Shadow Hunt

“What have you gotten yourself into, U.S. Marshal Rio?” Bolan muttered before turning back to the living room.

He pulled a chair from the kitchen table into the living room, turned it around, then retrieved a glass of cold water for himself, and one for the unidentified, groggy man. He returned to the living room, took a drink from his own glass, then poured about half of the other over the man’s face. The thug spluttered and came around.

“Welcome back,” Bolan said. “I have some questions.”

“Yeah, well, you know what you can do with your questions,” he said. “I ain’t saying anything to you.”

“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” Bolan said. He leaned back in the chair, tilting it up, then brought it down full force into the top of the man’s exposed feet. The bones cracked and popped, and the man screamed for several long seconds.

“Who are you, you fuck? You’re not just a buddy!” He was breathing heavily.

“I’m the one asking the questions. Who are you? Who do you work for? And where is Jack Rio?”

“I’m the Tooth Fairy,” he said. “I work for Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. And Jack Rio’s in hell.”

“Wrong answer,” Bolan said calmly. He leaned back in the chair, driving the tips of the legs into the man’s feet again. Thankfully, Rio’s house was quite some distance from any others, though if the man got much louder, a gag would be necessary.

When he finally quieted, Bolan took a long drink of water. “You need to understand,” he said. “I’m only going to ask one more time, then I’m going to lose patience and start hurting you. Up to this point, I’ve been gentle. So, who are you? Who do you work for? Where’s Jack Rio?”

The man looked like he was thinking about another smart-ass remark, but then thought better of it. “I’m Tony Salerno,” he said, his voice weak from his screams. “I work for the Family in New Orleans, which is where I last saw your buddy Jack.” He shrugged. “I’m guessing he’s dead by now.”

Family, Bolan thought, the magic word that meant Mafia. But last he’d heard, the Matrangas were out of business in New Orleans. “What Family?” he asked.

“Mine, you mook,” he snarled.

“Well, at least I know who to look up when I get there,” Bolan said. “For their sake, the marshal had better be alive.”

“I don’t know who you are, but if you go down there looking for Family trouble, you’re as good as dead already.”

“You’d be surprised how often I’ve heard that,” Bolan replied, taking the man’s .45 out of his pocket. “Anything else you’d like to tell me? A good address would help.” He knew what the answer would be.

“I’ll die first,” the man spit. “I’m a stand-up guy.”

“Yeah, right,” Bolan said as he pocketed the thug’s gun. “How about we just let the cops deal with you when they get here. I’m sure there are a few outstanding warrants on you.”

In the distance, Bolan heard approaching sirens. Apparently the closest neighbors had heard the screams. Bolan wiped down the chair and glasses, leaving them in the sink.

“Hey, buddy, I hope you got your funeral planned, if you’re thinking of going near the Family,” the thug said.

Bolan ignored the man—his mind was already moving forward. If he got lucky, he could catch a late flight to New Orleans and look up the newest Mafia Family to call the city home. The Executioner went back outside and made his way to his car—carefully plotting his next move.

NIKOLAI AGRON PAUSED and checked his appearance in the mirror one last time. The look was only one small part of his disguise here, but people tended to believe what they saw, and in him, they saw a perfectly groomed Italian man. He pulled out all of the stops for his look, perfectly tailored Italian suit, shoes from Milan and he even had monogrammed silk handkerchiefs for formal occasions. But on this day he had a more casual look—loose fitting shirt, Dockers and loafers. He’d been down in New Orleans since just after Hurricane Katrina hit, introducing himself around the city as Nick Costello. His bona fides checked out because he’d been building them for several years.

Nikolai was about as Italian as George Washington. He’d been born in Moscow, worked his way up in organized crime there, and when things began to go to hell, he changed tactics. He taught himself how to become someone else, and he spent years developing several different identities in organized crime families around the world. When Katrina hit, Nikolai—Nick, he reminded himself—saw a golden opportunity. New Orleans had been all but free of seriously organized crime since Carlos Marcello, the last of the Matranga Family, had died. For a clever man, this vacuum could be exploited.

So Nikolai Agron disappeared and Nick Costello was born. He established himself quickly and invested in real estate as fast as he could. He made backroom deals, robbed Peter to pay the proverbial Paul, and landed every Federal Emergency Management Agency—FEMA—contract he could get his hands on, and the ones he didn’t get he made sure went south in a hurry for the other bidder. All that reconstruction work, which was still going on, provided a great cover for money laundering and smuggling, and the town was quickly learning that no projects moved forward without Mr. Costello’s permission. He was already a very wealthy man, and before he was done, he’d have enough money to pay back his enemies in Russia, with interest, and buy a nice, private island to retire on.

There was a discreet tap on his door. “He’s ready, boss,” a voice called from the other side.

Nick crossed the room and opened the door to see the stern face of Victor Salerno. Salerno was the real thing, born in Italy into a prominent Mafia Family. But he’d long since put profit above honor. As Nick’s capo, Salerno knew almost everything about the operation he was running, but he did his best work as an enforcer.

“He’s in the game room?” Nick asked, as they descended the steps to the first floor.

“Yeah,” Salerno said. “All ready to go.”

“Good,” Nick said. “He’ll talk soon.”

“It doesn’t matter. Tony will find something that will give us what we need.”

“Have you heard from him yet?” Nick asked.

Salerno shook his head. “No, but he’ll get in touch soon. He’s a good kid.”

“Absolutely,” Nick agreed. They crossed the main floor of the house to the kitchen, then opened a small door in the back, which revealed a short set of concrete steps leading into the so-called game room—the place where Salerno questioned those who had information he wanted.

The game room wasn’t large—perhaps twenty feet on a side—and constantly smelled of wet, mildew and blood. And a carefully trained nose could pick out the scents of urine, feces and, most of all, fear. Jack Rio was chained to a stainless-steel table in the middle of the back wall. Salerno saw that he was awake and staring at him with hatred in his eyes.

“Are you ready to begin again, Mr. Rio?” Nick asked. “I’m enjoying our sessions together.”

“You’re accent sounds funny to me,” Rio said. “What part of Italy are you from?”

Nick made a sad tsking sound between his teeth. “As I’ve already explained to you, Mr. Rio, I ask the questions here in the game room, not you.” He removed a rubber apron from a hook on the wall, hung his suit coat in its place and put on the apron. Then he lifted a metal tray from the shelf and selected a long, thin-bladed device.

“I think we’ll start with this,” he said, his voice growing quiet. “Unless you’d like to tell me what I want to know.”

“You’d best get to cutting,” Rio said between his gritted teeth. “Because I’m not telling you shit.”

“As you request,” Nick said, bringing the blade down and cutting into the delicate skin of Rio’s inner thigh. “I’m always happy to play in the game room.”

2

Bolan had traveled the world, and that included New Orleans. He’d been there before, and there were two things he knew without a doubt. First, that if the heat and the mosquitoes didn’t kill you, the alligators would. Second, behind the Cajun-flavored drawl, there wasn’t a single cop in the city who liked having anyone else horn in on their territory.

After arriving on a late flight and tracking down a hotel of very questionable quality, Bolan decided early the next morning to visit the district attorney’s office. It was possible that Rio had checked in there, or perhaps word had come through that there was a U.S. marshal in town. Bolan drove his small rental car through the early-morning humidity and parked it across the street from the DA’s office. There was a small bistro serving Turkish coffee and scones, and with time to kill until the office opened, Bolan ordered both and sat at a table to wait. The coffee was excellent, and the scones helped to satisfy his hunger, even as his eyes took in the arriving staff and lawyers, who already looked uncomfortable in their business attire that clung to them with the heavy humidity.

The office was located only a couple of blocks from the Louisiana Superdome, where the New Orleans Saints played football. It was a somber-looking building, with a dark gray fabricated granite facing. But the courthouse and other older buildings on the block offered a different atmosphere than the DA’s office. Statues and columns, along with honeysuckle vines in the park, lent itself to the old-world feel that New Orleans was famous for. When his watch read eight o’clock, Bolan finished the last of his coffee and walked across the street. By the time he arrived, he was already sweating through his clothing, and even the blast of air-conditioning didn’t seem to do much more than make him feel damper. He took the elevator up several floors to where the DA’s office was located.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The blonde woman at the front desk was devouring him with her eyes. Her red sleeveless dress plunged in the front, leaving little to the imagination. She leaned forward even further, squeezing her elbows into her sides so that her cleavage all but jumped out and said hello.

Resisting the urge to pull the clinging shirt away from his skin, Bolan turned enough for her to see the badge and gun on his belt. He needed to find Rio in a hurry, and he really didn’t want to waste time with someone who was more interested in flirting than being helpful.

“Matt Cooper,” he said. “U.S. Marshal’s Service, to see the district attorney.”

Eyeing his gun carefully, she stammered, “Oh, y-yes, sir. Right away.”

He watched her hurry away from the desk, then duck into an office. He hadn’t had time to put together a full cover, so using a U.S. marshal’s badge was the best idea he could come up with on short notice. It would get anyone in the law-enforcement community’s attention, and it cut down on unwanted questions. U.S. marshals worked all over the country, dealing with everything from basic immigration to drug running to federal warrants.

He waited patiently, trying to hear the frantic whispers behind the closed door, but having to be satisfied with the knowledge that things were moving along. After a couple of minutes, the busty woman hustled back out, with a man close on her heels. The sign on the door read District Attorney, but Bolan knew in a minute this guy wasn’t the head honcho. For one thing, he was wearing an off-the-rack suit and for another, he was too young.

Bolan watched the small man straighten his shirt and tie, then march forward.

“You gave my secretary a good scare, Marshal Cooper. What’s the big idea?”

Bolan stood a little straighter as the man began to talk. The reprimand he was trying to give was weakened with the small quaver in his voice and the fact that he couldn’t seem to keep his hands still.

“I don’t know why she’d be scared. I let her see my badge, then she went to get you. We’re all supposed to be on the same side, right? Can we talk in your office? It’s vital that I speak with the district attorney.”

“Well, sir, he’s not here and won’t be before the end of the week. He’s at a conference in Washington. Might I suggest that you make an appointment for Monday?”

Bolan looked over the fidgeting man. “You the assistant DA?”

“Yes, yes, I am,” he said. “I’m in charge of this office until he returns. Trenton Smythe.” He offered a hand, which Bolan ignored.

“Then you’ll have to do.”

Bolan could see the sweat bead on the little man’s brow. He couldn’t have been over five-four, and a 130 pounds soaking wet. He looked like an overworked, underweight terrier. If Bolan hadn’t been watching so closely, he would have missed the catch in the man’s breathing, but not the look in his eyes that said more than any one person could with words. That “Ah, crap,” look that was unmistakable.

“Of course,” Smythe said finally.

He turned and walked into the office. Bolan nodded to the secretary as he walked past her desk. The outer office was modern and had clearly been updated recently, but the inner office was typical old Louisiana, dark wood paneling, deep rich carpeting and plaques that showed the DA’s latest and greatest fishing accomplishment. Mr. Smythe sat confidently behind the DA’s hijacked desk.

“Now how can I help you, Marshal?”

“There was a U.S. marshal visiting on his vacation here. He’s a friend of mine and has come up missing. I thought I’d check in and see if you had heard anything. His name is Jack Rio.”

Smythe pursed his lips. “No…” he said, thinking. “I haven’t heard of Marshal Rio, but of course many people come here on vacation. If he wasn’t working, why would he check in with us? Are you certain he came to New Orleans?”

Bolan nodded. “I’m sure he came here,” he said. “And as for a vacation, well, you know some of us in law enforcement don’t really vacation. From what I’ve heard, he came out this way to look into something on his own time. He’s not the type to just go missing.”

“Does he have a wife screaming for him or something?”

“No, but he’s my friend and I know he was working on something here.”

“Ah, I see,” Smythe said. He chuckled weakly. “A cold case or something?”

“I don’t know for sure,” he said. “But if he was following a trail out this way, I figure he might have checked in with your office. It’s at least odd that he’s gone missing in your jurisdiction.”

Smythe stood and went to the door. He peeked out around it before closing it firmly, then returned to the desk. Bolan hadn’t even been in the room with the guy five minutes and he wanted to shoot him. It was obvious he knew something about Rio, and Bolan wasn’t a patient man.

“You said your friend’s name was Jack Rio?”

“That’s right.”

Smythe began to fidget with the antique pen that was sitting in an inkwell. He leaned back against the desk and stared at Bolan, but his entire demeanor had changed into something more cocky and confident. The soldier sensed this man was more than he appeared and at least part weasel.

“Yeah, all right, now that I think about it, we did have a fella by that name come through here.” He glanced suggestively at the door. “But maybe this isn’t the best place to be talking about it.”

“Look, Mr. Smythe, this is a missing federal agent. If you have some information, you need to tell me. If I don’t come up with some answers pretty damn fast, you’re going to end up with every federal law-enforcement agency in the country breathing down your neck.”

Smythe pulled one hand out of his crossed arms and pointed a stubby finger at Bolan.

“Marshal Cooper, this is New Orleans and down here we do things a bit differently. We don’t rush things that we shouldn’t rush, and this is one of them. Since Katrina, about all we’ve dealt with is the Feds, and most of ’em couldn’t find their ass with two hands, a flashlight and a map.”

Despite the man’s attitude, Bolan could tell that Smythe was nervous about something. So he simply sighed and nodded.

“It’s your town,” he said. “What do you have in mind?”

“That’s smart, Marshal Cooper. Why don’t we meet around seven over at Mosca’s? I’ll have more for you then.”

“Where might that be?”

“Oh, you’ll have found it by seven. It’s practically famous. Just ask around, and you’ll find it.”

A discreet knock on the door interrupted Smythe, and the secretary stuck her head in the door when he called out, “Enter.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but Chief Lacroix is here to see you,” she said.

A heavily muscled man in a police uniform pushed past her. “Jeezus pleezus, Sally, since when do I need an announcement?”

He stopped as he crossed the threshold and spotted Bolan. “I apologize, Trenton,” he said. “I had no idea you were in a meeting.”

Bolan stood and moved away from the two men. The officer’s name tag revealed that his first name was Duke, and more than anything else, he radiated danger. The soldier wanted room to maneuver in the event he had to make a quick exit. New Orleans had a reputation for being corrupt, especially the police department, and while he wasn’t yet sure who was involved in Rio’s disappearance, he’d wager his favorite Desert Eagle that at least someone from the police department was involved. And Smythe obviously knew more than he was letting on.

The way Lacroix ignored Smythe told Bolan a great deal about who had the upper hand in their relationship. “Who’s this now, Trenton?”

“Matt Cooper,” Smythe said. “A U.S. marshal.”

“Is that so?” Lacroix asked. “What brings you to the DA’s office, Marshal?”

“I’m here investigating the disappearance of another marshal,” Bolan replied evenly. Lacroix was dangerous—Bolan felt that as clearly as he’d feel it from a water moccasin.

“It’s common courtesy for you boys to check in with the locals before you conduct any investigation in someone else’s jurisdiction. I’m sick of you federales thinkin’ you can come in here as pretty as you please without a little common courtesy.”

“Oh, you were next on my list,” Bolan said. “As soon as I was done here.”

“Is that so?” Lacroix said, using the same expression of doubt again. “What’s the name of your missing marshal? I haven’t heard of anything coming our way, and we usually get a flash alert on those kinds of things.”

“He was off-duty,” Smythe offered. “Supposedly, he was down here on vacation, but he’s gone missing.”

“Huh,” the police chief said. “Sounds like you’re wasting your time, Marshal Cooper. He probably hooked up with some sweet thing and is taking a couple of extra days. A few hours with a Cajun woman and a little home brew can make any man forget his duties. You should go on back and tell your superiors to lighten up a little. Boy’ll show back up when he sobers up.”

Lacroix rested his hand suggestively on his gun belt. Just close enough to his sidearm to make a point, but not close enough to give offense.

“Is that an order?” Bolan asked.

“Nah, just a friendly suggestion.”

“I think I’ll hang around for a couple of days. After all, he may need a little assistance finding his way back home. Gentlemen.”

Bolan blatantly turned his back on them and walked out the door.

AFTER BOLAN LEFT, Smythe moved to the phone on the desk.

“What the hell was that?” Lacroix barked.

“It’s not like I invited him, Duke,” he replied. “He just showed up here. I’m calling Mr. Costello right away. I can handle this.”

“You’re an idiot,” Lacroix said. “He’s here looking for Jack Rio. Did he tell you that? I haven’t been informed about a formal investigation into his death, which means they’re either keeping it below the radar or it’s personal for this guy. I’d almost rather it was a covert operation. Personal matters can get messy.”

“Yeah, that’s who he’s looking for,” he said. “What of it? We can take care of him just like we did Rio.”

Lacroix shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Something about that man sets me off. I wouldn’t go underestimating him.”

“You worry too much,” Smythe said, picking up the phone.

“And you don’t worry enough,” the police chief said, moving to the door. “I’m going to look into this.”

“You do that,” Smythe said, dialing the phone number from memory. It rang several times before a smooth voice answered.

“Mr. Costello’s residence,” Victor Salerno said.

“Vic, it’s Trenton.”

“I’ve told you not to call me Vic, Smythe. Now what the hell do you want?” he asked. “Mr. Costello is busy.”

“He’s not too busy for this,” he snapped. “Put him on.”

“You’ve got a big mouth for a little man,” Salerno replied. “Really big.”

“Look, I just had a U.S. marshal in here looking for Rio, and he’s not just going to walk away, so maybe you’d like to stop commenting on my big mouth and put the boss on.”

There was a long silence, then Salerno said, “Hold on, little man.”

There was the sound of muffled words, then, “Mr. Smythe,” Costello said as he came on the line. “I understand we have a small problem.”

“I don’t know how big the problem is,” he said, then filled him in on his meeting with the U.S. marshal.

“And what did you tell him?” Costello asked.

“I told him to meet me at seven at Mosca’s,” Smythe said. In the background, he could hear the faint, painful moaning of someone—likely Jack Rio—being tortured.

“That will do nicely,” Costello said. “I’ll send along a welcoming committee and the problem will be solved. Good day, Mr. Smythe.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you.” He hung up the phone and sat down heavily. Things were going too far, too fast. Sooner or later, they’d all get caught and go to prison or worse.

And he agreed with Duke Lacroix. There was something about that man Cooper that gave him the willies. Smythe sat back down at his computer and went to his online banking. Maybe it was time to start thinking about moving some money.

3

In cities famous for their food, New Orleans stood out. But Mosca’s wasn’t just a well-known restaurant, it was a tradition meant to be celebrated, like Mardis Gras. At least that’s what the waitress at the bistro told Bolan when he stopped in for a cup of coffee to go. While many restaurants were reputed for excellent food and service, only a few were esteemed for their ability to keep secrets. “If you want to talk about taking over the world, you go to Mosca’s,” she said, handing him his coffee.

While Bolan had no interest in taking over the world, a restaurant with that kind of reputation would certainly be online. He’d returned to his hotel room, locked the door and booted up his computer on the tiny desk that was as scarred as he was. Using a secure log-on, Bolan was able to find Mosca’s website, several other mentions online, and, with a little clever manipulation learned from the Farm’s computer genius Aaron Kurtzman, a back door into a set of FBI files on the Matranga Family itself.

According to the files, the Matrangas had been operating in New Orleans since at least the 1880s, but had virtually disappeared since the death of Carlos Marcello in 1993. Marcello had used Mosca’s as the epicenter of his empire, having meets there for everything from personal meals to planning killings. Mosca’s reputation of good food, incredibly discreet service and no questions asked had outlasted even the Mafia.

The location was far enough away from the hustle and bustle of New Orleans itself that it was possible to come and go without being seen by everyone. Bolan pulled up to the simple black-and-white building. It was fairly busy, and the parking lot was almost full. That suited him fine, and he parked on the far edge of the lot and rolled down his window. The smells coming from the restaurant were heavenly despite the heavy humidity in the air, and his stomach grumbled. He’d spent most of the afternoon reading the files he’d stolen from the FBI database and hadn’t taken the time for lunch.

After watching for several minutes and seeing no signs of trouble, Bolan rolled up the window, got out of the car and locked it, then moved across the lot to the front door. He weaved his way through parked cars on the way there, as the lot didn’t boast marked spaces, but was little more than a graveled area where people parked as they wanted.