Savannah Swingsaw (9 page)

Zavlin's angry assassin was gaining some high ground, climbing up to a clump of trees, shinnying up the trunk to a thick branch and taking aim with his rifle.

A shot thunder-clapped in the valley.

Zavlin swung the binoculars around just in time to see the short Oriental woman spin around and tumble into the brush. The tall woman with the reddish hair immediately dropped to her knee, snapped the rifle to her shoulder, surveyed the hillside with her scope and triggered a round. The agent in the tree returned fire. His bullet kicked up dirt three feet to the left of the woman. But she didn't move. She methodically adjusted her scope, aimed again and squeezed the trigger. No return fire.

Zavlin whipped the binoculars around again, saw his man hanging at an awkward angle from the tree branch, the leg he'd wedged between branches for support now keeping him from falling. The front of his shirt was sopping with blood. There was a hole in his chest that looked as if a giant bird had been pecking at his heart.

The tall woman was helping the Oriental woman to her feet. Zavlin watched as she tore a strip of material from her blouse and wrapped it around the wounded woman's arm. Minor damage.

They started off again, following the man in black.

Zavlin searched for his remaining agent, still hunched in the brush, waiting. He alone had done the right thing, waiting until the firing stopped before making any move. The white-haired killer got up from his folding chair and picked up the SIG PE-57 assault rifle he'd leaned against the shady tree. Squinting to protect his sensitive eyes from the sun, he chambered a 7.55mm Swiss cartridge, braced the stock against his shoulder and screwed his right eye to the scope. He tightened his hand around the black rubberlike pistol grip, and focused on his target.

He squeezed the trigger.

Through the scope he watched the shocked expression on his own KGB agent's face as his chest erupted in a sudden red mist. The man's thick Russian features stretched thin and rubbery from screaming, then went flaccid as his body flopped into the brush.

A shame, Zavlin thought, but necessary. The others were out of range, so there was nothing he could do about them. But he couldn't take a chance of his own man being caught by American authorities. Nor did he want him to tell KGB officials what had happened.

It would reflect badly on Zavlin that some American agent had outguessed the KGB's top assassin, beating him to the target.

No. Zavlin would take care of the matter himself.

He would find out more about Dodge Reed and the man in prison who had befriended him, Damon Blue.

In the meantime, he would think about the man in black.

Replay the humiliation he suffered today at that man's hands. And think of how he would kill him next time they met.

"I don't know anything. I swear!"

"Think harder," Bolan said.

Dodge Reed shook his head. "I don't know what you want."

"I want to know what information you have. The kind the KGB would be interested in."

"I don't have any information. Not for the KGB or anyone else."

Bolan blew an exasperated sigh and stamped harder on the gas pedal. The Toyota zipped around another curb on the way to the secluded cabin. Next to Bolan sat Dodge Reed, nervous, fidgeting with a loose piece of paper sticking out of the glove compartment. In the back seat, Rita kept watch out the rear window while Shawnee practiced her nursing on Lynn's arm.

"How is she?" Bolan asked Shawnee, watching her in the rearview mirror. "Not too bad. Some blood loss, but nothing serious."

"That's easy for you to say," Lynn deadpanned.

Shawnee smiled. "I thought you Orientals are supposed to be strong silent types. No complaints. You lose face or something."

"Hey, losing face is one thing, but losing six inches of skin and half a pint of blood, even we Asians draw the line there."

Bolan watched Shawnee finish taping the bandage around Lynn's forearm. Some blood was already seeping through, but Shawnee had done a first-rate job and the bleeding would stop soon. He turned his attention back to Dodge Reed.

"Listen, son. By now you must know we saved you from the people who killed the guards back there."

"Maybe," Reed said, "but maybe you got the wrong guy. There were a bunch of other fellas in that van. Maybe you want one of them."

Bolan caught a glimpse of Shawnee's expression in the mirror. She looked doubtful, as though she wondered if maybe the kid was right, and he had made a mistake. The thing was, Dodge Reed was convincing. Bolan tended to believe him. But the KGB didn't make mistakes like that.

If they wanted him dead, he knew something, something very important. Even if he didn't know that he knew.

"Let's take it from the top, kid."

Dodge Reed groaned. "Listen, Mr. Blue, I wanna help, I truly do. I appreciate you getting me away from those assassins and all, and if I knew what you wanted, I'd surely tell you. Out of sheer gratitude."

"Turn left up here," Shawnee interrupted.

"Where?"

She reached her arm over his shoulder and pointed to a narrow dirt road almost hidden by brush. It was an unmarked route that looked as if it had been hacked out of the brush with a butter knife.

Branches scraped along the sides of the car as Bolan geared down to negotiate the trail. "Go on, kid," Bolan said to Reed.

"Like I said, I'd tell you anything you wanted to know. But I honestly think you got the wrong guy. I'm just some college student studying computers at night and working in a record store during the day."

"In jail for embezzlement," Bolan reminded him.

"A mistake. Honest. I don't know why they got so damned upset. Sure I used their computer when I shouldn't have. But I had all this homework to do from my computer science class, and it was during my lunchtime anyway and the computer wasn't being used. I was just experimenting with this program I had to write. I dunno, it was weird."

"How so?"

"Well, first of all, I had to use their system disk. I didn't want to screw it up, so I just made a copy of their system disk and used that to work on my own program. I was having trouble, so I thought there might be something wrong with the system disk. I checked it out and created a file there to run a simple program. Somehow that overloaded the disk so that when I printed it out, some of the files crashed together and I started to get all kinds of strange stuff."

"Like what?" Bolan asked.

Reed shrugged. "Like all these dates and cities. Labeled 'Delivery Dates.' And distribution maps and coordinates. All kinds of crazy stuff like that."

"Record shipments maybe?"

"I don't see how. The store's not that big. Besides, the point of shipment was in Miami."

A heavy branch whomped the roof of the car as they drove deeper into the brush.

"Can you remember where in Miami?" Bolan asked. "An address or something?"

Ahead the road widened and the tiny cabin built by Shawnee's parents stood in a small clearing amidst the lush plants. Birds, unafraid of the intruders, cawed loudly, almost belligerently.

"An address, Dodge," Bolan repeated. "Can you remember?"

"Sure, I remember. I saw it often enough on the printer."

Bolan nodded. They were finally getting somewhere. They didn't know what the KGB was up to, but now they knew where.

Miami.

"But I swear," Reed continued, "I didn't embezzle a cent. I was just doing homework."

"Based on what you just said," Lynn explained, "I don't see how they'd ever convict you in a court of law."

Bolan snorted. "He wasn't supposed to live long enough for it to get to court."

Reed shifted uneasily in his seat, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs used to be.

Bolan pulled the Toyota right next to Belinda's parked Honda. He jumped out, helped ease Lynn out of the back seat and followed Shawnee to the front door. Rita accompanied Reed, who tagged after Bolan.

Shawnee pushed the front door open and entered.

"Hey, Belinda, what the hell kind of greeting is this?" Then she stopped dead. The others bunched up behind her. Bolan edged around her into the single room.

"Welcome," the man with the shotgun said. "Is that better?"

He was standing in the middle of the room.

On each side of him stood three more men, all armed. Behind them, Belinda was tied and gagged, dark bruises splotching her face. Blood dripped from one ear.

"Clip Demoines," Shawnee gasped.

"Bingo!" Demoines grinned. "Now come on in here so I can get a good look at the famous Savannah Swingsaw." His face went grim and menacing. "A final look."

Clip Demoines did not look like most of the Mafia bosses Bolan had come in contact with.

He couldn't have been older than midthirties. His hair was a streaky blond with dark roots. Bolan had enough experience with disguises and dyes to recognize bleached hair. And Demoines didn't dress in the usual expensive but tasteless suits of other hoods. He wore a yellow knit shirt with the little alligator on the chest, pleated twill pants with a green belt and leather deck shoes without socks. A white tennis sweater was draped over his back, the arms tied around his neck. He looked like a walking ad for summer wear. Except for the Stevens shotgun in his hands.

Demoines's eyes rested on the Executioner.

"You must be the leader of this Savannah Swingsaw."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bolan said.

"You don't?" This amused Demoines, who again displayed his perfect teeth.

He looked at Lynn's wounded arm. "What happened to you?

"I slipped skateboarding."

He nodded. "Not knocking over another of my business establishments?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Demoines looked at all of them and shook his head sadly. "Apparently you think because I'm young and dress like this, that I don't mean business. I have an MBA from Harvard and my uncle came from Sicily. Now that combination means business." He tossed the Stevens shotgun to one of his goons and picked up one of the Star Model PD .45's from the table. He strolled casually toward Belinda. "You guys think you can hit my places and get away with it indefinitely? Oh, I have to admire your guts, but not your sense. Money talks, friends, and I spread enough money around to buy up all the talk in Georgia. Most of it was a waste, dead ends. Some of it led to you people. We were just pulling up to your apartment when we saw this cutie..." he tapped the barrel of the .45 against Belinda's bruised cheek "...pulling away. Some of us went inside, some of us followed her here, asked her a few questions. Stubborn little bitch, isn't she?"

"Leave her alone," Rita said, speaking in her cop's voice.

"Fine," Demoines said. "Just answer my question."

"What question?" Bolan asked.

"Where's the rest of the Swingsaw? What are their names?"

"This is it," Shawnee said. "These two guys aren't a part of it. They were in jail, you can check that out."

Demoines laughed loudly, throwing his head back. He looked at his men and they laughed along, more out of politeness or fear than humor.

"You are the Savannah Swingsaw? The four of you women?" He laughed again. "You don't understand. I don't want the ladies' auxiliary. I want the real thing. Now where are the men?"

"What you see is what you get, buster," Shawnee said.

Demoines lifted the .45 to Belinda's temple and pulled the trigger. The impact of the bullet rotoring through her brain knocked her and the chair over, splashing her blood on the wooden floor. The side of her face had powder burns. Parts of her skull were embedded in the wall behind her. Demoines smiled. "That improve anyone's memory? If not, who's next?" He looked at Bolan.

Bolan stared back, fists clenched and teeth grinding. Never had he wanted to kill someone so much.

He watched the horrified expressions on the faces of the other women, the shock in Dodge Reed's face. Yet there was nothing he could do. Not now. For a moment he understood Hal Brognola's sense of rage and frustration.

But he would get Demoines. Bolan made himself that promise. Now was not the time, not with so many guns pointed at him and the others, not with the KGB plot still unresolved. Right now he would act the role of the soldier, but sooner or later Clip Demoines would know him for what he really was, the Executioner.

"You bastard!" Shawnee screamed and sprang at Demoines.

A beefy goon in a red sweatshirt grabbed Shawnee by the arm. She snapped a knee into his crotch and he doubled over. Breaking away from his grip, she continued toward Demoines.

Demoines raised his gun.

Bolan leaped at Shawnee, clamping his arms around her chest and lifting her off her feet. She struggled against him, arms and legs flailing with grief and anger.

Bolan hugged her close, pinning her arms to her sides. "Easy," he whispered. "Wait." He could feel the fluttering of her heart where his wrist was pressed against her chest. Slowly, she calmed herself down, finally nodding to him to release her.

He did.

Her breathing was still ragged as she glared at Demoines, but she didn't move.

"See what I mean?" Demoines said. "You can't expect me to believe that women are the Savannah Swingsaw. Look how emotional you got just because I killed one of your friends. If it wasn't for the big guy there, I'd have had to kill you, too." Demoines stepped over the splayed legs of Belinda. Her short blond hair was sticky with blood. "Now, I'll ask again. Where is the rest of your group? Who do you work for? Another syndicate? The Gallano brothers from Memphis?"

"She told you the truth," Bolan said, keeping his voice flat and toneless. "This is the Swingsaw. They just broke me and my buddy out of jail. Check it out."

Demoines smiled. "I don't know why, but people never take me seriously. Even though I went to Harvard. When my parents got killed in a car crash, I got sent to my Uncle Dom. He was younger than Dad, hipper. Wanted me to learn the new ways, but not forget the old ones, the ones that got us the money and power in the first place. So he sends me off to Harvard for my MBA." He stepped up to Bolan, his face solemn. "Maybe that's why you aren't taking me serious."

"Oh, I take you serious," Bolan said. "Dead serious."

Demoines smiled. "Yeah? Well, we'll see." He nodded at one of his men, the one whom Shawnee had kneed. Without hesitation the man opened the closet door. Inside, Bolan could see boxes of ammunition, the black outfits complete with hoods, axes, a couple of chain saws. The goon lifted one of the chain saws up and handed it to Demoines. The Executioner looked at the pile of guns, the bike pack with grenades that had been taken away from them when they'd entered the cabin.

Too far away; too many guns pointed at them.

"We told you what you want to know," Bolan said. "Using that won't get you anything more."

"No? We'll see. Hell, even if you're right, I'll have the fun of doing to you guys what you've done to my places. That's a good advertisement to keep anyone else from trying the same thing, wouldn't you agree?" Demoines gripped the saw's front handlebar, flipped the toggle switch and pulled the cord. The motor's growl filled the small cabin room. He wrapped his other hand around the rear handle-grip and pressed the trigger. The cutter links hummed as they sped around the long flat guide bar. Demoines waved the buzzing saw in Bolan's face, hovering near the ears. "Just a little off the sides, friend?" he said, chuckling. "A trim?"

Bolan didn't move. His icy gaze was fixed on Demoines's eyes as if they were alone in that room.

"Nah," Demoines said, pulling the saw away from Bolan. "I have a feeling I could cut off just about anything and you wouldn't talk. Maybe with one exception. I'll get to you later. Right now, let's start with someone else." He looked over the group, examining each as if he was judging a beauty contest. He waved the churning saw in each of their faces, but none flinched. Lynn yawned. "Tough broads," he said. Then he looked at Dodge Reed.

Bolan knew Reed wasn't up to this. The kid had held up pretty well so far, considering all he'd been through. But the murder of Belinda had put him in a state of shock. Now with Demoines waving that chain saw in his face, there was no telling what would happen.

"I'd advise you not to move," Demoines said, "not even an inch."

Dodge Reed, his pale face slicked with sweat, his eyes wide with fear, stood bolt straight as Demoines inched the whining saw closer and closer to him. Reed wasn't even breathing, afraid that would cause him to move.

Demoines teased the trigger, starting the cutters grinding, then stopping, grinding, stopping. He eased the saw closer until the cutters were resting lightly against Reed's chest. "Got anything to say, son?"

The young man looked helplessly to Bolan. "Tell him! Please!"

"I did, kid. He just wants to have his sick fun."

Demoines smiled at Reed. "He's right, you know. This is fun." And he squeezed the trigger.

The saw whizzed to life, chewing up the front of Reed's prison shirt, just barely nicking the skin enough to draw blood. Then Demoines released the trigger.

"Leave the kid alone, Demoines," the Executioner growled. Bolan had to admire Reed.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks, yet he stood his ground. Others might have fainted, dropped to their knees to beg. Even terrified, he managed to hold himself together. But Bolan realized that wouldn't be good enough. Next time, Demoines would shove that saw straight into Reed's chest.

"Gutsy kid," Demoines said, ignoring Bolan's words. "Let's see what the loudmouth big guy is made of." He turned away from Reed, smiling, but there was no humor in his face. It was hate. He pressed the trigger and started the saw whirring as he walked slowly toward Bolan, the saw aimed at Bolan's chest. One of the nearby goons took a step back as if he was afraid of being splashed with blood.

Everyone was staring at the churning cutters, mesmerized by their nasty sound and motion.

Bolan didn't move.

Demoines was grinning now, his black Sicilian eyes gleaming under the crop of bleached blond hair.

He was less than two feet from Bolan's heart.

The Executioner exploded into action.

While everyone was staring at the blade, Bolan spun out of the way, leaping at the nearest Mafia soldier. Bolan seized his wrist and shoved the startled man directly at Demoines. It all happened too fast for Demoines or the goon to react.

But not the saw.

The thug's hand slammed right into the cutters in a splatter of blood and bone. The saw hummed hungrily, chomping through the wrist until the gunhand dropped to the floor with a thud, the weapon skittering to within a few feet of Bolan.

The wounded man held up his handless wrist, blood making darker stains on his red sweatshirt. He ran toward the other goons, holding up his stump as if pleading for help. Taken by surprise they dodged him, as if afraid what he had might be catching. He crashed wildly into one hardguy, knocking him over.

Demoines was so startled he dropped the saw.

A couple of his men regained their composure enough to aim their guns in Bolan's direction.

But the Executioner was moving again.

He dived to the floor and scooped up the dropped gun, then rolled onto his side and firing upward.

His first two shots dropped two henchmen.

"Kill them!" Demoines bellowed, running for cover of the sofa near the fireplace. "Kill them all!"

But it wasn't that easy. Shawnee, Rita and Lynn were also moving now, scavenging the dead bodies for weapons, returning fire. Dodge Reed managed to get one of the guns and began blasting away, never coming close to hitting anyone, but making enough noise to help scatter the Mafia scum.

"Out!" Bolan commanded, yanking open the front door and waving the others through.

One of Demoines's men popped up from behind a highback recliner and fired at Bolan, missing him by inches. Shawnee stopped, went into her double-grip stance and blew the side of his face off from scalp to ear. Panic and adrenaline caused her to fire two more shots into the already dead body.

"Come on, Shawnee!" Bolan urged her.

She took a deep breath, turned and dashed through the door. Rita. St. Clair and Lynn Booker followed. Only Bolan and Reed remained.

Bolan ran back into the room, picked up the two S&W .357's and stuffed them into his pants.

Then he swung the bike pack of grenades over his shoulder, and yanked Dodge by the elbow, hauling him through the door toward the car. "Start it," Bolan said, tossing the keys to Shawnee. She jumped behind the wheel as the others piled into the car. A mobster stuck his head out the door and began firing a pump-action shotgun. The rear side window of the car blew out. Bolan squeezed off a round from the S&W .357, which caught the punk just below the elbow, smashing his arm. The man screamed, his arm dropping uselessly to his side, the gun tumbling to the dirt.

A cabin window shattered as gun barrels popped out to take aim. The Executioner fired a couple of rounds through the window and the gunmen ducked out of sight.

He heard Demoines's rabid voice desperately yelling to attack.

"Mack!" Shawnee called. She swung the car around, braking it in front of Bolan and flinging the passenger door open. "Let's go, mister. This party's getting boring."

Bolan dived into the front seat as a volley of slugs tattooed the Toyota's doors and fenders.

Shawnee gunned the engine and the car kicked up dirt as it tore down the road. A tree along the narrow road bumped the door closed behind Bolan.

"I didn't see their cars," Bolan said.

"They must've parked them farther down the main road, then walked to the cabin. This is the only way in."

"Good, they won't be following us too soon."

"But they will follow us," Shawnee said.

Bolan nodded. "Yeah, they'll be coming. No matter where we go."

"Where are we going?" Dodge Reed asked. He was breathing heavy from the adrenaline, but his eyes were clear.

"We're going to the point of origin of those shipments you discovered in that computer. We've got to find out exactly what it is they're shipping that they'd kill to protect."

Shawnee glanced at Bolan. "Miami?"

"Miami," Bolan repeated.

Everyone was silent as they bounced along the bumpy dirt road. Most of them were thinking about Belinda, mourning her loss. Bolan understood this and didn't disturb the silence. What he had to say next could wait a few more miles.