The last two members of the team stood out. One was the guide, a wiry swamp rat with a patch over the empty socket where his left eye used to be and a two-day growth of beard. Decked out in rumpled Army-surplus fatigue pants, he stood apart and waited for the others to complete their socializing. Every now and then he spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into the water, wiping his lips with his sleeve.
Then there was Maynard Grymsdyke, in denim shirt and jeans, a jacket he would have to shed once daylight started heating up the swamp and a pair of brand-new hiking boots that hurt his feet. It seemed impossible that he could already have blisters, but his heels were killing him, and he had only walked a few steps, first from his apartment to the limo, then to the dock.
It was damn chilly in the predawn darkness. The cold mist rolling off the bayou dampened Maynard's spirits-as if he needed any help in that department. He was sleepy, cold and generally miserable, revolted by the prospect of the next two days with this miserable company.
The tallest of Breen's guests was Marshall Dillon. "No relation," he was quick to tell each new acquaintance before miming a fast draw for some nonexistent movie camera. Dillon was the founder, president and CEO of Petro-Gas Conglomerates, which dominated oil and natural gas leases from Port Arthur, Texas, to Biloxi, Mississippi. At fifty-six, Dillon had indulged himself along life's highway, and his six-foot-four frame wasn't quite tall enough to stretch three hundred pounds and make it look like muscle. When the oilman laughed he had a tendency to spray saliva, but he was so filthy rich that no one seemed to mind... at least, until his back was turned and he was out of earshot.
Hubert Murphy was a huge name in the Southern banking world, but reputation didn't reflect size. A veritable dwarf to Dillon's giant, Murphy might have been five-three in cowboy boots, and everything about him seemed a trifle underweight, except the small paunch that he had developed from good living and a lack of daily exercise. Murphy wore steel-rimmed bifocals that made his eyes appear to shrink or bulge each time he moved his head. His politics, well known to Maynard Grymsdyke, placed him somewhere to the right of Heinrich Himnnler when it came to taxes and social welfare.
The last of Breen's supporters to accept his weekend invitation was a portly man of average size named Victor Charles. He made his home in Baton Rouge, where he could keep an eye on the state government from day to day, and his most striking feature was a total lack of striking features. Grymsdyke guessed that Victor Charles was closer to the fifty mark than forty, but he could as easily have pegged the guess at thirty-five or sixty. Charles had that kind of face, ageless and bland, the next best thing to nondescript, but there was nothing commonplace about his bank accounts. His first few million had been made in cotton, then he branched out into big-time shrimping in the Gulf. A year or two back his politics became more extreme, to the ongoing concern of his allies. When shrimp prices plummeted forty percent due to a surge in overseas imports of cheap farm-raised shrimp, Charles went on a rampage. Almost single-handedly he funded a slew of illegal-dumping lawsuits against several Asian governments, which made him a hero to scores of bankrupt bayou shrimpers. Truth was, he cared a lot less about their livelihood than about getting even with the foreigners who kept interfering with his country.
Grymsdyke wouldn't have chosen these three as companions for a two-day bayou killing spree, but he was wise enough to know that Breen's safari had no more to do with hunting than it did with acid rain or women's rights. Elmo was bent on strengthening his bonds with three men who could help him buy the statehouse in November, making sure they understood that he was on their side. Before the hunting trip was over, Grymsdyke had no doubt that new deals would be struck, with cash exchanged for promises that Breen could only keep if he was governor. It was the way things worked in politics, on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line, and Grymsdyke had no personal objections to the game.
Their shifty-looking guide, answering to Jethro, no last name, expelled another stream of murky fluid from between pursed lips and checked the eastern sky, where gray dawn had begun to show itself.
"We best be going," he said, and moved off toward the cabin cruiser they had rented.
Sweet Sixteen was stenciled on the stern, but Maynard Grymsdyke would have bet that twenty years or more had passed since this tub had its sixteenth birthday party. It was still afloat, and that was something, but he was relieved that they wouldn't be putting out to sea, where sudden squalls blew up from nowhere and the depths were full of sharks. If Sweet Sixteen went down, he'd find himself in quiet, brackish water filled with alligators, water moccasins and leeches.
What a break.
"You ready, Maynard?" Elmo asked him, putting on a crooked smile he never showed the TV cameras.
"Yes, sir," said Grymsdyke. Adding to himself, As ready as I'll ever be.
LUKE SEVERIN HAD BRIEFED his team while they were checking out their hardware, stripping automatic weapons down and reassembling them with practiced ease, loading the magazines, a couple of them sharpening long knives for close-up work. They heard him without seeming to, absorbed the sparse details and gave them back almost verbatim when he quizzed them.
The boss had filled him in on how important this job was, both parts of it. First up, they were supposed to find four people-one of them a rat who had rolled over for the Feds and sent Armand to prison. They were somewhere in bayou country southwest of Westwego. Once those four had been taken care of, Severin's crew was ordered to proceed and take out Leon Grosvenor.
It was the second part that troubled Luke the most. If anyone had asked, he would have said that he was no more superstitious than his fellow Cajuns, less so than his daddy or his granddaddy before him. Lounging in a comfy booth at Cooter's, in the Quarter, sipping bourbon on the rocks, Luke might have said that he didn't believe in loups-garous. It was another story, though, when you were out in the bayou, shaded from the sun by looming trees and veils of Spanish moss, the smell of death and rot filling your nostrils.
In the bayou country, Luke may well have said that anything was possible. But he would never have admitted he was scared.
They had sufficient firepower to do the job, God knew. Two M-16s, three Uzis and a 12-gauge shotgun with extended magazine that held nine rounds. In addition to the long guns, each man had at least one pistol. Florus carried twin .45s in double shoulder holsters. Little Remy set the record for their hunting party, with a Glock slung underneath one arm, a sleek Beretta on his right hip and a Colt .380 Mustang tucked into his boot.
No silver bullets, but Luke didn't think they would need any. Put enough rounds into some guy-any guy-and he'd go down, werewolf or not.
"Don't like this much," Jesper said, moving up beside him at the cabin cruiser's starboard rail. They had been chugging over stagnant water for the best part of an hour, scenery scarcely altered by the passage of their boat or time. For all Luke knew, they had been traveling in endless circles.
"What's to like?" he asked Jesper. "We do a job, go on home, get paid."
"I reckon you know exactly what I'm talkin' about," Jesper replied.
"Leon?"
Jesper brought up one hand to cross himself, an awkward gesture that revealed a lack of practice during recent years. "Damn foolish sendin' us to kill ol' Leon. How we supposed to kill a loup-garou?"
"First thing," Luke said, "you best forget them fairy stories. Keep your powder dry and hit what you be aiming at."
Jesper wasn't convinced. "My grandpa try to kill a loup-garou one time, before I was born. Got right up close and let him have both barrels. Damn thing mauled him anyhow, got clean away. Grandpa weren't good for much of nothing after that."
Luke was almighty tempted to suggest that Jesper's grandfather had belted too much moonshine, maybe sneaked up on a panther in the swamp and missed his shot before the damn thing turned on him, but he wasn't about to start an argument with Jesper when he needed every man behind him, giving 110 percent.
"Do like I told you," Luke instructed. "When we got
him, take good aim and just keep shootin' till he don't get up no more. That's all you gotta do."
"I surely hope you right."
I hope so, too, Luke thought.
A NERVOUS CAJUN BROUGHT the word to Leon shortly after noon. The bitch was first to smell him coming, and she was in no mood to take prisoners, but Leon warned her off and listened to the man. The Cajun got his regular twenty dollars and left unmolested-he was the closest thing Leon had to a telephone and Leon needed him.
Four people were coming for him, looking for him on his own home ground. One of them was the witness he had failed to kill in two attempts. The sawed-off Chinaman was with him, and the Gypsy woman. Plus another man, the one who had pursued him like a demon through the streets of the Quarter and killed more of his dogs.
It seemed impossible to Leon that the outsiders would find his lair. That meant he would be forced to scour the swamp himself and run them down, but that was fine.
He needed to do something, and damn quick, before the surviving members of his pack began to think he was completely ineffectual. Their trust had already been shaken, and one of the older males was casting little sidelong glances back and forth, between the bitch and Leon, trying to decide if it was time to make a challenge to be leader of the pack.
Just try it, Leon thought. He wasn't done yet, no matter how it looked.
But he was getting there. Another failure like the one on Tchoupitoulas Street, and he would have no pack to lead. It wouldn't even matter if they trusted him at that point, since they'd all be dead.
He missed his brothers who had died on the abortive mission to Desire House. He would find the ones responsible and punish them, share their destruction with the pack.
But not share too much. He wanted the pack to see him bring down the hunters. A show of force such as that would put to rest any ambitions the other males had to take him down and assume the leadership of the pack.
He was top dog around here, and he was going to prove it.
He was looking forward to taking out the white hunter, but especially the little Oriental.
It had been years since Leon ate Chinese.
Chapter 15
Darkness didn't descend upon the bayou country by degrees, but rather closed in like massive velvet curtains drawn across the sky. If you were sailing open water, stars were sometimes visible between the treetops. But on what passed for dry land in the swamp, the canopy blocked any but the most persistent moonbeams, cloaking all in blackness more akin to midnight at the bottom of a coal mine than to any forest glade. A campfire drove back some of the shadows, but at the same time attracted swarms of insects.
Remo was sitting back from the circle of the fire, leaving Jean Cuvier to curse and swat mosquitoes as they settled on his skin. When the Cajun noticed that none of the insects were pestering Remo he tried sitting back from the fire, too. It didn't make a difference.
"They just don't like how I taste, I guess," Remo said.
Chiun had opted to remain aboard the cabin cruiser, tethered to a mangrove root some fifty yards downstream. His explanation-that a night of sleeping on the sodden ground was "detrimental to these ancient bones"-fooled Remo not at all. He knew about the Casio handheld TV the Korean carried, and decided from the angry tone of Chiun's voice, audible across the water, that reception in the swamp was nothing to write home about.
He heard Aurelia coming up behind him, and was pleased to note that she avoided making excess noise. An average man wouldn't have heard her footsteps on the spongy ground and would have been surprised.
"Watch out for snakes," he said before she had a chance to speak.
"I've never been afraid of animals," she told him. "Want some company?"
"Suits me."
She stood beside him, touching-close, and he could smell her in the darkness. Not perfume-she hadn't worn any since they had met-but an enticing, healthy woman smell. He wondered if a loup-garou could track her by that scent alone, or if he needed footprints for a guide.
"You're not afraid, either," she said.
"Not yet."
"Do you believe we'll find him?"
"One way or another," Remo said. "He may find us. It all comes out the same."
"You're pretty confident." Her own voice seemed to harbor doubt.
"We beat him once," he said. "He lost some of his little pets last time."
"I have been wondering," Aurelia said, "how much of that was luck, and how much skill."
He didn't answer her. The silence stretched between them for a while, before the Gypsy spoke again.
"This is a little strange," she said, "don't you agree?"
"Which part? The werewolf, or his working for the Cajun mafia?"
"Our hunting him like this," she said. "I mean, we really don't know where we're going, do we? All he has to do is lie back like a spider, waiting for us. Make a move when it's to his advantage, and he has us where he wants us."
"That's assuming he's still here, or ever was," said Remo.
"Oh, he's here, all right." There was a tremor in Aurelia's voice. "I feel him. Not on top of us, just yet, but getting near."
"You could have stayed back in New Orleans," he reminded her, "or gone to find your people."
"And what good would that do? If he wants me, there's no place for me to hide. It's cost my family too much already."
Remo said nothing.
"You blame yourself for that?"
He looked at her. In the blackness of the night his pupils dilated to an extraordinary degree, allowing him to see with catlike clarity where the Romany woman could only see his shadow. She thought the darkness hid her expression, and so allowed her interest, and her simmering passion for him to show on her face.
"You think," she continued, "that by coming to me, you led the loup-garou to me. Which makes you responsible for the deaths."
Remo shook his head. "I could have stopped this long before that, and I didn't. That's why I'm responsible for your dead."
She was surprised. "You could have stopped the wolf man before this?"
"I could have stopped the woman who made him into what he is. She was a scientist. She tampered with genetics. She somehow put animal DNA in the blender and came up with a secret potion to turn people into whatever she wanted them to be."
The Romany woman considered this for a moment. "You mock me," she asked gently, "when you try to tell me that this thing of magic and spirit is instead just a freak of science."
"Hey, I was being the victim here, not you. Remember, poor, guilty Remo?"
She was waiting for an answer.
"I'm not mocking you, Aurelia. What I told you is true. I failed to stop this woman twice before. She is what made Leon Grosvenor into an honest-to-God werewolf. But that is not to say I don't believe what you say. That you can feel his evil. That you can feel his presence approaching us. I've seen all kinds of creepy junk hanging out with the wacky old Korean."
In the distance, in a voice too soft for Aurelia to hear, Chiun said, "I heard that!"
Remo heard something else far away, too. Aurelia started to speak, and he shushed her with a finger pressed against her lips.
The sound that reached his ears stood out from the noises he had grown accustomed to since nightfall in the swamp. Aside from the unearthly call of birds, the whir of bats in flight, the splashing sounds of turtles, leaping fish or gliding alligators, there was...something else.
When Remo spoke again, it was a whisper. "Are you any good at climbing trees?"
She answered him in kind. "I do all right. What is it?"
"We've got company," he said. From the sound of things, the camp was practically surrounded.
"Leon?" There was something close to panic in Aurelia's voice, although she tried to hide it.
"We'll see," he said, and jerked a thumb in the direction of the nearest sturdy tree. "Just get upstairs, and don't come down until I call you or the sun comes up and you can see to get away, whichever happens first."
&nb
sp; Aurelia abruptly experienced levitation. It took her a moment to realize that it was Remo lifting her by the waist as if she were weightless, and she found herself eye-to-eye with a branch that had been above her head.
"Where are you going?" she whispered as she scrambled onto the cypress branch.
"I'm putting out the welcome mat," Remo said.
THE PACK HAD a trail now, picked up at the water's edge, almost by accident, and followed over marshy ground. Leon could thank the bitch for taking them directly to the camp.
He used hand signs to send the bitch and her brothers on their separate ways, encircling the campsite. They had the critical advantage of surprise.
Leon hadn't gone hunting in this sector of the swamp for months, and he reflected that the normals had to have taken bad advice if they were searching for him here. It was a fluke that he had found them when they were so far off track, a touch of destiny perhaps, a signal that his run of miserable luck had changed.
Leon didn't care if they had guns, grenades and body armor. They were his, and they couldn't escape him. They had made one fatal error too many, coming to his own backyard in search of trouble, and he meant to help them find it one last time.
The crackling fire was closer now. His first sight of the men was a lone shadow figure, squatting near the fire, hands stretched out toward the flames for warmth.
The others should be in their places now, he thought, and started moving in a more direct line toward the fire.
Pausing in the midnight shadows of the tree line, less than twenty paces from the fire that had been kindled in a forest clearing, Leon threw his head back, breathing in the scent of his intended prey, mouth watering.
The wild, bone-chilling howl erupted from his throat, almost without a conscious thought. It warped and warbled through the tall dark trees and brought the startled humans lurching to their feet. Too late.
Leon was snarling like a wild thing as he broke from cover, running in a crouch, and charged the fire.
CHIUN HAD EMERGED from the boat of his own accord, sensing the presence in the woods almost in the same instant as Remo. A moment later Remo heard the first gunshot echo from the cabin cruiser downstream and he glanced back just in time to see a rag-doll figure vaulting backward through the air, head over heels, to strike the nearest mangrove like a sack of dirty laundry and slide down the trunk to vanish underwater with a muffled splash.
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