dinner for a gator or two.”
“You want our money, it’s yours,” Bolan said. Pulling the lapel of his jacket out slightly with his left hand, he moved his right across his body as if about to reach into an interior pocket.
“Careful,” the Cajun said.
Bolan didn’t speed up until his hand had passed the hidden pocket and clasped the butt of the Beretta 93-R in his shoulder rig. Then, suddenly, so fast that the eye couldn’t follow it, the same hand snapped back out and pointed the sound suppressor on the end of the weapon at the Cajun boatman’s head. He had no need to use the sights, and he snapped off a pair of lightning quick 9 mm rounds, both of which both struck the Cajun just above the nose.
A split second later, Bolan heard the boom of Kunkle’s SIG-Sauer and another round hit the boatman in the chest. The two subsonic and third ear-numbing round took the boatman to the ground, the S&W .38 falling to his side.
“We’d better get out of here,” Kunkle said.
Bolan nodded in agreement.
But before he could, more explosions sounded from behind them, and bullets began flying past their heads and arms.
7
The Executioner whirled as the Cajun in the overalls hit the wooden dock on his back. Dropping to one knee, he saw a white Oldsmobile sedan, which had skidded to a halt roughly twenty yards away. Two men—both vaguely familiar in his hundredth-of-a-second glance—had begun firing through the window before the vehicle had even stopped. Once it stopped, they dived from the Olds, both holding 9 mm Uzi submachine guns.
The area provided no cover or concealment, and the gunfight became simply a matter of time—who shot accurately first. The words of Wyatt Earp—Old West peace officer, frontiersman and gunfighter—flew through Bolan’s head.
“Take your time…in a hurry.”
Which is exactly what Bolan did.
At twenty yards, he still had no need to use the sights and he extended the hand holding the Beretta to arm’s length, pointing at one of the men on the ground as if pointing with his finger. Bolan had already flipped the selector switch to 3-round-burst mode, and he pressed the trigger back and sent a trio of RBCD total fragmentation rounds toward the shooter’s head. At the same time he recognized the man as Razor Westbrook—one of McFarley’s goons who had searched him at the office-brothel.
Westbrook wore a thin T-shirt under a lightweight suit in the Louisiana swamp humidity. But as soon as all three of Bolan’s 9 mm rounds struck his throat, chin and nose, the suit, and undershirt, turned a dark wine color.
Next to him, the Executioner heard more explosions as Kunkle returned fire with his own weapon. Just as the other man from the Olds rolled behind the car and out of sight, Bolan’s brain told him that the vague familiarity that had raced through him meant that the man was Jake Jackson—the heavyweight Bolan had knocked out in the ring and then stomped into the floor of his office the day before.
Bolan frowned as Jackson’s hand extended out from beneath the car. The heavyweight fired wildly, proving that he wasn’t any better as a gunfighter than he was a boxer.
The situation made no sense to Bolan. Obviously, two of McFarley’s men—one of them a prizefighter who was currently hiding beneath the Olds—had tailed him and Kunkle from New Orleans’ French Quarter out to the swampy marina. But why? Had the Big Easy’s big boss sent them to keep an eye on Matt Cooper, the new guy? Or did they have their own, personal reasons?
Bolan didn’t know, but he intended to find out. And, once again, Jackson’s stupidity would afford him the chance.
Bolan fired toward the Oldsmobile, which caused the Uzi to jerk back out of sight. That was good. He wanted Jackson alive so he could find out the motive behind both the tail and the sudden attack. Turning toward the right front tire, Bolan switched the Beretta’s selector switch back to semiauto and fired a lone round into the rubber.
The tire erupted into flapping rubber shrapnel as the right front side of the Oldsmobile dropped to the rim of the wheel. Another single 9 mm slug did the same to the right rear tire, and the Executioner heard a grunting sound come from under the vehicle.
Kunkle had picked up on what he had in mind and made his way around the front of the vehicle as Bolan sprinted toward the back bumper. The two men fired almost simultaneously at the front and rear tires on the driver’s side of the Olds. The SIG-Sauer blasted; the Beretta quietly burped.
As the car dropped even lower, the moan beneath the chassis turned into a series of whelps that sounded more puppy-like than human. With the Oldsmobile sitting on the rims of all four wheels, Jackson was trapped between the car and the cracked concrete of the parking lot.
Bolan took his time circling the car again, stopping at the spot where he’d last seen the hand holding the Uzi. Leaning down, he could see the Israeli subgu
n lying uselessly on the ground. But more importantly, he could see Jackson, face up and grimacing with pain, just inside the right front flat tire.
“Get me…out of here,” the boxer breathed out in painful breaths.
Bolan could see that the car was pressing firmly on the man’s chest. Jackson had been forced to turn his head sideways to keep it off his face. His lips were trembling like a man who knew he was facing an imminent, slow and painful death.
Bolan leaned onto the side of the Oldsmobile, increasing the pressure on the man beneath the car. Jackson screeched again.
“Usually it’s good to have a big powerful chest,” Bolan said. “But right now, I’m guessing you’d rather be a skinny little featherweight.”
“Please…” the man moaned. “Get me…out of here.”
Bolan shifted his weight off the Olds, but left the man where he was. “Let’s talk a little bit first, shall we, Jake?” he said. Then, without waiting for any more breathless words, he went on with, “Did McFarley tell you and your dead friend to follow me? Or did you come here on your own?”
“Get me…out of here…please!” Jackson screeched.
“Just as soon as you answer my questions,” Bolan said calmly.
By this point, Kunkle had returned to Bolan’s side of the car and stood next to him. “Hello, Jake,” he said softly.
“Kunkle…” Jackson breathed out. “Get this…thing off…me.”
“It doesn’t sound like that’s going to happen unless you start cooperating,” Kunkle told the man.
“McFarley sent me,” Jackson got out in one painful breath.
“Why?” Bolan asked.
“Because you’re…new,” Jake spurted. “He watches…everybody…especially since this guy’s—” his eyes flickered back up to Kunkle “—betrayal.” The man’s face was still a mask of agony as his eyes stayed glued to the detective.
Damage Radius Page 6
