Down at the Twist and Shout Ch. 05

This is the fifth and final part of this story, serious illness and family crises' have meant this story has had to take a long hiatus while things got back to normal, and I apologise for the long wait, I hope you think it was worth it!

As always, I caution you, this is just a story, set in my world, not the real one, although they do overlap occasionally, so please just read, and enjoy, hopefully as much as I did writing this.

BB1958

*****

The battered old truck slowed to a halt, suspension squeaking and bouncing over the uneven trail.

"Why we stopping, Johnny?" yawned Justine, shaken awake by the shuddering as the vehicle traversed the flattened flood debris, old and new, scattered thickly all over the trail, or half-buried in mud by recent storms and localized flooding.

"Gals've come to halt; looks like we on foot from here, Sugar-Pie; you-all feelin' like a li'l hike, Minou? Don' look me like that; y'all knew we not gonna be getting' down to where we goin' on no open roads, why you think I got you all that trail-gear? Come on, Minou, there's city-folk willin' to pay small fortune fo' hikin' trail like this, you ever stop to think that?"

Justine grinned and hefted her backpack from between her feet.

"Alright, alright, I get it, time to hit the woods, I hear you loud and clear, Daniel Boone, let's go break a trail! Just lemme get changed first, huh?"

Johnny wandered over to have a few words with Odélie and Mélette as they unloaded their packs and camp-gear from the bed of the nondescript old farm truck they'd borrowed from Lubin. Odélie flashed him a quick grin as she finished stuffing gear into her pack and shrugged on a military surplus tactical vest with a myriad of oddly-shaped pockets.

"You reckon she gon' be OK trekkin' through to the lake, Li'l Jean? I know she a spunky gal an' all, an' she smart, but it ain't easy coming up from this way, lot o' wild country to git through, she city gal, an' she prolly gon' be stretched, you reckon she up to it?"

Johnny spun his little cousin around and settled her pack square across her shoulders.

"Baby-girl, that li'l gal work hard, twelve hour nights, six, se'bm night a week, when the goin' get tough, damn' if'n she don' jes' keep right on goin'; she do that over a year, I reckon she plenty tough enough where it needed. I just wisht I was tough as her; she gon' surprise us all, I guarantee you that. There, that comfortable now?"

Mélette looked up from her packing and grinned, then gave a wolf-whistle. Johnny spun around, and smiled broadly at Justine dressed in a tight cut-off white T-shirt, with a plaid shirt over it with the sleeves rolled up and the front knotted just under her breasts, and a pair of the shortest, tightest Daisy Dukes he'd ever seen, making her long, creamy legs look even longer. Even with her trail boots and folded tube socks, she looked knock-down, drag out gorgeous, like an old-school Playboy centrefold, or what those California dudes imagined hot country girls looked like. Her long black hair, tied in sexy pigtails just added to the picture of hotly alluring young femininity.

"Will this do, kind sir?" she grinned, posing artlessly for him, making him grin even wider.

"Minou, there ain't nothin' I want to do right now 'cept mebbe sit here an' jes' look at you, but you cain't go trekkin' this country dressed like that; come dusk, maringouin's (mosquitoes) gon' eat you alive 'fore you gone ten feet! Them things the Louisiana state bird, they bigger'n buzzards out here, you-all surely don' want them things on you! I 'preciate the show an' all, but you better go put them Dockers on, you gon' thank me later."

Justine grinned cheekily.

"I know, Johnny-Bear, I just wanted to show you these just once before I have to put on those hot old things!"

Johnny smiled as he nodded.

"If I had the time..! We got a long way to go, honey; we pretty much retracin' our steps, Lubin and Audhémar reckoned we should be decoyin' them fellers on into the Atchafalaya, not South into Ghost Lake; up inta th' Atchafalaya the way they 'spectin' us to run, so we ain't gonna dis'point them none. We gonna pick up boat an' supplies the gals got stashed an' head up 'long the waterways, past Baton Rouge an' west into the Atchafalaya reserve, comin' in from the west, jus' north o' the Basin Bridge;."

Justine looked puzzled, so Johnny explained the change in direction.

"I reckon they gon' be watchin' fo'us up along Whiskey Bay Pilot Channel, that the quickest way river traffic get up the Atchafalaya, so we gon' go round them an' cross the river over to the north bank, that where noncle Lubin, Audhémar, an' Tante Amice's boys, few frien's waitin' for us an' loaded for b'ar; it's a long way, so move it along, sugar-pie, we got places to be!"

Justine looked concerned.

"Johnny, won't they be watching all the main routes into the Atchafalaya? Noncle Lubin said that Sheriff Broussard's going to let the Orleans Sheriff's office know where we're going, that means those people will know right away, what if...?"

Johnny shook his head reassuringly, grinning at how easily she'd slipped into calling Lubin 'noncle'.

"We gon' use the Atchfalaya river, that's true, but the river splits at Bayou Chene, we take the left branch, Bayou Chene itself, goin' west an' north, it's longer, we gon' be goin' agin the current, an' it go through some pretty wild country, you got to be local to know your way 'round there to get anywhere; ain't no city-boy gonna be doin' no trackin' through that, an' if me 'n the gals don't see them comin' out there then we deserve to get caught. The plan is: we make sure they know which way we goin', then we make sure they lose us out here, so if they smart, they go to plan b: get to where they know we goin', an' jump us there."

Johnny grinned and rubbed his hands through his increasingly shaggy hair.

"An' that when they plan B turn into my plan A, an' me an' the family an' friends we got waitin' for them idjits to show their hand gon' have us a Twist 'n' Shout like th' Isle never seen before; I reckon with what we got waitin' fer them, we make them fellers jump an' holler! They think they all that; all I c'n say is, they ain't seen cousin Jean-Noël all het-up yet!"

Justine grinned and spun on her heel, heading back to change into something more suitable, while Johnny stared hungrily at her tight little bubble-butt twinkling enticingly at him under those skin-tight little jeans shorts. She reappeared a few minutes later with a new pair of khaki cotton Dockers tucked into her boot tops, looking like a movie star playing a jungle explorer; even the girls smiled and winked at her as she posed for her man.

"This do, you picky man, you?" she giggled, arms akimbo, her hip thrust out in an overdone catwalk pose. Johnny clutched his chest and pretended to swoon dead away, making her giggle again.

"Y'all look like the reason the war ended early, honey-chile! Just let me get some o' this on your skin 'fore we set out, Minou, 'skeeters, chiggers, an' no-see-um's really hate this stuff, jes' take that shirt off fo' minute.

Johnny sprayed something on and under her arms, in her pits and all the way up to her shoulders, between her shoulder blades, and coated her hands, neck and upper chest, down the neck of her t-shirt, and puddled some in his hands and rubbed it into her face and inside and behind her ears.

"What is it Johnny-Bear, it smells lovely?" she asked and Johnny held up the bottle.

"Repel; lemon an' eucalyptus, 'skeeters really hate this, they gon' keep away; it do smell nice though; you-all smell like one o' Maw-Maw Lucianne's lemon cough drops, but don't try lickin' it, it taste a whole heap different what it smell like!"

Johnny tossed the spray bottle over to Odélie so she could do Mélette, hitched up his pack, and pointed west.

"We goin' that way, not much open water to cross that way, an' then we c'n strike north an' get up to Lake Palourde; the gal's got two pirogues stashed there, we cross the lake an' change over to th' boat gals got docked an' waitin' at the Atchafalaya river inlet north-west side o' the lake."

Justine looked puzzled, so Johnny explained.

"Pirogue flat-bottomed boat, fine for polin' through swamps or across lakes where it don't have much of a main current to fight agin, but ain't no pirogue gonna make it far on the Bayou Chene this time o' year, not with all the rain we bin havin', need a boat with a keel for that, which is why we gonna change over to the gal's charter-boat. Even if we had airboat it couldn't get up there, airboat only good for swamps an' flat water, current on Bayou Chene kinda unpredictable right now with the amount o' water comin' down from higher up the watershed, that why we need something' little more robust. Way we are, I reckon it take us mebbe eight days to get to Lake Palourde, an' mebbe three, four days to get up Bayou Chene 'gainst the current, so mebbe twelve days all told, so when you ready...?"

"Sure thing, Johnny-Bear. What about the trucks, are we just gonna leave them here?"

Johnny shook his head.

"Lubin know which way we goin', Minou, folks 'roun' here know who they b'long to; Lubin mos' likely get someone to come on down to collect 'em and take 'em back tomorrow or next day, don' pay them no mind. Now, let's get movin', we got a lot o' ground to cover an' not much time."

*

Max Zeigler stared at the GPS locator and scratched his face, by now a mass of red and swollen mosquito bites.

"Problem, Ziggy?" asked his partner, Roberto Carvalho, who hadn't seemed to be troubled by the biting insects one little bit.

Zeigler hitched up his belt and adjusted the SUNVP Molle Modular Tactical Holster strapped to his right thigh, running his thumb over the Glock 22 clipped in there as though checking it was still there. He was dressed in a weird array of military surplus camo gear, including an improvised body-armor vest made of a MOLLE tactical vest modified to take a front trauma plate, his insurance against taking a body-shot from one of the local hicks; Carvalho wondered how he managed to stand-up in this heat with all that crap strapped on him, but Zeigler was adamant; stories about how good Bastine was were beginning to circulate among the teams, and he wasn't taking any chances.

Zeigler shook the locator again.

"This fucken thing says we're on-top of Bayou La Boeuf; you see a bayou anywhere 'round here?"

Carvalho scanned their limited horizon, standing as they were in a sort of hollow, with low hills forming a bowl all around them.

"If that thing says it's here, then it's here, so we wait right here; those hicks 'r supposed to be headin' this way, so we stick to the plan, we scoop 'em up, take that big bastard's head like we're 'sposed to, grab the gal, and get the fuck back to civilization and that million-dollar bounty; the sooner we're outta here the better I like it, this shithole gives me the creeps. We start second guessin' 'em and they slip through, well, I for one don't wanna hafta explain that to Felipe, he really ain't in a listenin' mood!"

A sudden trilling birdsong made Carvalho look around uneasily; these woods had been silent as the grave the whole time they'd been trekking here, day after day no sound of birds, small animals, nothing except the occasional 'plunk!' of a bullfrog leaping into the water as they passed, shockingly loud and startling in the eerie silence; he'd become used to the dead silence, and the bird-call came close to spooking him. Without conscious thought he swung the lethal-looking HK33 on its neck sling into the ready position and flicked off the safety.

The call came again, from off to his right this time, and Carvalho spun again; this time he was certain; that had sounded like a signal, and then there came from behind him what he'd been dreading.

"Drop your weapons, turn round, and put your hands behind your heads!"

Carvalho made like he was complying, then suddenly snapped his rifle up and fired from waist height at where he thought the voice had come from. A shot rang out from an entirely different direction and he was flung backwards in a spray of blood, dead before he hit the ground, most of the left side of his face missing.

Max Zeigler carefully put down his rifle, keeping his holstered sidearm on the other side to where he thought the shot had come from, and silently tugged open the Velcro clasp. As he stood, making out as though he was raising his hands, he spun to face his attackers even as his right hand flashed down and clawed at the butt of his handgun. Before he even drew the pistol, two shots rang out. Blood and brains sprayed as the back of his head exploded from the two bullets, one each through the lenses of his flashy Porsche sunglasses.

A head in a NEXUS tactical helmet rose cautiously from behind a dense clump of foliage. The soldier stood up, keeping his M4 carbine trained on the two motionless bodies, and two more helmeted heads appeared.

"Sergeant...?" he called, and one of the other soldiers lowered his carbine.

"Good, clean kill, Uncle Sam's trained you well! Hillier, Sloane, get down there, check and search those two, and secure their weapons. Huber, Slenke, on my six, rest of you keep spread out and keep your eyes peeled, don't bunch up; there might be others on their way in, don't give them easy targets. Mister Deaucette, any word from your people yet?"

A man who, by the look of him was obviously one of Johnny's close kin, stood up and safetied his hunting rifle, and spoke in rapid Creole dialect into a clunky-looking sat-phone, then nodded at the sergeant.

"Tante Amice's boys tell me they jes' kinda made some o' these Noo Yawk boys up on the banks o' th' Atchfalaya lose interest real quick, another four so far; way they keep losing men you think they be smart an' jes' pack-up an' go home, they mus' know by now they ain't making no kind a friends hereabouts! An' by the way, my name Jean-Martin, soldier-man; roun' hyah, you-all call a man 'Mister' once, you jes' bein' polite; call him 'Mister' twice, less'n you six years old, it mean you don't like him too much an' he might take to dislikin' you right back!"

Sergeant Jones unclipped his helmet, pulled it off, and grinned.

"I'll bear that in mind, Mister- I beg your pardon, Jean-Martin, and my name's Everett. What do you want to do with these fellers?"

Jean-Martin grinned wolfishly.

"Why sergeant Everett, I'm s'prised you-all had to ask; din't yo mamma never teach you nuthin' 'bout takin' out the trash? Way I see it, them fellers' mamma's ain't gon' come lookin' fo' them; they got no business hereabouts 'cept to go murderin' my kin, so they got whut they askin' fo, an' this their just reward; the book say live by the sword, die by the sword, so my conscience clear. Them 'gators down bank-side look fair famished to me, why don' we jes give them po' boys sumthin' to chew on, they God's creatures too, I reckon they be real grateful!"

Sergeant Everett Jones grinned just as wolfishly.

"Jean-Martin Deaucette, remind me to never get you pissed at me! You fellers heard, get it done, and remember; this didn't happen, we were never here, and we've never seen these douchebags before, got that?"

A chorus of ' Yes Sar-junt!' met his words, and Sergeant Everett Jones grinned again.

"We'll get them stripped and their weapons and personal effects removed and dumped in the bayou somewhere downstream, anyone comes looking for them, they're gonna have to argue about it with those ugly critters, that OK by you?"

"A-ffirmative!" smiled Jean-Martin, "You already thinkin' like bayou folks, Sergeant Everett Jones; when you done bein' soldier, you-all might wanna come back, I reckon we could have us a time down the bayou; there some fine surf-fishin' and real han'some, friendly gals down Dulac way!"

*

Even as Johnny and the girls prepared to start their trek, a world away, in an expensive penthouse in one of Manhattan's most exclusive apartment complexes, the two remaining Ribeiro brothers were not having a good day. Joao-Luiz Ribeiro, suave and handsome, but with a hint of the depraved savagery he was capable of showing in his eyes and the curl of his lip, was behind his priceless 18th century English Chippendale desk, leaning back in his decadently luxurious executive chair, while Felipe, his hulking, brutal older brother paced back and forth across the jewel-toned, hand-knotted antique Persian Sarouk Farahan carpet that was such a feature of the elegant, tastefully decorated office.

"Six teams, Meu, six teams, more than twenty of our top-guns, your best people, OUR best people, and nothing, no word, no call, nada; it's like they vanished, those swamps just swallowed them whole. What are you going to do about it? We keep losing people like this the Cartel is going to start thinking things, can you give them answers? Because I cannot; they show up now, and I tell them we've got our best people on it, they will want to see what we are doing, and if they think we are doing nothing, then maybe they will think it is because we can do nothing, have you thought of that? What that could do to us? A peasant, an ignorant, inbred camponê, the dirt and filth of those bayous and swamps, is making us look weak and powerless! He has already killed our little brother, mama needs to have payment for her filho bebê (baby boy), her soul will not rest until we have bought our blood back, and we cannot even do that, and you sit there cleaning your nails!"

Joao-Luiz pursed his lips in annoyance at Felipe's bluntness.

"We have many more men, Felipe, more than the cartel knows about, but I'm not wasting them on pointless manhunts; our friends in the Orleans sheriff's department have told us where that swamp-rat and the girl are going, we will have people there waiting for them, as many as we can spare, all of them, if necessary; let's see them slip through our net there!"

Felipe's lip curled in a sneer.

"You think those fools are going to be any more successful? So far, those swamp camponês have made us look like foolish amateurs; what makes you think this plan will be any better? I think it's time we start thinking about taking care of this ourselves; there's only two of them, maybe we should finish them ourselves. There's an old saying, little brother; 'if you want a job doing well, then do it yourself'; perhaps the time has come to show those fools we have trusted to do our work for us how it should be done, and then we will thin them out a little as an example of what it means to fail us..."

*

Johnny and the three girls made good time that first day, finally pitching camp a good ten miles from their starting point, no mean feat, given the rough country they were traversing. Justine had had no problems keeping up with them as they broke a new trail, keeping off the game trails and more obvious paths and tracks, justifying Johnny's confidence in her, and Johnny grinned as he caught the approving looks passing between his two woodsy little cousins. They pitched camp, rudimentary tents consisting of lightweight plastic tarps draped over para-cord stretched between two handy saplings, a groundsheet, and a mosquito net thrown over and tucked under the whole thing, and Johnny and Justine set about sorting through their packs for the camping rations packets while Odélie and Mélette built a small fire and unpacked camp utensils.

The food was filling, that was the best thing to be said for it; dehydrated corned-beef hash, fried Spam, hardtack, and coffee, and a pack of dried peaches each. Johnny grimaced as he wolfed down his portion, and winked at Mélette.

"Tomorrow, you-all un limber that there bow o' yours, honey; many more meals like that an' I gonna be surrenderin' just to get fed right!"