Bolan spun around and pointed the .357 into the young man's face. "Out!" he commanded.
The young man stuck his pole back in the boat and jumped into the water. He tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out of his mouth.
"I don't have much time, son," Bolan said slowly, "but you'd better listen carefully. There's a pack of men coming this way with rifles and a desire to kill anything human they see. I figure your best bet is to get lost as fast as you can."
"Y-y-yes, sir."
"Good boy. Now get going."
The young man, with hands still held over his head, ran through the water with remarkable speed. By the time Demoines got here, they might hear the distant splashes, but they wouldn't see him clearly enough to shoot.
Bolan silently climbed into the flatbottomed johnboat. It was only about twelve feet long and five feet wide, made of aluminum and painted camouflage green. There was no motor, just the pole that was forked at one end to keep it from sinking into the peat. Bolan had been in something similar once called an alligator punt, a boat pointed at both ends made from cypress boards. That's where he'd first used a pole to propel a boat. Slowly, silently, he muscled the pole into the mud and guided the boat across the water.
"What's that?" he heard someone shout, thinking they meant him, but relieved when he heard the panicked reply.
"'Gator!" A volley of shots churned water.
"Stop it!" Demoines snarled. "That's a log, not an alligator."
Just then the Jeep engine rumbled to life.
"The Jeep!" Demoines hollered.
Bolan stopped the boat behind a thick tree and watched them scramble toward shore. They started firing, but the jeep was already roaring off into the distance.
That gave him ten minutes to get by Demoines and his men.
Bolan slipped over the side of the boat, pushed it out in the direction of his pursuers. They were still too far away to see it, but in another twenty yards they would. However, it would be too dark for them to determine if he was in it or not.
Bolan grabbed the forked pole and waded away from the drifting boat.
"Forget her!" Demoines said, stopping the shooting. "She's gone. But she was alone, I'm sure of that. That means Blue is still here. He's the one I want." He raised his voice. "You hear that, Blue. Your little honey took off on you. Left you for dead meat. Guess she was smarter than you thought, eh?"
Bolan submerged himself until only his head and right hand clutching the gun were above the slimy water.
He crawled on his knees now, edging past them, only fifty yards to their left, while they marched straight ahead.
"Come on, fan out," Demoines ordered. "You two go that way. Tanner, move to the left. It's getting dark and I don't want him to slip by us."
Bolan stopped as he watched the hefty man named Tanner splash toward him.
Fortunately the gunman was moving sideways, keeping his eyes out front like the rest of them. Still, Bolan couldn't afford to move, to make any noise. Tanner kept coming closer. Bolan had no choice but to duck underwater, head, gun and everything.
He waited, holding his breath, squeezing his eyes closed. The water felt greasy swirling around his face. Still he heard Tanner's boots splashing closer.
Not knowing how close Tanner was, Bolan didn't want to risk attracting attention by moving, even underwater. But his lungs were starting to burn, his throat convulsing for air. He fought the urge to break surface.
"There!" Tanner yelled excitedly, pointing out at the flatbottomed johnboat.
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.