Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap Read online

  Using his chin as a pointer, the loyal soldier select­ed a quartet of guys he knew could handle them­selves. Without glancing back the detail moved out.

  Big Jim mentally checked off those things that needed doing. Only one remained. Get that big bas­tard.

  "Boss." Bad Louie's tone was tentative.

  Big Jim fixed him with a glare.

  "What about the Coast Guard?"

  "Hell!" How could one of his troops be so stupid? "There ain't any Coast Guard out there. That dude in the skintights set a bomb. Don't be such an ass."

  To cover his chagrin Bad Louie tightened the pressure on the kid's imprisoned wrist. The kid came to the very tips of his toes. A moan ripped from be­tween his split lips. Bad Louie felt better.

  15

  Bud Stiles had a ringside seat for the action. Other than the soldier who confronted Bolan at the en­trance to the living area, Stiles was the only man who saw Bolan begin his blitz.

  When Stiles saw the guard slump in reaction to the pair of quick muzzle flashes, he realized that an un­predictable chain of events was beginning. Without undue haste, yet with no wasted motions, he slipped the bow line free. The front of his vessel began to move slightly clear of the dock's edge.

  Next, he pulled a razor-sharp hand ax from its safety clips and placed it within easy reach. Seconds later he thumbed the starter. The dependable diesel came to life without protest.

  Secure in the knowledge he had done all that was ne­cessary, the soft-spoken skipper turned his attention to the door through which the big fellow had run.

  When the fuel tank blew it was like those pictures of hell Stiles recalled from his Sunday-school days. In awe he followed the orange fireball skyward. For more seconds than he thought to count, the ball of flame hovered above what remained of the generator building.

  Then in an impossible display it began to rain li­quid fire. If that was the way it would end, it was sure going to be one hell of a show when Judgment Day rolled around.

  Despite the fear that originally coerced Stiles into lending his boat and skills—plus the money he was getting—he was a practical man. And common sense dictated his immediate departure. That group of worthless scum he had just delivered, and the one hard-eyed creep he brought in earlier, would have to find other transport to the mainland.

  His fingers curled about the throttle. The lever slid the entire distance to the stop. In response the pro­peller began to thrash and churn.

  Bud Stiles grabbed the ax at mid-handle. He brought it up and then down in one fluid motion. The blade severed the big line and buried itself in the rail.

  He figured it would be better to replace the line later than to waste precious time freeing it from its cleat at that moment.

  Only when a hundred yards of open water separated his craft from the dock did Bud Stiles look again to­ward the island. It was a shame about those big gen­erators. By the time that hellfire burned itself out they would not even make good scrap. Dourly he observed the figures highlighted by the dancing flames. Not a chance in hell they would be able to douse the fires. Contain them, maybe. Probably save most of the other buildings. But the diesel-fed inferno would con­tinue to brighten the night until it felt like quitting.

  He filled his lungs with sea air. Slowly, thoughtfully, he let the good, clean air escape, puffing his cheeks as it passed.

  Those poor bastards on Eagle Nest didn't know it yet, but they had just about spent their last nickel. He didn't know who that big guy with the soul-probing eyes was. Did not want to know. Not now, not ever. But one thing Bud Stiles did know. If he was doing something and that guy told him to stop doing it, Bud would stop. Stop and never, by God, start again.

  He considered the situation and cut back on the throttle until the wide-beamed craft was barely hold­ing its own against the crosscurrents. He dropped a lashing about the wheel and crossed to reach beneath the chart table in the tiny wheelhouse.

  When he straightened, Stiles held an AK-47 in both hands. He did not need to check the assault rifle. It was primed and ready. With the stolen weapon tucked beneath his right arm he returned to the helm.

  He put fire to his cold pipe and gave his attention to the island, eager to see what other surprises the big guy had planned for that bunch of bloodsuckers.

  AS ONE WITH THE FRIENDLY DARK, Mack Bolan slammed the Beretta into her leather. Without wasted motion he gathered the waiting M-3 into his hands. Leaving the stock for another time he prepared to use the stutter gun almost like a machine pistol fired two-handed.

  By the time the emergency lights brought an inter­nal glow to the mess hall, Bolan was ready for the second phase in his planned blitz.

  When half a dozen troops streamed from the hall toward the hovering diesel fireball, the Executioner was awaiting them. With the M-3 spewing between six and seven rounds of 9mm challengers every second, he gave them a quick crisscross move of the barrel.

  When two of the six still showed signs of fight, he did a quick figure eight on both of them. For effect he let the final rounds flow through the barrel in the general direction of those hurrying toward the re­mains of the power plant.

  Bolan slammed home a full magazine while running toward the rear of the mess area. There, gleaming like dull silver in the reflected glow of the blaze, was Bolan's goal. The propane tank silently awaited its opportunity to make a contribution to the conflagration.

  Behind him startled troops called out to one an­other . The sudden chatter of his M-3 from out of the night was doubly terrifying due to the lack of muzzle flash. With the flash hider doing its job, Mack Bolan was all but impossible to spot even as he hosed death from his weapon.

  The Executioner faced the waiting propane tank. He would rather have done the job from well back in the woods. But time was going by too rapidly to take even the few seconds necessary to put trees between him and the waiting bomb.

  And waiting bomb it was. As he slipped the mighty .44 AutoMag from its holster, Mack Bolan knew full well the danger he courted. He knew yet willingly acknowledged the risk.

  At a distance of no more than twenty-five yards he brought Big Thunder to bear. A stroking of the weapon's trigger, and hell on earth was unleashed for a second time in as many minutes.

  The 240-grain body-buster became 240 grains of detonator. As the massive slug impacted with the pressure-strong metal of the propane tank, Bolan threw himself flat on the ground. The entrance wound created an instantaneous spiderwork of cracks in the thick hide of the tank.

  Half-filled with explosive propane, the volatile mass of pressurized gas awaited any excuse to escape its manmade prison.

  Sparks flashed from the .44's entry. Too fast for the eye to discern, some 250 gallons of cookstove fuel expanded to a hundred times and more their original volume.

  The tank's plating became thousands of high velocity bits of shrapnel. Some spent themselves harmlessly in the earth. But a major portion of the tank's casing scattered to all points of the compass in a lethal hail of instant death. Bolan, belly pressed to the earth, felt jagged chunks of metal whizzing above his head. A guard on security patrol near the com­mand post was not so lucky.

  At the same time the blinding flash of exploding propane was imprinting itself on the guy's retina, a piece of heavy tank casing was on a collision course with his right thigh. It did not just embed itself in his hulk. The rampaging shard of terror tore through the upper thigh. Jagged edges ripped out flesh and mus­cle with the speed and power of a shark attack.

  Stunned by the mule-kick force of the blow, the guy stared at his savaged thigh without comprehension. So great was the physical trauma of the blow, the soldier remained unaware that a second, smaller chunk of in­stant death had made itself at home in his throat.

  Blood was spurting in uncontrollable quantities down his chest before the guy realized what had hap­pened. By then the scooped-out area of his thigh was welling crimson as well. Whimpering, attempting to cover the gaping wound with both hands, he sank ea
rthward.

  Four other of the site's defenders absorbed scream­ing chunks of the deadly shards in various parts of their bodies. None received wounds that were immedi­ately life-threatening, but neither did any of the four find their physical condition improved by the chunks the propane tank embedded within living tissue.

  The propane ball of fire put to shame the previous efforts of the diesel fuel. Glowing yellow scarlet, it climbed from its launching pad to brighten the sky, only just beginning to dull from the earlier explosion.

  Once certain he was still in one piece, Bolan came to his feet on the run. Big Thunder again found itself in the flapped holster. Again the M-3 with its oblig­ing flash hider was grasped in a pair of determined hands.

  Combat fighting, like everything, operates accord­ing to certain rules. The advantage goes to the force able and willing to surprise the foe. And once an ad­vantage is achieved it must be maintained. So it was with Bolan's blitz.

  He had scouted the area sufficiently to know where and how to strike best. He had achieved total surprise as he burst like a messenger of death and destruction into the very midst of the enemy camp.

  Now to maintain the advantage so quickly gained. While confusion still reigned, before the scattered and shattered troops could rally, he intended to hit them again. Again and hard. And where it counted.

  Bounding from the light shed by the flaming pro­pane, Bolan double timed it toward the command post. Someone spotted his distinctive form in the noon-bright glow of the hovering fireball. The heavy reports of a .45 called attention to the quickly mov­ing figure. The lighter cracks of more than one .38 took up the cry. Not to be outdone, the easily recog­nized chatter of an AK-47 added to the clamor.

  Bolan dropped to a knee and replied. The M-3 added to the chorus of death until it had run through its entire thirty-round clip.

  He again moved out in a crouching run. By the time he had advanced eight or ten paces, the glowing ball of heat was losing some of its brightness. Three troops were also missing much of their former spar­kle. All found it difficult to direct their weapons with 9mm parabellum missile punctures in their bodies.

  One of the three found it impossible to function after a single round ripped through his aorta. A sec­ond clutched his shattered kneecap and screamed in agony. He had no recollection of his delight a year before when he held a-victim while Bad Louie used a baseball bat on that unfortunate's kneecap.

  The third victim of the Executioner's indiscriminate spraying by the M-3 couldn't, at first, believe his luck in having avoided contact with any of the thirty rounds. Other than a numb left wrist he experienced no injury.

  It was only when his numb wrist began to leak onto his shoe that he realized his good luck was a joke. His left hand remained attached to his body by a half ­inch-wide band of bloody flesh. In horror and disbe­lief the guy lifted his arm for a better look. The hand slipped to hang at a right angle to the arm and wrist. The wrist pumped and poured scarlet from severed artery and vein.

  The hardguy who was able to grin while putting the hoots to a car owner behind on his payments, fell to the ground, his head resting in a pool of blood.

  Two sentries, drawn by the sound of battle and the fury of the flames, came in from the site's perimeter and met the Executioner almost head-on.

  "VC!" The first to see Bolan, who was still mov­ing with a fresh chamber of horrors in his M-3, ut­tered a cry from out of his past.

  As the sentinel swung his Thompson toward Bolan he again cried his warning:

  "VC! Dead on!"

  The living shadow eased back on the trigger and did a quick figure eight, literally stopping the guy dead in his tracks.

  Bolan then turned his attention to the less obser­vant of the two. He poured half a dozen rounds of jacketed death into his chest at point-blank range.

  Any eagerness for battle the man possessed was lost in the second he was a target.

  Dead while still standing, his thoracic cavity only a memory, he did a quick stumbling retreat. Without having fired a shot, he joined his fallen buddy.

  Bolan swung on his heel and headed toward his original target. Just ahead the command post-day room waited. Its interior glowed with the light of a pair of battery-powered emergency lights. The radio operator sat in confused indecision. Should he join in the pitched battle erupting outside? Or should he re­main at his post in the event Big Jim needed him?

  It was Death, not Big Jim who sent for the unde­cided operator. A grenade flew in the opened screen door. Pin out, spoon free, it rolled and scooted from the door directly toward the radio and its operator.

  In one brilliant flash the rig became an unrecogniz­able tangle of wire and metal. And in that bright-white instant the guy's indecision ended as well. Both his life and his lower limbs left him in one searing ex­plosion.

  Overhead, one of the emergency lights absorbed a chunk of the grenade's casing. It’s light failed. Across the room it’s mate continued to cast a glow into the room suddenly gone foul with the sight and smell of death.

  Knowing he had made major strides in neutralizing the effectiveness of the site, Bolan turned again toward the living quarters. Stunned, intent upon their own survival, none of the troops still fit for combat challenged his passage. It was as though the smoke and flame and human wreckage made the black-garbed man invisible. Some simply wished not to see him. And by wishing could not.

  Bolan came through the open door with both hands filled. In his right he bore the big .44 AutoMag. In his left was his second fragmentation grenade. Pin gone, its spoon held down only by the pressure of Bolan's grasp, the grenade was potential death awaiting an opportunity.

  While chaos reigned through most of the island hardsite, those within the large room appeared calm, almost divorced from the death and destruction only a wall away.

  Rick, his face pale as blood still seeped from his nose and caked on his lips, managed a welcome flash­ing of his eyes.

  "I've come for the kid."

  Bolan let them all take a good look at the grenade and at the big silver AutoMag's gaping eye of death.

  "You want him in chunks or slices?" As Bad Louie Stevens spoke his final words he waved his switchblade just beneath the kid's ear.

  Bad Louie did not realize that death picked his name. That was a pity. Bad Louie always gloried in letting others know that their deaths were near at hand.

  The 240-grain heart-stopper did its job. As an add­ed bonus it all but exploded Bad Louie's faithful pumping organ. Bits and pieces of cardiac muscle mingled with lung tissue. Bad Louie released his hold on the kid's up twisted arm and fell to the floor.

  Rick sank from his tiptoes to his heels as his tor­mentor collapsed. Bad Louie made one final attempt to draw air into shattered lungs and failed. The hard-guy who thought a switchblade made him a man stopped breathing. Blood trickled from Bad Louie's one good nostril along with his last breath.

  Without having to be told, Rick moved toward Bo­lan and the door. His calf muscles, pressed beyond reasonable demands by his forced on-the-toes stance, threatened to fail him. He bent double and massaged one, then the other, with both hands.

  "Can you make it?"

  "I'll make it. One way or another I'll make it."

  Bolan's steely blue eyes surveyed the group. No one seemed inclined to argue. Even Big Jim Lane was at a loss for words. The memory of the silver hand­gun's booming thunder was too fresh for any to dis­pute the man in battle dress.

  "The kid and I are walking out of here. Anyone who thinks otherwise, now's the time to speak." No one spoke.

  The two of them slowly backed from the room. Mack Bolan with both hands full of death covered the retreat of the skinny kid who possessed the nerve of one to whom the notion defeat was completely foreign.

  16

  Jesse Lobato recognized the man outlined by the light that spilled from the open door of the living quarters. Leaving the few troops with him to their futile task of controlling the diesel fire, Lobato un
holstered his revolver.

  He covered ten yards in a running crouch. The bastard in black was moving slowly. At his side a slim shadow limped and staggered. The two targets were moving in almost a direct line toward the dock.

  His lips pulled back in a mirthless grin. They came in a dory but they would leave in coffins. He began to surge forward, wanting to close the distance between them before opening up with his .38.

  A sentry, fresh from duty in the woods, burst from cover. His AK-47 began a from-the-hip scattering of 7.62mm gut-rippers in the general direction of the retreating pair.

  Silently cursing the fool, Lobato brought his own weapon to bear. Directly ahead of him, the guy in the nightsuit spun to face the chattering assault ri­fle. Lobato saw him bring that huge hand cannon up and around.

  As Jesse's ears objected to the rolling thunder of the big weapon, he caught sight of the oncoming sentry from the corner of his right eye. The soldier was no longer moving forward. It was as though an unseen hand reached from nowhere and slammed the guy back on his heels.

  The huge handgun boomed its anger again. And once more Jesse saw the effects of its heavy, gut wrenching slug. The AK-47 flew from the sentry hands as though snatched by supernatural forces. The round lifted him onto his toes before flingin’ him backward in a clumsy back flip. Lobato knew the guy was dead while still in the air.

  A range master might have forgiven Jesse when he tugged the trigger sharply. His first shot jerked wild to the right. Before he could get the blade of his front sight square with the notch in the rear, it was too late The Executioner was not forgiving.

  Bolan saw his first 240-grain skull-buster do what it was supposed to do. Like a ripe melon, Lobato' skull erupted in a spray of gray matter and gore. Bits and pieces of skull and scalp rained to earth. From his upper jaw to the top of his slightly balding head Jesse Lobato ceased to exist. The .38 dropped from hands that no longer cared to hold the weapon.

  Rick stumbled on a few paces before coming to halt. With eyes gone numb he viewed the carnage.