David Robbins: New Orleans Run

Blade was a mere six feet from the side of the boat. He abruptly bent at the waist and shot toward the underside, and his head passed underneath the bottom just as the tonton macoute cut loose. The blasting of the M1 was muted but audible. He bent in half again to draw his legs out of sight that much faster, expecting to feel a stinging sensation at any second.

The firing suddenly stopped.

The Warrior’s lungs were beginning to ache. He couldn’t stay under that much longer. His exertions had used up too much precious oxygen.

He figured the man in black must be waiting for him to poke his head out, but he had another idea. Sinking down about a yard, he swam straight up and rammed his right shoulder into the middle of the boat, which rocked and swayed from the impact. Again he repeated the maneuver, and yet once more, and after the third hit he swam to the right and broke the surface right next to the bobbing craft while sliding the left Bowie into its sheath.

Upright in the center of the boat, the tonton macoute struggled to retain his footing despite the rolling motion. His wide eyes probed the gloomy depths for the giant, focused on the spot where he had last seen him.

Surging out of the water; Blade used his left hand on the top of the side to propel himself from the opposite direction, his arm extended, the Bowie straight out.

The man in black spun.

Too late.

The Bowie caught the tonton macoute in the groin, he screeched and doubted over, the M1 clattering at his feet.

With only the upper half of his torso in the boat, he had to rely strictly on his massive arms. As always, his rippling sinews were equal to the occasion. He let go of the side, reached out to grab his foe’s black shirt, and draw the man toward him. Jerking the knife free, he lanced its bloody tip into the man’s chest above the heart. Twice he stabbed, and his adversary abruptly wheezed and went limp.

Blade allowed the tonton macoute to drop, then climbed all the way into the craft and paused to catch his breath. He saw several bodies floating to the east, and one man struggled feebly in water stained crimson to the south.

Something else moved to the south.

A 15-foot alligator, only its head and back visible, bore down on the bodies with startling speed.

The Warrior scooped up the M1 and stood, ready in case the reptile should attempt to come after him. But his fears turned out to be groundless.

Never slowing, the gator swam straight at the one tonton macoute who still struggled, however weakly, its tail made a wake for yards to its rear.

Blade simply watched, unwilling to intervene. He saw the alligator open its mouth at the very last instant and the man slid into its teeth-filled maw. Immediately the reptile dove rolling over and over, twirling the body end over end.

The tonton macoute uttered a pathetic, gurgling.

As if on that cue, the gator abruptly dived, taking its supper along. A flurry of bubbles marked the spot for half a minute then subsided.

The Warrior had seen enough. Every second he delayed increased the likelihood of other men in black showing up if they’d heard the gunfire. He stooped, took hold of the one he had killed, and hurled the man into the water. Rotating and kneeling, he worked on the outboard for 15 seconds, and was rewarded by the motor roaring to life.

Taking a seat and laying the M1 in front of him, he steered it due north, having decided to swing in a wipe loop to evade other boats that might be looking for him. The encroaching night rapidly reduced the field of vision.

Blade proceeded slowly, wary of striking a submerged log or some other obstruction. He realized the tonton macoutes must have a means of navigating at night and he checked the bottom of the boat. Under the middle seat he discovered a watertight wooden box secured by a small clasp. Opening it, he found a half-dozen tools apparently intended for use should the motor give out and a small portable spotlight that could be clamped to the side of the craft and swiveled in any given direction.

But would it work?

The Warrior attached the spotlight to his right and flicked the black switch on the top. A bright beam illuminated the swamp ahead for a distance of 20 yards. His brow creased as he pondered the implications.

The spotlight operated on battery power, which meant the Black Snake Society either possessed a supply of new batteries they had obtained from an unknown source, perhaps from the Russian zone through the black market, or else they owned generators and a stockpile of rechargeable batteries. Both possibilities indicated the organization was efficiently, if cruelly, operated.

Blade settled back for the ride, unsure of the amount of time it would take him to reach the stronghold.

Even with the aid of the spotlight, he would have to proceed relatively slowly. Underwater obstacles could still pose a problem. One hole in the bottom and he’d face the distinctly unpleasant chore of swimming all the way there.

A bayou at night was not the most hospitable of environments.

As the minutes dragged by the light revealed the nocturnal wildlife on the prowl: huge alligators cruising about seeking a meal, snakes of varying proportions moving their sleek forms in the telltale wavy pattern, enormous bullfrogs searching for insects, and big bugs looking for little bugs. Where only a handful of each species had been abroad during the daylight hours, after dark the water teemed with creatures, primarily predators.

Blade was particularly impressed by the number of snakes.

Once, off to the west, a tremendous splashing occurred, as if a gargantuan animal were throwing a temper tantrum in the water, and the sound persisted for over three minutes.

The Warrior stared intently, striving to ascertain the source. He switched off the spotlight, concerned the thing might be attracted to it.

His first thoughts were of Damballah. If the snake should come after him, the M1 might not stop such a massive reptile. When the sound stopped he waited another minute before turning on the light again. Keenly alert, he proceeded north about a mile and a half, very slowly, then doubled back.

After an interval that seemed like hours he spotted pinpoints of luminosity far ahead. If his mental calculations , were correct, he was approaching the island from the northwest. So the lights he saw couldn’t be located in the vicinity of the compound, which occupied the southern end, because they were much farther north than they should be, and there were only a few. The Baron’s fortress would be ablaze with illumination.

Then what could this be?

Blade killed his own spotlight and slanted the boat toward the mysterious lights. In another hundred yards he came to the conclusion they were situated at the north end of the Baron’s island.

A guard post maybe?

Cautiously now, the Warrior guided the craft ever nearer until he could distinguish the shapes of trees lining the north shore. Fifty yards from the trees stood a two-story structure, and the lights he saw were situated near it.

A guard post wouldn’t be two stories high.

Puzzled, Blade shut off the outboard and let the boat drift toward the island. He lifted the M1 and moved to the bow, his eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness. The shore appeared abruptly and the bottom of the craft rubbed on the waterlogged earth underneath.

Now!

Blade vaulted from the boat, the water only rising to his ankles, and ran nimbly to solid ground. He crouched, fingering the trigger, scanning the landscape. The vegetation under the trees presented a formidable inky wall to his probing eyes, but 15 yards to the left a wide path or road ran straight from the bayou in the direction of the structure.