Shadow Hunt

He opened the door to a wave of smells and muted sounds. According to the file, Mosca’s had renovated after Hurricane Katrina, and one of the improvements had been the installation of cork in the panels surrounding the booths, as well as the floors, to further dampen the noise. It had worked well, since while it was obvious that people were talking, it was almost impossible to discern single words.

There was an older man in a tuxedo shirt behind the bar, polishing glasses, and a middle-aged woman was standing near a podium. “Good evening, sir,” she said. “Welcome to Mosca’s.”

“Thank you,” Bolan said. “I’m meeting someone.” He scanned the restaurant and spotted Smythe seated in a booth near the back. “There he is,” he added.

“Oh,” she said. “Mr. Smythe. He’s expecting you.”

“Thanks again,” he said, turning away from her and crossing the restaurant, while keeping his eyes open for trouble. He didn’t trust Smythe any further than he’d trust Lacroix. His suspicions about extensive corruption had been confirmed in the files he’d read, though nothing solid had been proved in recent years.

Smythe was seated with a beautiful woman, and both of them were drinking large glasses of red wine, presumably waiting for him to show up. They spoke together in low, heated whispers. Smythe finally spotted him and waved him over. The woman looked even more uncomfortable as she put her glass on the table. She really was striking, in a conservative cut, tan business suit, with a white blouse open at the neck and unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of cleavage.

Bolan reached the table. “Mr. Smythe, I don’t recall your mentioning that you were bringing someone else along.”

“I didn’t, and she won’t be staying long anyway,” he said. “Marshal Cooper, this is my sister, Sandra Rousseau. Sandra, this is U.S. Marshal Cooper.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth as she looked everywhere but at him. “I was just leaving.” She tucked her purse under her arm and looked pointedly at her brother.

Bolan cleared his throat and her eyes met his. “I’m thinking that you may have a different definition of pleasure than I do. You look like a rabbit ready to dart.”

“I…I apologize,” she said, stammering. “It’s been a long day for me. We had just ordered, but I really can’t stay.”

“You should eat something,” Smythe said. “You’ll feel better.”

“There’s no need to leave on my account,” Bolan said. “Sit.” It wasn’t quite an order, but it was close.

She relaxed back into her seat. “I’ll just finish my wine, then, and take my food to go.”

Bolan sat down, ensuring that he had a good view of both the front door and the kitchen entrance. “Is there anything that you recommend on the menu?” he asked them.

“Oyster Mosca,” Smythe said.

“I love their Italian crab salad,” Sandra offered. She signaled a server who was passing by and asked for her order to be put in a container to go. Sandra looked anywhere but at Bolan. She fidgeted with her napkin and the pearl drop pendant on the chain around her neck.

Bolan considered their suggestions and discarded both. He ordered the Chicken à la Grande, and a glass of water. Sandra asked how he was enjoying New Orleans, and Bolan said that all he’d seen of it so far was his hotel and the DA’s office.

“He’s not here vacationing, Sandra,” Smythe scolded. “He’s on a case.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “That’s why you wanted to meet with Trenton, then.”

“Yes,” he said. “There’s a missing U.S. marshal who was last known to be here in New Orleans. I’m trying to find him.”

Bolan noted the hard glance that Smythe shot his sister, and she quickly changed the subject to places he might enjoy seeing, should he find the time.

“I was reading a little about the history of this place,” Bolan said.

“Yes, interesting crime families and ruling the world,” Sandra said.

“Something like that,” Bolan said.

“The Matranga Family was very powerful in New Orleans for a long time. There was a rival Family that tried to come in at one point, the Provenzanos, but a battle waged in public brought that to an end and nearly ended the Matrangas as well.”

“Sounds like you know your crime,” Bolan said.

“I know my New Orleans history, Marshal Cooper.”

“So what brought it all to an end?”

“A barrel murder.”

“I’ve heard of a lot of ways to kill someone, but I’ve never heard of them being killed by a barrel,” Bolan said.

“No not killed by, found in. They would kill someone, stuff them in a barrel and leave them on a corner for someone to find as a warning. The investigator that led the investigation into the cases was killed, and it was blamed on Italian immigrants. There were trials, lynch mobs and a lot of innocent people got killed, but Matranga escaped it all and reasserted himself.”

Finally, the server brought her food in a container and served the other dishes. Sandra stood up to leave. Bolan stood as well.

“Thank you for the history lesson.”

“Enjoy your stay, Marshal Cooper.”

“Hold on,” Smythe said. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine to get to my own car, I think. Besides, your food will get cold.”

“It’ll keep,” he said, taking her arm firmly. “I insist.”

“Smythe,” Bolan said, “I’m about out of patience. Sit down and let’s have our chat.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said, already pushing his sister away from the table. “Have a glass of wine from our bottle. It’s just the house merlot, but it’s excellent.”

Bolan watched as Smythe led the woman out through the front door. There was something cagey about the whole thing, but he wasn’t interested in the sister. He wanted to know what Smythe knew. He ignored the wine on the table and asked for the server to refill his water, then turned his attention to the restaurant itself. He’d read that it had been renovated after the hurricane, but it looked like they’d been able to keep much of the original memorabilia intact. Ignoring the food despite his hunger, Bolan looked around the restaurant, scanning the many photos on the walls. The restaurant had the perfect mixture of old-world charm, polished wood and brass, and pictures from both Italy and New Orleans through the years.

Meeting at Mosca’s 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.”

The pain was so excruciating that Rio thought he might black out.

“Enough, Victor,” Nick snapped. Salerno backed away. Both men were obviously frustrated by something this guy Cooper had done.

“Marshal Rio,” Nick said, “we’re going to leave you for a while. I want you to think carefully until I return about what you’ll say to me when I come back. If you don’t answer my questions, then I’m going to…” His voice trailed off, and he shoved on the knife once more. Rio felt something give way in his knee, and he screamed again, knowing that he’d need surgery if he was ever going to walk again…if he lived.

“I’m going to make it hurt worse than this,” Nick finished. “Come on, Victor.”

“Why are we stopping, boss?” Salerno asked. “That Cooper fucked-up Tommy and Frank real good and left them in the trunk of their car!” He pointed at Rio. “And this guy knows something!”

“I believe he does, Victor,” Nick said. “But we can deal with Cooper on our own, and given a little time, I think Marshal Rio will come around.” He flicked the blade of the knife once more. “Besides, I’m leaving that there for him to think about.”

Catching his breath, Rio said, “You think you can just kidnap a federal agent and people won’t come looking for him? In another couple of days, this whole area will be covered with cops you haven’t bought.”

“Maybe,” Nick said, leaning in to whisper his reply. “But by then both you and Cooper will be dead, and we’ll be back in the shadows once more. So you want to think really hard about cooperating with me, Marshal.” He reached forward and twisted the blade one more time. “Because you can die easy or hard, and it doesn’t matter one bit to me.”

Rio bit back the scream and whispered his hate between his teeth. The edge of oblivion wasn’t far away. Rio wondered if there would be a time that it would overtake him and never let him come back.

“What’s that you’re saying?” Nick asked, leaning in a bit closer.

“Nick…”

“Yeah?”

Rio spit blood in his face. “Fuck you.”

Nick pulled away and took out a handkerchief to wipe off his face. “You’re a tough guy, all right, Marshall Rio. But even tough guys can be broken. I’ve seen tougher than you crying for their mommas.” He turned to Salerno and gestured for the steps. “Let’s go. When we come back, he either talks or you can feed him to the gators.”

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Bolan found himself across the street from the DA’s office once more. He sipped Turkish coffee and ignored the flirtatious waitress as he thought about what he’d learned the night before. The two thugs he’d taken care of outside Mosca’s weren’t willing to reveal much, but he’d gotten a name—Nick Costello—to go with the one he already had. Baldy had made it clear that Victor Salerno was the capo, but Costello was the big boss. He’d put both men in the trunk of their car as a message to Costello. By now, Salerno and Costello knew that Marshal Cooper meant business. Things were starting to heat up, but he wanted to deal with Smythe first.

People trying to kill him was part of the job, part of his life, and while it was about as personal as it could get, what really made Bolan angry was a man who wasn’t willing to do his own dirty work. Smythe was spineless, and worse, he was on the take. Bolan wanted to make sure he paid for his crimes, so he’d camped out at the DA’s office early, knowing Smythe would show eventually. There didn’t really seem to be a quiet time on the streets of New Orleans, but after the morning commute things settled into a routine lull. Shortly after nine, he saw Smythe’s car pull up and enter the parking garage, but the windows were darkened enough that Bolan couldn’t see the interior.

The weather wasn’t cooperating to be helpful, either. The oppressive humidity had turned into a light drizzle that made the surrounding morning gray more intense.

He waited until the car was gone from view, then crossed the street and slipped into the garage. Moving quickly, he reached the row where Smythe had parked and moved in. The car door started to open just as Bolan arrived, and he reached in and grabbed the man by the collar. A surprised shriek came from inside the car and Bolan let go. It wasn’t Smythe, but his sister behind the wheel. He shoved forward, clapping a hand over her mouth before she could scream for help. Her eyes were wide and terrified.

“Look lady,” Bolan whispered in her ear, “I haven’t been in New Orleans long enough to get used to the humidity, and people are already trying to kill me or have me killed, including your brother.” He shoved her backward and said, “Scoot over. You’re going to tell me what you know or your brother’s going to find you in the same condition that I left his goons in last night.”

“What…but I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said, as soon as he’d moved his hand away from her mouth.

“The hell you don’t. Last night you were so itchy that you couldn’t even manage to hold still through dinner. Then conveniently you and your brother disappear right before I’m attacked in the parking lot. And I saw him taking off from the parking lot, so excuse me if I think you’re in this up to your eyeballs.”

“But I’m here looking for my brother!” Sandra protested. “I left last night right after he escorted me to my car, but I didn’t hear from him again and he never showed up at home.” The concern in her voice did not move Bolan. He’d dealt with women in the past who could conjure tears on a moment’s notice, and he suspected that Sandra had the acting abilities of any award show nominee.

“I can see you’re really concerned for him. Did any of this concern happen to come my way when you were setting me up?”

“I didn’t set you up,” she said. “Look, I knew Trenton was up to something, but I had no idea what. I only met him there because he said that’s where he was going to be.”

“And you know nothing, right?” Bolan said, the skepticism clear in his voice. “Then I guess you’re no use to me.” He reached for the Desert Eagle under his jacket.

“Wait!” she said. “I didn’t know anything about what he was doing last night, but I know other things that might help you. Trenton’s…he’s involved with the Mafia in some way. I don’t know how exactly. But they’ve said they’d kill him if he didn’t do what they said.”

Finally we’re getting somewhere, Bolan thought. “So what is it he does for them?”

“He makes sure that criminal cases against members of the Family don’t get prosecuted,” she said, hanging her head. “And they pay him. He can also make sure other cases are prosecuted or threatened to be prosecuted as leverage for the Family. His office fields a lot of the calls that would come from outside jurisdictions.”

“So when is the real DA coming back?”

“He’s supposedly been in D.C. for three months, but no one has seen or heard from him or his family. My guess is they are either dead or in hiding.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.