Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap Read online

  Fishing for human cargo in a boiling sea of blood

  Bolan moved toward the dock.

  A sentry burst from cover, his AK-47 scattering 7.62mm gut-rippers from the hip.

  Bolan's huge handgun boomed in anger. The sentry's rifle flew from his hands as though snatched by supernatural forces.

  The AutoMag thundered again. The 240-grain skull-buster blasted the enemy's brain apart.

  More troops appeared. Bolan brought the M-3 into play. His trigger finger tightened. The M-3 chattered until its thirty-round vocabulary was exhausted.

  No man was eager to test the silence. . .

  Also available from Gold Eagle Books, publishers of the Executioner series:

  Mack Bolan's

  ABLE TEAM

  #1 Tower of Terror

  #2 The Hostaged Island

  #3 Texas Showdown

  #4 Amazon Slaughter

  #5 Cairo Countdown

  Mack Bolan's

  PHOENIX FORCE

  #1 Argentine Deadline

  #2 Guerilla Games

  #3 Atlantic Scramble

  #4 Tigers of Justice

  #5 The Fury Bombs

  Dedicated to the "River Rats" who flew in the Red River Valley of North Vietnam and encountered the most heavily defended airspace in the history of aerial warfare. Many of those who did not come home are still listed as Missing in Action.

  First edition August 1983

  First published in Australia November 1984

  ISBN 0-373-61056-4

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to

  E. Richard Churchill for his contributions to this work.

  Copyright © 1983 by Worldwide Library.

  Philippine copyright 1983, Australian copyright 1983,

  New Zealand copyright 1983.

  Scanned by CrazyAl 2013

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 118 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, NSW. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Gold Eagle trademark, consisting of the words GOLD EAGLE and the portrayal of an eagle, and the Worldwide trademark, consisting of a globe and the word WORLDWIDE in which the letter "o" is represented by a depiction of a globe, are trademarks of Worldwide Library.

  Printed in Australia by

  The Dominion Press—Hedges & Bell

  North Blackburn, Victoria 3130.

  1

  "The whole community is terrorized," Hal Brognola said.

  "That's what this guy Ed Warner tells us. Accord­ing to him, there's no local law enforcement in Ken­landport, Maine. The population is about fifty all told, and most of them are elderly or a few families with kids. The families are practically all interrelated, and they usually handle their own problems. Now they're all scared out of their wits. Neighbor doesn't talk to neighbor. People are afraid to do anything for fear of what may happen.

  "Nevertheless, the county sheriff doesn't see any problem. Same goes for the state police. The Boston office of the FBI finally sent a report forward after Warner kept bugging them. They said there might be some basis for a possible civil rights violation and conspiracy.

  "Well, I guess that's about the size of it from what we know."

  Hal spread his hands, drumming his fingertips on the table a few times. Then he withdrew the half-smoked, well-chewed cigar from the corner of his mouth. "Think it's something we should look into?"

  Mack Bolan communicated his decision with a flash of his blue eyes.

  "Do we have contact ability?" he asked.

  Hal nodded. "Affirmative."

  "Tell this Ed Warner that John Phoenix will be in touch. I'll need his description for a positive ID."

  "Got it from the reporting agent in Boston," April Rose told him. Without being asked she continued, "There are two commercial airports Jack Grimaldi can use. Portland or Bangor."

  Bolan drew a mental image of the state of Maine. "I'll go with Portland."

  "Then I'll have land transport waiting," April promised.

  Mack fixed Hal with his gaze. "Any further intel to add?"

  "There are some unsubstantiated reports that a new conduit has recently opened to move hardcases in and out of the country. Also, New Jersey law of­ficers report that Big Jim Lane hasn't been spotted locally in nearly a month."

  "He's in import-export, isn't he?"

  "Only when the cost of people-moving is high enough to attract him. Armory theft is more his bag. He's got a rep as a supplier of hot military arms. Big Jim has some fast boats he uses to make deliveries of stolen arms and munitions at sea."

  Bolan filed the information.

  April's voice cut into his thoughts. "Jack has his rotors turning. He'll lift you off from Stony Man in minutes."

  "Thanks," Bolan said as he stood up. "If War­ner's been making that much noise, I don't have much time."

  April watched her man leave the room. There was never enough time. Never.

  But she let him rush away, and gladly.

  From his recent attitude, she knew that Mack now hankered for a life that only he, The Executioner, controlled. She could tell he itched to act solo again, as in the old days when he operated outside of the law as a scourge to his enemies.

  April's serious wounding in Europe on Mack's most recent mission particularly distressed the big guy, and she knew it. He had been horrified at her close call with death, brooded alone for hours on their return to Stony Man Farm, finally confided to her a deep need to pursue his life's path independent of comrades, support systems, government agencies, the government itself.

  He wanted—needed—to go it alone again.

  "Mack responded fast on this one because he wants out," she told Hal.

  "What do you mean? Is this woman's intuition talking?"

  "Mack wants to go back to where he belongs," she murmured in reply. "He's searching. He wants to find his own America. He wants to act one on one, be responsible for his own actions. I think he's readying himself for being on his own again."

  "Professionally," Hal said, "I discount your views because of your convalescence—your health could be marring your judgment. But personally," he added, "I believe you may be right, April. We both knew Mack when he was on the lam, a rene­gade, and there's something in him now that reminds me of that. Think we ought to interfere?"

  "Hal, his commitment to justice has never been stronger," she replied. "Let him go to Maine. Let him go to the furthest edge. On his own. Let him find himself. Let him find himself. I want to see him as he really is, at his best . . ."

  2

  It was as though the tentacles of mist sought the source of the death smell.

  The closed front door and destroyed screen of the kitchen window posed no barrier to the pervasive gray dampness. In the small living and sleeping area, Mack Bolan allowed his light free play. The thin beam's intensity was slightly diminished as the fin­gers of fog intruded into the two-room shack.

  The room had been searched. How much of the clutter was the result of a hunt for information and how much was the normal environment of a lonely man's life-style, Bolan could not tell. Books were pulled from shelving along the north wall and dumped carelessly on the floor. The homemade shel
ving had obviously been constructed over a period of time as the need arose.

  With the toe of his rubber-soled black canvas shoe, Bolan flipped over several volumes. The majority of the books indicated an interest in world history. A variety of newsmagazines added to the mess. Half a dozen copies of area newspapers were thrown around. Ed Warner had been a well-read guy.

  Bolan let his beam scan the room again. There was no television set. He recalled seeing a radio on the kitchen counter. The scattered books and the lack of a TV said something about Ed Warner.

  The dead man's tenacity made another statement about him. According to Hal Brognola, Ed's attempts at gaining aid for his home community were frustrated at every turn.

  Bolan remembered that there was no local law en­forcement in Kenlandport. It was a closed, secluded settlement, typical of the far northern New England coast, in which the area's citizens cared for their own. Yeah, and repulsed outsiders when the need arose.

  Unless the outsiders proved more than a match for the limited resources of the locals . . . It was appar­ently such a failing that had pushed Ed Warner to go in search of outside help.

  According to Hal, the county officials viewed the situation as one rating minimal concern. Hal had spoken to the county sheriff, and Bolan remembered the Maine lawman's words as transcribed from that phone call:

  A certain number of fights and the like are nor­mal in any town. Besides, nobody's been really hurt. Nobody's dead. At least no murders have been reported. For that matter, Ed Warner is no saint himself, you know. The way we see it, he's most likely gotten in over his head in some sort of family squabble. Best just let them work it out. That's the way we do things up here. The people of Kenlandport don't hold much with out­siders getting involved.

  The state police had said pretty much the same. Hal's transcription reported that they had heard of some local problems. But even Ed Warner admitted to the state investigator that the situation involved not much more than vandalism and threats. And yes, Ed agreed, no one was dead. At least not yet.

  Legally, the FBI had no jurisdiction in matters of this kind, but as a result of Warner's persis­tent nagging, the Boston office did send a report that eventually reached Hal. However, by the time Mack Bolan responded to the plea for help, it was too late. At least for Ed Warner. He was a guy who did not give up when he believed he was right, no matter what the cost. He did not stop until they killed him. Bolan could understand that kind of man.

  Mack could all but see the guy take his pride in hand like a hat and ask total strangers for their help. Yeah, and then endure the frustration of being turned away. The cost to the independent Ed Warner must have been enormous.

  The warrior in nightfighter black glanced back into the kitchen. The bloody, tortured heap that was once a living person indicated the cost was even higher than Warner could have anticipated.

  Bolan moved across the room and let the flash­light's beam explore the place's only closet. The cloth­ing hanging there was clean but showed signs of having been worn well and often. A single jacket, long out of style, hung atop a pair of carefully pressed trousers. Had Ed worn them when he visited the vari­ous agencies? Bolan suspected he had.

  He turned away from the closet. Outside, the fog had thickened. From where he stood Bolan could only barely make out the bulk of a tree trunk near the edge of the small front stoop.

  Again Bolan's flashlight swept the room. There was nothing to detain him further. Kenlandport, up the coast a bit to the north, seemed his only choice. But getting the closemouthed locals to open up with­out Warner to introduce him might be something else again.

  Suddenly Bolan heard something. It was not close, but it was approaching. He looked outside again but could not see for the fog. Bolan let his sense of hear­ing chart the observer's approach. Now he judged the unseen presence to be about thirty feet north and east of the front stoop.

  Bolan let his hand fill with the silenced might of the Beretta 93-R. His small flashlight died at a touch of its switch. Bolan let his total nightvision develop in the abrupt darkness.

  Faint rustlings among the fallen leaves and twigs at the fringe of the woods indicated the watcher's impa­tience.

  Bolan figured it would be impolite to keep his visi­tor waiting any longer.

  Crouching low, becoming a three-dimensional sha­dow in the thick fog, Mack Bolan rushed outside and dived over the splintered wood of the weather beaten front stoop.

  His mind registered a passing tug at his right ankle.

  The early night erupted in a flash of light and an ex­plosion of sound directly over his head.

  3

  Bolan recognized the shotgun's thunder and flash. Both barrels of the twelve-gauge had roared out their fury as one. Whoever set the trip-cord trap had also wired the twin triggers together.

  Only his combat instinct to move low had saved him.

  Unmoving, Bolan felt with his free hand for the cord entangled around his ankle. From touch he identified the material. It was nylon fishing lead­er. Thin, tough, all but invisible, it was ideal trip wire.

  Bolan untangled himself and lay motionless. The restless foot stirrings continued nearby. The soft whispers of sound he could detect were those of someone uncertain how to proceed. Bolan decided the next move was up to his hidden adversary. The waiting was hell, but the matter would soon be re­solved. With the Beretta in his hand, Bolan remained curled up on the damp earth, listening. Waiting. His knees were drawn up, his shoes firmly implanted on a rise in the ground. Mack Bolan was poised and ready to spring.

  The beam of light Bolan expected finally came. It was broad and dim to the point of being practically useless.

  The light's holder moved closer. The faint light circled Bolan's body, then moved to center on his back. The light moved toward him. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Now!

  The man in black uncoiled like a snake striking at unsuspecting prey. Bolan's muscular left arm swept the other's feet off the ground in one powerful back­hand swing. His legs straightened in a single driving motion. His shoulder hit the off-balance body at mid-thigh.

  As the pair crashed to the ground together, Bolan's left hand sought and found the other's throat. The business end of the Beretta's small silencer came to rest firmly against the center of the forehead of the stunned loser.

  "Move and you die," Bolan said. His voice was devoid of emotion.

  "Go to hell!" It was the voice of a male, past the age of childhood but not yet a man.

  Beneath his hand, Bolan felt throat muscles work. He slid the Beretta into its leather holster and did a quick weapons check on his captive. The only poten­tially dangerous object the youth carried was a long clasp knife. Bolan pocketed it and allowed the boy to sit up.

  "Are you going to kill me now or do you plan to use the end of a cigarette on me for an hour or so first?" The young-old voice was thick with barely suppressed fear.

  Bolan switched on his flashlight. He played the beam quickly over the face of the youth. Seventeen, eighteen at most, the kid had deep brown eyes that looked almost black in the darkness. Without letting the light blind the boy, Bolan studied his face, then his body.

  The kid was thin. But he was wiry thin, with the tough slenderness of one who worked hard and did not bitch. His hands were almost delicate, the tap­ered fingers possibly those of a musician or artist. But it was the eyes that drew Bolan's complete atten­tion. They were truly windows to the youth's soul. They were, he realized, the eyes of one who could love deeply or hate unrelentingly.

  The boy suddenly exploded into a frenzy of mo­tion.

  Bolan knew his physical assessment of the teenager had been correct. For seconds the two struggled. The only sounds of their intense conflict came from dis­lodged twigs and bits of ground cover.

  Bolan's physical size and strength brought the un­equal contest to a panting end for the kid. His voice was full of frustration and humiliation at having been so quickly overpowered.

  "You better kill
me now, mister. After the way you and your pals destroyed Uncle Ed, you best just kill me right off. If I ever get loose from you, I'll sure as God pay you back for what you did to him."

  "Were you the one who rigged that double-barreled twelve?"

  "Go to hell!"

  "I'm not your enemy. I came to help. Your un­cle—if he's Ed Warner—asked for help."

  "Okay, you know his name. That proves noth­ing."

  Bolan relaxed the pressure on the kid's bent arm. He had too much to do in too little time to have an­other wrestling match with this fiery kid.

  "I only got word this morning. Your uncle just didn't know who to tell and how to get word to us." Bolan felt no need to explain his actions or to justify his presence. Yet he wanted the hurt, angry, betrayed kid to know the truth. Some spark that glowed from within the boy indicated it would be effort well spent.

  "You sure took your time getting here."

  The boy's tone, if not his words, indicated a soft­ening in attitude.

  "My name is John Phoenix."

  "You FBI?"

  "No. I don't belong to any organization that you're aware of," Bolan answered truthfully. Then he added cryptically, "I don't belong to anything. Think of me as justice."

  "Rick Cartright," said the youth, calmed by the words of the blacksuited apparition. "Ed was my un­cle. My mother's brother. He sort of looked out for me."

  Bolan did not press the matter. In his own good time Rick would or would not explain his personal circumstances.

  "Let's get up now," Bolan said. "We've got things to do."

  As one, the two came to their feet. Both brushed themselves free of clinging bits of the forest floor. "I'd like my knife back, please."

  Bolan returned the pocket weapon. He heard the sound of the knife going back into the kid's belt; it was one of the many sounds in the fog that reminded Bolan of his own youth.

  "Did you see any of the men who murdered your uncle?"

  "No. At least not for sure. You don't think I'd have let them do that to him if I'd seen them?"