Bayou Brigade (17 page)

“Whoever crosses that bridge next,” said Slayton, “will not have me to pull him out.”

Despite the filth, the warmth in Wilma’s sudden embrace was genuine. It seemed to bring an unsettling calm over Slayton.

She had seen this particular expression cross his face only once before, when he had described to her how he had logged hours
next to a hospital bed, watching his wife edge closer to death, a piece at a time, feeling ’helpless and impotent to halt
the inevitable. Jean Marie’s malady had been irreversibly fatal. Nothing could be done. The experience still haunted Slayton.

“Listen,” he said abruptly. “I may not get a time-out like this one again. A minute from now we might have company, but for
the moment, we’re safe. I have to say this now, in case we don’t make it.”

The mocassins writhed and splashed in the pool nearby.

“I swore that when Jean Marie died I’d never let another woman into my life. I was determined to make the entire sex pay for
my loss. But surviving the next few hours means we’ll rack up too many points to stay just casual friends.” He laughed, grimly.
“We gotta cut more time out from work to be together, lady.”

It was a bit of a letdown for Wilma, who had expected a major pronouncement. But in an instant she realized that for Ben to
let his shield down even enough to make such an admission was a major development. Ben Slayton just did not get more definite
than this.

She decided to tread carefully. “What we have is already more than casual, Ben. How about we discuss it over dinner—after
we get our asses home?”

He nodded. “It’s a date, then.” He turned and seemed to sniff the air. “Airstrip’s north of here, if the sun serves me.” The
touchy topic was closed off in that moment. He led, and they both began slogging in the direction indicated. It would be too
simple to nail them on the open main highway, even if they lucked out and hitched a ride with some farmer headed for Morgan
City. From a dis

tance they watched the Brigade chopper cover the road in efficient sweeps. Sticking to the swamp made elementary sense.

But The Brigade would know that, too.

Bathurst’s men had already blocked the bayou streams to the northwest, sweeping across Slayton’s eventual path.

It was Wilma who spotted the dinghy, heading toward their position. Four Brigaders had carried the boat to the isolated tributary,
cut off from any navigable inlets, and were now engaged in hacking away a minor tangle of swamp grass and roots.

Wilma turned back to warn Slayton, but Ben had already seen the boat and melted into the swampland behind her. She kept carefully
quiet and watched with horror as an alligator—that
had
to be what it was!--slithered wetly into the deeper water less than ten yards away. She jammed her fist into her mouth and
hunkered down into the murky water herself. The slit-gold pupils, bobbing just above the muddy surface, seemed to regard her
briefly before submerging in a flutter of dirty bubbles. They were sharing the pond.

“Alvarez! Hey! Over here!” Wilma nosed up out of the water to see the man called Biersto, facing away from her. “We got us
one!” he shouted, and a pang of terror went quickly through her. Had Ben been caught?

She was hauled out of the pond by her hair, by the sentry who had crept up behind her while she was watching Biersto. It was
Dax, the Middle Eastern thug, who grinned sickly and held her aloft like a trout.

“You can have the ear if you want it, Dax,” said Alvarez, sloshing over. “Don’t hurt her yet, though.”

“I ain’t interested in no goddam ear,” said Biersto, grabbing Wilma’s breast and twisting it till she shrieked.

“Hold, goddammit,” snapped Alvarez. “Save it.” He looked quickly around. “Hey, Slayton! You don’t want my man here to fuck
your bitch to death, you better drag your balls out into the open!” He added, in a murmur, “… ’cause I’m gonna cut ’em off.”

From the swamp there was no reaction.

“Okay,” he hissed. “Drag her over to the sandbank, by the clearing there.” He perched an Uzi submachine gun on his hip, still
looking around for Slayton. “Do whatever you want with her, but keep your eyes open.”

Wilma thrashed as Biersto and Dax strong-armed her. “Hey Alvarez, don’t you want a bite of this sweet piece?” said Dax, as
Biersto dumped her on the ground and tried to tear her shirt off.

“Hell. I watched Karl Baal and that chick get it on last night. Who the hell needs a rerun of that horseshit?’

“Now, lookit, Alvarez, she
likes
people to watch,” said Biersto, parrying Wilma’s flurry of blows. “C’mon, bitch, fight me! You like it rough, don’t you!”

Suddenly Alvarez spotted movement in the spill of trees to his left. He circled warily and bolted the Uzi back into readiness.

He saw the violent, chomping motion of the ’gator gnashing something large. He squinted and saw Slayto ’s fatigue pants jerk
spasmodically. He relaxed and grinned, watching the reptile savor its prize.

“Now ain’t that a shame,” he said to himself. He moved closer to watch, and do some savoring himself. The ’gator must have
been at it a few minutes, he thought, because there did not seem to be any blood in the water. Mighty odd, that there wouldn’t
be any blood.

Alvarez felt a prickle on the nape of his neck and then stiffened, watching the rusty bayonet blade slide forward out of his
neck, from under his chin. His vocal equipment was neatly halved.

Slayton jerked the knife back, and Alvarez crumpled soundlessly. The alligator, catching the stink of fresh blood, wheeled
around and began to plod toward the corpse.

Dax had Wilma’s shoulders crushed into the sand beneath his meaty knees. Biersto vised her feet down as Dax dropped his pants
and began to force Wilma’s mouth open with his thumbs.

Wilma heard Biersto scream and watched the Uzi slugs tear across Dax’s chest from behind, spattering her with blood. The twitching
bodies slumped across her in death, and she screamed. Dax and Biersto could now do nothing but leak into the sand.

She squirmed out from under them and saw Slayton standing knee-deep in the pond, holding the smoking Uzi and lacking his pants.

“Jesus Christ!” she yelled. “You took your fucking time about it!”

“Sorry I took so long. I had to strike a truce with one of our friends in the animal kingdom.”

“God, yucch.” She wiped her lips convulsively, thankful for not having to experience Dax or Biersto.

Past them, in the swamp, the ’gator lunched happily on what was left of the bomb expert, Alvarez.

Using napalm charges and machetes, the Brigade men leveled a section of swamp to clear the area and perhaps flush Slayton
out of hiding. Their advance was rapid and inexorable, like Sherman marching through Atlanta, and the best Slayton could hope
for was a five-minute lead. He knew they could not be far from the airstrip.

Crouched low in the stolen dinghy, Slayton negotiated a narrow hairpin in the shallow water and docked against a fallen tree.
There was more foliage here. After Wilma jumped to shore, he jammed the raft with his bayonet and hefted a rock into it. It
sank in seconds.

They had been spotted already, from across the river.

“I can’t see how assassinating the President lets The Brigade just walk in and take over the government,” said Wilma, as they
walked.

“It’s the fear syndrome, the shock of having him wasted on live television. They want panic, not control.” He wiped sweat
and grime from his eyes. The mosquitos swarmed blackly about them despite the swamp water they both had rubbed on their skin
to ward the insects off. “Each incidence of terrorism, of crude violence, helps fragment the public, to disorient them. If
The Brigade actually issued demands, they’d never be met. They
want
to look like five or six different groups. The more people they look like, the less faith the public has in the government
to protect innocent people from terrorists.”

“Did you find out
how
the assassination is supposed to come off?”

“If they pull it off, my guess would be that their hit man is already in Washington, undercover, probably has been for years.
Surprise is Bathurst’s style.”

“Any way to verify that?”

“He’d have to be an American with an established identity: one that would allow him to move undetected through the politcial
scene. Maybe an ex-Vietnam vet, if he’s loyal to The Brigade. Maybe a decorated soldier with access to the President.”

“Like a Treasury agent?”

“Try Pentagon. Or Congress.” A new possibility dawned on Slayton. “Or Secret Service… someone with a good war record joins
the Service, establishes a credential, gains trust, and
bang.”

“That sounds quite plausible to me, Mr. Slayton.”

Karl Baal stood ahead of them on the crude path, holding an Ingram gun. He jerked his head, and Merriott emerged from the
foliage behind Slayton and Wilma, calmly holding a fragmentation grenade.

“His pants are gone, Lieutenant,” Merriott said, yanking out the pin and brandishing the grenade.

“Don’t make for the bayonet, Slayton,” said Baal, anticipating his foe’s move. “Blink. Twitch. Anything,

and Merriott will blow your insides all over this charming parcel of land.” He looked down. “What
did
happen to your pants, Slayton? Are you playing the primitive, now? Or did this well-toned little
fraulein
sweet-talk them off?” His eyes glinted like steel marbles.

“Why don’t you just kill us, he-man?” said Wilma defiantly, “instead of putzing around like a wimp?”

“As Commander Bathurst would say, it’s not sporting, my dear.” His eyes never left Slayton.

Slayton jumped on the opportunity. “You and me, Baal. Alone. Hand-to-hand. Let’s see how good you really are.”

“Interesting odds to ponder, Mr. Slayton. Would I win? Perhaps even lose? But it’s academic. You have the mien of an escaped
lunatic; I have Merriott and a gun. You are in no position to offer such a contest. Fuck you.” He gestured with the Ingram.
“Move over there please, next to the tree.”

Merriott observed them from outside Slayton’s reach. As Slayton turned slowly, passing Wilma, he said,
“Look behind Baal”
in a whisper.

She glanced back. Baal smiled. Merriott was too interested in Slayton and the live grenade to notice what she saw: a man with
long black hair, an Indian perhaps, tilting a loaded crossbow toward them from behind a tangle of creepers to Baal’s right.

“Merriott,” said Baal. “What would you say to just bringing back their heads?” Baal clearly enjoyed hearing his own voice.

“Anything,” Merriott said. “Let’s just cut the shit, okay Ba… ”

Slayton dived, knocking Wilma roughly to the ground. She heard the rush of air and the hollow
thunk.

The thunk was Marriott’s head being nailed to the thick tree trunk by a bronze-tipped crossbow shaft. His body jerked spasmodically.
The
thump
that followed was Merriott dropping the live grenade. Slayton used the mo

mentum of his fall to tumble Wilma behind a fallen trunk of similar girth. He saw Baal’s mouth drop open. The assassin fired
a reflexive burst in their direction before leaping to cover. Bullets stitched through the tree, the grass, and Merriott.

The thunderclap of noise stung their ears and vibrated the ground. The base of the tree disintegrated along with Merriott,
showering a multidirectional spray of blood and splintered wood everywhere. Slayton saw Merriott’s head twirl away and splash
into the river.

Through the gray smoke and falling debris, Slayton saw Baal, standing and peppering the trees with machine-gun fire like a
madman, yelling, “Habreau! Habreau! I’ll see your wretched family rots in hell for this! Hear me, Habreau, you bastard! I’ll
burn you out! Show yourself, coward pig filth!”

Thunk.

Baal did not scream, but dropped the spent Ingram gun into the mud to clutch at the bolt sunk into his left thigh, protruding
completely through his leg.

Slayton shook off the stunning effects of the concussion, got to his feet, and loped toward the fallen Baal. Filling his fist
with Baal’s shirt front, he dragged the bloodied German mercenary up out of the mud. -

“Now it ends, Baal. For you.” He cocked back and let Baal have it right on the jaw. The German’s head snapped backward, but
Slayton held him fast.

That sadist Baal raped me,
Wilma’s voice echoed in his head.
It was horrible!

Baal shot up an arm, and Slayton’s second blow glanced sideways. “What’s the matter, government man?” Baal choked. “Find it
hard to take a wounded adversary?” He whipped up suddenly, getting both hands on Slayton’s throat and clamping tight.

Wilma saw the Indian approach, cocking another shaft into’ his antique crossbow, ready to puncture Baal’s skull.

She shook her head
no
when he saw her. He stood near the two struggling men, impassively looking on. Slayton groped for the scabbard strapped to
his leg and discovered it was empty. Baal hung on.

Hovering over them, the Indian said, “This man is stronger than you, Baal. Your power has been removed. Give it up.”

“Fuck yourself, you swamp-sucking animal!” Baal snarled. He shoved the weakening Slayton backward and gained the leverage
of his good leg.

The Indian only shook his head, mournfully.

The sadistic gleam returned to Baal’s eyes as he strangled Slayton. “See how it feels!” he shouted. “Feel your life leaving
you, and know that you have been bested by Karl Baal!” Slayton’s face went alarmingly purple.

Baal continued to taunt as Slayton groped feebly at his viselike grip. “Quite a pair, your whore and you, Slayton! I had her
on her knees as well!” He lunged forward, trying to knock Slayton completely down onto his back. The thick, black mud shifted
beneath them like lava as they grappled.

Slayton had been waiting for the move, the only time when Baal would be off-balance. He pivoted a kick into Baal’s groin,
and as Baal’s body went rigid, Slayton rolled out and reversed, shoving Baal’s face into the mud.