disbelief.
"Who are these guys anyway?" the other soldier asked.
Hunter stood up and shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said, turning quickly and heading back for Peg's flat. "But I've got to find out . . ."
The old sea captain was barely conscious when Hunter returned.
He bent over the old man, making him as comfortable as possible. Off in the distance lie heard the wail of a siren approaching. He was sure it was the New Orleans military police. They would be able to get Pegg to the hospital.
"Who were they?" Hunter asked the old man, somewhat stemming the flow of blood from his jaw with his jacket. "Who knew you were here besides Jones?"
Pegg opened his eyes slightly. The gleam was still there. "They knew!" he growled. "They . . . they must have tracked me down . . . The bastards wouldn't even let me finish my story ... I never . . . even got to ... the best part . . ."
"Who were they, damnit?" Hunter said with exasperation. It seemed like Pegg was more upset over having not finished his yarn than by being shot in the jaw.
"The first cousins . . ." Pegg managed to say, before he slipped into unconsciousness. "The bastards that are running the Canal ..."
Hunter rode in the back of the police van as it whisked Pegg off to the hospital.
The old man was slipping in and out of consciousness, but Hunter knew it was best that he didn't press him for details of the would-be assassins. The fact that both men had chosen suicide over capture was chilling enough.
Four hours later, Pegg was patched up-his fractured jaw was wired and he was stitched from his ear to his chin. The military doctors assured Hunter that the old buck would probably make it, though the recovery process would be a lengthy one, due to Peg's age. Hunter told the medics to spare no expense in treating Pegg, then the pilot visited the man's room.
Pegg couldn't speak, but he weakly gave Hunter a thumb's up sign.
Leaning over the man's bed, Hunter told him: "We'll get the people responsible for this . . ."
Peg's eyes started to water as he clasped Hunter in a handshake. Just then, a gorgeous middle-aged nurse walked in and announced that it was time for Pegg to get some rest. Pegg took one look at the nurse, then managed a slight smile through the tangle of wires around his mouth.
Hunter gave him a wink and whispered to him in a mock scolding voice: "Behave yourself . . ."
Chapter 5
The sun was just starting to come up when Hunter left the hospital.
It had been dark and somewhat confusing when he rode into the place hours before in the back of the police van, so the pilot was somewhat surprised to find the hospital was so close to the city's docks. Now, as he walked out near the Toulouse Street Wharf, he could smell the tantalizing aroma of New Orleans waking up. There was no shortage of eateries in the area, and the air was a mixture of flapjacks, eggs on a grill, coffee and biscuits.
He knew he had to report to Jones as quickly as possible. But, judging by the hectic night he'd just put in, he decided to allow himself some chow before heading back to the New Orleans airport to retrieve his F-16.
But as with so many of the things in his life, it was if he was guided by some invisible hand to the cafe he chose to breakfast in. It was a small joint that hung out over the water, attached to the edge of an active pier. Inside there were only a half dozen window-side tables and a counter with ten or so stools.
Hunter walked in and took a small window table within leaping distance of the door, hanging up his hat and M-16 in the process.
A pretty black waitress appeared, took his order for coffee and a plate of flapjacks and home fries, then disappeared
back into the small kitchen. Hunter quickly surveyed the other clientele - two hookers drinking tea at the far end of the counter, three sailors sobering up at the far table, plus a couple of militiamen nearby -and decided everyone was generally harmless.
His meal arrived quickly and he immediately dug
"Who are these guys anyway?" the other soldier asked.
Hunter stood up and shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said, turning quickly and heading back for Peg's flat. "But I've got to find out . . ."
The old sea captain was barely conscious when Hunter returned.
He bent over the old man, making him as comfortable as possible. Off in the distance lie heard the wail of a siren approaching. He was sure it was the New Orleans military police. They would be able to get Pegg to the hospital.
"Who were they?" Hunter asked the old man, somewhat stemming the flow of blood from his jaw with his jacket. "Who knew you were here besides Jones?"
Pegg opened his eyes slightly. The gleam was still there. "They knew!" he growled. "They . . . they must have tracked me down . . . The bastards wouldn't even let me finish my story ... I never . . . even got to ... the best part . . ."
"Who were they, damnit?" Hunter said with exasperation. It seemed like Pegg was more upset over having not finished his yarn than by being shot in the jaw.
"The first cousins . . ." Pegg managed to say, before he slipped into unconsciousness. "The bastards that are running the Canal ..."
Hunter rode in the back of the police van as it whisked Pegg off to the hospital.
The old man was slipping in and out of consciousness, but Hunter knew it was best that he didn't press him for details of the would-be assassins. The fact that both men had chosen suicide over capture was chilling enough.
Four hours later, Pegg was patched up-his fractured jaw was wired and he was stitched from his ear to his chin. The military doctors assured Hunter that the old buck would probably make it, though the recovery process would be a lengthy one, due to Peg's age. Hunter told the medics to spare no expense in treating Pegg, then the pilot visited the man's room.
Pegg couldn't speak, but he weakly gave Hunter a thumb's up sign.
Leaning over the man's bed, Hunter told him: "We'll get the people responsible for this . . ."
Peg's eyes started to water as he clasped Hunter in a handshake. Just then, a gorgeous middle-aged nurse walked in and announced that it was time for Pegg to get some rest. Pegg took one look at the nurse, then managed a slight smile through the tangle of wires around his mouth.
Hunter gave him a wink and whispered to him in a mock scolding voice: "Behave yourself . . ."
Chapter 5
The sun was just starting to come up when Hunter left the hospital.
It had been dark and somewhat confusing when he rode into the place hours before in the back of the police van, so the pilot was somewhat surprised to find the hospital was so close to the city's docks. Now, as he walked out near the Toulouse Street Wharf, he could smell the tantalizing aroma of New Orleans waking up. There was no shortage of eateries in the area, and the air was a mixture of flapjacks, eggs on a grill, coffee and biscuits.
He knew he had to report to Jones as quickly as possible. But, judging by the hectic night he'd just put in, he decided to allow himself some chow before heading back to the New Orleans airport to retrieve his F-16.
But as with so many of the things in his life, it was if he was guided by some invisible hand to the cafe he chose to breakfast in. It was a small joint that hung out over the water, attached to the edge of an active pier. Inside there were only a half dozen window-side tables and a counter with ten or so stools.
Hunter walked in and took a small window table within leaping distance of the door, hanging up his hat and M-16 in the process.
A pretty black waitress appeared, took his order for coffee and a plate of flapjacks and home fries, then disappeared
back into the small kitchen. Hunter quickly surveyed the other clientele - two hookers drinking tea at the far end of the counter, three sailors sobering up at the far table, plus a couple of militiamen nearby -and decided everyone was generally harmless.
His meal arrived quickly and he immediately dug
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