Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap Page 3

  His Uzi forgotten, the man dropped to the deck. It was as though some powerful but invisible hand descended from above to force his body to the wet planks.

  "What's happening up there? What's going on?" the voice from the stern called apprehensively. Auto­matically the guy's hand moved the throttle up an­other notch, figuring it was better to reverse halfway back into the bay than run into trouble and hole the bow. Those blacktop cowboys up front were lucky to find their own butts in the dark and fog, let alone cast a line properly.

  As the half-dead man frantically fought to suck air into his lungs, Bolan scrambled down the length of the pier. Uneven planking caught at his toes and threatened his balance.

  Like some sleek, lithe killer cat out of the night, the Executioner dashed to the end of the pier. The faint glow of lighted controls told him where his prey was peering into the gloom.

  At that moment the capricious breeze sucked long tendrils of fog into a dense cluster. The lighted con­trol panel was instantly lost to view.

  Bolan triggered a 9mm probe into the night. He was rewarded by the sound of breaking glass as the slug ripped into and through the Spartan wheel­house. A second and third time the Beretta whispered its tale of death. Two more slugs tore through the walls of the craft's protective cabin. But the boat continued to move out into the bay.

  IN THE CABIN, the hand that had held the throttle wide open was now clenched in sudden pain. Hot metal tore its way through the helmsman's trousers and into his left thigh. The slug's mate buried itself harmlessly in the boat's ancient stern, inches from the man's shoulder.

  A pair of dull thuds caught the helmsman's atten­tion as two more 9mm parabellums searched for flesh and found seasoned oak instead.

  The man knew he was hit. But the pain was more a dull throbbing ache than searing hurt. He slowed the laboring engine to the point where he could horse it out of reverse. Without ever looking back at what­ever had come out of the night fog, he set course toward Eagle Nest Island.

  Once the boat was going at full speed, he dropped a knotted lashing onto the wheel. Then he gave his complete attention to his wound.

  With gentle and cautious fingers the guy probed his injury. For a terrible second he thought he had lost control of his bladder. But no, his crotch area was too sticky for it to be urine. It was blood. Good Christ, he was bleeding to death.

  With fingers he could now barely control, he un­hitched his belt. Shifting his weight to his good leg, he eased blood-soaked trousers down to his knees. Then he fumbled his lighter out of a pocket that was now around his ankles.

  In mounting panic he willed his hand to jerk the lighter's wheel. On the third attempt the lighter gave a flame that flickered and threatened to go out in the breeze.

  Oh, God, oh, God, no. The crimson mess of torn tissue was his flesh. And his blood. It was spurting from the savaged tissue as if someone were behind it with a pump.

  Think. What to do. Have to think. Think before you get fuzzy. Direct pressure. Raise the limb. Sterile compresses. Use a tourniquet only if willing to sacri­fice the limb.

  Pressure, that was the ticket. The spurting was lessening a bit, and he had not even started pressing on it. Maybe it just looked worse than it was. That was it. A flesh wound but not all that serious.

  As he sought something to use as a compress, the hardguy tried to remember something important about wounds that spurted. Arteries or veins? Which one spurted?

  He was tired. So damned tired. Just ease back against the hard seat and rest a minute or two. Eagle Nest Island was coming up quickly now. The old hulk was veering away from the landing, but it didn't matter. He would correct the wheel, which was lashed solidly, in just a minute. The worst that could happen would be the boat turning in a big circle.

  The lighter fell forgotten at his feet. His eyes flut­tered, then remained closed. By the time he remem­bered what he knew about the danger of severed arteries, it really made no difference. No difference at all.

  ON THE ISLAND, Big Jim Lane wiped a light froth of beer from his lips with the back of his huge hand. Jesse Lobato and some punk whose name Lane could not recall sat glued to the portable TV set across from Big Jim grunted and drained the remainder of the can in a single swallow. Without effort he crushed the can in his massive right paw, then looked around the room that served as a combination day room and communications center.

  This island gig came about as close to a prison term abad is any contract he had ever taken. Eagle Nest or bat den or whatever the hell the godforsaken chunk of rock and trees was called, was enough to drive him stark raving nuts. Getting the docks and boathouse and other structures built was a pain. Having to live in them was an even bigger pain.

  And those stinking fishing boats. Enough to gag a maggot. And if the smell didn't kill you, then the bobbing and bouncing in the ocean would. What a mess. Import-export was fine—but not up here, buried in the exposed armpit of New England.

  Big Jim Lane considered himself number one in his business. And the business of supplying terrorists and street fighters with military hardware had never been better. It was about as hard as snapping his thick fingers for Big Jim to have the boys hit a Na­tional Guard armory or Army reserve depot and pick up enough weaponry to restart the Civil War. Or, if foreign stuff was needed, a couple of phone calls, a cable or two, and one of Big Jim's boats would meet a freighter out at sea. It was that easy once you had your organization set up and running smoothly.

  But this! He snapped the ring on another can of beer and gulped most of its contents in a long swig. This was something else again. The only boats worth setting foot on were those his boys ran up from Bos­ton. And they were sitting idle in the new boathouse.

  He could understand the wisdom in using local fishing and lobstering craft to make off-shore pick­ups and deliveries. It made sense. Not that the ex­changes were difficult. They were not. People were a lot easier and quicker to move than guns. Men could scramble up and down rope ladders. At least these guys could. Big Jim gulped the remainder of the can, then crushed it.

  Moving these guys in and out of the country was kids' play. But sitting here and watching that god­damn fog come in and bury you was the pits. And the people who ran those stinking old wooden tubs . . . they were like characters out of the movies. He shook his massive head.

  It was his first gig in Maine. Big Jim fervently hoped it would be his last. The locals who lived around the bay gave him the creeps, the absolute skin-crawling willies. They never smiled. Most of the time they never talked. They just looked at a guy and right through him. It was their hard eyes that made a man afraid to turn his back.

  Big Jim reached for another beer. The hell with them. They were so badly panicked they would cer­tainly not give Jim and his boys any trouble. They had turned in their weapons. They were moving peo­ple back and forth like a flock of good little sheep. That was one thing Big Jim could guarantee. Once his boys showed people it was to their advantage to cooperate, they cooperated.

  "Jesse." Big Jim raised his voice to carry over the sound from the TV. "Any word yet about Hank?" He knew there was not. Hell, there couldn't have been, or Jim would have heard the radio from where he sat.

  "Not yet, boss. Manny and a couple of troops are checking it out." Jesse never took his eyes from the set.

  "Well, check on it from time to time. We got im­portant cargo due in later tonight. There can't be any slipups on this shipment, or some of you guys will have to learn to walk while carrying your head."

  "Right, boss. Everything's under control. Where's this bunch from? Libya?"

  "Who knows? Or cares for that matter."

  The door to the communications room opened to admit Bad Louie Stevens and Murph O'Reilly. streamers of fog trailed behind them, only to be cut off by the door's closing.

  "Any word from Manny?" Murph demanded. "Not yet."

  "That fog's the worst it's been all week," Bad Louie complained. "Can't see more than five, maybe ten feet."

&nbs
p; "Murph." Big Jim suddenly made a decision. "I hate like hell to have you do it, but roust some of the guys out and post double security. I've got bad vibes about tonight. And we can't have anything go wrong tonight. Not tonight of all nights."

  Murph stubbed out his cigarette and turned to do Big Jim's bidding. Bad Louie's eyes met those of the huge man whose orders he accepted without ques­tion.

  "You think we overlooked something?"

  Big Jim shook his head and sipped more beer. "Nah. It's just the fog and this damned island and those blasted people ashore. . . "

  6

  Mack Bolan made certain the car that was creeping through the fog was his. Then he broke cover and moved toward the vehicle. The kid must be used to driving in this pea-soup fog.

  Rick toed the brake the instant Bolan's blackclad form edged into the car's low beam.

  "Sorry it took me so long, Mr. Phoenix. Fog's really settling in. Looks as though it's here for the night, or at least for most of it."

  "Do you think it'll lift later?"

  Rick Cartright seemed to sniff the air before an­swering. "I can't say for sure. Sometimes it lifts about one or two in the morning. The land begins to cool down by then."

  "Let's get that trunk open."

  The youth left the driver's seat to join Bolan at the back of the car. When the trunk light illuminated the cargo area, Bolan heard the kid's quick intake of breath.

  "Is that a Thompson submachine gun?" the boy asked in an awe-filled voice.

  "It's an M-3. This one was manufactured about the time of World War II. It's slow-firing. Only about four hundred rounds per minute. But it's got a modified barrel and bolt so it can handle 9mm para­bellum rounds."

  "Wouldn't it have to have a new magazine as well?"

  Bolan let his eyes cut over toward the kid. "It's got an adapter." The kid was well informed, even if he didn't know an M-3 from a Thompson. "This model has a flash hider. That's another reason I chose it."

  Rick nodded his understanding.

  At Bolan's request the young man handed him a web belt from which a pair of fragmentation gre­nades hung ready. Rick's eyes widened again, but he made no comment. In silence the wiry youth watched as John Phoenix divided his supply of plastic explo­sives for easy packing. Half a dozen radio-controlled detonators and their remote unit topped off the big warrior's gear.

  "Is that the stuff they call goop?" Rick asked.

  "Some do. Plastic is a good enough term."

  "How about plastique?"

  "That's fine, too. You read a lot, don't you?"

  "Does it show?"

  "A bit. Keep it up."

  "And now you need a boat."

  Yeah, the kid was no dummy.

  "They took Uncle Ed's after they . . ." His voice suddenly cracked. "After they killed him." The words were forced past tightly drawn lips.

  "And Becky's grandfather has been out most of the day. We couldn't use his trawler anyhow. But I think his dory is still tied up at the dock. I know we can use it. I'll row you across."

  Together they started out on foot in the direction of the village lights.

  "Is Becky's grandfather out fishing?"

  "No way. He left old Bill Welch behind. Bill's crewed for Tom Devereaux for as long as I can remember. Tom went out alone today."

  "Is that usual?"

  "The way things have been going around here for the last month or so, who knows what's usual or not?"

  "Any ideas?"

  "My guess is he's either meeting a ship at sea or he went down to Boston for cargo."

  "Illegal cargo?"

  "If it was legal he'd have taken Bill Welch with him." The kid's clipped tone indicated he'd said all he intended to. They walked on in silence.

  In the near distance a dog, alerted by the sound of their approach, started an insistent barking. Rick spoke its name, and the animal fell silent.

  They passed two lighted dwellings before Rick turned off the path toward a third. Still in the lead, the kid stepped onto the wooden porch. He stamped his deck shoes on the wood several times as though to clean them of any mud or dirt.

  Bolan recognized the gesture for what it was: an in­formal announcement of their presence. Rick's knuckles beat a quick, light message on the door frame. When the knocking brought no response, Rick repeated it.

  Footfalls approached the door from inside. A latch clicked, and the door opened to allow a sliver of yel­low light to intrude into the night.

  "It's Rick Cartright, Mrs. Devereaux. I've got a friend with me. His name is Mr. John Phoenix. May we come in for a minute?"

  The door swung fractionally wider to admit Rick's slim body. Bolan was forced to push gently against the wooden door to enter the room.

  For a minute the big guy in battle black silently faced the middle-aged woman as they measured each other. Everything about her seemed to be sharp angles, and her lined face showed the weariness of years of New England survival. Tall, thin, almost bony, Mrs. Devereaux was a living caricature of the sea-and weather-battered dwellers who made their living from the waters of coastal Maine.

  She gave no indication of what she thought of the man in black. Her sharp blue eyes took in his every feature without any change in expression.

  "And this is Becky's great-aunt, Mrs. Whitmore." Rick broke the room's stillness with his introduction.

  Bolan turned his attention to the other woman whose presence he noted when he entered the tidy room.

  The women were two of a kind, though Mrs. Whit­more appeared a few years younger than Becky's grandmother. She did not greet Bolan, but stood somewhat stiffly in the corner of the room. An unspoken signal passed between the two women. Mrs. Whitmore moved toward the room's center. Behind her lay a butcher knife whose fifteen-inch blade glint­ed brightly on the top of an ancient china hutch. "You fixin' to start a war?" Mrs. Devereaux's voice was strangely full and rich, not at all in keeping with her bony limbs and jutting elbows.

  "If I have to," Bolan told her.

  His answer satisfied her. She turned her back on the big guy. "Velma, why don't you set two more places for Rick and Mr. Phoenix." To Bolan she said, "My sister and I were just going to have a cup of tea. You'll join us, won't you?"

  Time was in short supply for Mack Bolan. Yet he understood the invitation was a form of welcome, of acceptance.

  "We're a bit pressed for time, but we'd be happy to. Thank you."

  She nodded, then led the way toward the kitchen. Four cups and saucers now adorned a spotless linen tablecloth spread on the kitchen table.

  "We came by the pigpen," Rick said. "The pigs were hungry, so I fed them some cracked corn. It's not near enough to satisfy them, but I thought I'd better not give them any more. They sounded like they hadn't been fed all day. Maybe not since yester­day."

  "Thank you, Rick. I'll see they get fed properly." Her tone belied her words. The woman had more on her mind than the hungry sows.

  "How long will Becky be up at Bangor?" Rick accepted a homemade cookie to accompany his cup of tea.

  "Not long, I reckon." The eyes of the two sis­ters met again in a quick flash that was not lost on Bolan.

  "You said she's at her aunt's," Rick continued.

  He didn't look up from the table when she spoke. "I seem to recall telling you that."

  Her wording caught Bolan's trained ear. She did not tell Rick that Becky was there, only admitted having told him she was.

  "Maybe I might just call her on the phone." Rick's words were casual, his face guileless.

  "Don't do that," Mrs. Devereaux said too quick­ly, staring at the youth until he raised his eyes to meet hers. "It won't do you any good, Rick. And it might do Becky harm."

  This time the eyes that locked belonged to Bolan and the kid. In uneasy silence, the quartet sipped the scalding tea.

  "Mrs. Devereaux, I'd like to borrow your hus­band's dory if I may." Rick came to the point of their visit.

  "Going fishing in this fog?"

  Bolan gri
nned inwardly. He liked her style. Rick hesitated, then received permission from Bolan's all but imperceptible lifting of dark brows. "I'm going to row Mr. Phoenix out to the island."

  "The tide's coming in. Mind those submerged rocks just off the near end. Reckon you don't want to hole the boat and have to swim back."

  "Thanks, Mrs. Devereaux. I'll take care."

  Rick looked at Bolan, then turned back to Mrs. Devereaux. "We'd best be getting on our way, Mrs. Devereaux," the boy said. "Thanks for the tea and cookies."

  "Thank you very much, ladies." Bolan pushed back the straight wooden chair and came to his feet.

  "If you're thinking of landing on the island and moving around a bit, you won't go far dressed like that," Mrs. Devereaux said to Bolan, getting to her feet. "Let me get you some of Tom's gear. You can slip it on right over that outfit you're wear­ing."

  Without waiting for his response she left the room and moved toward an enclosed rear porch. Seconds later she returned with stained trousers and a dark waterproof jacket. A black knitted cap and worn rubber-soled boots completed the fisherman's outfit.

  "Thank you," Bolan said as he accepted the offer­ing. All but the clumsy boots were welcome in the event he had to blend in and mingle with the troops on the island.

  Bolan and Rick were already at the door when Mrs. Devereaux said, "There's one more thing." She addressed her words directly to Rick.

  "You remember that foreign-sounding man in the shiny black shoes? The one who frightened Mrs. Bar­low so badly a week ago tomorrow?"

  "Do you mean the man who asked her how much she'd miss her baby if he burned up in a fire?"

  "That's him. He's been standing guard down at the dock. Been there since noon. Won't let anyone out onto the pier."

  Her steely blue eyes took in Bolan's weaponry. "Some men are just too ornery mean to be allowed to live."