Swamp Monster Massacre Read Free

fleeting. He may have avoided Cheech’s gun-toting goons, but when word got back to Cortez, he was a dead man. They had gotten a good look at his mug, and there weren’t many folks who matched his description. Cortez would know it was him that killed his good-for-nothing son.  
    He needed time to think, and someplace where he could do it without ending up with a Colombian necktie. He liked his tongue in his mouth, not dangling out of his severed throat.  
    Pushing the airboat as fast as it would go, he passed the marker for the Big Cypress State Preserve. The waterways would get tricky from here on in. It would be narrow riding past tiny islands of gumbo-limbo trees and sweet bay. If he didn’t slow down, he’d for sure lose the control he’d fought so hard to gain.  
    Pulling his head out of his own troubled thoughts, he became aware that he still had a bunch of people in his getaway boat. Sensing that the initial danger was over, they had crawled up from the floor and retaken their seats, and now all eyes were on him.  
    He knew that look. They were waiting for him to make his move, take them out because they could identify him.  
    Good. That was just the kind of fear he needed. Holding steady on the rudder stick, he successfully yanked the gun duffel onto his lap and dragged the zipper partway open. He casually took one of the guns out, an antique, western draw pistol, and placed it on his lap for all of them to see. It had a mahogany handle and gold engraving along its silver frame and barrel. The damn thing was sweet as hell, and just as deadly. That should keep them in line for a spell.  

Chapter Four
    The airboat sailed along the water in bumps and rolls. Over the past two hours, everything had been a complete blur as they headed deeper into the Everglades. A couple of times, Jack Campos thought for sure they were going to tip over as the maniac who had commandeered their tour skated through the narrow waterways. Jack even had to grab hold of one of the young Italian guys, lest he catapult over the side. The kid shot him an angry look, but it was nothing compared to the mug on the angry goliath in the pilot’s chair.  
    All Jack had wanted to do was slip out of the market research conference for a couple of hours and see the Everglades, maybe spot an alligator or two, and be back in time for the lunch break in the hotel’s large banquet room. Conferences may be dull, but they weren’t deadly.  
    Jack silently cursed himself and prayed that he would make it out alive.  
     
    In the front of the boat, John Almeida kept his wife, Carol, close to his chest with one arm, while using the other to clutch the bar between their seats so he could brace them against the sudden movements of the airboat. Carol wept, but not out of fear. One of the bullets had pierced the metal hull of the boat and torn a crimson gully through her upper arm.  
    It could have been worse, much worse, but the flesh wound went deep and must have burned like hell.  
    They jerked left and a wave of muddy water washed over them.  
    “Jesus Christ, that burns!” Carol squealed. Water and blood ran down her arm, and John had to steady himself. The water was only creating the illusion that she was bleeding to death.  
    But he did need to wrap up her arm, and soon. There was no way he could do that as long as the thug at the controls pushed the engine as fast as it could go.  
    He had to get him to stop.  
    The question was, how?
     
    Liz looked back at the guy who had taken over the boat, then at the pistol, and tried to see if there were any bullets in the chamber. It was an old gun, like the kind cowboys wore on low-slung holsters in westerns. With some of them, you could see the chambers in the barrel if you caught it at just the right angle, and tell if they had a bullet nestled inside or not.  
    The boat clipped the edge of a sandbar and everyone jounced to the left. The man pulled the gun out of view while he fought to keep