Shadow Hunt. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ become someone else, and he spent years developing several different identities in organized crime families around the world. When Katrina hit, Nikolai—Nick, he reminded himself—saw a golden opportunity. New Orleans had been all but free of seriously organized crime since Carlos Marcello, the last of the Matranga Family, had died. For a clever man, this vacuum could be exploited.

      So Nikolai Agron disappeared and Nick Costello was born. He established himself quickly and invested in real estate as fast as he could. He made backroom deals, robbed Peter to pay the proverbial Paul, and landed every Federal Emergency Management Agency—FEMA—contract he could get his hands on, and the ones he didn’t get he made sure went south in a hurry for the other bidder. All that reconstruction work, which was still going on, provided a great cover for money laundering and smuggling, and the town was quickly learning that no projects moved forward without Mr. Costello’s permission. He was already a very wealthy man, and before he was done, he’d have enough money to pay back his enemies in Russia, with interest, and buy a nice, private island to retire on.

      There was a discreet tap on his door. “He’s ready, boss,” a voice called from the other side.

      Nick crossed the room and opened the door to see the stern face of Victor Salerno. Salerno was the real thing, born in Italy into a prominent Mafia Family. But he’d long since put profit above honor. As Nick’s capo, Salerno knew almost everything about the operation he was running, but he did his best work as an enforcer.

      “He’s in the game room?” Nick asked, as they descended the steps to the first floor.

      “Yeah,” Salerno said. “All ready to go.”

      “Good,” Nick said. “He’ll talk soon.”

      “It doesn’t matter. Tony will find something that will give us what we need.”

      “Have you heard from him yet?” Nick asked.

      Salerno shook his head. “No, but he’ll get in touch soon. He’s a good kid.”

      “Absolutely,” Nick agreed. They crossed the main floor of the house to the kitchen, then opened a small door in the back, which revealed a short set of concrete steps leading into the so-called game room—the place where Salerno questioned those who had information he wanted.

      The game room wasn’t large—perhaps twenty feet on a side—and constantly smelled of wet, mildew and blood. And a carefully trained nose could pick out the scents of urine, feces and, most of all, fear. Jack Rio was chained to a stainless-steel table in the middle of the back wall. Salerno saw that he was awake and staring at him with hatred in his eyes.

      “Are you ready to begin again, Mr. Rio?” Nick asked. “I’m enjoying our sessions together.”

      “You’re accent sounds funny to me,” Rio said. “What part of Italy are you from?”

      Nick made a sad tsking sound between his teeth. “As I’ve already explained to you, Mr. Rio, I ask the questions here in the game room, not you.” He removed a rubber apron from a hook on the wall, hung his suit coat in its place and put on the apron. Then he lifted a metal tray from the shelf and selected a long, thin-bladed device.

      “I think we’ll start with this,” he said, his voice growing quiet. “Unless you’d like to tell me what I want to know.”

      “You’d best get to cutting,” Rio said between his gritted teeth. “Because I’m not telling you shit.”

      “As you request,” Nick said, bringing the blade down and cutting into the delicate skin of Rio’s inner thigh. “I’m always happy to play in the game room.”

      2

      Bolan had traveled the world, and that included New Orleans. He’d been there before, and there were two things he knew without a doubt. First, that if the heat and the mosquitoes didn’t kill you, the alligators would. Second, behind the Cajun-flavored drawl, there wasn’t a single cop in the city who liked having anyone else horn in on their territory.

      After arriving on a late flight and tracking down a hotel of very questionable quality, Bolan decided early the next morning to visit the district attorney’s office. It was possible that Rio had checked in there, or perhaps word had come through that there was a U.S. marshal in town. Bolan drove his small rental car through the early-morning humidity and parked it across the street from the DA’s office. There was a small bistro serving Turkish coffee and scones, and with time to kill until the office opened, Bolan ordered both and sat at a table to wait. The coffee was excellent, and the scones helped to satisfy his hunger, even as his eyes took in the arriving staff and lawyers, who already looked uncomfortable in their business attire that clung to them with the heavy humidity.

      The office was located only a couple of blocks from the Louisiana Superdome, where the New Orleans Saints played football. It was a somber-looking building, with a dark gray fabricated granite facing. But the courthouse and other older buildings on the block offered a different atmosphere than the DA’s office. Statues and columns, along with honeysuckle vines in the park, lent itself to the old-world feel that New Orleans was famous for. When his watch read eight o’clock, Bolan finished the last of his coffee and walked across the street. By the time he arrived, he was already sweating through his clothing, and even the blast of air-conditioning didn’t seem to do much more than make him feel damper. He took the elevator up several floors to where the DA’s office was located.

      “Can I help you, sir?”

      The blonde woman at the front desk was devouring him with her eyes. Her red sleeveless dress plunged in the front, leaving little to the imagination. She leaned forward even further, squeezing her elbows into her sides so that her cleavage all but jumped out and said hello.

      Resisting the urge to pull the clinging shirt away from his skin, Bolan turned enough for her to see the badge and gun on his belt. He needed to find Rio in a hurry, and he really didn’t want to waste time with someone who was more interested in flirting than being helpful.

      “Matt Cooper,” he said. “U.S. Marshal’s Service, to see the district attorney.”

      Eyeing his gun carefully, she stammered, “Oh, y-yes, sir. Right away.”

      He watched her hurry away from the desk, then duck into an office. He hadn’t had time to put together a full cover, so using a U.S. marshal’s badge was the best idea he could come up with on short notice. It would get anyone in the law-enforcement community’s attention, and it cut down on unwanted questions. U.S. marshals worked all over the country, dealing with everything from basic immigration to drug running to federal warrants.

      He waited patiently, trying to hear the frantic whispers behind the closed door, but having to be satisfied with the knowledge that things were moving along. After a couple of minutes, the busty woman hustled back out, with a man close on her heels. The sign on the door read District Attorney, but Bolan knew in a minute this guy wasn’t the head honcho. For one thing, he was wearing an off-the-rack suit and for another, he was too young.

      Bolan watched the small man straighten his shirt and tie, then march forward.

      “You gave my secretary a good scare, Marshal Cooper. What’s the big idea?”

      Bolan stood a little straighter as the man began to talk. The reprimand he was trying to give was weakened with the small quaver in his voice and the fact that he couldn’t seem to keep his hands still.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ