Savannah Swingsaw (13 page)

"That's it. Room 27." The man pointed a dirty fingernail across the street at the motel.

Clip Demoines gave the man five hundred dollars. The man looked at the bills for a moment, then whined, "But you said a thousand, Mr. Demoines."

Demoines glowered at the man and he scurried off into the night. "Okay, Ron," Demoines said to Thaxton. "One more chance to redeem yourself. Only this time, let's do it right." He popped open the trunk of his Mercedes and pulled out two 9mm semiautomatic Uzis. He handed one to Thaxton.

They each slammed in a 25-round magazine, snapped in the folding stocks and thumbed the safeties off.

"Ready?" Demoines asked.

Thaxton hesitated.

"What's wrong now?" Demoines said.

"This is Gianguzzi territory, Clip. We're not supposed to hit anybody down here without getting permission."

"Fuck Gianguzzi. I hit who I want, where I want. And right now..." he glanced across the street at Room 27 "...I want that guy dead. And his bitch, too."

Thaxton looked across the street. The door to Room 27 opened and the big man came out. He was shirtless and barefoot, carrying a cardboard ice bucket.

"We could drop him right now," Thaxton said. "No one will see us in the dark."

"No," Demoines said. "I want them both. And I want them to see me pulling the trigger."

Thaxton sighed. "Okay, Clip."

Bolan returned to the room, knocked on the door. Shawnee opened it, wearing only a shirt.

Her long sinewy legs reflected the flashing red neon Vacancy. She giggled, blocking the door with her body. He wrapped an arm around her waist and carried her inside. The door closed.

Demoines's upper lip crawled with sweat. "I hope they're doing it when we bust in. I really hope so."

They climbed back into the Mercedes, Thaxton behind the wheel. Sunrise was less than an hour away. They crossed the deserted street, pulled up to the curb and left the motor running as they got out. No one was around. "What about neighbors as witnesses?"

Thaxton shook his head. "None on either side. Hardly anybody in the whole place. I guess that's why they picked it."

But Demoines wasn't listening anymore. He was smiling, his finger twitching anxiously on the trigger. Thaxton was at his side now with an Uzi in his hands. They reached the platform at the top of the stairs. Demoines kicked the door in and began peppering the bed before he even realized there was no one in it. He jerked his head at Thaxton, who ran into the bathroom, tearing the shower curtain open but finding no one. "The closet," Demoines said.

Together they stalked toward the closet, guns aimed, standing slightly aside in case the man and woman were armed. The Mob boss gripped the knob and slowly turned. He eased the door open. It caught for a moment, stuck. He pulled harder. He heard a click, but the door opened the rest of the way. He and Thaxton jumped in with both guns pointing. The closet was empty. Except for a string of green Christmas bulbs strung across the closet, each dangling from a wire hanger. And the string that ran from the bulbs to the inside door handle. Only they weren't Christmas bulbs at all, Demoines noticed.

They were grenades! Thaxton must have realized that a second before Demoines, for he turned to run for the door. But too late. The grenades exploded in a whoosh of heat and whirling metal that pulverized the top halves of their bodies, grating them down to tiny strips of mushy flesh.

From behind the motel, Bolan, Shawnee and Brognola watched the explosion illuminate what was left of darkness with bright angry lights.

"Wouldn't it have been simpler to shoot them?" Shawnee asked.

"Simpler," the Executioner said. "But not as just."

"You know, Mack, I used to think I knew all about you. Now I'm thinking that I'm only just starting to understand what makes you tick."

Brognola handed Shawnee his jacket and gestured at her bare legs. "You might get cold."

"Thanks. Squeezing through motel bathroom windows in the middle of the night can give a girl a reputation."

Bolan watched the smoke billowing straight up into the sky. He felt good.

Tired, but good. As if he'd cleansed not just some evil part of the world, but some dead part of himself.

Shawnee had helped him see that.

"I'm sorry about your friend Lyle," Brognola said to Shawnee.

After the battle at the warehouse, he'd told them both about what Zavlin had done. Shawnee had gone off by herself a few minutes. When she'd returned, her eyes were red and watery. Bolan had looked at Zavlin's body and wished he could kill him again. But then he'd thought of Belinda Hoyt and decided to do the next best thing.

He'd made a few calls and put the word out where Clip Demoines might find a certain escaped convict named Damon Blue. And they'd waited. Demoines's private jet didn't keep them waiting long. Now Belinda and Lyle could both rest a little easier.

The three of them listened to the sirens of the approaching fire engines.

"What now, Shawnee?" Brognola asked.

"Same old stuff. Regroup the Savannah Swingsaw."

"But Demoines is dead."

"They'll just send somebody else. As long as there's profit, the Mob will be there. The trick is to take away the profit. That's what the Swingsaw intends to do."

"Or take away the Mob," Bolan said.

"That's not our way, Mack. That's another thing I learned being with you. As hard as I try, I can't be like you. So I've got to do what's right for me."

Bolan wrapped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her tight.

"But you'll be hearing from us," she said to both men. "Just read your newspapers. You'll be reading about the Savannah Swingsaw again."

Brognola groaned. "I was afraid of that. Just as Savannah Swingsaw long as it's not in the same article as Mack Bolan. That combination is enough to make the South rise again."

"Stranger things have happened," Shawnee said, smiling.

Brognola started walking away. "I guess you kids don't need me around anymore. Have to get back to Washington before they notice I'm gone and move my desk out into the hallway."

Bolan watched his friend stroll across the parking lot, a spring in his step. He heard whistling. Bolan called after him. "I guess that desk will be a lot easier to handle after tonight."

"For a while," he answered. "For a while."

They headed for the car Brognola had rented for them. Inside was an envelope with five thousand dollars and a note.

"Take a vacation. And please, don't tell me where."

Bolan started up the car.

"Where are we going?" Shawnee asked.

"I don't know yet. You mind?"

"No. I kind of like it."

They pulled out into the street, heading west.

"You know, Mack, there's always room for you with us."

"Us?"

"Savannah Swingsaw."

He smiled. "As leader?"

"No way," she bristled, then laughed. "Coleader. You and me."

Bolan remembered Stony Man Farm, Able Team, Phoenix Force. The dream gone bad.

"I don't play team sports any longer."

She nodded, scooted closer to him. "Then how about some one-on-one?"

Bolan reached over and patted her knee. She'd forgotten to give Hal his jacket back. The thought of settling down with Shawnee was tempting. She was tough and self-reliant, with a way of looking at right and wrong he admired. But it wasn't to be. Not yet anyway. For now, they were heading west in a legal car with five thousand dollars in cash and nobody in particular hunting them. And that would have to do. For now.

Document ID: 6032750e-b05e-4252-a71e-c01b07a78194

Document version: 1

Document creation date: 2005-08-24

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