Читать книгу Shadow Hunt - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

From where he was on the table, Rio could see Nick Costello and Victor Salerno on the far side of the game room. A call had come through a few minutes ago that had made the big boss very unhappy. After hitting the end button on his cell phone, Nick stood quietly for a minute, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Rio couldn’t hear what was said between the two men, but both turned in his direction, and he knew that what he’d experienced so far was about to seem like a fond memory. He watched as Nick removed his coat. Forcing himself to grin, Rio said, “Everything okay? You look upset.”

“Mr. Rio,” Nick said, “I’m running out of patience with you. You will eventually tell me what I want to know about the U.S. Marshals Service border routines, but we’re going to leave that for the moment and move on to a new subject.”

“Cajun cuisine?” he asked brightly.

Salerno stepped into the punch that slammed into Rio’s solar plexus, and the marshal felt his breath leave him in a rush. The room smelled of blood—his blood—and the cool, damp air of Costello’s game room stank to high heaven, but he forced himself to draw another breath. He coughed, breathed again, then made himself start to laugh.

“Is that all you’ve got, you little bootlicker? My grandmother hits harder than that.”

Salerno growled and started to wind up again, but Nick raised a hand and stopped him.

“The problem, Mr. Rio, is that my associate here doesn’t have the same level of imagination that I do. Sometimes, his heart just isn’t in it. He prefers a good fight or a straight kill, while my approach is more subtle. I like to take my time and really get know what makes people tick. It truly enhances the experience.”

Nick selected another blade from his implement tray. It was a double-edged, very thin tool that looked like something an angry surgeon might use. He held it up to the light and turned it back and forth. “A good blade is a thing of beauty, yes?” he asked.

Before Rio could form a smart-ass answer, Nick stepped forward and slipped the knife into his knee, driving it behind his kneecap and twisting it. Rio couldn’t help himself. He screamed in agony, and his vision filled with a reddish-brown haze.

Nick left the blade in place and waited for Rio to stop. When he did, the big boss said, “Now I think we can talk. Who is Marshal Cooper?”

He shook his head and his voice was weak as he said, “I don’t know any Cooper.” He could feel a thin trickle of blood running down his leg around the blade of the knife.

Nick placed a hand on the grip of the blade, not moving it, but the threat was there. “I don’t believe you, Mr. Rio. Who is Marshal Cooper? Who sent him here?” He put a slight amount of pressure on the handle of the blade and Rio groaned.

“I don’t know him!”

Salerno leaned in and slammed a fist down on his knee. “The fuck you don’t! Who did you tell that you were coming here? Someone knew you were here.”

The pain was so excruciating that Rio thought he might black out.

“Enough, Victor,” Nick snapped. Salerno backed away. Both men were obviously frustrated by something this guy Cooper had done.

“Marshal Rio,” Nick said, “we’re going to leave you for a while. I want you to think carefully until I return about what you’ll say to me when I come back. If you don’t answer my questions, then I’m going to…” His voice trailed off, and he shoved on the knife once more. Rio felt something give way in his knee, and he screamed again, knowing that he’d need surgery if he was ever going to walk again…if he lived.

“I’m going to make it hurt worse than this,” Nick finished. “Come on, Victor.”

“Why are we stopping, boss?” Salerno asked. “That Cooper fucked-up Tommy and Frank real good and left them in the trunk of their car!” He pointed at Rio. “And this guy knows something!”

“I believe he does, Victor,” Nick said. “But we can deal with Cooper on our own, and given a little time, I think Marshal Rio will come around.” He flicked the blade of the knife once more. “Besides, I’m leaving that there for him to think about.”

Catching his breath, Rio said, “You think you can just kidnap a federal agent and people won’t come looking for him? In another couple of days, this whole area will be covered with cops you haven’t bought.”

“Maybe,” Nick said, leaning in to whisper his reply. “But by then both you and Cooper will be dead, and we’ll be back in the shadows once more. So you want to think really hard about cooperating with me, Marshal.” He reached forward and twisted the blade one more time. “Because you can die easy or hard, and it doesn’t matter one bit to me.”

Rio bit back the scream and whispered his hate between his teeth. The edge of oblivion wasn’t far away. Rio wondered if there would be a time that it would overtake him and never let him come back.

“What’s that you’re saying?” Nick asked, leaning in a bit closer.

“Nick…”

“Yeah?”

Rio spit blood in his face. “Fuck you.”

Nick pulled away and took out a handkerchief to wipe off his face. “You’re a tough guy, all right, Marshall Rio. But even tough guys can be broken. I’ve seen tougher than you crying for their mommas.” He turned to Salerno and gestured for the steps. “Let’s go. When we come back, he either talks or you can feed him to the gators.”

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Bolan found himself across the street from the DA’s office once more. He sipped Turkish coffee and ignored the flirtatious waitress as he thought about what he’d learned the night before. The two thugs he’d taken care of outside Mosca’s weren’t willing to reveal much, but he’d gotten a name—Nick Costello—to go with the one he already had. Baldy had made it clear that Victor Salerno was the capo, but Costello was the big boss. He’d put both men in the trunk of their car as a message to Costello. By now, Salerno and Costello knew that Marshal Cooper meant business. Things were starting to heat up, but he wanted to deal with Smythe first.

People trying to kill him was part of the job, part of his life, and while it was about as personal as it could get, what really made Bolan angry was a man who wasn’t willing to do his own dirty work. Smythe was spineless, and worse, he was on the take. Bolan wanted to make sure he paid for his crimes, so he’d camped out at the DA’s office early, knowing Smythe would show eventually. There didn’t really seem to be a quiet time on the streets of New Orleans, but after the morning commute things settled into a routine lull. Shortly after nine, he saw Smythe’s car pull up and enter the parking garage, but the windows were darkened enough that Bolan couldn’t see the interior.

The weather wasn’t cooperating to be helpful, either. The oppressive humidity had turned into a light drizzle that made the surrounding morning gray more intense.

He waited until the car was gone from view, then crossed the street and slipped into the garage. Moving quickly, he reached the row where Smythe had parked and moved in. The car door started to open just as Bolan arrived, and he reached in and grabbed the man by the collar. A surprised shriek came from inside the car and Bolan let go. It wasn’t Smythe, but his sister behind the wheel. He shoved forward, clapping a hand over her mouth before she could scream for help. Her eyes were wide and terrified.

“Look lady,” Bolan whispered in her ear, “I haven’t been in New Orleans long enough to get used to the humidity, and people are already trying to kill me or have me killed, including your brother.” He shoved her backward and said, “Scoot over. You’re going to tell me what you know or your brother’s going to find you in the same condition that I left his goons in last night.”

“What…but I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said, as soon as he’d moved his hand away from her mouth.

“The hell you don’t. Last night you were so itchy that you couldn’t even manage to hold still through dinner. Then conveniently you and your brother disappear right before I’m attacked in the parking lot. And I saw him taking off from the parking lot, so excuse me if I think you’re in this up to your eyeballs.”

“But I’m here looking for my brother!” Sandra protested. “I left last night right after he escorted me to my car, but I didn’t hear from him again and he never showed up at home.” The concern in her voice did not move Bolan. He’d dealt with women in the past who could conjure tears on a moment’s notice, and he suspected that Sandra had the acting abilities of any award show nominee.

“I can see you’re really concerned for him. Did any of this concern happen to come my way when you were setting me up?”

“I didn’t set you up,” she said. “Look, I knew Trenton was up to something, but I had no idea what. I only met him there because he said that’s where he was going to be.”

“And you know nothing, right?” Bolan said, the skepticism clear in his voice. “Then I guess you’re no use to me.” He reached for the Desert Eagle under his jacket.

“Wait!” she said. “I didn’t know anything about what he was doing last night, but I know other things that might help you. Trenton’s…he’s involved with the Mafia in some way. I don’t know how exactly. But they’ve said they’d kill him if he didn’t do what they said.”

Finally we’re getting somewhere, Bolan thought. “So what is it he does for them?”

“He makes sure that criminal cases against members of the Family don’t get prosecuted,” she said, hanging her head. “And they pay him. He can also make sure other cases are prosecuted or threatened to be prosecuted as leverage for the Family. His office fields a lot of the calls that would come from outside jurisdictions.”

“So when is the real DA coming back?”

“He’s supposedly been in D.C. for three months, but no one has seen or heard from him or his family. My guess is they are either dead or in hiding.”