New Orleans Run

Chapter Eleven

“If you so much as twitch, monsieur, you are dead,” the burly man stated.

Blade froze. Even his lightning reflexes wouldn’t enable him to evade a bullet at point-blank range. He defiantly returned the hostile stare of the tonton macoute, his right leg suspended in midair. Ferret and Gremlin apparently tried to bring their weapons into play, because the burly man in black barked a warning.

“Try anything and your big friend is fish bait! Comprenez-vous? Do you understand?”

A few tense moments went by.

“Yeah, we understand, scumsucker,” Ferret snapped.

“Then you will lower your assault rifles to the ground and raise your hands.”

Blade heard the dull clatter as the pair of AR-15’s fell to the turf.

“You are sensible… things,” the man said, smirking. He puckered his thick lips and vented a piercing whistle.

“Calling the other dogs?” Blade baited him.

“Your insults are wasted on me, monsieur. Save your breath,” the man stated, and repeated the whistle.

Footsteps sounded, coming around both sides of the cabin.

Out of the corners of his eyes Blade glimpsed more members of the voodoo sect coming to their companion’s aid. He chided himself for being the champion idiot of the Western Hemisphere. How could he have blundered into their trap so easily? He must be slipping.

“I’ll be damned!” a newcomer declared. “Now I owe that strutting peacock Francois an apology. His plan worked.”

Blade tensed when hands and arms came into view and disarmed him, taking the Thompson and both Bowies. His backpack was also removed.

Once all the giant’s weapons were taken, the man in the doorway grinned. “You can set your leg down now and step back.”

Frowning at his stupidity, Blade moved rearward a few feet and turned.

Six tonton macoutes had their guns trained on the hybrids. One of the men in black had the Thompson over a shoulder. Another man, the one nearest to Blade, the one with the Bowies tucked under his belt, the same one who had made the comment about the peacock, grinned at the Warrior.

“Hey, man. Do you have any idea how embarrassed I will be?”

Blade said nothing. He noticed the cult member spoke with an unusual accent. The word “man” came out as “mon.”

“That Francois will never let me hear the end of it,” the guy said.

Still Blade kept silent.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue, man?” The talkative fellow studied the giant for a bit, then smiled. “Oh, Maybe I should introduce myself. My friends all call me Jacques.”

“Do you mind if I refer to you as Airhead?” Blade finally spoke up.

“Whoa! A hardass. I like that,” Jacques said, and laughed. “You should be fun at the ceremony.”

“What ceremony?”

Jacques leaned toward the Warrior and smirked. “That’s for me to know, man, and for you to find out about the hard way.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Let’s quit playing around with this bastard and take off,” the burly man in the doorway suggested? “If we hurry we can catch Francois.”

“Can’t wait to get your nose brown, eh?” Jacques said.

The burly man emerged from the cabin. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Why not? Everybody knows Francois and you are best buddies,” Jacques stated, stressing the last two words sarcastically.

“I warn you—” the burly man began.

Jacques swung the Uzi he held in a short arc and pointed the barrel at the other man. “Don’t threaten me, Pierre. Don’t ever threaten me. I’m the sergeant here, not you. And I say we will catch the good captain when we catch him. Comprenez-vous?”

Pierre’s lips twitched but he made no move to employ his weapon. “Je comprends.”

“Good,” Jacques growled, and slowly lowered the Uzi. “Now you will be so kind as to tie our prisoners so we can get going.”

Blade had observed the confrontation with interest. Friction in an enemy camp could sometimes be turned to an advantage. He frowned as Pierre stepped up to him. “What if I give my word to be a good little boy?”

“Please, man,” Jacques said. “Don’t be insulting my intelligence. You’ll try to escape the first chance you get.”

The Warrior shrugged. “It never hurts to try.”

Pierre pulled a black nylon cord from his right front pocket. “Hold out your hands,” he snapped.

Reluctantly, well aware of the guns leveled in his direction, Blade complied. In a minute his wrists were securely bound.

“There,” Pierre said, and stepped back. “That should hold you.” He moved over to Ferret.

Blade looked at the man called Jacques. “Did I hear correctly? Are you a sergeant?”

“I sure am.”

“Then the tonton macoutes is a military organization? I was told that you considered yourselves magicians.”

“And where did you hear that bit of news, man?”

“From someone you probably know. Henri Pétion.”

The mention of the dead man’s name caused all of the men in black to glance at the giant.

“Henri is missing,” Jacques stated. “You wouldn’t happen to know where he is?”

“As a matter of fact I do. He should be halfway digested by now,” Blade disclosed.

Jacques’s bafflement showed. “Pardon?”

“Henri is history. He was swallowed by a huge snake,” Blade told them, and was immediately surprised by their reactions. Every man appeared stunned and they exchanged startled glances.

“What do you mean, man?” Jacques asked harshly.

“Just what I said. Pétion was eaten by an enormous black snake about forty feet long. He let the thing come right up to him. Even talked to it. Talk about nut cases.”

Jacques swallowed and moved closer to the Warrior. “Did he call this snake by name?”

“Yeah. He kept calling it Damballah.”

“Liar!” Pierre suddenly exploded. He aimed his submachine gun at the giant’s chest. “You rotten liar! You’ll die for your blasphemy!”

“No!” Jacques cried out, and stepped between them. “Don’t shoot him.”

“You heard the lie he just told about Damballah!” Pierre declared. “He deserves to die on the spot.”

“That decision isn’t up to us. Only the Baron can determine this man’s fate.”

Slowly, demonstrating a marked disinclination, Pierre lowered his weapon and fixed his mirrored sunglasses on the strapping prisoner. “I hope the Baron will give you to me. I’ll make you pay for mouthing such foul fabrications.”

“The truth hurts, huh?” Blade cracked.

“Enough of this,” Jacques barked. He nodded at the hybrids. “Finish tying these creatures and we can get the hell out of here. We must inform the Baron about Henri.”

“You don’t believe this bastard do you?” Pierre queried.

Jacques studied the giant critically for a moment. “I don’t know what to believe. But I do know we must report to the Baron right away. So get the furry one and the gray one tied, s’il vous plaît.”

“Right away,” Pierre said, and moved to obey.

“What’s all the fuss over a reptilian mutation?” Blade casually inquired.

“Damballah is no mere mutation, man,” Jacques replied. “Damballah is our God.”

“You worship a mutant?”

“Didn’t you hear me? Damballah is the Snake God, the living source of our power. Others may worship mere symbols. We worship our god in the flesh.”

“How fitting.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think you’re worshipping your god in the flesh, yet this so-called god will eat your flesh in one gulp if you give it half a chance.”

Thoughtful lines etched Jacques’s features. “If it’s true what you say, if Damballah truly did eat Henri, then Henri must have done something to displease our great lord.”

“The only mistake Henri made was forgetting the basic rule of dealing with animals.”

“Which rule is this?”

“Never trust an animal that can eat you for din-din.”

Jacques actually grinned. “You have a sense of humor, Monsieur. Je l’aime beaucoup.”

“You speak French fluently,” Blade noted.

“A little French, a little Spanish. Mostly I speak English. And Creole, of course.”

“Never heard Of it.”

“Then you are not from New Orleans or anywhere within a hundred miles of the city. Everyone in these parts knows about Creole. It’s a French dialect, but it includes many Spanish, Indian, and English words,” Jacques related, and cocked his head to one side. “So where are you from, big one?”

“That’s for me to know and you to wish you did.”

“Will you at least tell me your name?”

“Dieneces.”

“A very unusual name, man.”

“Not to Herodotus.”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” Blade said, suppressing a smile.

Jacques turned toward the hybrids. “And what are the names of these most unusual creatures?”

“Why don’t you ask them.”

“Very well, man. I will.” Jacques stepped over to Ferret and Gremlin, who stood side by side with their wrists tied. “Who are you?”

“I often wonder the same thing,” Ferret replied.

“Sorry, but that’s secret information, yes?” Gremlin said.

Mildly exasperated, Jacques placed his left hand on his hip and hefted the Uzi. “You won’t tell me?”

Ferret looked at Gremlin. “He’s pretty sharp for a moron.”

“Must be a fluke, no?”

“That’s enough out of you. Neither of you will speak unless spoken to,” Jacques declared.

“Fine by me, camel-breath,” Ferret retorted.

In one stride Jacques was standing directly in front of the feisty hybrid.

He brutally rammed the Uzi barrel into Ferret’s stomach, doubling the mutant over, and then slammed the submachine gun against Ferret’s temple.

Staggered by the blow, the hybrid dropped to his knees.

“I’ll teach you to badmouth me, man,” Jacques said, and raised the Uzi to deliver another strike. Only it never landed. A pair of steely arms unexpectedly looped over his head and constricted around his neck, instantaneously cutting off his air, choking him with frightful rapidity. He started to struggle and a flinty voice spoke in his right ear.

“My wrists may be tied but I can still break your neck like a twig if you hit him again. Tell your buddies to lower their weapons.”

Jacques glanced to the right and the left, and saw his companions had swung their weapons to cover the giant. If they fired at such close range, they would inevitably also hit him. The pressure on his neck slacked off slightly and he blurted out, “Don’t shoot!”

“I can nail him in the back,” Pierre said from somewhere to the rear.

“No, you fool! The bullets will pass completely through him and hit me!” Jacques cried. “Don’t fire!”

“Tell them to lower their weapons,” Blade repeated.

Jacques took a deep breath and responded boldly. “No.”

“No?”

“They won’t lower their guns, man. Look, I know you can kill me if you want. But what would it gain you? My men would mow you down where you stand. Why not be reasonable? Release me, and I give you my word I will not hit your furry friend again. What do you say?”

Blade had no other option. The tonton macoutes held the upper hand for the moment. He was surrounded and outgunned. Besides, he had accomplished his purpose in saving Ferret from a further beating. “All right,” he said, and lifted his arms over the sergeant’s head, then took a pace backwards.

Jacques spun, rubbing his sore throat, and appraised the giant with a mixture of anger and fear. He stared at the prisoner’s bulging biceps and triceps respectfully, knowing full well he could easily have been killed.

“Okay,” he stated, a bit hoarsely. “Move out. Pierre, take the point. The three prisoners will be in the middle.”

Gremlin helped Ferret to stand.

“And not a peep out of any of you,” Jacques warned the trio.

Blade moved closer to his friends, and in seconds they were underway, tramping eastward, hemmed in by their enemies. He smiled reassuringly at Ferret when the hybrid glanced back appreciatively. Holding his arms next to his body, he began working at the nylon cord, surreptitiously flexing his arms as far apart as they would go, relaxing, and repeating the action. Sooner or later he would loosen the cord sufficiently so he could slip his hands free.

Then the tonton macoutes had better watch out.

There would be hell to pay.