New Orleans Run

Chapter Eighteen

The tonton macoutes spotted him.

Blade had only one option. Retreating into the undergrowth where the snappers lurked was out of the question. Trying to outrun the boat along the shoreline couldn’t be done. Since the enemy had seen him and now voiced loud shouts while slanting their boat in his direction, he decided to use the time-tested strategy advocated by skilled fighters down through the centuries.

The best defense is always a good offense.

The Warrior raced the ten feet to the edge of the bayou and dived into the water, his huge form cleaving the surface smoothly. He found the depth to be a mere five feet and quickly made for the deeper area farther out.

From the south came the distinctive buzzing drone of the boat’s outboard.

Blade stayed close to the bottom, sweeping strands of underwater vegetation aside with his forearms. He gazed upward, gauging the depth, pleased when it increased to ten feet, then 15.

The underside of the craft appeared, moving quite slowly, and the heads and shoulders of several men in black were visible although distorted by the water. They were in the boat and peering into the bayou.

Would they see him? Blade wondered, holding steady, hands moving back and forth. He placed his feet on bottom, testing to determine its sponginess. Once assured that his legs wouldn’t sink in the mud, he crouched and waited for the right moment.

The craft weaved slightly from side to side, coming ever closer.

Blade watched the boat creep almost directly overhead, its motor making a put-put noise, and he launched himself at the underside like a human missile, his arms sweeping up out, hoping the element of surprise would enable him overcome his six armed foes.

The boat was barely moving.

Kicking powerfully, the Warrior swam for the starboard side. He girded himself to act swiftly, decisively, and he was ready when his arms broke the surface right next to the craft. In that very instant he gripped the upper edge and hauled downward, counting on the fact that all the tonton macoutes were standing to unbalance their boat and possibly tip it over.

The strategy succeeded.

Caught totally off guard, the voodoo cult members on the port side were thrown against those on the starboard, together their combined weight served to tip the boat at an almost vertical angle and dump all of them into the swamp.

Blade had already released the top when the first man in black hit the water. The rest followed suit in a confused mass and he whipped the Bowies from their sheaths and tore into them, taking advantage of their momentary disorientation as they went under. Their first reaction was to thrash and make for the surface again, leaving them vulnerable to his attack.

Arcing to the left, Blade buried both knives in the chest of the first man under, then wrenched them out and turned, going for three foes at once, his movement impeded by the water but still forceful enough for him to slash one tonton macoute across the throat and stab the other pair.

Leaving just two.

The Warrior twisted and saw the remaining duo trying to clamber onto the stalled boat. He came at them from below, spearing his right Bowie into the unprotected abdomen of the nearest man in black, ripping the stomach wide open, and then attacked his final adversary.

Displaying remarkable agility, the last tonton macoute, who was dangling over the starboard side, flipped his legs up and rolled into the craft. In another moment he reappeared at the side, an M1 carbine pressed to his right shoulder.

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.

The tonton macoutes must come here frequently.

He ran to the path, which turned out to be a flattened track of grass ten feet in width, then jogged toward the building. All around him insects strummed and buzzed. Someone laughed.

The faint titter stopped Blade in his tracks and he flattened. It came from the structure. After ten seconds he rose, staying bent over, and moved forward. Indistinct voices reached his ears.

The lights solidified as lanterns hanging from hooks positioned at 40-foot intervals on the outside of the circular structure. The walls were made of polished wood. Between each lantern was an arched opening.

Blade edged toward one of the entrances, perplexed by the shape of the building. It resembled a stadium more than anything else, and for the life of him he couldn’t comprehend why a stadium would be located way out in the middle of the tropical growth proliferating on the north side of the island. Why not simply construct the edifice near the Compound? There must be a reason.

The voices grew louder, almost audible.

Exercising the utmost care, the giant stepped to the arch and peered within. A short tunnel led to an inner open area, was about to advance when he noticed another arched pathway off to the right, only this one was twice the size of all the others, a virtual tunnel.

Strange.

Blade crept along the right-hand wall until he was within three feet of the inner arch, then halted. Now he could hear the voices clearly.

“—don’t know why we have to sweep this out every time. It’s not like it matters.”

“Brother, you’d best not let the Baron or Majesta you talking like that or you’ll find yourself in the same boat as those poor freaks.”

“Listen to who’s talking! You know how the Baron hates them things. If he thought for a minute that you felt sorry for the critters, your ass would be grass.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Blade inched to the edge and risked a look. His gaze alighted on a pair of tonton macoutes, one white the other black, who were sweeping the spacious open area comprising the middle two thirds of the circular structure. What surprised him the most was the fact they were using brooms on a dirt floor.

“How much time we got?” asked the white one.

The black consulted a watch on his left wrist. “Let’s see. The procession won’t leave the compound until eleven fifteen, and it’ll take them a half hour to get here. So we’ve got about an hour to kill.”

“I wish Captain Francois had picked somebody else for this damn detail,” stated the first man, glancing nervously at the west side of the arena.

Blade did the same, his eyes narrowing at the sight of six posts imbedded in the ground near the smooth inner wall, each spaced approximately ten feet apart. Affixed to each post was a set of shackles, and he could readily imagine the function they would serve. He gazed upward and discovered another interesting aspect to the structure.

The smooth arena wall only extended for a height of 15 feet. Above it were rows of tightly packed bleachers for an audience of a hundred or more. There was no roof, only stars.

All of a sudden the pieces of the puzzle fit.

Blade was about to draw back from the archway when he glanced to the east and spied the great drum occupying a spot all by itself at the front of the bleachers. He remembered the words of Henry Pétion and scowled.

How could he hope to do it?

Do the impossible?

Defeat Damballah?

The Warrior melted into the shadows. He had an hour in which to devise a brilliant strategy, or in an hour and a half he would likely be dead.