Shadow Hunt. Don Pendleton
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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.”
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