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  The sound of the airboat was getting closer. He knew that his choices were diminishing with every second that ticked by. Using the little strength he had left, Bolan pulled on the limb that seemed most likely to break. The moist threads of the tree groaned in objection, but finally relented. The gator surfaced again, ready to take advantage of any situation. Bolan reached up and grabbed the sagging limb that still held his weight. It lowered inch by inch as he struggled to free his arm. The gator swam beneath him, the animal’s tail flicking Bolan’s boot on the way by as a subtle reminder that his time was almost up.

  The airboat was almost deafening at this point. Bolan began to hope for the appearance of more of Costello’s thugs—at least with them he knew how to fight and what he was up against. Carnivorous, prehistoric lizards were not really his area of expertise. Of course, fighting anyone was going to be difficult in his current situation. He strained harder at the branch, while watching the gators on final approach.

  One of them circled and dived beneath the surface, and he wondered if the creature was going to come up beneath him, leaping out of the water to snatch him in its jaws, like he was a worm on a hook. Sure enough, his premonition proved accurate.

  The gator exploded out of the water, jaws open, with an ominous hissing sound.

  Bolan pulled hurriedly on the ropes, trying to lever himself higher into the air. The gator was practically standing on its tail, trying to reach him, when a heavy shot rocked the swamp air.

  The gator slammed back down and into the water, still thrashing, but now in its death throes. Bolan twisted his head around and saw the airboat had rounded the veil of moss, and there was a huge black man standing in the bow, holding a rifle trained on the water.

  A sense of relief swept through Bolan moments before the branches holding him up finally cracked, then snapped. Time slowed and Bolan had a half second to see a second gator heading his way as the water closed over his head.

  The water wasn’t particularly deep, and he pushed to his feet and shoved himself sideways as the gator attacked. Weaponless, he shifted in the water, prepared to go down fighting. The gator circled back and headed his way. Bolan braced for the worst just as he felt himself being lifted into the air.

  Beside his ear, another shot rang out, this time from a .45-caliber MK23 that looked small in the hand gripping it. A deep, heavily accented voice said, “Don’t struggle.”

  The second gator thrashed in its own death throes as Bolan relaxed until he finally felt the boat beneath his feet, then he caught his own weight and tried to find his balance. The Executioner was breathing heavily and dripping wet, but alive. He sat down and counted his own breaths for a minute, happy that they were still coming. He was a fighting man and to die that way would have been a terrible injustice.

  “You had a close one there,” the black man said, extending a hand to help Bolan to his feet.

  He took the hand that was offered and levered himself upright. “I’d say thank you, but that hardly seems the word for your timely assistance.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. Bolan was still struck by the man’s sheer size and deep voice. He was like a mountain that spoke.

  “My name’s Remy,” he said, as though unaware of the effect he might have on people. “Normally, I keep myself to myself, but maybe you’d care to explain how you got yourself tied up between those trees.”

  “Matt Cooper,” he said. “And it’s a long story.”

  Bolan watched as the man moved back into the control chair and started the boat at a slow pace. He noted the Navy SEAL tattoo that the man was sporting below his cutoff sleeves. Remy saw him staring and looked back at him.

  “You got a problem with the Navy?” he asked.

  “No,” Bolan said. “Just sizing up my situation.”

  “Then I’d say you don’t have the high ground, if you know what I mean.”

  “True enough,” he replied. “I’m a U.S. marshal, down here investigating a friend’s disappearance. A fellow marshal.”

  “Ah, then you must be a friend of the marshal I hear tell about.”

  Bolan raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t go fretting yourself,” he said, guiding the boat around a large patch of trees hanging into the water. “I’m not involved with those thugs, but this swamp is small, and she talks if you listen. Everything that happens in the city shows up out here sooner or later. Rumors carry on the water, even in the swamp. Everyone tries to hide their secrets here, but I know them all.”

  The man spoke with a heavy Cajun accent, but Bolan easily understood him. “What is it you hear?”

  “I hear a lot and I say very little. Costello has your boy, Rio, and he’s got a finger in every pie in New Orleans. Word is that he’s looking to expand outside the city,” Remy said.

  “And just a word to the wise,” he added. “Everyone is involved, least everyone that matters. And those who aren’t won’t tell you nothin’ because they don’t want go visiting with your swamp friends back there.”

  Bolan tried to process what he was being told. So the only people who seemed to be on his side were an ex-Navy SEAL and Rio, who was either dead or incapacitated.

  “Good to know,” he said. “Is there more you can tell me about this Nick Costello?”

  “He’s a bad one,” Remy said. “Word is old Italian Mafia Family type. His tough guy is Victor Salerno, but he’s got the DA, the police chief and a good chunk of law enforcement all in his pocket. It’s nothing new, but they figure if they have the court and the cops, plus all the bad guys on their side, they’ve got it all sewn up and nothing can stop them. So far they’ve been right.”

  “So what happened to Rio? They must feel invincible to kidnap a federal marshal.”

  “When your friend started poking around down here, he may just as well have hit a hornet’s nest with a stick. Costello’s people are into everything, and they weren’t going to let one lone law dog stop them. Plus things have stayed quiet on the Fed side too long, which tells me they must have someone on the inside there, too.”

  Bolan thought about it for a minute and decided that if Rio wasn’t dead yet, they had to want something from him. “You know anything else about Costello? You said the word was he was old Italy, but you don’t sound convinced.”

  “I met him once,” Remy said. “He was out in the swamp with some of his men. Just looking around, they said.”

  “They say what they were looking for?” he asked.

  “No,” he said, “but I don’t think they were looking for anything. I think they were scouting the area. Costello bought an old mansion not far from here, paid a fortune to have it fixed up, and that’s where he hides himself. Like a gator or a snake.”

  “Why don’t you think he is what he says he is?” Bolan asked.

  “I’ve been all over the world,” Remy said. “Met a lot of folks and some just are who they say they are, but this guy…he isn’t comfortable in his own skin, if you know what I mean. Don’t doubt that he’s bad juju, a real bad man, but he’s not honest about who he is or what he wants, even to those who are in the swamp with him. That tells me a lot about the man right there. I grew up in this area, met some of the old Family types.”

  Bolan sat back and pondered. If Costello wasn’t really who he claimed to be, then there could more trouble from within his own circles than there was from law enforcement. Nothing fit together quite right.

  Remy guided the airboat to a slow halt, and it coasted up to a small island of land. “So, you want to tell me again how you’re a U.S. marshal, ’cause I’m not believing that for a minute.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “’Cause down here a marshal is gonna end up dead or eaten by a gator,” Remy said. “And I do believe you might have given that gator a good fight. I don’t hold much with secrets, but I understand some that have to be kept.”

  “I’m here to help Jack Rio,” Bolan said. “Does the rest of it really matter?”

  Remy chuckled and sh
ook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “Not one little bit.” He climbed out of the seat and moved to the front of the boat. “Come on, then.” Remy jumped to the ground and tied the airboat to a very concealed post. “You’re going to need something more lethal than that leech sucking on your arm if you’re going to help your friend.”

  Bolan looked down at the black sluglike creature attached to his skin. He reached down, then carefully pried it off. “Who are you?” he asked, following him onto land.

  “I ain’t nobody,” Remy said. “I served my country, and when that was over, I came back here.”

  “To live in the swamp?” Bolan asked.

  “To live in peace,” Remy said. “Follow me. My place is up this way.”

  Bolan followed the man deeper into the heavy trees, and was surprised to discover a well-built cabin hidden behind the veils of moss. “A good spot to disappear to,” Bolan noted. “It’d be almost impossible to find unless you knew what you were looking for.”

  “That was the idea,” Remy said. “And I’d bet my boots that if you left here, you couldn’t find it again.” He led the way to the door, opened it and went inside, gesturing for Bolan to follow along.

  Inside was snug and comfortable. There was only one large room, with a small table and kitchen dominating one side, and a bed and recliner on the other. “There’s an out-house in the back if you need to use the facilities,” Remy said, moving to a large trunk at the foot of the bed. He opened it and began digging through it until he came up with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. He tossed them to Bolan.

  “Put these on,” he said, “until your own dry out.”

  Bolan changed out of his own soggy clothing, removing several leeches in the process. “They’re fast,” he said, peeling off another one. “I wasn’t in the water for that long.”

  “They’re everywhere,” Remy said. “Probably picked ’em up when Costello’s men were dragging you out here.” He took Bolan’s clothing outside and secured it to a line, then returned.

  Bolan sat down at the small table, accepted the offer of a beverage and a sandwich from the man, then asked him about Costello’s activities.

  Remy shrugged. “I don’t know much for certain, but I can make some guesses. Drug running for sure, lots of that out here because it’s easy to hide. It’s odd though.”

  “What’s that?” Bolan asked.

  “Costello hiding away out here. Don’t those Mafia fellows prefer to live in the city?”

  “That’s been my experience,” he replied. “Closer to their interests. Can’t shake someone down for money if there are no warm bodies.”

  After they finished, Remy moved to the bed once again, but this time, he lifted it, revealing a trapdoor beneath. Opening it, he began removing various weapons for Bolan’s inspection. “Pick out something that works for you,” he said, “then I’ll take you to Costello’s compound.”

  Thanking him, and regretting the loss of his Desert Eagle, Bolan picked out a combat knife, as well as an H&K .45, with an extra magazine. “These will do until I can get back to my own gear, but I need to do that before facing Costello. It’s time for me to check in with some people and get some better information than I’ve gotten right now.”

  “I can get you back to the city,” Remy replied. “Unseen.”

  “Good,” Bolan said. He went outside and returned with his own, still damp, clothing. After inspecting it for leeches, he dressed, then armed himself. “Better,” he told Remy.

  “Then let’s get on our way,” he said. “The sooner you get Costello out of my swamp, the happier I’m gonna be.”

  “He bothers you?” Bolan asked.

  “Nah,” Remy said, “but gators don’t either, and I kill plenty of those, too.”

  7

  There were two unmarked police cars parked outside his hotel, but no sign of the officers themselves in the lobby. While there was no guarantee they were interested in him, or even in his hotel, Bolan had a feeling that something was amiss. He carefully scanned the lobby as he passed through it, noted the clerk’s overt indifference, then moved to the stairs. He was on the top floor, the eighth, and it was a long hike up the stairs.

  Bolan lunged up the last of the steps to his floor. He opened the door and peered into the hallway, which was clear, then moved quickly to his room. Remy’s help had been invaluable, but he needed to resupply and get in touch with Stony Man Farm. There was going to be a reckoning down here.

  The door to his room was slightly ajar when he reached it, and he paused. The gun he had would be too loud if trouble ensued, but his Navy SEAL Combat Knife would be silent and nearly as effective, especially in the close quarters of a small hotel room. He reached for the blade with his right hand as he slid his left along the cracked door and pushed it quietly open. Inside, he saw three figures, one of whom he recognized on sight. Chief of Police Duke Lacroix leaned against the battered dresser.

  Lacroix’s senses were well-honed as he looked up to see Bolan standing in the doorway.

  “What the hell are you doing here? What’s this all about?” Bolan demanded.

  “Marshal Cooper,” Lacroix said. “I’m glad you could join us. We’ve got some questions for you.” The two other men, detectives by the look of them, stopped searching and moved toward the doorway.

  “Not until I see a warrant and you tell me what’s going on here,” he said.

  Lacroix pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his suit coat and snapped it open, then handed it to Bolan, who scanned the contents quickly. The warrant authorized a search of his hotel room and included a custody order. He was to be questioned in regards to the death of Trenton Smythe.

  A cold feeling flooded his being. When cops or DAs died, everyone in law enforcement took it personally—and with good reason. Most of the men and women who served were upstanding citizens, trying to make the world a better place. Smythe had been an exception to that, but Bolan wasn’t sure he deserved death, either.

  “What happened to Smythe?” he asked, handing the warrant back.

  “You tell me, Marshal,” Lacroix said. “He was found dead in your rental car.”

  Resisting the urge to swear, Bolan gritted his teeth. “Cause of death?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “Gunshot wound to the head,” he replied. “Care to guess what the coroner thinks about the caliber?”

  “I’m going to say a .45,” he said. “Standard issue for U.S. marshals.”

  “Is that a confession?” Lacroix asked. “It’d make my job a lot easier.”

  “Hardly,” Bolan said. “Just a guess based on the corruption I’ve seen in your fair city so far.”

  “A pretty good guess,” he said. “I don’t think it was a guess, though. I think you knew because you pulled the trigger.” He jabbed a finger in Bolan’s direction. “And as far as corruption goes, are you saying Smythe was dirty?”

  Bolan laughed. “Dirty?” he asked. “He was so filthy he was mud, and you know it.”

  “What are you saying, Marshal? You accusing me of something?”

  Bolan waved Lacroix over to the side of the room, and when the two detectives started to follow, Lacroix motioned them to stay back.

  Lowering his voice, Bolan said, “I don’t know how deep into this mire you are, Chief Lacroix, but you might want to reconsider your position here.” He allowed his eyes to bore into the other man. “Here’s what going to happen in this city, Chief. I’m going to take down every last son of a bitch involved in Costello’s operation and my fellow marshal’s disappearance. I’m going to take them down hard, and they’re going to pay. This might be your one and only chance to get out of this with your skin intact.”

  Lacroix appeared to consider the Executioner’s words for a moment, then began to laugh. “Who the hell do you think you are, Marshal Cooper?” The chief stepped forward, placing a meaty hand on Bolan’s shoulder. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to place you under arrest, and me and my boys are going to question you
right here in the privacy of this hotel room. And when we’re done questioning you, we’ll take you by the hospital to get patched up before we toss your ass into jail where you’ll rot until trial, or until someone decides that wasting time on you really isn’t worth it and just takes care of the problem.”

  “So, I take it your answer is no?” Bolan asked.

  “My answer is that you’re going to be arrested now. I’m going to get all of the information I need, and then I’ll take you in and a judge can decide what to do with you,” Lacroix said, reaching for his cuffs.

  “I don’t think so,” Bolan said, grabbing Lacroix’s left arm, then twisting it and using the leverage to slam him into the wall. He heard the detectives coming and didn’t hesitate or slow his movements, but spun, pulling the combat knife free and ducking under the rush of the closer man. Bolan sliced backward, taking out the detective’s hamstring. The man uttered a high, wailing cry as his leg crumpled beneath him.

  The second detective lunged forward, and Bolan moved inside the man’s upraised arms and headbutted him, snapping the bridge of his nose like a twig. The detective stepped back, stunned, shaking his head. When he noticed his blood pouring from his nose, he howled with rage and slammed into Bolan full force, knocking him backward into the dresser. The soldier shoved him away hard, then snapped a front kick into his sternum, knocking the detective across the room.

  Lacroix had gained his feet, and now reached out to grab Bolan, but the Executioner reversed his momentum, pinning the police chief’s arm at the top, turning sideways, then driving his right elbow into Lacroix’s ribs. The air went out of the overweight man like a popped bicycle tire. Bolan followed up with a sharp right to the guy’s face, and Lacroix went down once more.

  While the detective with the slashed hamstring rolled on the floor, the other man attacked Bolan again. He didn’t want to kill these men. While he had suspicions about Lacroix, he didn’t know for sure how dirty he or the detectives really were. To kill them out of hand wasn’t part of how he saw his role in the world. Bolan took the detective down one more time, using a sharp kick to the knee, followed with an elbow strike to the cheek, and the man landed on top of Lacroix, who was screaming for him to get up.