Bolan took advantage of the distraction to lift his head out of the water, just as Tanner opened fire at the vessel.
"A boat," someone else said.
Now Demoines was opening fire and then everyone was. Tanner stood firing only eight feet away from Bolan. Amidst the din of shooting, Bolan began crawling away toward the shore where Shawnee would return any minute now.
The movement caught Tanner's eye. Bolan saw him swing his rifle around, eyes wide with discovery, struggling to warn the others and shoot at the same time.
Bolan didn't give him a chance. Fearful that the swamp water might have affected the .357, Bolan just lunged at Tanner with the forked pole. Tanner took the fork directly in his chest.
The sharp wooden prongs punched through the chest like a stapler and Tanner dropped into the water unheard by the others, who were running toward the boat, still shooting rifles and shotguns.
Bolan wedged the pole sticking out of Tanner's chest under a rock, keeping Tanner hidden under the water. Then he continued toward shore.
It had been ten minutes, maybe more, by the time he reached the sandy ridge near the Nova. Where was Shawnee?
"It's a goddamn boat, all right," Demoines was shouting at his men, "but where the hell is Blue?"
"Maybe we hit him and he sank under the water," one man suggested.
"Then find his body. I want to see the blasted body."
"Hey, where's Tanner?" another goon asked.
They all began to look around, calling Tanner's name. There was a long tense silence. Then Demoines shouted hysterically. "Go back! Back to shore. He's circled behind us."
And now they were all charging toward Bolan, shouldering their rifles and firing.
Still no sign of Shawnee.
Bolan dashed for the Nova, pulled open the front door and grabbed the bike pack of grenades that Belinda had packed for him. He plucked one out, yanked the pin and tossed it into the swamp. One man screamed as the water boiled in front of him, the hot twisted shards of metal scraping off his face as they spun by him.
Honking horn. Growling engine.
Shawnee skidded up to Bolan.
He dived over the Jeep's door into the back seat, holding onto the roll bar as Shawnee whirled the Jeep around and gunned it out of there.
Demoines's team fired at the fleeing vehicle, but no slugs scored. Bolan tossed the bike pack of grenades next to his feet and stretched his long legs out into a comfortable position. He closed his eyes. "Wake me when we reach Miami."
22
Zavlin lifted his eyes from the Wall Street Journal and watched the parade of muddy men stomping through the hotel lobby. He recognized Demoines's clothing before he recognized the dirt-encrusted face.
"Give me the damn key," Demoines ordered the desk clerk. "I lost mine."
The desk clerk immediately complied, offering to send up a bellboy to gather the clothes and have them cleaned and returned by morning. Demoines ignored him and marched to the elevator. Zavlin smiled. He counted men. Fewer.
He studied Demoines's angry face.
Loser.
So, the man in black had won again. No matter, Zavlin thought, folding his paper. If the man was an agent working for the government, Zavlin's sources would have identified him as such by now. Or the government would have already raided the warehouse. Neither had happened, so it was safe to assume this man was a loner. Working on his own. Perhaps a mercenary who hoped to blackmail the KGB.
Of course, as a loner he wouldn't even know that the KGB was involved, just that something illegal was going on. Good. Zavlin could deal with greed, but patriotism was something else, much more difficult to suppress.
Zavlin tucked the newspaper under his arm and strolled through the lobby toward the door and a taxi to the airport. There could be but one place for the man in black to go now. Miami.
And Zavlin intended to be there first.
Waiting.
The sign on the chain-link fence read Seaway Chemical Corporation. Bolan stooped under the sign and began snipping the metal strands with wire cutters.
There were still a good two or three hours of darkness left. Plenty of time to take a quick look around.
From the outside the warehouse was just as dark as all the other warehouses in this industrial district. The difference was that while the parking lots of the other buildings along the street were empty, this one had more than a dozen cars.
Security guards patrolled the perimeter, so Bolan had to work fast. Despite the patches on their shirts that said Protect All Security Services, Bolan had a hunch they were KGB'-TRAINED. That meant they would kill on sight. He severed the final link, peeled back the fence and wriggled through. He jumped quickly to his feet and ran, then pressed himself against the wall, until he was hidden in the deep shadows.
The windows were all painted black so no one would know they were running a late shift here. Perhaps during the day Seaway Chemical Corporation was a legitimate business, filling the usual orders as part of its cover. But at night, its second shift was up to something. Something the KGB wanted to cover up by killing a hapless college kid. And the only way Bolan would uncover this secret was to penetrate the building.
That hadn't been his intention. He'd told Shawnee it was just a little scouting run, to get a feel for the layout. She'd insisted on coming along, but he'd managed to talk her out of it for once. He'd given her Hal Brognola's phone number and told her to call him if she didn't see Bolan back at the motel in an hour. He still had plenty of time. His wounds ached a bit, undoubtedly from his high jinks in the swamp. As soon as they'd reached the motel, Shawnee had washed and redressed the wounds. Then she'd gone out and bought them both new clothes while Bolan had stayed in the room cleaning his S&W .357. Now he was here. Miami.
The address Dodge Reed had witnessed on that record-store computer screen the night he'd tried to sneak in and do his homework. After coming this far, Bolan had to know what it was all about. A side door opened and the bright light from inside flooded over him. He scooted back along the wall, melding into the shadows. A man stepped out into the night air and stretched his arms and back. He was wearing a white surgical mask and cap, a long white lab jacket and disposable rubber gloves. He pulled the gloves off and threw them in a large cardboard barrel near the door. Then he pulled down his mask, let it droop around his neck and lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag, let out a long satisfying sigh and leaned against the wall.
The door opened again, light bloomed and a woman stepped out. She peeled off her gloves, tossed them into the barrel, removed her mask and took a puff from his cigarette while she fumbled in her lab jacket for her own pack. They were both in their early thirties.
"Damn heat," she said. "I can hardly breathe in there. Especially with these dumb masks."
He shrugged. "It's a bitch. But it's better than getting any of that stuff in your lungs. You see what happened to Tulley last week when he took his mask off to scratch his nose."
She nodded. "No great loss. He was a lech."
"Yeah, but he worked fast."
"Ha! Nobody works fast enough in there. They got Superbrain screaming at us all the time. 'Do this. Do that.' Shit, he may be some kind of genius or something, but he sure is a pain in the ass."
The man nodded in agreement.
"Well," she continued, "at least we've made the deadline. The first shipment went out today. The rest tomorrow morning."
"Bonus time." He grinned.
"And I know just how I'm gonna spend mine. Club Med in Playa Blanca. Lots of sun and gorgeous hunks."
He laughed, stubbed out his cigarette. "Gotta get back. Already got a lecture about the evils of smoking from Superbrain."
"See ya, Stew."
"Right." He went inside.
She lingered another minute, puffing on her cigarette. Bolan would have preferred the man to stay. At least then the lab jacket would have fit.