Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap Page 5

  Bolan felt the kid's dissatisfaction with the order. At the same time he sensed the boy would carry it out. Together they moved forward.

  Though less dense than on the mainland, the un­dergrowth still hindered their advance and made silence doubly difficult to maintain. Twice the kid stooped to retrieve rocks from the forest floor.

  When Bolan pulled to a halt beside a thick-trunked tree, the kid was at his side as close as his own shadow. He indicated the tree with a jerk of his hand, and the kid nodded and stood fast.

  Alone, Bolan moved more rapidly through the dark woods. Much as he might have liked to scout the area in a crisscross fashion, Bolan opted for a quick forward movement. He desperately needed to get a firsthand look at his eventual goal.

  When he viewed the lighted landing area from the raised spine of the narrow island, Bolan's trained eye quickly took in the tightly grouped buildings. In the harsh glare of the high-intensity lights, the area had a somewhat unearthly look about it in the fog. The combination of the bright lights and a rising breeze enabled the Executioner to study the site sufficiently to commit the layout to memory. Boathouse, genera­tor building, mess and sleeping facilities, and com­mand area all formed a compact site.

  Movement from the dock caught his attention. Men in pairs strained to move canvas-wrapped bun­dles toward the shore. Bolan allowed himself a pass­ing feeling of satisfaction. The troops removing the three bodies would keep the bloodied remains in mind for hours to come. Along with confusion, ap­prehension was an effective battlefield strategy.

  Certain now that he needed to move among them, Bolan prepared to retreat from his forward observa­tion post. Rapid movement caught and held his gaze. Armed men were being dispatched toward the site's perimeter. They moved at the double and seemed to have a clear idea of what was expected of them.

  Bolan smiled inwardly. Exactly what any good field commander would do. Double or even triple the strength on the outposts. Protect against enemy ad­vance. Defend the hardsite.

  The increased number of troops assigned to beef up the perimeter meant that he would have to deal with fewer men when he hit the site. And hit it he would. Only Mack Bolan planned to come in from the sea. That was the one direction from which an at­tack was not expected. Therefore it was the one direc­tion from which The Executioner would come.

  As though the elements had determined that the warrior in night garb needed no further time for ob­servation, the breeze died. Tendrils of fog again be­gan to seek out the forest floor, but it didn't matter. Bolan was already moving toward the waiting kid.

  Bolan made few mistakes in his life. He could not afford them and continue to survive. But in the dark­ened woods on Eagle Nest Island the guy in black made an error. As combat errors go it was not major. But in Bolan's trade any mistake could instantly am­plify and become life-threatening.

  His quick recon told Bolan the troops were city-born and -bred. Only the lean, silent man in the drab and worn gear of a working boat handler seemed local. Once having determined the adversary to be from the streets and alleys of urban jungles, Bolan dismissed their ability once away from familiar turf.

  Moving rapidly and in near total silence, he made his way back toward the waiting Rick Cartright. Se­cure in the knowledge that he would detect anything foreign to the scene, Bolan was already planning the probe he intended to make.

  The sentry rose out of the dark like a silent shadow of death. Only Bolan's superb reflexes enabled him to get an arm up in time to keep the wide-swinging blow from taking off the top of his head. Ducking, twisting, Bolan was falling away from the swinging weapon when contact came. The blow's effectiveness was diminished by the fact Bolan was moving away at the time of impact. Even so, the force of the round­house swing of the club instantly took all feeling and use from his left arm.

  Too late to try for the Beretta, too late to go for a groin kick, Bolan deliberately let the club drive him back. Using the attacker's force to give speed to his own move, Bolan rolled clear. He put valuable dis­tance between himself and the big goon who material­ized from nowhere.

  In the space of a single heartbeat Bolan recognized his adversary. Not as an individual but as a type. It was in that instant Mack Bolan realized his mental er­ror.

  Not all members of the criminal element who prowl city streets in search of prey are city dwellers by acci­dent of birth. Some come to the city to escape the twin evils of rural poverty and a life of unrewarded effort. This was one of them. At a guess Bolan placed his point of origin as a wooded mountain area in West Virginia, Kentucky, or Tennessee.

  Like so many, the guy gravitated north and east to become another violent predator in the asphalt jun­gle. Whether the migration was prefaced by a tour in Vietnam was a moot question at this point. What was important was that the man was strong, had the ad­vantage for the moment, and enjoyed inflicting pain and suffering. Had it been otherwise, he'd have sim­ply blown Bolan to hell with either his side arm or his primary piece. The use of the club indicated a desire to maim as a portion of the death rite.

  Off balance, still in backward motion, Bolan struggled to get his powerful legs under him. The guy was on him like a big hungry forest creature lusting for fresh meat. The straight length of oak probed for Bolan as the man closed the distance separating them in a bound.

  The end of the club smashed into Bolan's breast­bone, driving him back and toward the earth. A pain­ful, numbing tingle spread outward from the point of impact. And in that instant Bolan knew.

  The use of the end of the club, the blow to the breastbone, indicated police training. Yeah, the guy was the product of a military police unit somewhere. Probably took part in riot training. Maybe even helped keep some sort of order during those last chaotic days of the final American withdrawal from that Southeast Asian hell.

  A tree trunk halted Mack Bolan's backward move­ment. Instinctively he drew his legs toward him ready to lash out with both feet. And just as instinctively the attacker moved to his own left to avoid the direct impact of those feet. It was Bolan's first break and the only one he needed.

  Instead of trying to swivel to keep his feet toward the guy with the club, Bolan filled his fist with the Beretta's comforting weight. Three times the gun whispered in rapid succession. And each whisper was accompanied by the departure of a 9mm flesh-tearing jacketed slug. As though to light their way, the muz­zle flashed with each muffled report.

  The guy could have survived the first hit. The slug struck a rib a glancing blow, altered its direction, and plowed its path through muscle and tissue. It exited just below the left collarbone.

  The second did even less permanent damage. It caught the edge of the club and became a misshapen ricochet. The torn and twisted chunk of metal ripped flesh and tissue from just below the man's rib cage. It was a painful wound, though far from fatal.

  It was the third of the trio of 9mm rippers that ac­tually did the job. The slug entered the guy's throat, impacted with the delicate structure of the larynx and exited from the back of the muscular neck. On its way out of the still-living body, the metallic messenger of death took with it a piece of cervical vertebrae. That severed the spinal cord. The sentry who enjoyed ad­ministering physical pain died while still on his feet.

  Bolan returned the Beretta to its holster and stood up. Despite the numbness, his left fingers flexed slowly at his urging. The arm would return to useful­ness shortly.

  The sound of a crackling branch came to him from the near distance. Like a shadow fading among its fellows, Bolan blended with a tree trunk. Beretta once more in hand, he waited.

  The slim figure was less than five yards from where Bolan waited when the big guy made absolutely posi­tive identification.

  "Rick." He hissed the single word into the night.

  The kid halted instantly, head up, totally alert.

  Bolan showed himself and again returned gun to leathered safety. "I told you to hold your position."

  "I heard sounds and figured you
needed help," the youth said, defending his action. At that instant Rick caught sight of the fallen sentry. He peered into the gloom in an effort to study the man.

  "That's three less for us to worry about," the kid said. "Now what?"

  "Back to the dory. Let's row around the east end of the island and pay our friends a visit."

  The pair moved rapidly toward their waiting craft. "You mean just row up to their dock?"

  "It's the best way I know of to check them out up close. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if they might be in need of a replacement."

  "Or two."

  Together they muscled the heavy dory afloat. Bo­lan helped push it effortlessly into the sea despite the diminished strength in his left arm.

  The kid was again straining at the long oars when he told Bolan, "I meant what I said. I'm coming with you. All the way."

  Bolan made no reply. He understood the kid's need.

  "Uncle Ed was about the closest thing I had to a family. I owe him."

  Yeah, it was just as cut-and-dried as that. A kid no more than eighteen who could not weigh more than one hundred forty with his shoes full of salt water, turns his grief into action. And a search for justice. He is without family. His uncle has just been turned into the worst kind of turkey. His girl is probably kidnapped. Yet the kid rows a heavy dory without complaining and accepts everything as it comes.

  Add to that the fact he is willing to follow Bolan's lead and walk right into the middle of a nest of vipers. All this with a single-bladed clasp knife in the right-hand pocket of his jeans.

  From time to time the Executioner considered the futility of what he did and tried to do for a world in­capable or unwilling to do for itself. Considered and came close to concluding his efforts were question­able at best.

  And then along comes a Rick Cartright. And by his coming erases all doubt as to the rightness of what Mack Bolan did.

  And, yeah, Bolan would continue to mentally refer to him as the kid. But the kid who pulled steadily at the oars was a man in every sense of the word. This was no kid brother; Bolan trusted that Rick Cart­wright would take absolute responsibility for himself in a battle zone.

  Feeling as suddenly refreshed as though just awak­ened from a long and pleasant sleep, the warrior in battle black peered ahead. The lighted landing area was now visible around the rocky point of the island.

  8

  While still well clear of the new dock, Mack Bolan slid into the seaman's gear except for the rubber boots. Those he left in full view of any who might look into the vessel. He stuffed his M-3, extra ammo, explosives and web belt with its dangling grenades beneath the sacking and canvas that lay at the bottom of the dory. It was not all that he might have wished for as far as hiding places go, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

  With reluctance he unstrapped the .44 AutoMag and slid it out of sight under his seat. The Beretta re­mained in its holster beneath his left arm. In the bulky jacket he now wore, the outline of gunleather was impossible to spot.

  A few yards out from the dock Bolan raised his voice.

  "Hello there on the dock. We're coming in."

  His words were the first clue most of those ashore had as to the boat's presence. Even the rhythmic creak of the oars in their locks had not alerted them. There was one exception, Bolan noted. The lean man in seaman's garb was conscious of their approach. Bolan realized the man was following their progress with his ears well before his keen eyes verified what he heard.

  With every other stroke the kid was turning to peer quickly toward shore.

  "Don't look into those lights," Bolan warned.

  In the perimeter of the brightened area Bolan saw the kid's face clearly. A quick down-twist of lips told him his caution was unnecessary.

  After another backward glance Rick muttered for only Bolan to hear, "The guy just standing there watching us. The skinny one. That's Bud Stiles."

  "Friend?"

  "He's from Kenlandport. He's got a wife and kids. Little kids. And just like the rest, Bud's scared bad."

  The kid's reply was not a direct answer to Bolan's question. Even so, the meaning was clear.

  Bolan shot a glance at his wrist. Only minutes past ten. Time pressure wasn't a major factor. Not yet, at least.

  With casual skill born of long practice, the kid shipped the dockside oar and slid the heavy dory alongside the structure's fresh, raw wood.

  Bolan slipped a line around a cleat and drew the stern in close. Stiles did the same at the bow while the kid brought the second oar aboard.

  "Hi, Mr. Stiles." Rick's tone was bright, upbeat.

  The thin man responded with a nod so slight Bolan would have missed it had he not been watching the fisherman with his peripheral vision. For his own part, Bud Stiles gave the big man his total attention. He made no effort to disguise or mask his scrutiny.

  Bolan and the kid bounded easily onto the low dock.

  "Bud. I'm Maurice Cherboneau. From up north of Rockland. You and I met a few years back when I was down talking with Tom Devereaux." Bolan hoped his "down East" twang was convincing.

  It was obvious Stiles did not recall the meeting. It was equally apparent that Bolan's tactic was cor­rect and his accent accurate. Not only did the man relax, but several hard types standing nearby lost in­terest in the new arrivals. As far as they were con­cerned, Stiles had identified the pair in the boat. That was all that was necessary. They had more worrisome thoughts on their minds.

  It was role camouflage of the most precarious order. But it was the best Bolan could do, so he rode with what he had.

  He raised his voice and let his words carry. "I heard there might be some work available out here. Finance company took my boat last week. I'm about tapped out. Truth is I need a job and bad."

  "Same goes for me." Rick took his cue and delib­erately amplified his words. "I thought I had enough money to buy the stuff I need to finish that house I'm building. I thought wrong."

  A broad man of medium height detached himself from the work detail. Moving slowly to allow time to evaluate the pair on the dock, Murph O'Reilly ad­vanced toward them.

  "You know how to handle a boat?" He was still half a dozen paces from where Bolan stood.

  "Do fish know how to swim?"

  The solidly built man grunted a wordless reac­tion to Bolan's flip response. As Murph drew closer, Bolan noted the network of scars that made the man's face a roadmap of past battles won and lost.

  "You handle that tub?" Murph gestured toward the craft where Manny died.

  "No sweat." Bolan gave it no more than a passing cut of his icy blue eyes.

  "You might just get a chance to do that a little later." O'Reilly made his decision. "For now why don't you shag on up to the day room. That's the big building dead ahead. Ask for Jesse Lobato. Tell him Murph said to put you to work."

  Murph turned to leave.

  "What about me?" Rick's voice brought the man to a halt.

  "What about you?" Murph was one of those who can put a sneer into his voice while keeping his facial expression bland.

  "I need work, too. I didn't row this guy all the way out here just so he could get a job."

  Murph turned to glare at the upstart kid. Rick's eyes met his and held without faltering. The gang lieutenant gave a little snort and twisted his lips into a half smile.

  "I like your style, kid. Shag it up with your partner and tell Jesse I said you're both on the payroll."

  "Thanks." Rick's word went unacknowledged as Murph returned to his more pressing problems.

  Bolan nodded at Stiles and moved to pass the silent fisherman.

  "Got a knife I can borrow?" Stiles's request brought Bolan to a stop.

  In that instant Bolan realized the trap the other had set and sprung. Sure he had a knife. In a slit pocket beside his right calf was a stiletto whose twin edges would cut through anything worth cutting. But to produce such a blade, and from such a place, would prove his undoing.

  "Use mi
ne." Rick had his own razor-sharp blade out and was extending it toward Stiles.

  Without a change in expression the thin man with the chiseled features and hard eyes accepted the knife. For the briefest instant he sawed at a thread on his jacket that didn't need cutting. Then he returned the open knife, hilt first.

  "Thanks." As though his words were an after­thought Stiles asked, "How come you aren't working for Warner if you need money? Or even for Tom De­vereaux?"

  "Bill Welch crews for Tom. And Uncle Ed told me he'd come past the house and pick me up ear­lier today. He never showed. Maurice came along asking about a ride out here. I decided why not. After all, several of you men are helping them out." He met the eyes of the older man steadily, squarely.

  Whether or not the answer satisfied Stiles, he wasn't ready to make a case one way or the other. He turned on his heel and moved to check the pair of unenthusiastic men who were sluicing down the blood-slimed deck of the recently arrived diesel.

  Bolan shot the kid a quick glance. Rick responded with a half wink and flash of his dark eyes. Together they legged it toward the lighted building twenty-five or so yards from the line of high tide. Much as both desired to survey the site, now was not the time.

  BECKY DEVEREAUX gave every indication of centering her attention on the frying pan on the wood-burning stove. Wilmer Moore, seated at the kitchen table, knew nothing could be further from the truth. As she cracked eggs into the smoking pan and stirred them with quick motions, he knew the little vixen was thinking of some way, anyway, to get free of him.

  The clean line of her jaw was marred by a purpling discoloration. That was from where he had to smack her hard enough to keep her quiet when he dragged her into his battered old Dodge half-ton.

  Thank the good Lord he had had enough presence of mind to take off her sneakers while she was still out cold. Even with the rubber soles she might have been able to do enough damage to cripple him. As it was, her bare foot still got to his crotch hard enough to make him want to clutch at his privates and retch up what food was in his belly.