Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap Page 8

  It took precious minutes for him to locate a length of nylon line and a fifteen-pound mushroom anchor near the front end of the building. Half a dozen quick wrappings of the line and the dead troop was ready for his final launching into the dark and uncer­tain world of never.

  As Bolan ran the line's free end through the ring at the top of the anchor, he added the .38 for good mea­sure. Tying the two loose ends of nylon together in a quick square knot, he eased the body over the edge of the walkway. With a minimum of sound, Mack Bo­lan consigned the body to the sea that filled the boat­house.

  Aware that time was speeding by, he hastily slid the worn jacket and trousers over his damp black suit. Not the way he wanted to do it, but the most logical way of keeping the game in play as long as possible.

  The trail of dead pointed more and more directly toward the very plank upon which he stood. First Hank lying unattended and unmourned on the rocky shore down from Ed Warner's modest cabin. Then the corpse now stashed beneath the keel-up dory on the town pier.

  On the other side of the island a sentry was now getting a taste of guard duty in hell. On a nearby bunk one of Europe's top bomb-makers and maim­ers of the innocent slept his final sleep. And now, almost at Bolan's feet, rested a hardguy who couldn't think on his feet fast enough to realize that nitro didn't come in waxed paper wrappings.

  Bolan cracked open the side door through which he came earlier. Seeing no reason to delay, he again became as one with the fog and dark.

  11

  The fingers of Wilmer Moore's big-knuckled hand closed about Becky's wrist hard enough to inflict pain. Refusing to show any emotion at his cruelty, yet careful not to antagonize the lecherous man, the girl regarded him with dark, watchful eyes.

  "You've made your point. What do you want me to do?"

  "Just follow along for the time being." He put his words into action and moved in the direction of the rear door of the farmhouse.

  "If we're going outside, I'd like to put my sneakers on first."

  His laugh was all-knowing, full of mockery.

  "Take me for a proper fool, don't you." The fin­gers that imprisoned her wrist turned in a twisting motion.

  Becky Devereaux flinched at the unexpected in­crease in pain in spite of her resolve. Imagining no alternative that didn't involve another facial bruise, she followed him from the room.

  At first she thought the battered old Dodge was their ultimate destination. It proved to be but a stop­ping point where Wilmer gathered a red battery powered flashlight and a pair of wrenches. Seconds later he ordered her to pull open the sliding door of the small barn.

  Weathered to the point where not a flake of the original paint remained, the barn leaned as though to avoid a direct confrontation with winter winds. The structure was like those who peopled the desolate area. It was simply too stubborn to give in. It just continued to survive year after testing year.

  Once inside, Wilmer thumbed the flashlight to glowing life. The beam circled the dirt floor until it fell upon a length of chain. He tugged the girl forward.

  "Sit."

  "Here? On the ground?"

  "That's what I just said, little lady." He bore down on her wrist to give emphasis to his words.

  Becky sat. The earth beneath her was oil-stained and spotted with the drippings and drainings from the crankcases of poorly maintained vehicles.

  He shone the light directly in her eyes. Becky's right hand came up to shield her contracting pupils from the glare.

  "I'm going to let go of your arm, Becky. I'm going to fit a little iron bracelet around your ankle. It won't hurt unless you make me want to cause it to hurt. But let me warn you, little girl. If you do anything to try my patience, I'll for sure put my boots to you. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

  "I understand." Her voice was low and contained the hatred she'd vowed to hide.

  True to his word, Wilmer released her left wrist in exchange for the corresponding ankle. The sudden­ness of his gesture caught her off-balance. Unable to get either hand behind her quickly enough to support herself, Becky's head thudded onto the hard-packed earth. He jerked her bare ankle upward to the level of his own waist, keeping her unbalanced and unable to do more than attempt to get her hands behind her.

  Cold metal bands encircled her slim ankle. A bolt-hinge joined the two pieces of metal just above her Achilles tendon. They met at the front of the ankle. Wilmer slipped a bolt through the matched holes drilled in the free ends of the metal shackles.

  Once the bolt was in place he spun the nut onto the threads until it was finger tight. Then, supporting her heel on his muscular leg, he used the pair of wrenches to tighten the nut. No one with fingers as his only tool would ever loosen it.

  Satisfied that he'd done the job properly, Wilmer laid the wrenches a safe distance from the girl. In his right hand he grasped the free end of the light tow chain. In his left he held the flashlight whose beam he directed aloft.

  The yellow finger of light caught and held an over­head rafter. Rough cut, the ancient chunk of lumber was a full four by twelve inches. Having supported the upper barn structure for the better part of a cen­tury, there wasn't a chance in the world it was not equal to the task Wilmer set for it.

  Wilmer bunched the chain's loose end in his big fist. With a casual heave he tossed the fistful of chain over the rafter. It passed up and over the solid piece of wood, then began its descent in a rattle of rust-spotted links.

  He let his light locate the chain's free end hanging at chest level. Once Wilmer grasped it in his big hand and tugged, the chain obliged by sliding over the top edge of the rough-cut beam.

  Becky felt the shackle tighten on her ankle. Its sharp edges began to cut into the top of her bare foot. To avoid further pain she crab-scooted forward until she was directly beneath the overhead beam. As Wilmer continued to pull downward on the chain, her impris­oned foot and ankle were elevated higher into the air.

  When her trim buttocks barely touched the packed earthen floor, Wilmer was satisfied. Three times in rapid succession he fired the loose end of the ever-shortening chain about the beam. Following the third swing he plucked a short length of baling wire from a nail.

  Wilmer straightened the eight-inch piece of wire and quickly wove it into the chain's dangling end and one of the links now held taut by the counterweight of the girl's body. He ran the wire in and out a pair of times before twisting the free ends together firmly.

  "There." He slid the beam of light the length of the chain that held her leg suspended. "That should keep you out of trouble until I get back."

  Becky's dark eyes traveled the chain's length with the movement of the light. Flat on her back as she was, her leg extended to its very limit, Becky Deve­reaux recognized the futility of her position.

  "Don't bother to call for help, little lady. There's not a soul closer than a mile from here at best. And if I return and find you exercising your lungs, I might just take it into my head to whip your little butt good for disobeying me."

  He swung the flashlight so it shone full in the girl's face. Then he played the light along the length of her nubile young body, licking his lips as he observed her vulnerable position.

  "I'll be back directly. But now I've got to slip down to the village to see that your grandpa brought me exactly what he was supposed to. For your sake I hope he did. You're too pretty a child to have to go through life with part of you missing just because old Tom Devereaux was too stupid or too stubborn to follow written instructions."

  He straightened. Then Wilmer suddenly dropped to his knees beside the girl. In her eyes he read some­thing of the frustration she experienced. He recog­nized the look, having seen it in the mirror while shaving for the last quarter of a century.

  Her lips were dry and pressed together. It detract­ed from the natural beauty of her face. Through a gap in the rough flannel he saw the white lace of her bra.

  His free hand slid between two buttons of her shirt and roughly covered the
firm mound of inviting woman-flesh. His big, rough thumb peeled back the top edge of her bra and edged onto the creamy skin itself.

  In a flash her hands formed claws and raked his face. Though she aimed for his eyes, the man was too quick for her. Instead her short nails dug multiple furrows down his leathery cheeks.

  Cursing in a combination of pain and surprise, Wilmer Moore jerked back from her attack. Once clear of her hooked fingers he pulled a soiled ban­danna from a pocket and gingerly dabbed at the welts left by her nails. They were beginning to ooze blood into his cheek stubble.

  "You'll pay dearly for that, little lady," he said matter-of-factly. A glance at his wrist indicated he lacked the time just then.

  Wilmer turned on his heel and covered the distance to the outer door in three long strides.

  Over his shoulder he said, "Lie there and think of all the ways a woman can pleasure a man, Becky. Be­cause when I get done down at Kenlandport, you bet­ter be ready to pleasure me considerable."

  His big hands grasped the heavy sliding door and shot it closed angrily.

  Becky Devereaux lay on her back and shoulders in a world suddenly gone darker than she recalled it having any right to be.

  MACK BOLAN was less than half a dozen paces from the boathouse door when the slim figure of Rick Cartright materialized from nowhere. Keeping it casual, Bolan moved to meet the kid.

  "Did you see any sign of Becky?" The kid's voice was harsh and hissing.

  "Not yet," Bolan admitted.

  "It's no use. She's not anywhere close. I've just checked the barracks or whatever they call it. Every room is empty except for some guy sleeping in one."

  Yeah. So crazy old Poe was right.

  "I've even been over to the generator room. I saw you lugging crates into the supply depot, and you just checked the boathouse. She's not anywhere on the site.

  "There's just one other possibility." Rick leaned close. "Clear at the west end of the island, the end nearest shore, is an old cabin. I used to row out when I was a kid and eat lunch there. Once I even spent the night. It's not much, but that's the only place they could have her. I'm going to check it out."

  Bolan stayed the kid with a touch on his forearm.

  "Let me do it." Doubled guard strength gave the kid little or no chance for rescue even if he did man­age to reach his destination.

  Sensing Rick's immediate reluctance, Bolan hast­ened to add, "I need you here. They've accepted you. Keep your eyes and ears open. We need every scrap of intelligence you can gather."

  He could almost feel the kid's thoughts. The in­stant Rick reached his decision Bolan sensed it.

  "Okay. I'll do it. But get going fast. They're ex­pecting something or someone very important pretty soon. Everyone's already pretty keyed up."

  Rick stepped back half a pace and regarded the big man solemnly in the shadowy light.

  "There's a lot of talk about three guys all shot to hell coming in on a boat shortly before we arrived. Did you kill them, too?"

  "Do you really want to know?"

  "That's why I asked."

  "Yes."

  Suddenly the kid had nothing to say. Bolan saw his lips part and throat work as he swallowed a couple of times. Finally the kid got some words into his mouth.

  "Thanks for going to get Becky. Just be careful. There are quite a few men on guard duty. And watch where you walk until you get into the woods. You're leaving puddles."

  With that the kid was gone. An empty tray and white dishtowel swung free in his hands, badges of his acceptance into the group that controlled Eagle Nest Island.

  Less than thirty seconds after their parting the Exe­cutioner had become just one more shadow in the woods.

  Aware that its usefulness was at an end, he shucked the fisherman's garb from his muscular frame. Mov­ing more freely now, the Executioner made short work of the ground between him and the island's shoreward tip. His only regret was that the big, booming .44 AutoMag and the M-3 were still in the dory. Thinking about what you need doesn't put it in your hands, so Bolan gave his entire mind over to what he was doing.

  He smelled the pair on outpost duty before he heard them and before the dim outline of the log cabin with its sagging roof showed black against the lesser dark of fog and damp. Overhead the moon tried and failed to peer through the cloud cover and into the fog. For his own peace of mind Bolan hoped the fog would hold and the moon remain only a dim glow. At least for the time being. The night and fog were on his side. And the battle-black warrior needed every ally available to him.

  The recollection of having been caught off guard twice previously was still fresh in Bolan's mind. He scouted the immediate area with more than necessary care. Then he closed in on the pair unlucky enough to draw this position on their least lucky of nights.

  Satisfied that the two were alone, the Executioner moved forward on silent feet. The pair leaned easily against a wall of the old cabin. The one with the cigar was to Bolan's right. The cigarette smoker stood at the other corner.

  When only a scant five yards from the cigar-smoking guard, Bolan pushed his luck no further. From the corner of his eye he saw the faint suggestion of lights on the shore. The fog, as Rick predicted, was lifting.

  With the care of a sleek house cat stalking a mouse, Bolan eased the silenced Beretta from its leather home. With movements as careful and dan­gerous as death itself, he brought the all-knowing eye of the gun to bear.

  The 93-R murmured her siren song of death. The guy with the cigar reacted as a 9mm parabellum did unthinkable things to the flesh and fiber that housed his very being. His shattered lower teeth and destroyed jawbone were suddenly no longer capable of supporting the weight of his half-smoked cigar.

  As the glowing twist of expensive tobacco fell free of the destroyed mouth, the second 9mm ripper seemed to follow its course downward. Where the diaphragm separates the abdominal cavity from the thoracic space, a sudden tearing of vital tissue oc­curred. The slug holed the muscular diaphragm, then angled slightly upward to nick the lower lobe of the left lung. When it exited the body, the jacketed slug punched its path through the meeting point of two vertebrae. The disc separating the two became non­existent as the spiraling slug forced passage through bone, muscle and tissue.

  Still firing from a motionless crouch, Bolan sent a similar pair of life-enders toward the unwary guard holding up the far corner of the cabin.

  The first offering provided the guy with an addi­tional opening on the near side of his skull. Whether or not the extra ear hole enabled him to hear the deli­cate strumming of distant harps, or the cries and moans of those in hell, Bolan had no idea. Nor did he care.

  Instead of considering the matter, he caressed the Beretta's hair trigger once more. The second time the weapon emitted its whizzing bit of eternity, the dead­ly parabellum bored its way through a rib and into the guy's life pump.

  Savaged red matter was expanding and trying des­perately to find an opening, any opening, to relieve the suddenly unbearable pressure. Meanwhile, the guy's heart was having to cope with an inch-long chunk of rib that tore its way through the wall of the right auricle.

  Both vital organs reached the same conclusion at the same instant. Life was no longer possible under present conditions. Having come to that understand­ing, they pulled the plug. The sentry was dead by the time his elbows touched the leaf-and twig-covered ground.

  Bolan trod upon both the cigar and cigarette with a twisting motion of his left foot. Then he faced the opening into the cabin that once held a door.

  Penlight in hand, he approached the one-room in­terior with light and Beretta at the ready. Both probed the open space. One with a thin beam of light and hope, the other with an empty black eye that promised nothing better than instant death.

  Not wanting to trust the ancient and rotting floor­boards, the Executioner surveyed the cabin from the doorframe. There was no need to walk in. Except for some scattered newspapers and an old wooden apple crate, the cabin was empty.
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  He backed away from the doorway and extin­guished the effective little flashlight. So much for that. And so much for any hope of locating Becky De­vereaux on the island.

  Without pausing to consider the implications of the empty cabin, the man in black blended into the forest. Moving as fast as possible among the trees, he retraced his previous steps.

  Even as he planned the next and vital phase of his soft probe now turned hard, a question nagged at the back of his mind. If the girl wasn't on the island, then where the hell was she?

  12

  Again becoming one shadow among many, Mack Bolan pulled up while shielded from view by the screen of trees separating him from the cleared site. The area housing the small compound had taken on the look of an anthill whose top has unexpectedly been kicked off. Movement of armed guards ap­peared more for the sake of motion than to accom­plish a given purpose.

  Yeah, the troops were upset. That much was obvi­ous. Weapons were on open display. Side arms were already in hand. It was as though they expected the Marines to swarm ashore at any minute.

  The dock was more crowded than when he left. A weather-worn fishing boat had arrived. Whether or not it was the one captained by Stiles, Bolan didn't know. The increased activity could possibly be in­tended to impress newly arrived VIPS. It could stem from the discovery of one very dead sentry on the op­posite side of the island. It might well be the result of having discovered that a "sleeping" visitor was ac­tually in the arms of lasting slumber. And it could indicate any number of other possibilities. None of them good for the American warrior.

  One thing was certain. Standing immobile amid the trees and shadows wasn't going to shed light on the problem. Armed to the teeth as they were, the troops were going to require more firepower than his silenced Beretta could provide.

  Having reached that conclusion, Bolan instantly became a moving bit of black among the trees. It took him a few minutes to skirt the site and prepare to enter the water at the far side of the boathouse. Hating to again subject himself to the chill of the sea but knowing no other course of action was open, Bolan slipped into the lapping waves. For the second time in less than an hour the ever faithful Beretta felt the corrosive caress of salt water. As Bolan put the power of his broad shoulders and muscular arms into his under-the-surface stroke, he mentally promised the loyal weapon a thorough cleaning and oiling once the night came to its bloody end.