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  Grimaldi had pre-empted that schedule, making his own “hit” at an intermediate point—which is how Mack Bolan happened to be playing delivery man in that dawn drop—and which is why five dispirited young people were far better off than they probably realized.

  They sat in the dirt just inside the small hangar, sipping beer from cans and conversing in hushed tones. The conversation froze and all eyes turned his way as Bolan stepped inside. He gave a curt nod and strode past the group without a word.

  He found Grimaldi at a rickety desk in the office of the temporary base camp, bent over an aeronautical sectional chart and busily applying pencil and protractor to a small problem in navigation. The pilot looked up with a grin and reported, “I think we struck some paydirt.”

  “How much?” Bolan inquired quietly.

  “Maybe a whole yard.” Grimaldi fingered a penciled circle on the chart as he explained, “The guy beat it straight to this hammock, here. It’s maybe a thousand yards in diameter, maybe a bit more. It’s inhabited. I counted two large buildings and maybe half a dozen smaller ones, grouped around a small lagoon on the west side. Or maybe that lagoon is a large pond. I couldn’t really get a good angle on it without becoming too obvious. Either it’s a lagoon or a pond sitting right at the edge of the land area.”

  Bolan eyed the map as he asked, “What’s that big island just to the north?”

  “That one’s the kicker,” the pilot replied, grinning broadly. “Remember I told you about Tommy Santelli’s sugar cane investment?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “That big island just to the north is Tommy’s farm. I flew some guys in there a few months ago, right after they took it over. How much you want to bet he owns the lagoon hammock, too? You could damn near swim from one to the other. Or wade it. Course, I wouldn’t want to do either. That’s ’gator country. And snakes. God knows what else.”

  “You’re sure the guy went to the small island?”

  “No doubt about it. He was hurting. I saw two guys carrying him toward the buildings.”

  “Any chance you were spotted?”

  “Not much. I played the sun all I could. For sure the dude in the boat didn’t spot me. From the way he was handling that swamp buggy, I’d say he wasn’t seeing much of anything. The guy just barely made it, Sarge. We got damned lucky on that one.”

  “The kids tumble to what you were doing?”

  “I doubt that. I think they were all in a state of shock, most of that flight.”

  “Give you any trouble?”

  Grimaldi smiled. “Not really. Watch the tall blonde, though. She tried to vamp me.”

  Bolan returned the smile. “But you were strong.”

  “As a rock. They’re okay kids. Sort of confused, right now, and wondering what the hell. I gave them a six-pack and told them to cool it.” He spread his hands. “What can they do?”

  “They can thank heaven for large favors,” Bolan muttered.

  “They know that. They saw. That’s why the shock.”

  “You tell them anything, yet?”

  “Naw. That’s your department.”

  Bolan sighed and lit a cigarette then stared at the chart for a moment. Finally he said, “I guess we need to update Alice. Will you take care of that for me?”

  Alice was Hal Brognola, waiting somewhere in the wings with a hot-hot force of federal marshals, poised to strike upon signal.

  Grimaldi replied, “Sure. Just an update?”

  “That’s all.”

  “You don’t want to talk to him?”

  “Not yet, no,” Bolan replied quietly. There was a bit of strain in the relationship at the moment, due entirely to Bolan’s own misgivings about the future being charted for him by Brognola and others in Washington. And, no, he was not yet ready to talk to his old friend from the Wonderland by the Potomac.

  “I’ll just, uh, report the developments,” said Grimaldi. “And tell him to hang loose.”

  “Very loose, yeah,” Boland agreed, and went out for a parley with the kids.

  They were obviously ready to parley. All scrambled to their feet at his approach and showed him expectant, tense faces. He asked, quietly, “Everyone okay?”

  It was not what they had expected to hear; the question threw them, momentarily. The tall blonde girl was the first to respond vocally. She said, small voiced, “We’re okay, sure. We’d just like to know what’s going on.”

  A lanky boy beside her added, “Are we under arrest, or what? And what about Luke?”

  “Luke” was the sixth partner in the enterprise.

  Bolan quietly informed them, “Luke’s okay. He’s in Key West. And no one is under arrest. I’m not a cop.”

  “Then what are you?” asked the blonde.

  Bolan ignored that question to ask one of his own. “Which one of you is David Johnson?”

  The lanky one shifted his feet and raised a hand to about shoulder level.

  Bolan opened his shirt and produced a packet of cash which he handed over to the youth. “That covers your investment in the product,” he told him.

  The kid looked stunned. “What … wh …?” he stammered.

  “I’m buying you out,” Bolan explained.

  The others were a bit mind-blown, too. The blonde girl said something unintelligibly exclamatory but she was the only one with a vocal response.

  Bolan told them one and all: “You’re out your expenses. I won’t cover that. But count your blessings. You got out cheap. If you try it again then you’re plain stupid. Now go home, beat it. You’ll find your boat on the west shore.”

  He turned his back on them and returned to the office. When he turned back from the doorway, all were gone … almost. The tall blonde girl had followed him. He looked at her closely for the first time, realizing only then that she was a bit different from the others. A bit older, for one thing. Much more deeply tanned, for another—the mark, perhaps, of one who’d been in sunny Florida much longer than a casual visitor.

  Bolan growled at her, “I told you to beat it.”

  “Nuts to that,” she replied evenly. “I want to know what your game is. Are you a federal narc?”

  “Are you?” Bolan countered.

  She smiled and shook her head. “I’m just a gal looking for a game.”

  “You wouldn’t like this one,” Bolan assured her.

  “I’ve liked it great, so far,” she replied spritely.

  “Then you’re insane,” he said.

  The girl kept right on smiling as she responded to that. “Maybe. And maybe I just like my men big, strong, brave, and slightly insane.”

  “Save it,” he said harshly. “If you don’t want to be stranded on this clot of dirt then you’d better hurry and catch your friends.”

  But she wasn’t giving it up … and apparently she knew what she was about. “You’re Mack Bolan, aren’t you,” she asked, though it really was not a question.

  “Who?”

  “Who, hell,” said the blonde, blithely, as she moved past him and into the office.

  And it seemed, yeah, that “the game” had suddenly grown more complex.

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  About the Author

  Don Pendleton (1927–1995) was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. He served in the US Navy during World War II and the Korean War. His first short story was published in 1957, but it was not until 1967, at the age of forty, that he left his career as an aerospace engineer and turned to writing full time. After producing a number of science fiction and mystery novels, in 1969 Pendleton launched his first book in the Executioner saga: War Against the Mafia. The series, starring Vietnam veteran Mack Bolan, was so successful that it inspired a new American literary genre, and Pendleton became known as the father of action-adventure.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written per
mission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1979 by Don Pendleton

  Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-8587-1

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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