Shadow Hunt. Don Pendleton
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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,