Bolan woke to the hum of a mosquito swarm

His hands and feet were tied together and he was strung up between two willow trees that were slowly bending with his weight. Blood dripped from the cut on his scalp into the water below, carrying his scent to the alligators that infested the area.

He scanned the water for the telltale ripples of an approaching gator and spotted not one, but several, slowly closing in on him. For the moment, Bolan was safe, though it was only a matter of time before the branches gave way.

One alligator was getting more curious, and as it swam around below Bolan, a trickle of blood hit the water. Large jaws snapped out and slashed through the murky swamp.

The tree limbs creaked as Bolan tried to inch his body away from the reptile, and the Executioner knew that his chances of survival were diminishing with every second. Using all his strength, he pulled on the limb that seemed most likely to break. The tree groaned in objection, but finally relented. As the gator surfaced again, Bolan reached up and grabbed the sagging branch. It lowered inch by inch as he struggled to free his arm. The gator swam beneath him, his tail flicking Bolan’s boot as a subtle reminder that his time was just about up.

Bolan strained harder at the branch, while watching the gators on final approach. One of them circled and dived below the surface, and Bolan wondered if the creature was going to come leaping out of the water to snatch him in its jaws, like he was a worm on a hook.

The Executioner’s premonition proved accurate.

Shadow Hunt

The Executioner®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Every man has his price…

—English 18th-century proverb

There may not be much in this world that comes free, but there is one thing that nobody can put a price on—human life. And I will challenge anyone who tries!

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Prologue

U.S. Marshal Jack Rio did his best to get comfortable in the too small seat of the rental car. He wasn’t muscle-bound or obese, but he had broad shoulders and stood a few inches over six feet tall. With the exception of a full-size truck or an SUV, not too many vehicles on the road were made for someone his size, so getting in and out of the black Nissan Sentra for him felt like he was getting in and out of a clown car. On the seat next to him was a slender briefcase, and his sweat-stained cowboy hat that had about as much business in New Orleans as he did.

Rio pulled another cigarette out of his hard pack, lit it and blew the smoke out the open window. He tossed the remaining pack into the console and mentally reminded himself that he should quit when he got back home. Overhead, the sky threatened rain, but so far as he’d seen, it did that almost every day here. Maybe it was the season, he thought, but it was no wonder the city worried about floods and hurricanes—if it was any lower, it’d been under the damn Gulf, not next to it.

The door to the restaurant he was watching opened, and he tensed, then relaxed as a young couple came out holding hands, laughing, and headed for their car. Mosca’s was busy this night, and despite its nondescript white exterior and plain sign, the food was reputed to be outstanding.

The fact that it had been the epicenter of organized crime in the area until the early nineties hadn’t apparently done much to harm business. New Orleans was really the beginning of organized crime that started with two Matranga brothers in the late 1800s and ended with the last-known leader of the Matranga Family, Carlos Marcello. He died in 1993, but he’d worked out of Mosca’s as much as anywhere. Which made the whole damn situation that Rio was in even more strange.

The marshal shifted in his seat, flicked ash out the window, and tried to ignore the trickle of sweat that slid free of his short-cropped black-and-gray hair and down the center of his back. Everyone in New Orleans was sweaty. It was always hot and humid, just on the edge of raining. Under his navy blue sport coat, his .45-caliber Smith & Wesson was heavy and uncomfortable, molding his dress shirt permanently into his skin, but there was no way he was going to take off the coat—or the gun. A lot of experienced shooters carried a 9 mm pistol for personal protection, but Rio’s experiences as a U.S. marshal had taught him the value of a weapon powerful enough to a blow a hole in an engine block.

Rio believed in many things, but the existence of both true evil and pure human fuckery convinced him to load his .45 magazine with hollowpoint rounds, and to carry the weapon at all times when he was awake and have it close at hand when he was asleep. So far, his approach had kept him alive in spite of assignments hunting down very bad men from Mexico to California and all over the American Southwest: Texas, Arizona, New Mexico and even southern Nevada. As a “floater” for the U.S. Marshals Service, Rio traveled wherever the higher-ups decided they wanted him to go, working on cases ranging from missing persons to drug runners to vicious killers that they’d prefer the media never heard about.

Sighing, Rio opened the door of the rental car and climbed out, continuing to watch the restaurant. The entire situation felt wrong, and his instincts weren’t something he took lightly. Why in the world would that shine boy from the DA’s office want to meet here? He had to know that Marcello had been using this same restaurant as a front and a meeting place back when he was running things down here. Maybe the attorney just had a twisted sense of humor, but that didn’t quite fit, either.

The real bitch of it was that he was totally on his own here. This wasn’t an official case, and he sure as hell wasn’t on duty. He was supposedly on vacation, but like some other law-enforcement officers he knew, there were no real vacations for him—just times when he worked a case out of his jurisdiction because it smelled funny and he wanted to try to figure it out. That’s why he was here, sweating through his shirt and his sport coat, instead of drinking cold beer and fishing in the Gulf with his brother.

Almost a year ago, when he was running down a fugitive who’d thought he could hide out in L.A., Rio had met an old FBI hound who talked about the organized crime in New Orleans and how their whole operation just kind of vanished after Marcello died. It stank to high heaven, but no one had been able to find anything else that could establish they were still there and still in business. Rio had been intrigued, and did a little digging of his own. Over time, organized crime in New Orleans had gotten into all of it: drugs, smuggling, money laundering and the usual organized crime list of dirty deeds, and the Matranga Family was in charge of it all.

Usually, when an organized crime family went out of business, it was because another family came in and took over, or everyone was killed, but so far as the Feds could tell, organized crime was out of business entirely in the New Orleans area.

And since the whole damn city was corrupt, Rio thought, that didn’t make one thin dime’s worth of sense.

Someone was there—it was just a question of finding them out. Since Rio’s main job was locating people who didn’t want to be found, he figured he’d go down and spend a week poking around. At the time, he’d thought something might turn up simply because he was an outsider and could see things a bit differently than a local. So far, however, he’d run into a lot of shrugged shoulders, dead ends and urban stories that were more legend than fact. Until he’d spoken to the kid from the DA’s office, Trenton Smythe, Rio had pretty much figured that he was going to come up as empty as everyone else.

He took one final drag on his cigarette and tossed it to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot heel. Something didn’t feel right, but he was supposed to be on a plane home tomorrow, so if he was going to find anything, he had to find it now. And in spite of his smarmy name and nervous manner, Smythe had seemed convinced he knew something worth telling. Since it appeared he’d run out of options, Rio crossed the parking lot and entered the restaurant.

Smythe was sitting in a booth near the back, his tie loosened and his brown hair mussed, which seemed unusual to Rio. He pegged him as the polished type who looked down on anyone who wasn’t wearing a pressed suit and tie, like the first time Smythe saw Rio in the DA’s office. But the young attorney didn’t look polished this night with his yellow shirt unbuttoned at the top and looking like it had been slept in. An unopened bottle of wine and two glasses, waited on the table, along with a couple of menus. Even though the bottle of wine wasn’t open, Rio would wager his pension that Smythe had already had a drink or two. When Smythe spotted Rio, he raised a hand in greeting. As the marshal walked across the restaurant, he noticed that most of the tables were full and waiters scurried back and forth with food and wine. Nothing appeared out of place.

As he reached the table, Smythe stood and said, “I didn’t think you were coming. You’re late.”

“I’m cautious,” Rio said. “I’ve been here for a half hour, just watching.”

“For what?” he asked.

“Trouble,” he replied. “Trouble’s like reality—it shows up when you least expect it.”

Smythe shrugged noncommittally. “Wine?” he offered, holding up the bottle. Rio didn’t know much about wine, but the aged merlot seemed like a big gesture for someone on government pay.

“No, thanks,” Rio said. “You go ahead.”

A waiter appeared at the table, opened the wine and poured. After telling them the specials, he asked for their order. Rio ordered spaghetti and Smythe the house shrimp specialty, then the waiter headed off for the kitchen to turn in the ticket. No matter what else, the smells coming from the kitchen were enticing.

After a minute or two of silence, Rio decided to nudge Smythe a bit. “So,” he said. “You told me you had information about organized crime in this area after Marcello died. Why don’t you share it with me?”

Smythe scoffed. “That’s easy?” he asked. “You’re not any smarter than the other federal law officers in this area.”

Rio held up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re the one who said you had information. I’m just asking what it is.”

“Well, nothing’s free,” Smythe retorted. “Hell, they’re charging for air at the gas stations now, and if I tell you what I know, I’ve got to get something for it, too.”

The waiter returned, refilled the wineglasses and set out bread on the table. “Your meals will be up in a couple of minutes.”

Once he’d left, Rio said, “What do you want?”

“Two things,” he said. “First, I want out of New Orleans—out of Louisiana—and I mean way out. Fucking Wyoming or Canada or something.”

Knowing what was coming, Rio asked anyway. “And?”

“A boatload of cash,” he said. “Enough so I never have to work a day in my life again.”

“So, you want Club Med witness protection,” Rio said. “You’re dreaming, kid. The FBI’s been down here digging for years and found nothing, so whatever you’ve got can’t be that good.”

“You don’t get it, do you, Rio? No one finds them because they’re everywhere—every law-enforcement agency, every cop, every lawyer. The FBI hasn’t had any success because their agents are either on the take or kept out of the loop. What I know—what I’ll tell you—will rock this city from the top down. It’s worth what I’m asking.”

“You’re going to have to give me more than empty words and promises, boy. I can’t just make a call and get you what you want. I’m going to need to have rock-solid evidence—names, places, you name it. And then, maybe.”

“What I don’t have,” he said, “I can get. There are people who trust me, and I have access to everything that I need.”

“When?” Rio asked.

“I can have it for you by tomorrow. I just have to copy the files.” Smythe took a long swallow of wine, which was when Rio noticed that his hands were shaking.

He took another long look around the restaurant, but didn’t see anything that raised his hackles. Still… “You nervous, Smythe?”

“Hell, yes, I’m nervous,” he snapped, his blue eyes darting around the room. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Rio shrugged. “I’m not the type.”

“If you knew these guys, you would be. If they knew I was having dinner with a federal agent, I wouldn’t make it through the night,” he said. He refilled his glass. “I’ll have everything for you tomorrow, but I want your word that you can get me what I want.”

Rio thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “I can get it,” he said. “But not until I see what you’re putting on the table.”

“Fair enough. When?”

“First thing in the morning,” he said. “My hotel, seven sharp. I’ve got a flight scheduled to leave at ten.”

“You’re leaving?” Smythe asked, incredulous. “Now?”

“Relax,” Rio said. “If you bring me real information we can use to ferret these bastards out, I’ll reschedule.”

“Oh, all right, then.”

Their food came and they ate in silence. Italian wasn’t his favorite, but even Rio had to admit that his spaghetti was very good. He finished quickly, then stood up. “You’re buying, right, Smythe?” he asked.

“Sure, sure,” he said. His words were slightly slurred, but then he’d almost polished off the entire bottle of wine himself.

“Tomorrow morning, then,” Rio said. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” he said.

Rio left the restaurant without another word. The parking lot was dark, and his car was parked on the far edge of the lot. He moved with easy grace to the vehicle, sweating already in the humid night air. He unlocked the door, opened it and wedged himself into the seat. Then he put the key into the ignition, started the engine and reached for the air-conditioning. It was too damn humid to not run it on full blast, and he twisted the dial as far to the right as it would go.

As the vents blasted air into his face, two things happened at once. He recognized the acrid tang of pepper spray, and four large men appeared around his car—one at each door. Almost instantly blinded, he tried the door, but the goon standing there held it shut.

“Damn it!” he said, sneezing, coughing and hacking. He forced himself against the door with all his strength and it popped open. He fell out onto the concrete, reaching for his gun even as he landed. Blind, he didn’t have much of a chance, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Don’t bother, cowboy,” a voice said in his ear. He felt the cold metal barrel of a gun pushed against his flesh.

Still coughing, his lungs and eyes burned from the pepper spray, Rio moved his hands away from his coat. The man pulled out the .45 and handed it to one of his pals. The marshal couldn’t make out faces clearly through the tears running from his eyes.

“What the hell?” Rio started to say, when the Italian leather boot slammed into his head.

“Welcome to New Orleans, cowboy,” the man said. “The boss wants to have a word with you, and I suggest you cooperate. The gators are hungry this time of year.”

Knowing that if he fought now, they’d just kill him outright, Rio relaxed. He’d have to wait for a better opportunity.

“Told you I’d bring him,” he heard Smythe’s voice say. “Didn’t I?”

“Yeah, Trenton, you did real good,” the man said.

His eyes were clearing, and Rio saw a man dressed in an expensive suit, Smythe standing behind him. Rio spit blood from his split lip. “I won’t be forgetting this, Smythe,” he said. “Not for a long, long time.”

“You’ve got more to worry about than I do, Marshal. A lot more.”

Rio was about to reply when the boot hit him again, this time connecting with his temple, and the world went hot, then dark.

1

There weren’t that many people who could call Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, out of the blue and get an instant response, but Hal Brognola was one of them. Apparently one of the big Fed’s colleagues, Jacob Rio—a man Brognola had a great deal of respect for—had become quite concerned lately for the welfare of his brother, U.S. Marshal Jack Rio.

According to Jacob, Jack was almost a week overdue for a visit they’d scheduled. Jacob had told Brognola that his brother had been slated for a couple of weeks off, and they’d planned to use one of them to go fishing in the Gulf. Brognola had asked him what his brother was doing for the other one, but Jacob hadn’t known for sure.

“He just said he wanted to check something out,” he’d said. “For him, that usually means a really cold case or something way off the beaten path or both.”

“You’ve tried all his numbers?” Brognola had asked. “Gone to his house? Contacted his office?”

“All of the above,” Jacob said. “No one knows anything, and it’s not like Jack to just disappear.”

Trusting Jacob Rio’s instincts, Brognola contacted Bolan and relayed the details as he knew them. Bolan caught the next flight to Houston out of Denver, where he’d been taking some downtime mountain climbing. From Houston, the drive down to Galveston where the marshal lived wasn’t very long, and Bolan cruised the street looking for the white, two-story house that Brognola had told him Rio called home. He ran through his conversation with Brognola again as he drove. It would seem by all accounts that Rio was the real thing—a tough fighter, a more than competent lawman, and the kind of person you’d want watching your back when all hell broke loose. He wasn’t the kind of man to take off on a whim without telling anyone.

Rio’s neighborhood was that in name only. It might be an area that would make your average suburban family nervous, as the houses were interrupted by equipment and buildings for the oil companies. It wasn’t an area where people would let their kids play on the street.

As the driveway came into view, Bolan saw that a black Lincoln Town Car occupied it, so he pulled up short and parked. There was no record of Rio owning a Town Car in the information that Brognola had sent him. The license plate was Louisiana, not Texas, and wasn’t a law-enforcement plate. The Executioner climbed out of the car and eased the door closed, then made his way along a low hedge that fronted the house. He could see that the door was open, but wasn’t close enough yet to hear anything from the inside. It didn’t help that the ocean was less than two blocks away and the incoming tide was making enough noise that hearing anything that wasn’t up close and personal would be difficult.

Deciding that a direct approach might work just as well as stealth, Bolan straightened and turned up the walk that led to the front door. When he neared it, he could hear the sound of muttered cursing and the crash of drawers being slammed shut. He knocked loudly on the door, and called out, “Hey, Rio, you in there?”

The sounds from the back of the house stopped. A long moment of silence, and Bolan called out once more. “Rio, you in there?”

Hurried footsteps moved through the house, and Bolan saw a man enter the small living room. He was dressed in a nice suit, obviously tailored, but looked disheveled. The coat and shirt were both wrinkled, and his hair was mussed and sweaty. “Sorry, sorry,” the man said. He had a distinct accent that marked him as a native of New Orleans. “I was in the back cleaning up.” He gestured with a thumb toward the back of the house.

“Yeah, I heard,” Bolan said. “I’m looking for Jack Rio. He around?”

“No, uh, he’s not here right now,” the man said. “Who are you?”

“Oh, just an old friend,” he said, stepping into the foyer. “We do a little fishing from time to time, and I thought I’d drop by and see if he was up for something this weekend.”

“Fishing, huh?” the man said. He was large enough to fill the entryway into the living room, and he stepped forward to meet Bolan. “You don’t look like much of a fisherman.”

“These aren’t my fishing clothes,” Bolan replied, easing the front door shut behind him.

“Yeah, right, whatever,” the man said. “Look, Rio’s not here, so why don’t you beat it?”

Bolan closed the final distance between them, stopping just a couple of steps away from the man. “Sorry,” he said, “but I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?” the man demanded. “Come back later.”

“Because,” Bolan said, jabbing a fist into the man’s solar plexus, “I’ve decided I don’t like you.”

The man doubled over, but was smart enough to back away at the same time, so Bolan’s follow-up missed. He straightened, coming up with a mean-looking .45 from beneath his coat. “Don’t take another step,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

Bolan didn’t hesitate. He stepped in close, even as the goon started to speak, and caught his right arm in a reverse lock with his left. He jerked up hard and felt the elbow snap. The man screamed, and the gun hit the wooden floor with a dull thud. Pushing forward with all his weight, Bolan brought his right hand around and drove a hammer blow to the man’s jaw.

He staggered and started to go down. Knowing that his adversary was likely to recover quickly, Bolan chopped a blow into the back of the man’s neck. He dropped like a sack of cement.

Bolan moved quickly, yanking a lamp cord out of the wall along with the lamp, using it as a makeshift rope to tie the thug’s hands behind his back. It took most of the soldier’s not inconsiderable strength to get the thug propped upright against the couch. The man groaned, already stirring.

Leaving him for the moment, Bolan gathered up the dropped .45, noting even as he put it in a pocket that its serial numbers had been filed clean. He jogged toward the back of the house and saw that Rio’s office was completely trashed. Drawers were pulled open and tossed on the floor, and the contents of two filing cabinets were spread out everywhere. The computer was on, but only showed a log-in screen.

“What have you gotten yourself into, U.S. Marshal Rio?” Bolan muttered before turning back to the living room.

He pulled a chair from the kitchen table into the living room, turned it around, then retrieved a glass of cold water for himself, and one for the unidentified, groggy man. He returned to the living room, took a drink from his own glass, then poured about half of the other over the man’s face. The thug spluttered and came around.

“Welcome back,” Bolan said. “I have some questions.”

“Yeah, well, you know what you can do with your questions,” he said. “I ain’t saying anything to you.”

“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” Bolan said. He leaned back in the chair, tilting it up, then brought it down full force into the top of the man’s exposed feet. The bones cracked and popped, and the man screamed for several long seconds.

“Who are you, you fuck? You’re not just a buddy!” He was breathing heavily.

“I’m the one asking the questions. Who are you? Who do you work for? And where is Jack Rio?”

“I’m the Tooth Fairy,” he said. “I work for Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. And Jack Rio’s in hell.”

“Wrong answer,” Bolan said calmly. He leaned back in the chair, driving the tips of the legs into the man’s feet again. Thankfully, Rio’s house was quite some distance from any others, though if the man got much louder, a gag would be necessary.

When he finally quieted, Bolan took a long drink of water. “You need to understand,” he said. “I’m only going to ask one more time, then I’m going to lose patience and start hurting you. Up to this point, I’ve been gentle. So, who are you? Who do you work for? Where’s Jack Rio?”

The man looked like he was thinking about another smart-ass remark, but then thought better of it. “I’m Tony Salerno,” he said, his voice weak from his screams. “I work for the Family in New Orleans, which is where I last saw your buddy Jack.” He shrugged. “I’m guessing he’s dead by now.”

Family, Bolan thought, the magic word that meant Mafia. But last he’d heard, the Matrangas were out of business in New Orleans. “What Family?” he asked.

“Mine, you mook,” he snarled.

“Well, at least I know who to look up when I get there,” Bolan said. “For their sake, the marshal had better be alive.”

“I don’t know who you are, but if you go down there looking for Family trouble, you’re as good as dead already.”

“You’d be surprised how often I’ve heard that,” Bolan replied, taking the man’s .45 out of his pocket. “Anything else you’d like to tell me? A good address would help.” He knew what the answer would be.

“I’ll die first,” the man spit. “I’m a stand-up guy.”

“Yeah, right,” Bolan said as he pocketed the thug’s gun. “How about we just let the cops deal with you when they get here. I’m sure there are a few outstanding warrants on you.”

In the distance, Bolan heard approaching sirens. Apparently the closest neighbors had heard the screams. Bolan wiped down the chair and glasses, leaving them in the sink.

“Hey, buddy, I hope you got your funeral planned, if you’re thinking of going near the Family,” the thug said.

Bolan ignored the man—his mind was already moving forward. If he got lucky, he could catch a late flight to New Orleans and look up the newest Mafia Family to call the city home. The Executioner went back outside and made his way to his car—carefully plotting his next move.

NIKOLAI AGRON PAUSED and checked his appearance in the mirror one last time. The look was only one small part of his disguise here, but people tended to believe what they saw, and in him, they saw a perfectly groomed Italian man. He pulled out all of the stops for his look, perfectly tailored Italian suit, shoes from Milan and he even had monogrammed silk handkerchiefs for formal occasions. But on this day he had a more casual look—loose fitting shirt, Dockers and loafers. He’d been down in New Orleans since just after Hurricane Katrina hit, introducing himself around the city as Nick Costello. His bona fides checked out because he’d been building them for several years.

Nikolai was about as Italian as George Washington. He’d been born in Moscow, worked his way up in organized crime there, and when things began to go to hell, he changed tactics. He taught himself how to 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 don’t know why she’d be scared. I let her see my badge, then she went to get you. We’re all supposed to be on the same side, right? Can we talk in your office? It’s vital that I speak with the district attorney.”

“Well, sir, he’s not here and won’t be before the end of the week. He’s at a conference in Washington. Might I suggest that you make an appointment for Monday?”

Bolan looked over the fidgeting man. “You the assistant DA?”

“Yes, yes, I am,” he said. “I’m in charge of this office until he returns. Trenton Smythe.” He offered a hand, which Bolan ignored.

“Then you’ll have to do.”

Bolan could see the sweat bead on the little man’s brow. He couldn’t have been over five-four, and a 130 pounds soaking wet. He looked like an overworked, underweight terrier. If Bolan hadn’t been watching so closely, he would have missed the catch in the man’s breathing, but not the look in his eyes that said more than any one person could with words. That “Ah, crap,” look that was unmistakable.

“Of course,” Smythe said finally.

He turned and walked into the office. Bolan nodded to the secretary as he walked past her desk. The outer office was modern and had clearly been updated recently, but the inner office was typical old Louisiana, dark wood paneling, deep rich carpeting and plaques that showed the DA’s latest and greatest fishing accomplishment. Mr. Smythe sat confidently behind the DA’s hijacked desk.

“Now how can I help you, Marshal?”

“There was a U.S. marshal visiting on his vacation here. He’s a friend of mine and has come up missing. I thought I’d check in and see if you had heard anything. His name is Jack Rio.”

Smythe pursed his lips. “No…” he said, thinking. “I haven’t heard of Marshal Rio, but of course many people come here on vacation. If he wasn’t working, why would he check in with us? Are you certain he came to New Orleans?”

Bolan nodded. “I’m sure he came here,” he said. “And as for a vacation, well, you know some of us in law enforcement don’t really vacation. From what I’ve heard, he came out this way to look into something on his own time. He’s not the type to just go missing.”

“Does he have a wife screaming for him or something?”

“No, but he’s my friend and I know he was working on something here.”

“Ah, I see,” Smythe said. He chuckled weakly. “A cold case or something?”

“I don’t know for sure,” he said. “But if he was following a trail out this way, I figure he might have checked in with your office. It’s at least odd that he’s gone missing in your jurisdiction.”

Smythe stood and went to the door. He peeked out around it before closing it firmly, then returned to the desk. Bolan hadn’t even been in the room with the guy five minutes and he wanted to shoot him. It was obvious he knew something about Rio, and Bolan wasn’t a patient man.

“You said your friend’s name was Jack Rio?”

“That’s right.”

Smythe began to fidget with the antique pen that was sitting in an inkwell. He leaned back against the desk and stared at Bolan, but his entire demeanor had changed into something more cocky and confident. The soldier sensed this man was more than he appeared and at least part weasel.

“Yeah, all right, now that I think about it, we did have a fella by that name come through here.” He glanced suggestively at the door. “But maybe this isn’t the best place to be talking about it.”

“Look, Mr. Smythe, this is a missing federal agent. If you have some information, you need to tell me. If I don’t come up with some answers pretty damn fast, you’re going to end up with every federal law-enforcement agency in the country breathing down your neck.”

Smythe pulled one hand out of his crossed arms and pointed a stubby finger at Bolan.

“Marshal Cooper, this is New Orleans and down here we do things a bit differently. We don’t rush things that we shouldn’t rush, and this is one of them. Since Katrina, about all we’ve dealt with is the Feds, and most of ’em couldn’t find their ass with two hands, a flashlight and a map.”

Despite the man’s attitude, Bolan could tell that Smythe was nervous about something. So he simply sighed and nodded.

“It’s your town,” he said. “What do you have in mind?”

“That’s smart, Marshal Cooper. Why don’t we meet around seven over at Mosca’s? I’ll have more for you then.”

“Where might that be?”

“Oh, you’ll have found it by seven. It’s practically famous. Just ask around, and you’ll find it.”

A discreet knock on the door interrupted Smythe, and the secretary stuck her head in the door when he called out, “Enter.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but Chief Lacroix is here to see you,” she said.

A heavily muscled man in a police uniform pushed past her. “Jeezus pleezus, Sally, since when do I need an announcement?”

He stopped as he crossed the threshold and spotted Bolan. “I apologize, Trenton,” he said. “I had no idea you were in a meeting.”

Bolan stood and moved away from the two men. The officer’s name tag revealed that his first name was Duke, and more than anything else, he radiated danger. The soldier wanted room to maneuver in the event he had to make a quick exit. New Orleans had a reputation for being corrupt, especially the police department, and while he wasn’t yet sure who was involved in Rio’s disappearance, he’d wager his favorite Desert Eagle that at least someone from the police department was involved. And Smythe obviously knew more than he was letting on.

The way Lacroix ignored Smythe told Bolan a great deal about who had the upper hand in their relationship. “Who’s this now, Trenton?”

“Matt Cooper,” Smythe said. “A U.S. marshal.”

“Is that so?” Lacroix asked. “What brings you to the DA’s office, Marshal?”

“I’m here investigating the disappearance of another marshal,” Bolan replied evenly. Lacroix was dangerous—Bolan felt that as clearly as he’d feel it from a water moccasin.

“It’s common courtesy for you boys to check in with the locals before you conduct any investigation in someone else’s jurisdiction. I’m sick of you federales thinkin’ you can come in here as pretty as you please without a little common courtesy.”

“Oh, you were next on my list,” Bolan said. “As soon as I was done here.”

“Is that so?” Lacroix said, using the same expression of doubt again. “What’s the name of your missing marshal? I haven’t heard of anything coming our way, and we usually get a flash alert on those kinds of things.”

“He was off-duty,” Smythe offered. “Supposedly, he was down here on vacation, but he’s gone missing.”

“Huh,” the police chief said. “Sounds like you’re wasting your time, Marshal Cooper. He probably hooked up with some sweet thing and is taking a couple of extra days. A few hours with a Cajun woman and a little home brew can make any man forget his duties. You should go on back and tell your superiors to lighten up a little. Boy’ll show back up when he sobers up.”

Lacroix rested his hand suggestively on his gun belt. Just close enough to his sidearm to make a point, but not close enough to give offense.

“Is that an order?” Bolan asked.

“Nah, just a friendly suggestion.”

“I think I’ll hang around for a couple of days. After all, he may need a little assistance finding his way back home. Gentlemen.”

Bolan blatantly turned his back on them and walked out the door.

AFTER BOLAN LEFT, Smythe moved to the phone on the desk.

“What the hell was that?” Lacroix barked.

“It’s not like I invited him, Duke,” he replied. “He just showed up here. I’m calling Mr. Costello right away. I can handle this.”

“You’re an idiot,” Lacroix said. “He’s here looking for Jack Rio. Did he tell you that? I haven’t been informed about a formal investigation into his death, which means they’re either keeping it below the radar or it’s personal for this guy. I’d almost rather it was a covert operation. Personal matters can get messy.”

“Yeah, that’s who he’s looking for,” he said. “What of it? We can take care of him just like we did Rio.”

Lacroix shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Something about that man sets me off. I wouldn’t go underestimating him.”

“You worry too much,” Smythe said, picking up the phone.

“And you don’t worry enough,” the police chief said, moving to the door. “I’m going to look into this.”

“You do that,” Smythe said, dialing the phone number from memory. It rang several times before a smooth voice answered.

“Mr. Costello’s residence,” Victor Salerno said.

“Vic, it’s Trenton.”

“I’ve told you not to call me Vic, Smythe. Now what the hell do you want?” he asked. “Mr. Costello is busy.”

“He’s not too busy for this,” he snapped. “Put him on.”

“You’ve got a big mouth for a little man,” Salerno replied. “Really big.”

“Look, I just had a U.S. marshal in here looking for Rio, and he’s not just going to walk away, so maybe you’d like to stop commenting on my big mouth and put the boss on.”

There was a long silence, then Salerno said, “Hold on, little man.”

There was the sound of muffled words, then, “Mr. Smythe,” Costello said as he came on the line. “I understand we have a small problem.”

“I don’t know how big the problem is,” he said, then filled him in on his meeting with the U.S. marshal.

“And what did you tell him?” Costello asked.

“I told him to meet me at seven at Mosca’s,” Smythe said. In the background, he could hear the faint, painful moaning of someone—likely Jack Rio—being tortured.

“That will do nicely,” Costello said. “I’ll send along a welcoming committee and the problem will be solved. Good day, Mr. Smythe.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you.” He hung up the phone and sat down heavily. Things were going too far, too fast. Sooner or later, they’d all get caught and go to prison or worse.

And he agreed with Duke Lacroix. There was something about that man Cooper that gave him the willies. Smythe sat back down at his computer and went to his online banking. Maybe it was time to start thinking about moving some money.

3

In cities famous for their food, New Orleans stood out. But Mosca’s wasn’t just a well-known restaurant, it was a tradition meant to be celebrated, like Mardis Gras. At least that’s what the waitress at the bistro told Bolan when he stopped in for a cup of coffee to go. While many restaurants were reputed for excellent food and service, only a few were esteemed for their ability to keep secrets. “If you want to talk about taking over the world, you go to Mosca’s,” she said, handing him his coffee.

While Bolan had no interest in taking over the world, a restaurant with that kind of reputation would certainly be online. He’d returned to his hotel room, locked the door and booted up his computer on the tiny desk that was as scarred as he was. Using a secure log-on, Bolan was able to find Mosca’s website, several other mentions online, and, with a little clever manipulation learned from the Farm’s computer genius Aaron Kurtzman, a back door into a set of FBI files on the Matranga Family itself.

According to the files, the Matrangas had been operating in New Orleans since at least the 1880s, but had virtually disappeared since the death of Carlos Marcello in 1993. Marcello had used Mosca’s as the epicenter of his empire, having meets there for everything from personal meals to planning killings. Mosca’s reputation of good food, incredibly discreet service and no questions asked had outlasted even the Mafia.

The location was far enough away from the hustle and bustle of New Orleans itself that it was possible to come and go without being seen by everyone. Bolan pulled up to the simple black-and-white building. It was fairly busy, and the parking lot was almost full. That suited him fine, and he parked on the far edge of the lot and rolled down his window. The smells coming from the restaurant were heavenly despite the heavy humidity in the air, and his stomach grumbled. He’d spent most of the afternoon reading the files he’d stolen from the FBI database and hadn’t taken the time for lunch.

After watching for several minutes and seeing no signs of trouble, Bolan rolled up the window, got out of the car and locked it, then moved across the lot to the front door. He weaved his way through parked cars on the way there, as the lot didn’t boast marked spaces, but was little more than a graveled area where people parked as they wanted.

He opened the door to a wave of smells and muted sounds. According to the file, Mosca’s had renovated after Hurricane Katrina, and one of the improvements had been the installation of cork in the panels surrounding the booths, as well as the floors, to further dampen the noise. It had worked well, since while it was obvious that people were talking, it was almost impossible to discern single words.

There was an older man in a tuxedo shirt behind the bar, polishing glasses, and a middle-aged woman was standing near a podium. “Good evening, sir,” she said. “Welcome to Mosca’s.”

“Thank you,” Bolan said. “I’m meeting someone.” He scanned the restaurant and spotted Smythe seated in a booth near the back. “There he is,” he added.

“Oh,” she said. “Mr. Smythe. He’s expecting you.”

“Thanks again,” he said, turning away from her and crossing the restaurant, while keeping his eyes open for trouble. He didn’t trust Smythe any further than he’d trust Lacroix. His suspicions about extensive corruption had been confirmed in the files he’d read, though nothing solid had been proved in recent years.

Smythe was seated with a beautiful woman, and both of them were drinking large glasses of red wine, presumably waiting for him to show up. They spoke together in low, heated whispers. Smythe finally spotted him and waved him over. The woman looked even more uncomfortable as she put her glass on the table. She really was striking, in a conservative cut, tan business suit, with a white blouse open at the neck and unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of cleavage.

Bolan reached the table. “Mr. Smythe, I don’t recall your mentioning that you were bringing someone else along.”

“I didn’t, and she won’t be staying long anyway,” he said. “Marshal Cooper, this is my sister, Sandra Rousseau. Sandra, this is U.S. Marshal Cooper.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth as she looked everywhere but at him. “I was just leaving.” She tucked her purse under her arm and looked pointedly at her brother.

Bolan cleared his throat and her eyes met his. “I’m thinking that you may have a different definition of pleasure than I do. You look like a rabbit ready to dart.”

“I…I apologize,” she said, stammering. “It’s been a long day for me. We had just ordered, but I really can’t stay.”

“You should eat something,” Smythe said. “You’ll feel better.”

“There’s no need to leave on my account,” Bolan said. “Sit.” It wasn’t quite an order, but it was close.

She relaxed back into her seat. “I’ll just finish my wine, then, and take my food to go.”

Bolan sat down, ensuring that he had a good view of both the front door and the kitchen entrance. “Is there anything that you recommend on the menu?” he asked them.

“Oyster Mosca,” Smythe said.

“I love their Italian crab salad,” Sandra offered. She signaled a server who was passing by and asked for her order to be put in a container to go. Sandra looked anywhere but at Bolan. She fidgeted with her napkin and the pearl drop pendant on the chain around her neck.

Bolan considered their suggestions and discarded both. He ordered the Chicken à la Grande, and a glass of water. Sandra asked how he was enjoying New Orleans, and Bolan said that all he’d seen of it so far was his hotel and the DA’s office.

“He’s not here vacationing, Sandra,” Smythe scolded. “He’s on a case.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “That’s why you wanted to meet with Trenton, then.”

“Yes,” he said. “There’s a missing U.S. marshal who was last known to be here in New Orleans. I’m trying to find him.”

Bolan noted the hard glance that Smythe shot his sister, and she quickly changed the subject to places he might enjoy seeing, should he find the time.

“I was reading a little about the history of this place,” Bolan said.

“Yes, interesting crime families and ruling the world,” Sandra said.

“Something like that,” Bolan said.

“The Matranga Family was very powerful in New Orleans for a long time. There was a rival Family that tried to come in at one point, the Provenzanos, but a battle waged in public brought that to an end and nearly ended the Matrangas as well.”

“Sounds like you know your crime,” Bolan said.

“I know my New Orleans history, Marshal Cooper.”

“So what brought it all to an end?”

“A barrel murder.”

“I’ve heard of a lot of ways to kill someone, but I’ve never heard of them being killed by a barrel,” Bolan said.

“No not killed by, found in. They would kill someone, stuff them in a barrel and leave them on a corner for someone to find as a warning. The investigator that led the investigation into the cases was killed, and it was blamed on Italian immigrants. There were trials, lynch mobs and a lot of innocent people got killed, but Matranga escaped it all and reasserted himself.”

Finally, the server brought her food in a container and served the other dishes. Sandra stood up to leave. Bolan stood as well.

“Thank you for the history lesson.”

“Enjoy your stay, Marshal Cooper.”

“Hold on,” Smythe said. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine to get to my own car, I think. Besides, your food will get cold.”

“It’ll keep,” he said, taking her arm firmly. “I insist.”

“Smythe,” Bolan said, “I’m about out of patience. Sit down and let’s have our chat.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said, already pushing his sister away from the table. “Have a glass of wine from our bottle. It’s just the house merlot, but it’s excellent.”

Bolan watched as Smythe led the woman out through the front door. There was something cagey about the whole thing, but he wasn’t interested in the sister. He wanted to know what Smythe knew. He ignored the wine on the table and asked for the server to refill his water, then turned his attention to the restaurant itself. He’d read that it had been renovated after the hurricane, but it looked like they’d been able to keep much of the original memorabilia intact. Ignoring the food despite his hunger, Bolan looked around the restaurant, scanning the many photos on the walls. The restaurant had the perfect mixture of old-world charm, polished wood and brass, and pictures from both Italy and New Orleans through the years.

Meeting at Mosca’s with its known history was either a very bad joke or Smythe was a complete idiot. He had to have known that it had a loose connection to organized crime at one time, but perhaps he just liked the food. Still, if Rio had asked him about organized crime in New Orleans before he came down here, Bolan would likely have told him not to bother. But since his disappearance, the soldier was beginning to think that Rio’s hunch had been far more accurate than even he’d originally anticipated. If Mosca’s was involved, the FBI would surely know about it, so the pictures on the walls of the old notorious Mafia Family members were just that: pictures of infamous men.

Bolan glanced once more at the front of the restaurant and noticed that the bartender was no longer there, and neither was the hostess. The flow of customers had dried up, too. He walked over to the entrance and tried to look through the small window on the door, but there were only a few parking spaces directly in front of the building. Smythe was taking a long time, but something was clearly going on with his sister. Bolan returned to the table and sat down again.

Finally, after another five minutes had passed, he decided that Smythe was out of time. He got up and headed for the door, but wasn’t even all of the way out, when he saw two large men standing next to his car on the far side of the lot. Smythe was nowhere to be seen, and Bolan made a mental note that the next time he saw him, bad things were going to happen to the little weasel. He moved across the parking lot cautiously, knowing they’d seen him come out, and simply tried to avoid being boxed in from behind.

As he reached his car, he saw that the two men were easily 250 pounds apiece. They wore pressed close-fitting khaki pants and dark T-shirts that revealed their muscles, and several tattoos. The bigger of the two looked like his biceps were going to pop through the material at any second. The other was slightly leaner and bald. Bolan stopped in front of the two men.

“Gentlemen, you’re blocking my car.”

“You’re supposed to come with us,” the bald man announced. “The boss would like to meet you.”

Bolan laughed dryly. “And I’d like to meet him, but at a time of my own choosing. I think I’ll pass for now, but tell him thanks for the invitation.”

The Executioner had dealt with some “Family” members in the past. If they were the real deal, he knew he could have his hands full. He wasn’t about to go with the two thugs, but it was important to use the false niceties anyway, then no one could claim offense later.

“You don’t get it, mister. It wasn’t really a request,” Baldy said. He cracked his knuckles, trying to look menacing in a way that would have been intimidating to anyone who couldn’t fight, but was almost comical to someone who could. “There are ways that we can be convincing,” he added.

He nodded at his partner, and both men moved forward at the same time. Bolan stepped back, dropped low and leg-swept Baldy, which knocked him off balance and into the second man. The big guy stumbled back but kept his feet. The soldier didn’t give him time to regain his balance completely, moving forward to plant a spin kick in the center of the other guy’s chest.

He wanted them alive, since dead men didn’t talk, so he pressed on without weapons. Twisting, Bolan turned back and planted a solid right hook into Baldy’s jaw, keeping him off balance and hurting. The big guy reached forward and grabbed Bolan’s ankle. The Executioner went with it, dropped to his knee on the captured leg and did a low spin, connecting the back of his heel with the man’s face. There was a crunching noise and a muffled scream as the guy’s nose broke and blood flowed freely.

Both legs free again, the soldier stood up in time to catch a glimpse of Smythe moving away from his hiding place at a nearby vehicle. Bolan moved to go after him, but Baldy wasn’t done yet, and hit Bolan from behind with a hammer shot to his back. Stumbling forward, he almost lost his balance in the loose gravel, but managed to catch himself and turn in time to block the follow-up swing.

As the man closed in, Bolan swung both hands wide and clapped him on the ears, trying to rupture his eardrums and forcing him completely off balance. A car peeled out of the lot, and he knew that Smythe was gone.

The second guy was getting slowly to his feet as Baldy staggered around holding his head. Bolan was tired of playing and pulled his Desert Eagle free. “Enough playtime,” he said, pointing it at the man trying to get to his feet. “Don’t move again, or your buddy is dead.”

“Does it look like I’ll miss him?” he snapped, still holding his aching head.

Disappointed that he wasn’t deafened, Bolan shrugged and said, “No.” He took two quick steps forward and buffaloed the guy on the ground, who went out like a light.

“You’re dead,” the bald thug said. “You know that?”

“I can see you’re going to be difficult,” Bolan replied, turning the gun in his direction. “But you’d be amazed how cooperative you’ll become after I put a .44-caliber round in your leg.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.