Shadow Hunt. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
with its known history was either a very bad joke or Smythe was a complete idiot. He had to have known that it had a loose connection to organized crime at one time, but perhaps he just liked the food. Still, if Rio had asked him about organized crime in New Orleans before he came down here, Bolan would likely have told him not to bother. But since his disappearance, the soldier was beginning to think that Rio’s hunch had been far more accurate than even he’d originally anticipated. If Mosca’s was involved, the FBI would surely know about it, so the pictures on the walls of the old notorious Mafia Family members were just that: pictures of infamous men.
Bolan glanced once more at the front of the restaurant and noticed that the bartender was no longer there, and neither was the hostess. The flow of customers had dried up, too. He walked over to the entrance and tried to look through the small window on the door, but there were only a few parking spaces directly in front of the building. Smythe was taking a long time, but something was clearly going on with his sister. Bolan returned to the table and sat down again.
Finally, after another five minutes had passed, he decided that Smythe was out of time. He got up and headed for the door, but wasn’t even all of the way out, when he saw two large men standing next to his car on the far side of the lot. Smythe was nowhere to be seen, and Bolan made a mental note that the next time he saw him, bad things were going to happen to the little weasel. He moved across the parking lot cautiously, knowing they’d seen him come out, and simply tried to avoid being boxed in from behind.
As he reached his car, he saw that the two men were easily 250 pounds apiece. They wore pressed close-fitting khaki pants and dark T-shirts that revealed their muscles, and several tattoos. The bigger of the two looked like his biceps were going to pop through the material at any second. The other was slightly leaner and bald. Bolan stopped in front of the two men.
“Gentlemen, you’re blocking my car.”
“You’re supposed to come with us,” the bald man announced. “The boss would like to meet you.”
Bolan laughed dryly. “And I’d like to meet him, but at a time of my own choosing. I think I’ll pass for now, but tell him thanks for the invitation.”
The Executioner had dealt with some “Family” members in the past. If they were the real deal, he knew he could have his hands full. He wasn’t about to go with the two thugs, but it was important to use the false niceties anyway, then no one could claim offense later.
“You don’t get it, mister. It wasn’t really a request,” Baldy said. He cracked his knuckles, trying to look menacing in a way that would have been intimidating to anyone who couldn’t fight, but was almost comical to someone who could. “There are ways that we can be convincing,” he added.
He nodded at his partner, and both men moved forward at the same time. Bolan stepped back, dropped low and leg-swept Baldy, which knocked him off balance and into the second man. The big guy stumbled back but kept his feet. The soldier didn’t give him time to regain his balance completely, moving forward to plant a spin kick in the center of the other guy’s chest.
He wanted them alive, since dead men didn’t talk, so he pressed on without weapons. Twisting, Bolan turned back and planted a solid right hook into Baldy’s jaw, keeping him off balance and hurting. The big guy reached forward and grabbed Bolan’s ankle. The Executioner went with it, dropped to his knee on the captured leg and did a low spin, connecting the back of his heel with the man’s face. There was a crunching noise and a muffled scream as the guy’s nose broke and blood flowed freely.
Both legs free again, the soldier stood up in time to catch a glimpse of Smythe moving away from his hiding place at a nearby vehicle. Bolan moved to go after him, but Baldy wasn’t done yet, and hit Bolan from behind with a hammer shot to his back. Stumbling forward, he almost lost his balance in the loose gravel, but managed to catch himself and turn in time to block the follow-up swing.
As the man closed in, Bolan swung both hands wide and clapped him on the ears, trying to rupture his eardrums and forcing him completely off balance. A car peeled out of the lot, and he knew that Smythe was gone.
The second guy was getting slowly to his feet as Baldy staggered around holding his head. Bolan was tired of playing and pulled his Desert Eagle free. “Enough playtime,” he said, pointing it at the man trying to get to his feet. “Don’t move again, or your buddy is dead.”
“Does it look like I’ll miss him?” he snapped, still holding his aching head.
Disappointed that he wasn’t deafened, Bolan shrugged and said, “No.” He took two quick steps forward and buffaloed the guy on the ground, who went out like a light.
“You’re dead,” the bald thug said. “You know that?”
“I can see you’re going to be difficult,” Bolan replied, turning the gun in his direction. “But you’d be amazed how cooperative you’ll become after I put a .44-caliber round in your leg.”
4
From where he was on the table, Rio could see Nick Costello and Victor Salerno on the far side of the game room. A call had come through a few minutes ago that had made the big boss very unhappy. After hitting the end button on his cell phone, Nick stood quietly for a minute, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Rio couldn’t hear what was said between the two men, but both turned in his direction, and he knew that what he’d experienced so far was about to seem like a fond memory. He watched as Nick removed his coat. Forcing himself to grin, Rio said, “Everything okay? You look upset.”
“Mr. Rio,” Nick said, “I’m running out of patience with you. You will eventually tell me what I want to know about the U.S. Marshals Service border routines, but we’re going to leave that for the moment and move on to a new subject.”
“Cajun cuisine?” he asked brightly.
Salerno stepped into the punch that slammed into Rio’s solar plexus, and the marshal felt his breath leave him in a rush. The room smelled of blood—his blood—and the cool, damp air of Costello’s game room stank to high heaven, but he forced himself to draw another breath. He coughed, breathed again, then made himself start to laugh.
“Is that all you’ve got, you little bootlicker? My grandmother hits harder than that.”
Salerno growled and started to wind up again, but Nick raised a hand and stopped him.
“The problem, Mr. Rio, is that my associate here doesn’t have the same level of imagination that I do. Sometimes, his heart just isn’t in it. He prefers a good fight or a straight kill, while my approach is more subtle. I like to take my time and really get know what makes people tick. It truly enhances the experience.”
Nick selected another blade from his implement tray. It was a double-edged, very thin tool that looked like something an angry surgeon might use. He held it up to the light and turned it back and forth. “A good blade is a thing of beauty, yes?” he asked.
Before Rio could form a smart-ass answer, Nick stepped forward and slipped the knife into his knee, driving it behind his kneecap and twisting it. Rio couldn’t help himself. He screamed in agony, and his vision filled with a reddish-brown haze.
Nick left the blade in place and waited for Rio to stop. When he did, the big boss said, “Now I think we can talk. Who is Marshal Cooper?”
He shook his head and his voice was weak as he said, “I don’t know any Cooper.” He could feel a thin trickle of blood running down his leg around the blade of the knife.
Nick placed a hand on the grip of the blade, not moving it, but the threat was there. “I don’t believe you, Mr. Rio. Who is Marshal Cooper? Who sent him here?” He put a slight amount of pressure on the handle of the blade and Rio groaned.
“I don’t know him!”
Salerno leaned in and slammed a fist down on his knee. “The fuck you don’t! Who did you tell that you were coming here? Someone knew you were here.”
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