Don Pendleton - Savannah Swingsaw

"Okay. We'll go through Jacksonville, try to get lost in the traffic."

They paid, left a tip and went back to the service station. The mechanic was adding a quart of oil to a station wagon. Bolan checked the engine, paid him and he and Shawnee drove away.

They were still a few miles from Waycross when Bolan spotted the dusty pickup truck in his rearview mirror. "Get the guns out," he calmly told Shawnee.

She reached under the seat, dislodged the two S&W .357's and placed them both in her lap. She didn't look around. "You sure?"

"He's been following us since the service station. Same beat-up truck that stopped for gas there."

"Aren't many good roads around here. Maybe he's just going in the same direction."

"Maybe." Bolan nodded. "But he slows down when I do and speeds up when I do. And those rifles in his rack probably aren't for show."

"What's he waiting for?"

"I suspect for whoever he called ahead to. My guess is there's a car or truck full of armed good ole boys on their way toward us right now."

Shawnee sighed. "Ain't we ever going to be alone without bullets nipping at our butts?"

"Maybe. But not this time." He swerved the car onto the side of the road, purposely churning up a thick cloud of dust behind him. He spotted a side road about half a mile ahead. "Any idea where that leads?"

"Nope. But we're pretty close to swampland."

Bolan pointed to the Jeep speeding down the highway toward them. Rifles started to appear in the three passengers' hands. They were aiming.

Shots clapped and the hood was pockmarked with two holes. Steam seeped up through one of the holes.

"Great!" Bolan said, wheeling the car onto the dirt road. The pickup and Jeep were right behind him, the dust obscuring their vision enough to throw their shots off.

Bolan stomped on the gas pedal and the Nova rocketed down the road, bouncing from side to side.

He didn't know where the road was going, except that it was away from the men with guns. He and Shawnee didn't try to return fire. The way the car was rocking, shooting would be a waste of ammunition.

"I don't like the way that engine sounds, Mack," Shawnee said, referring to the clanking and pinging. More steam rose from the bullet holes in the hood.

But the car still had life, and Bolan squeezed it for all it was worth, whipping around curves and urging the screaming engine even faster. A sign on a wooden gate ordered all vehicles to stop and turn around, dangerous marshlands ahead.

"Hell," Shawnee said, as they busted through the gate, sending splintered wood somersaulting. "This is the goddamned Okefenokee Swamp, Mack."

"So it is," he said, racing down the road, the pickup and Jeep still close behind. A couple of miles later, the road gave out to grass, then mud. By the time they reached the first sandy ridge, the car sputtered and died.

Gunfire hailed down on them as they rolled out of the car and into the grassy marsh.

Bolan ignored the warm sticky water seeping into his shoes and through his pants. He returned fire at the pickup, watching the windshield shatter. He saw the driver grab his face, and ducked as the pickup truck swung wildly to the left, hit the sandy ridge and rolled over onto its roof, crushing whatever was left of the driver. The Jeep stopped a little farther back. The three armed men hopped out and dropped to the ground.

Then the driver turned the Jeep around and headed back up the road.

The Executioner guessed they were returning to contact Demoines. If these were Zavlin's men, they would have contacted him first, not sent a jeepload of gunmen.

The three men fired sporadically, not enough to threaten Bolan and Shawnee, but enough to keep them pinned down until Demoines and more men arrived.

"What now?" Shawnee asked. "Never mind, I think I know."

Bolan nodded grimly. The two of them bellied into the dank water and silently waded deeper into the swamp.

"How many gunners do we have?" Demoines asked, thumbing a shell into his Weatherby Regency double-barreled shotgun. "I'm talking guys who know how to shoot, not cracker assholes with .22's."

Thaxton checked his list. "We've got three guys out there right now, keeping them warm for you. They've all grown up around here, so they know the area and they know how to hunt. One's an auxiliary cop in Waycross."

Demoines snorted. "Big deal." He tugged the bill of his green safari hat. "Who else we got?"

"It's short notice, Clip."

"I didn't ask for the time, Ron. I want a goddamn report."

Thaxton took a deep breath. "I got three of our regular boys, shooters from Atlanta. But I've got to warn you, they don't know much about stumping through swamps."

"For what I'm paying them, they'll learn."

"Yes, boss."

"Okay," Demoines said, "adding everybody together, we've got eight fully armed men with shotguns and rifles against a man and a woman with handguns."

"Don't you think that's a bit of an overkill?"

Demoines frowned. "You didn't see them fight. Especially that big guy." He clenched his teeth in anger at the memory.

A thump sounded on the door of the Waycross hotel room where they were staying. Thaxton opened it a crack, conferred, then turned to Demoines. "They're ready."

Demoines walked over to Thaxton. He spoke slowly, tapping his shotgun on Thaxton's chest with every word. "I want them, Ron. Real bad."

"More coffee, sir?" the pretty waitress asked.

"A little more, please."

The young woman leaned over to pour the beverage, her tongue lodged in the corner of her mouth with concentration. But as she strained in her uncomfortable position, her hand shook, and she spilled coffee into the saucer, some of the dark liquid splashing on the chipped Formica table. "Oh, my," she said. "I'm terribly sorry."

Zavlin yanked some napkins from the dispenser and mopped up the coffee from the table. "Quite all right." He wanted her to go, but she became flustered, standing there apologizing, glancing over her shoulder to see if her boss was looking.

"It's my first week and all. But I'm getting better. Hardly ever spill any. I don't know why."

Zavlin looked out the window, saw Demoines and his hunting party climb into the Jeep.

"Just nerves, I guess, from working for my cousin. He's sweet guy, but he...."

Zavlin turned to the young waitress. "Leave me," he snapped.

She looked startled, almost tearful, but she left. Zavlin stared back out the window. Five in the Jeep. Plus the three he'd heard about. Eight. He hadn't heard how many they were hunting, but he hoped one of them was Dodge Reed. That would save him the trouble of killing the kid himself. Secretly, he admitted to himself that he hoped the big man in black was not among the ones that were trapped out there. No, he wanted that man for himself. He patted his traveling bag, felt the weight of the branding iron packed in among the shirts, pants, shoes and toiletries.

The running iron he hoped to be able to use on that man someday.

He looked at the clock above the smoking grill. It had been only a couple of hours since KGB informants had told him of the violence Damon Blue and the others had had at a remote cabin with Mafia chief Clip Demoines. He knew Demoines would never rest until he'd chased down the man who'd humiliated him. So he'd kept a tag on him, following him to Waycross.

Zavlin was familiar with the Mafia boss, since the KGB did extensive business with the Mafia. The dossier on Demoines suggested a certain emotional imbalance, a desire to be accepted by polite society yet still maintain control over his underworld empire. The result was a ruthless, quick-tempered man. Not to be underestimated.

But then, neither was the big man in black. He'd escaped Zavlin's assassins as well as Demoines's thugs. Whoever he was, Zavlin wanted him.