Read Online The Twisted Cross by Mack Maloney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mack Maloney
Tags: Suspense
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continued to yell and squeal like a pig. He repeatedly tried to break free of his restraints, but to no avail. Another ten minutes went by, Hunter and the others calmly drinking more coffee as armies of flying and crawling things flocked to the honey-drenched big man. .
Still, it wasn't until two large, nasty-looking swamp snakes showed up, the fat man finally broke down . . .
"Jesus Christ! All right! /'// talk!" he screamed. "Just get rid of those fucking snakes! I hate snakes!"
Hobbs accommodated his request, picking off both snakes with two well-placed shots from his Colt .45 automatic sidearm.
Hunter got to his feet, brushed himself off and walked over to the bound man.
The honey jar was still open and ready.
"How did that cruise liner pass through the Canal?" he asked LaFeet. "I hear the guys running things down there shoot first and ask questions later . . ."
"Not if you pay 'em, stupid!" LaFeet screamed.
"Pay?" Hunter said. "You mean you can deal with them?"
"Not just anyone, flyboy," LaFeet answered, his mouth still sputtering bugs and honey. "Arrangements are made ahead of time. They're businessmen. If they want to deal
with you, you pay them a toll. If they don't want to deal with you, or if you just bust in there half-assed, you're grease."
"How many of them are there?" Tyler asked, coming up to stand beside Hunter.
"How the fuck would I know?" LaFeet shot back. "I didn't take a head count for Christ's sake!"
Just because LaFeet decided to talk didn't mean the insects had given up getting dibs on the honey. If anything, more bugs were swarming around him. He looked so uncomfortable it gave Hunter a slight case of the willies.
"Who are these guys down in the Canal?" Hunter asked him. "They're not your blow buddies from The Circle . . ."
"No way," LaFeet answered. "These days The Circle couldn't run a swimming pool, never mind the fucking Panama Canal."
"So, who are they?" Hunter asked him again. "Locals? Mexicans? Mid-Aks?"
LaFeet even managed a sinister laugh at that one. "Yeah, right, Mid-Aks," he said. "I don't know who the hell they are ... But they sure ain't Mid-Aks . .
."
"I think he's bullshitting us," Crockett said.
"I do, too," Hunter said, adding with feigned nonchalance: "Lieutenant Hobbs, could you please go round up a snake?"
Hobbs, a country boy who knew his way around a swamp, immediately jumped to his feet and started looking in the underbrush.
"Jesus! No!" LaFeet hollered. "I hate fucking snakes!"
"Then you better start making some sense," Hunter told him.
"What's the toll?" Tyler asked the man. "Guns? A slice of your drug haul?
Girls?"
LaFeet made a great effort to shake his head. "No, no . . . These guys really don't give a damn about that kind of stuff. All they want is one thing: gold."
Hunter was not totally surprised to hear that. Another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.
The fighter pilot pressed in on LaFeet, standing over him, his boot on the man's ample neck. "I'll ask you for the last time: Who's in charge down there?"
"I don't fucking know!" the fat man yelled, his eyelids now partially clogged with a glob consisting of more bugs than honey. "The officers are foreigners . . ."
"Foreigners?" Hunter said. "You mean Russians?" "No, not Russians," LaFeet said, letting out a long, slow,
exhausted breath. He was caving in. "I'm not sure, but I think they might be Germans . . ."
Chapter 8
Hunter was back in DC less than two days later.
Before he left New Orleans, he arranged to have LaFeet turned over to the military governor. Then he paid a visit to the hospital to see Captain Pegg.
Hunter was heartened to learn from the man's doctors that, although the old buck was still in rough shape, he was getting better.
Now, Hunter was in Jones' temporary Washington headquarters, which was located in the now mostly-deserted Pentagon building.
"Damn, this is all we need," Jones said disgustedly as he listened to Hunter's report on the situation in the
Still, it wasn't until two large, nasty-looking swamp snakes showed up, the fat man finally broke down . . .
"Jesus Christ! All right! /'// talk!" he screamed. "Just get rid of those fucking snakes! I hate snakes!"
Hobbs accommodated his request, picking off both snakes with two well-placed shots from his Colt .45 automatic sidearm.
Hunter got to his feet, brushed himself off and walked over to the bound man.
The honey jar was still open and ready.
"How did that cruise liner pass through the Canal?" he asked LaFeet. "I hear the guys running things down there shoot first and ask questions later . . ."
"Not if you pay 'em, stupid!" LaFeet screamed.
"Pay?" Hunter said. "You mean you can deal with them?"
"Not just anyone, flyboy," LaFeet answered, his mouth still sputtering bugs and honey. "Arrangements are made ahead of time. They're businessmen. If they want to deal
with you, you pay them a toll. If they don't want to deal with you, or if you just bust in there half-assed, you're grease."
"How many of them are there?" Tyler asked, coming up to stand beside Hunter.
"How the fuck would I know?" LaFeet shot back. "I didn't take a head count for Christ's sake!"
Just because LaFeet decided to talk didn't mean the insects had given up getting dibs on the honey. If anything, more bugs were swarming around him. He looked so uncomfortable it gave Hunter a slight case of the willies.
"Who are these guys down in the Canal?" Hunter asked him. "They're not your blow buddies from The Circle . . ."
"No way," LaFeet answered. "These days The Circle couldn't run a swimming pool, never mind the fucking Panama Canal."
"So, who are they?" Hunter asked him again. "Locals? Mexicans? Mid-Aks?"
LaFeet even managed a sinister laugh at that one. "Yeah, right, Mid-Aks," he said. "I don't know who the hell they are ... But they sure ain't Mid-Aks . .
."
"I think he's bullshitting us," Crockett said.
"I do, too," Hunter said, adding with feigned nonchalance: "Lieutenant Hobbs, could you please go round up a snake?"
Hobbs, a country boy who knew his way around a swamp, immediately jumped to his feet and started looking in the underbrush.
"Jesus! No!" LaFeet hollered. "I hate fucking snakes!"
"Then you better start making some sense," Hunter told him.
"What's the toll?" Tyler asked the man. "Guns? A slice of your drug haul?
Girls?"
LaFeet made a great effort to shake his head. "No, no . . . These guys really don't give a damn about that kind of stuff. All they want is one thing: gold."
Hunter was not totally surprised to hear that. Another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.
The fighter pilot pressed in on LaFeet, standing over him, his boot on the man's ample neck. "I'll ask you for the last time: Who's in charge down there?"
"I don't fucking know!" the fat man yelled, his eyelids now partially clogged with a glob consisting of more bugs than honey. "The officers are foreigners . . ."
"Foreigners?" Hunter said. "You mean Russians?" "No, not Russians," LaFeet said, letting out a long, slow,
exhausted breath. He was caving in. "I'm not sure, but I think they might be Germans . . ."
Chapter 8
Hunter was back in DC less than two days later.
Before he left New Orleans, he arranged to have LaFeet turned over to the military governor. Then he paid a visit to the hospital to see Captain Pegg.
Hunter was heartened to learn from the man's doctors that, although the old buck was still in rough shape, he was getting better.
Now, Hunter was in Jones' temporary Washington headquarters, which was located in the now mostly-deserted Pentagon building.
"Damn, this is all we need," Jones said disgustedly as he listened to Hunter's report on the situation in the
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