Savannah Swingsaw (11 page)

They were still a few miles from Waycross when Bolan spotted the dusty pickup truck in his rearview mirror. "Get the guns out," he calmly told Shawnee.

She reached under the seat, dislodged the two S&W .357's and placed them both in her lap. She didn't look around. "You sure?"

"He's been following us since the service station. Same beat-up truck that stopped for gas there."

"Aren't many good roads around here. Maybe he's just going in the same direction."

"Maybe." Bolan nodded. "But he slows down when I do and speeds up when I do. And those rifles in his rack probably aren't for show."

"What's he waiting for?"

"I suspect for whoever he called ahead to. My guess is there's a car or truck full of armed good ole boys on their way toward us right now."

Shawnee sighed. "Ain't we ever going to be alone without bullets nipping at our butts?"

"Maybe. But not this time." He swerved the car onto the side of the road, purposely churning up a thick cloud of dust behind him. He spotted a side road about half a mile ahead. "Any idea where that leads?"

"Nope. But we're pretty close to swampland."

Bolan pointed to the Jeep speeding down the highway toward them. Rifles started to appear in the three passengers' hands. They were aiming.

Shots clapped and the hood was pockmarked with two holes. Steam seeped up through one of the holes.

"Great!" Bolan said, wheeling the car onto the dirt road. The pickup and Jeep were right behind him, the dust obscuring their vision enough to throw their shots off.

Bolan stomped on the gas pedal and the Nova rocketed down the road, bouncing from side to side.

He didn't know where the road was going, except that it was away from the men with guns. He and Shawnee didn't try to return fire. The way the car was rocking, shooting would be a waste of ammunition.

"I don't like the way that engine sounds, Mack," Shawnee said, referring to the clanking and pinging. More steam rose from the bullet holes in the hood.

But the car still had life, and Bolan squeezed it for all it was worth, whipping around curves and urging the screaming engine even faster. A sign on a wooden gate ordered all vehicles to stop and turn around, dangerous marshlands ahead.

"Hell," Shawnee said, as they busted through the gate, sending splintered wood somersaulting. "This is the goddamned Okefenokee Swamp, Mack."

"So it is," he said, racing down the road, the pickup and Jeep still close behind. A couple of miles later, the road gave out to grass, then mud. By the time they reached the first sandy ridge, the car sputtered and died.

Gunfire hailed down on them as they rolled out of the car and into the grassy marsh.

Bolan ignored the warm sticky water seeping into his shoes and through his pants. He returned fire at the pickup, watching the windshield shatter. He saw the driver grab his face, and ducked as the pickup truck swung wildly to the left, hit the sandy ridge and rolled over onto its roof, crushing whatever was left of the driver. The Jeep stopped a little farther back. The three armed men hopped out and dropped to the ground.

Then the driver turned the Jeep around and headed back up the road.

The Executioner guessed they were returning to contact Demoines. If these were Zavlin's men, they would have contacted him first, not sent a jeepload of gunmen.

The three men fired sporadically, not enough to threaten Bolan and Shawnee, but enough to keep them pinned down until Demoines and more men arrived.

"What now?" Shawnee asked. "Never mind, I think I know."

Bolan nodded grimly. The two of them bellied into the dank water and silently waded deeper into the swamp.

"How many gunners do we have?" Demoines asked, thumbing a shell into his Weatherby Regency double-barreled shotgun. "I'm talking guys who know how to shoot, not cracker assholes with .22's."

Thaxton checked his list. "We've got three guys out there right now, keeping them warm for you. They've all grown up around here, so they know the area and they know how to hunt. One's an auxiliary cop in Waycross."

Demoines snorted. "Big deal." He tugged the bill of his green safari hat. "Who else we got?"

"It's short notice, Clip."

"I didn't ask for the time, Ron. I want a goddamn report."

Thaxton took a deep breath. "I got three of our regular boys, shooters from Atlanta. But I've got to warn you, they don't know much about stumping through swamps."

"For what I'm paying them, they'll learn."

"Yes, boss."

"Okay," Demoines said, "adding everybody together, we've got eight fully armed men with shotguns and rifles against a man and a woman with handguns."

"Don't you think that's a bit of an overkill?"

Demoines frowned. "You didn't see them fight. Especially that big guy." He clenched his teeth in anger at the memory.

A thump sounded on the door of the Waycross hotel room where they were staying. Thaxton opened it a crack, conferred, then turned to Demoines. "They're ready."

Demoines walked over to Thaxton. He spoke slowly, tapping his shotgun on Thaxton's chest with every word. "I want them, Ron. Real bad."

"More coffee, sir?" the pretty waitress asked.

"A little more, please."

The young woman leaned over to pour the beverage, her tongue lodged in the corner of her mouth with concentration. But as she strained in her uncomfortable position, her hand shook, and she spilled coffee into the saucer, some of the dark liquid splashing on the chipped Formica table. "Oh, my," she said. "I'm terribly sorry."

Zavlin yanked some napkins from the dispenser and mopped up the coffee from the table. "Quite all right." He wanted her to go, but she became flustered, standing there apologizing, glancing over her shoulder to see if her boss was looking.

"It's my first week and all. But I'm getting better. Hardly ever spill any. I don't know why."

Zavlin looked out the window, saw Demoines and his hunting party climb into the Jeep.

"Just nerves, I guess, from working for my cousin. He's sweet guy, but he...."

Zavlin turned to the young waitress. "Leave me," he snapped.

She looked startled, almost tearful, but she left. Zavlin stared back out the window. Five in the Jeep. Plus the three he'd heard about. Eight. He hadn't heard how many they were hunting, but he hoped one of them was Dodge Reed. That would save him the trouble of killing the kid himself. Secretly, he admitted to himself that he hoped the big man in black was not among the ones that were trapped out there. No, he wanted that man for himself. He patted his traveling bag, felt the weight of the branding iron packed in among the shirts, pants, shoes and toiletries.

The running iron he hoped to be able to use on that man someday.

He looked at the clock above the smoking grill. It had been only a couple of hours since KGB informants had told him of the violence Damon Blue and the others had had at a remote cabin with Mafia chief Clip Demoines. He knew Demoines would never rest until he'd chased down the man who'd humiliated him. So he'd kept a tag on him, following him to Waycross.

Zavlin was familiar with the Mafia boss, since the KGB did extensive business with the Mafia. The dossier on Demoines suggested a certain emotional imbalance, a desire to be accepted by polite society yet still maintain control over his underworld empire. The result was a ruthless, quick-tempered man. Not to be underestimated.

But then, neither was the big man in black. He'd escaped Zavlin's assassins as well as Demoines's thugs. Whoever he was, Zavlin wanted him.

Patience, Zavlin told himself. Let the Americans splash about in the bug-infested swamp.

Meantime, he would wait and see what would happen with Demoines's hunting party. Zavlin plucked the menu from behind the ketchup bottle. Suddenly he was quite hungry.

Shawnee plucked a clump of smelly swamp grass from her hair. "Jeez, Mack, you really know where to take a girl for a good time."

"Makes you almost miss Saigon, huh?"

"Almost." They were on their knees in the shallow water, the sucking peat mud molding around their legs.

Mosquitoes buzzed them like fighter squadrons.

Bolan and Shawnee swatted at them, crouching low in the water, but kept their guns dry.

"They haven't moved," Shawnee said.

"They won't until Demoines shows up with reinforcements."

She looked around her at the dense lushness, swatted another mosquito. "Shouldn't we be getting away before they arrive?"

Bolan grinned.

"Get away? To where?"

"It's not the "to where" that I'm worried about. It's the "from what." From Demoines and his goons." She pointed at a green sign sticking up through the swamp. "See that? It marks the canoe path. We follow it and we're bound to run into some people we can hitch a ride with. Or even find one of the tour boats the park service runs through I here. Demoines wouldn't shoot us in front of them."

"Probably not. But the park officials are going to ask some tough questions about what we're doing here. Remember, lady, I'm still wanted as both Damon Blue and Mack Bolan."

"Well, we can't sit in the mud all day waiting for them to come after us. I've been on the tour before, Mack. They got more than twenty-thousand 'gators in this swamp."

Bolan looked at her and smiled. "At least there aren't any sharks."

"Ow!" She swatted a fat mosquito on her arm, smearing the skin with the blood it had just sucked. "I wouldn't be too sure of that, Mack."

He peered up through the trees. "It'll be dark soon."

"Is that supposed to cheer me up?"

"Relax," he said. "Enjoy nature."

She slapped a mosquito on her neck.

"Nature is overrated." She leaned closer to him. "I'm serious, Mack, what are we waiting for? Okay, so we avoid the tour boats and the canoes and we just wade past the snakes and 'gators and stuff and come out somewhere else."

"On foot?"

"At least we'd be alive."

"But maybe too late to get to that Miami warehouse in time."

She shook her head in exasperation. "You're impossible."

"Listen, Shawnee. Our car's dead, but Demoines will be back in that Jeep. While they're out tracking us, we sneak back and steal the Jeep. That leaves them on foot and gives us a little extra headstart. Simple."

"Except for the fact that they'll be shooting at us."

He wiped the mud from her cheek and kissed the clean spot. "Nothing's perfect."

They waited in silence, Bolan keeping an eye on the three men with rifles. The men still fired a round or two every few minutes, but since they had no idea where Bolan and Shawnee were now, the shots were more habit than threat.

Bolan looked around, studying the swamp.

Kneeling in the slimy water was like being in the mouth of some salivating monster. There was a desperation about the swamp, as if it knew it was one of the last outposts in the world of primitive beauty. But even here there were signs of encroachment. The canoe trail signs.

A floating gum wrapper. And now Demoines and his men.

The Jeep bounced down the rough road, past the smashed wooden gate. Men were jumping out before the Jeep even stopped moving. They were running toward the swamp, guns ready. Demoines walked slowly, brashly, as if savoring what he already knew would be a sweet victory. Demoines walked to the edge of the road, took a dainty step into the mushy swamp and sank up to his knees in water. The other men joined him immediately.

"Hey, Blue!" Demoines yelled. "I know who you are now. Why don't you save everybody a lot of trouble and come on outta there?"

Bolan didn't answer.

"What's the point, Blue?" Demoines continued. "Eight of us are gonna comb through this shit until we find you. The longer I gotta stand in this crap, the more pain it's gonna cost you and your lady friend. Come out now, you both get it quick, and easy. Over and done."

Shawnee snorted. "Generous cuss, ain't he?"

Bolan pulled her down farther and whispered into her ear. "You follow along that sandy ridge until you're behind them. When they're far enough away from the Jeep, you start it up and get the hell out of here."

"What about you?"

"I'll lead them away from the Jeep."

"Yeah, but what then? How do you get out? I'm not leaving without you."

"You won't be," Bolan said.

Demoinei's voice rose again. "You're wasting time, Blue." A flock of birds cawed and flapped their wings in response.

Bolan continued his instructions to Shawnee. "Once you've driven out of sight, they aren't going to bother chasing you on foot. They'll keep coming after me. I'll sneak around, come up behind them right where our Nova is, and you come burning rubber and pick me up."

"How do I know when to come back?"

"Give me ten minutes from the time you take off. Understand?"

"How do I start the thing?"

"Don't worry, they probably left the key in. They wouldn't take the chance of someone carrying it out here, getting shot and floating off with the key. But if there isn't one, just keep running. Okay?"

Shawnee nodded.

"Go." He gave her a gentle nudge.

And she was gone.

Bolan watched her wade through the swamp, keeping out of sight behind the cypress trees. When she was safely on her way, he went to work. The Executioner knew he had to keep Demoines and his men from spreading out and accidentally discovering Shawnee.

That meant telling them where he was. Loud and clear.

He stood up behind a giant tupelo tree, brushed aside a thick clump of Spanish moss and watched Demoines detailing his goons into some kind of flanking movement. Bolan smiled, lifted his .357, steadied the eight-inch barrel against a branch and fired.

A man in a red plaid shirt was jerked back off his feet, rifle flying up into the air. He flopped backward into the water and never moved again.

"There!" Demoines pointed, teeth bared. "There he is! Kill him!"

The seven survivors opened fire at once, chipping hunks of wood from the tupelo, ruffling the lacy Spanish moss but not being able to get a clear shot at Bolan. Who was already moving deeper into the swamp.

They stopped firing and ran after him, occasionally slipping in the muddy peat, tripping on a submerged tree root. Bolan used the thick underbrush to keep them from getting a clear shot at him. Sporadic gunfire broke the marshy stillness, and bullets whizzed by much closer than he liked.

A hazy dimness hung over the swamp as twilight hit the outside world. Visibility would be even worse now, but Bolan knew how to use that to his advantage.

They were resting now, waiting for Demoines to stop wheezing and catch his breath. The Mafia boss handed his Weatherby shotgun to one of his men while he leaned over and retched into the swamp. His men turned their heads. Bolan smiled and ran even deeper into the swamp, his splashing footsteps taunting them.

Up ahead a young man in a park-service uniform was poling a flatbottomed johnboat toward Bolan.

"Hey, fella," the young man called out sternly. "This here ain't hunting season, you know. Let me see your permit."

Bolan spun around and pointed the .357 into the young man's face. "Out!" he commanded.

The young man stuck his pole back in the boat and jumped into the water. He tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out of his mouth.

"I don't have much time, son," Bolan said slowly, "but you'd better listen carefully. There's a pack of men coming this way with rifles and a desire to kill anything human they see. I figure your best bet is to get lost as fast as you can."

"Y-y-yes, sir."

"Good boy. Now get going."

The young man, with hands still held over his head, ran through the water with remarkable speed. By the time Demoines got here, they might hear the distant splashes, but they wouldn't see him clearly enough to shoot.

Bolan silently climbed into the flatbottomed johnboat. It was only about twelve feet long and five feet wide, made of aluminum and painted camouflage green. There was no motor, just the pole that was forked at one end to keep it from sinking into the peat. Bolan had been in something similar once called an alligator punt, a boat pointed at both ends made from cypress boards. That's where he'd first used a pole to propel a boat. Slowly, silently, he muscled the pole into the mud and guided the boat across the water.

"What's that?" he heard someone shout, thinking they meant him, but relieved when he heard the panicked reply.

"'Gator!" A volley of shots churned water.

"Stop it!" Demoines snarled. "That's a log, not an alligator."

Just then the Jeep engine rumbled to life.

"The Jeep!" Demoines hollered.

Bolan stopped the boat behind a thick tree and watched them scramble toward shore. They started firing, but the jeep was already roaring off into the distance.

That gave him ten minutes to get by Demoines and his men.

Bolan slipped over the side of the boat, pushed it out in the direction of his pursuers. They were still too far away to see it, but in another twenty yards they would. However, it would be too dark for them to determine if he was in it or not.

Bolan grabbed the forked pole and waded away from the drifting boat.

"Forget her!" Demoines said, stopping the shooting. "She's gone. But she was alone, I'm sure of that. That means Blue is still here. He's the one I want." He raised his voice. "You hear that, Blue. Your little honey took off on you. Left you for dead meat. Guess she was smarter than you thought, eh?"

Bolan submerged himself until only his head and right hand clutching the gun were above the slimy water.

He crawled on his knees now, edging past them, only fifty yards to their left, while they marched straight ahead.

"Come on, fan out," Demoines ordered. "You two go that way. Tanner, move to the left. It's getting dark and I don't want him to slip by us."

Bolan stopped as he watched the hefty man named Tanner splash toward him.

Fortunately the gunman was moving sideways, keeping his eyes out front like the rest of them. Still, Bolan couldn't afford to move, to make any noise. Tanner kept coming closer. Bolan had no choice but to duck underwater, head, gun and everything.

He waited, holding his breath, squeezing his eyes closed. The water felt greasy swirling around his face. Still he heard Tanner's boots splashing closer.

Not knowing how close Tanner was, Bolan didn't want to risk attracting attention by moving, even underwater. But his lungs were starting to burn, his throat convulsing for air. He fought the urge to break surface.

"There!" Tanner yelled excitedly, pointing out at the flatbottomed johnboat.

Bolan took advantage of the distraction to lift his head out of the water, just as Tanner opened fire at the vessel.

"A boat," someone else said.

Now Demoines was opening fire and then everyone was. Tanner stood firing only eight feet away from Bolan. Amidst the din of shooting, Bolan began crawling away toward the shore where Shawnee would return any minute now.

The movement caught Tanner's eye. Bolan saw him swing his rifle around, eyes wide with discovery, struggling to warn the others and shoot at the same time.

Bolan didn't give him a chance. Fearful that the swamp water might have affected the .357, Bolan just lunged at Tanner with the forked pole. Tanner took the fork directly in his chest.

The sharp wooden prongs punched through the chest like a stapler and Tanner dropped into the water unheard by the others, who were running toward the boat, still shooting rifles and shotguns.

Bolan wedged the pole sticking out of Tanner's chest under a rock, keeping Tanner hidden under the water. Then he continued toward shore.

It had been ten minutes, maybe more, by the time he reached the sandy ridge near the Nova. Where was Shawnee?

"It's a goddamn boat, all right," Demoines was shouting at his men, "but where the hell is Blue?"

"Maybe we hit him and he sank under the water," one man suggested.

"Then find his body. I want to see the blasted body."

"Hey, where's Tanner?" another goon asked.

They all began to look around, calling Tanner's name. There was a long tense silence. Then Demoines shouted hysterically. "Go back! Back to shore. He's circled behind us."

And now they were all charging toward Bolan, shouldering their rifles and firing.

Still no sign of Shawnee.

Bolan dashed for the Nova, pulled open the front door and grabbed the bike pack of grenades that Belinda had packed for him. He plucked one out, yanked the pin and tossed it into the swamp. One man screamed as the water boiled in front of him, the hot twisted shards of metal scraping off his face as they spun by him.

Honking horn. Growling engine.

Shawnee skidded up to Bolan.

He dived over the Jeep's door into the back seat, holding onto the roll bar as Shawnee whirled the Jeep around and gunned it out of there.

Demoines's team fired at the fleeing vehicle, but no slugs scored. Bolan tossed the bike pack of grenades next to his feet and stretched his long legs out into a comfortable position. He closed his eyes. "Wake me when we reach Miami."