"Maybe a'shiner's."
"Moonshiner's?"
"Yeah. They don't make the stuff much anymore, but they do their share of hauling booze and cigarettes up north without the tax stamps on it. Make a lot of money."
Bolan pointed to a wire leading from the distributor cap. "The steam from the busted hose finished off what was already a pretty sad spark-plug wire. It'll run, but we've got to get it to a service station."
"We passed Patterson a few miles back.
"What's ahead?"
Shawnee shrugged. "Blackshear, then Waycross."
"Okay, let's drive into Blackshear, get this fixed, then get the hell out of there."
"What if we're spotted?"
Bolan gave her a hard look. "It's a chance we'll have to take. No other choice."
Twenty minutes later they rolled into Blackshear. Bolan spotted a service station with a phone booth at the paved entrance. He told Shawnee to look for a mechanic as he slipped out of the car.
Bolan stood next to the pay phone and played with the coin-return button. As soon as the phone rang he snatched it up.
"Yeah?"
"Can't a guy even go to the damn john without getting beeped?" Brognola's voice was gruff, but Bolan could hear the relief in it. "So, I guess you're still alive."
"Most of us." He explained what had happened.
"That's it?" Brognola asked, when Bolan finished speaking. "All this over some dumpy address in Miami?"
"Apparently."
"How do you want to proceed?"
"Well, right now I have to assume both Zavlin and Demoines are after us, so we're trying to sneak past them into Florida."
"Maybe I should just send a squad to that address and arrest everyone there."
Bolan thought about it. "I don't think so. We can't be certain that what we need to know is there until we investigate. But even more important, can you guarantee no security leak to the KGB from your end?"
Brognola hesitated. When he answered his voice was low. "No, I can't."
"Then let Shawnee and me poke around first, see what we can find out. I'll call you afterward."
"I could meet you there." There it was again, that hopeful tone, ready for action.
"I've never seen anyone so anxious to get shot at."
Brognola chuckled. "Things aren't the same without Stony Man Farm. I feel a million miles away from the action now."
"Sometimes I wish I could say the same."
Brognola snorted, not buying that. "Okay, guy, get back to the business of saving the world, huh?"
"Sure, pal, as soon as the mechanic over there finishes working on the car."
"Then what?"
"Then we drive in to Waycross, which is a big enough town that I can switch cars."
"Okay. Keep in touch."
"Sure thing," Bolan said as he hung up.
Shawnee was just coming out of the rest room as he walked over to the service station.
"Can your phone pal help us?"
"Not much. Not yet."
She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We can handle it."
"Like your attitude."
Bolan walked over to the mechanic, who was just returning to the Nova after stopping to pump gas into a dusty pickup truck. "How much longer?"
"Not much," the mechanic said. It was hard to determine his age because of the grease on his face, but Bolan figured him to be around fifty. He was stick-thin and chewed tobacco, occasionally pausing to spit some brown juice into the dirt.
"Time enough for us to grab a bite?"
The mechanic looked up at Bolan and Shawnee, then back into the engine. "Suit yourself."
Shawnee took an angry step toward the man.
"Listen here, buster," she said, her drawl becoming more pronounced the deeper into the South they drove. "We gotta get to my daddy's funeral over in Needmore in two hours. My mama needs us there to help out. Now me and Tucker here been on the road all day and we just...." Tears started to puddle in her eyes. "We just gotta make it in time to see daddy once more."
The mechanic stopped chewing his tobacco, looked Shawnee over.
"Thirty minutes, gal. Meantime you can catch a bite down the street at Rhonda's Cafe. Food ain't good, but it's hot and cheap."
Bolan placed a comforting arm around Shawnee and led her away. "Thanks," he said to the mechanic.
Shawnee sobbed quietly, glanced up, winked and returned to her sobbing.
In the cafe she ordered vegetable soup and corn bread. Then she ate part of Bolan's chicken-fried steak, mopping up his gravy with her corn bread.
"Help yourself," Bolan teased, spreading the map out on the counter. "Any suggestions?"
"We could take 23 down to Jacksonville. Or 84 to 441 and cross over near the Suwannee River."
"Pretty public either way. What about here?"
She shook her head adamantly. "No way. We don't want to even go near the Okefenokee. Anything east of Jones Creek or west of Toms Creek is swamp, infested with 'gators. We get caught in there we'd be better off dropping in on Clip Demoines and handing him a new chain saw."
"Okay. We'll go through Jacksonville, try to get lost in the traffic."
They paid, left a tip and went back to the service station. The mechanic was adding a quart of oil to a station wagon. Bolan checked the engine, paid him and he and Shawnee drove away.
20
They were still a few miles from Waycross when Bolan spotted the dusty pickup truck in his rearview mirror. "Get the guns out," he calmly told Shawnee.
She reached under the seat, dislodged the two S&W .357's and placed them both in her lap. She didn't look around. "You sure?"
"He's been following us since the service station. Same beat-up truck that stopped for gas there."
"Aren't many good roads around here. Maybe he's just going in the same direction."
"Maybe." Bolan nodded. "But he slows down when I do and speeds up when I do. And those rifles in his rack probably aren't for show."
"What's he waiting for?"
"I suspect for whoever he called ahead to. My guess is there's a car or truck full of armed good ole boys on their way toward us right now."
Shawnee sighed. "Ain't we ever going to be alone without bullets nipping at our butts?"
"Maybe. But not this time." He swerved the car onto the side of the road, purposely churning up a thick cloud of dust behind him. He spotted a side road about half a mile ahead. "Any idea where that leads?"
"Nope. But we're pretty close to swampland."
Bolan pointed to the Jeep speeding down the highway toward them. Rifles started to appear in the three passengers' hands. They were aiming.
Shots clapped and the hood was pockmarked with two holes. Steam seeped up through one of the holes.
"Great!" Bolan said, wheeling the car onto the dirt road. The pickup and Jeep were right behind him, the dust obscuring their vision enough to throw their shots off.
Bolan stomped on the gas pedal and the Nova rocketed down the road, bouncing from side to side.
He didn't know where the road was going, except that it was away from the men with guns. He and Shawnee didn't try to return fire. The way the car was rocking, shooting would be a waste of ammunition.
"I don't like the way that engine sounds, Mack," Shawnee said, referring to the clanking and pinging. More steam rose from the bullet holes in the hood.
But the car still had life, and Bolan squeezed it for all it was worth, whipping around curves and urging the screaming engine even faster. A sign on a wooden gate ordered all vehicles to stop and turn around, dangerous marshlands ahead.
"Hell," Shawnee said, as they busted through the gate, sending splintered wood somersaulting. "This is the goddamned Okefenokee Swamp, Mack."
"So it is," he said, racing down the road, the pickup and Jeep still close behind. A couple of miles later, the road gave out to grass, then mud. By the time they reached the first sandy ridge, the car sputtered and died.
Gunfire hailed down on them as they rolled out of the car and into the grassy marsh.