Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap

by Don Pendleton

  With that, she opened the door in silent invitation.

  When they were well clear of the modest house and moving downslope toward the incoming tide, Rick spoke.

  "Becky is a lot like her grandmother. She's pretty, sure. Actually beautiful. But inside she's got that same toughness."

  "She must be quite a girl."

  "She is." Then in fairness he added, "And so is Mrs. Devereaux. And her sister. They're worried sick about Becky. I can tell. I just know she's on the island! Why else would Tom take his trawler out alone? They've taken Becky and are holding her to make sure he does what they want!"

  Bolan could find no fault with Rick's logic. Silent­ly he thrust the bundle of clothing into Rick's arms. With a touch of his hand he indicated that he wanted the kid to shorten stride and remain behind him. They were approaching the pier.

  "Give me sixty seconds," Bolan ordered, his voice low. "Then start kicking some rocks around and make enough noise to attract his attention. Stay low just in case he gets jumpy."

  Without pausing for the kid's response, Bolan melted into the darkness of early night. The constant noise of the sea lapping at the ancient dock covered any sound the big guy might make. But it did more than that. It also obscured any noise the man on guard might make. It was a toss-up Bolan accepted.

  Keeping low, becoming black on black, he moved forward. With every sense alert, his hand wrapped around the eager Beretta, he moved ahead.

  The breeze pushed the smell of his prey's cigarette to him even before Bolan sighted the red glow through the misty fog. The acrid smoke was sharp and out of place amid the smell of fish long dead and the sea's ever-present and distinctive odor.

  Bolan moved close enough to study the outline of the unsuspecting guard. The man wore a city hat, nylon windbreaker, and a pair of twill trousers that must have come from L.L. Bean down in Freeport. The guy probably imagined the Bean pants auto­matically made him one of the locals.

  Going native wouldn't be a concern for much long­er, however.

  The Beretta spit flame twice, the first slug shatter­ing a portion of the man's lower jaw. The second 9mm flesh-mangler entered the man's chest. Inside his chest the guy's heart tried to figure how to cope with major damage. It failed.

  The kid was at Bolan's side almost instantly.

  Rick peered into the dark but made no attempt to get out his flashlight.

  "That's two down. At least two of the bastards won't be threatening to burn little babies alive," the kid said.

  Yeah. Rick did not know about the two, maybe three in the diesel-powered craft. And was just as well. Some things went better unknown and unsaid.

  "Let's get that dory into the water," Bolan said. "Somewhere out there a young lady is depending on us."

  7

  Big Jim Lane was aware of the commotion long be­fore Murph reentered the day room.

  "Boss, I think you'd better come down to the land­ing. We've got problems. Big problems."

  Big Jim was on his feet and moving toward the door.

  "What's happening?"

  Murph dogged his boss's steps like the faithful cur he was. "One of the guys heard this diesel coming in the fog, running full-out. Only the sound kept com­ing and then going. He finally figured out it was run­ning in circles. That guy Stiles from the village went out with a couple of the guys and slipped up beside the boat.

  "It was Manny's—the one he took in to check on Hank."

  "And?" Getting Murph to come to the point could be almost like pulling molars.

  "The wheel was lashed, and that was what was taking the tub around and around. Manny was dead at the helm. The two troops with him were both dead up in the bow. The boat looks like the kill floor of a packing plant."

  "What about Hank?"

  "No sign of him, boss. Just the three."

  Big Jim's ear caught the slight change in the noise made by the one big generator currently on line. The area just ahead brightened as portable high-intensity lights were switched on. Despite the fog, the area be­came bright. It was now more like a bar full of smoke than the inside of a coffin.

  Characteristically, Stiles stood apart from the gap­ing troops. In spite of the fact that the lean seaman was part of the local scene, Big Jim liked the man. No, strike that. Admired the independent cuss. Stiles knew his boat and he knew the sea. And he knew that if he didn't perform and deliver for as long as Big Jim Lane needed him, he'd sail home to find his wife and three kids cut into fish bait.

  "It's the boss."

  "Stand clear. Let Big Jim have a look."

  Underlings stood aside as their big leader moved forward. Once able to view the trio of bloody corpses laid out on the newly built floating dock, Big Jim wished he had taken Murph's word for it.

  Out of all the carnage it was Manny's face, ghostly pale in the lights' harsh glare, that drew and held his attention.

  "Why is he so white?" Lane demanded of no one, of anyone.

  "Just about all his blood's gone," a hushed voice informed the giant of a man. "A bullet just tore the living hell out of his thigh."

  "Any idea who did this?"

  A broken chorus of scattered denials came instant­ly.

  "How about you?" Big Jim fixed Stiles with a di­rect glare as though to impale the Maine resident with his gaze.

  "No one from Kenlandport did that." His flat tone lost none of its characteristic twang despite the emotion of the moment.

  "You'd better be sure of that. Damned sure."

  "I'm sure."

  Damn. First that Warner character broke free of his fear and tried to call in outside help. Now this. And if there was a time Big Jim didn't need any more worries, it was now. Not with major cargo due soon.

  "Wrap them up in canvas or something. Get them off the dock. Put the bodies somewhere out of sight. Murph."

  "Right here, boss."

  "Check that security. Mount a captain of the guard. Until I tell you different, this site has just gone hard."

  "Got it." O'Reilly moved instantly to do Big Jim's bidding.

  Bad Louie Stevens was at his side though Big Jim had no recollection of the smaller man's arrival. The two moved away from the immediate area.

  "Some of you guys get that boat cleaned up. We may need it later." Big Jim's command was directed to the silent group as a whole.

  When no one moved, Lane's voice became a bellow. "Get your asses in gear, dammit! You—Stiles. Choose two soldiers and get going."

  Without waiting to see his orders carried out, the big man lumbered back in the direction from which he came. In his wake Bad Louie trailed like a skiff towed by a tug.

  "Do you think the enemy is near?" Bad Louie ven­tured after checking to make certain his words would reach only the ears of his leader.

  "I don't know what to think. I know for sure I don't like what's happening. And for damned sure I don't like this fog."

  "It gets to me, too, boss."

  When the pair burst into the day room, Big Jim di­rected his first words to Jesse Lobato, whose interest was still centered on the small television screen.

  "Any word from Hank?"

  "Nothing yet, boss." Jesse didn't look away from the image on the screen.

  Big Jim's voice was deceptively calm. "Lobato, how'd you like to wear that set?"

  The troop's head came up instantly.

  "Sorry, boss." He nudged the guy at his side. "Turn that thing off, Fish."

  "You guys better get down to the dock and get use­ful." Bad Louie signaled them from the room with a wagging of his bushy brows. "Manny just bought it."

  The pair fled the scene.

  Bad Louie popped a pair of tabs and extended one of the cold cans toward Big Jim. The can disappeared within Lane's huge hairy paw.

  "So what about this stranger?" Bad Louie asked when the silence threatened to stretch.

  "All I can say for sure is if I get my hands on him, I'll turn him into something that'll make that Warner guy look like we took him to a Sunday
-school picnic."

  Bad Louie pulled at the cold brew and nodded his agreement. When Big Jim said something, he meant it. Louie only hoped he could help work over that snooping newcomer. He had missed out on Ed War­ner. From what Louie heard, it was one hell of a party.

  WHILE RICK MANEUVERED the heavy old dory into the lapping waves, Bolan shouldered the body of the guard. It took only seconds to slip the dead man out of sight beneath an overturned dory on the dock. The chances of a change of guard were good. When the relief was unable to locate the guy on duty, it would create added confusion. And as both strategist and tactician, Mack Bolan knew only too well the value of confusion as a weapon.

  The Executioner added the borrowed clothing to the litter of sacking, canvas and odds and ends already in the rowboat. With a quick extension of leg, back and shoulder muscles, he launched the dory. The kid drew back on the long, clumsy oars a few strokes. He turned the craft on its own axis with­out obvious effort, bow now pointing forward. Then the deceptively lean youth began to put his entire body into each stroke of the oars.

  Despite the fact that Rick Cartright obviously knew how to handle the chore he had set for himself, progress against the incoming tide was slow. And hav­ing once cleared the shelter afforded the bobbing dory by the small bay, the water roughened. Though by no means a heavily running sea, the incoming waves were still sufficient to turn the voyage into a carnival ride.

  The kid rowed without speaking. From time to time he glanced over his shoulder in an effort to orient him­self in the foggy night. Steadily, with no signs of fal­tering, Rick moved the dory through the choppy night water. It wasn't all that long before Bolan was able to make out the shadowy outline of the island crouched on the dark horizon.

  Every so often patches of open air were formed by the eddying breeze.

  "Fog's going to clear later." The teenager at the oars was breathing easily despite his efforts.

  That could become a mixed blessing, Bolan rea­lized. Since it was beyond his control, he chose to neither wish for nor dread the possibility.

  Several times phrases and bits of conversation were carried across the water from the island's south side. Once the dory passed the rocky end of tree-covered island, the bits and pieces of speech came to them no more.

  Some four hundred yards along the island's north side, Rick began edging the craft toward the waiting chunk of rock and trees.

  When Rick spoke his voice was pitched low. "I'm going to try to run ashore here. I'll head in just to the right of some big boulders that jut out into the water. That's your right, I mean."

  Bolan peered ahead. Vague shapes of dark, silent danger crouched in menace. A curtain of fog rolled in and the huge boulders vanished like a bad dream. The sound of wave-lap on the rocky shore was all that remained.

  When Rick dug in an oar, the heavy dory used it as a pivot point. Bolan felt cold spray as a wave broke over the boat's blunt stern. Rick reacted to the frigid water with a muffled grunt.

  "There's a stiff current running. I'm going to need all the help you can provide once we get in close. Be ready to jump out when I give you the word. But watch your footing. It's all rocky beach."

  Now the dory was in the grip of the current. The bow rose, only to slam down hard. Bolan gripped the hull with both hands. No, he was not afraid of water. But any person who ignored the powerful threat of the angry water was a fool.

  For a passing instant it seemed that Rick had lost control. The dory's clumsy stern threatened to come around. One oar flashed silver as its blade came free of the angry sea.

  Then the craft steadied. Bolan knew Rick was put­ting every ounce of his waning strength into the heavy oars. The kid was trying desperately to back-paddle. His attempt to slow their approach was like trying to stop a charging bull.

  The incoming waves became erratic convolutions beneath the dory's ancient hull. A jutting hunk of rock flashed past on the starboard side. It was there and gone before Bolan saw it through the dense fog.

  They passed so close that the Executioner could have touched it with his hand.

  And in that instant disaster struck. Rick had sensed the upcoming boulder. But not in time, due to his con­centration on the bucking, jolting dory.

  He had the starboard oar almost clear before the protruding chunk of danger smashed it from his grasp. The oar jerked free. Its oarlock kept it from going overboard, but there was no way Rick could retrieve it in time to regain control.

  "Lost an oar!"

  Bolan heard no panic in the kid's words.

  The dory twisted like an anguished sea creature in its death throes. For a bad instant, the boat threat­ened to broach.

  Instinctively, Bolan threw his weight against the uplifting side of the hull. The move was enough to make the difference.

  The dory settled back into the frantic current.

  The boulders Rick was steering for loomed out of the dark. The kid had called them big. But in truth they were huge. Their towering bulk made the dory and its occupants tiny by comparison.

  Rick's weight shift drew Mack's attention. He snapped his eyes from the rocky shore ahead. He sensed immediately what the kid was trying to do. He turned and lunged for the oarlock. It came free when he pried it from its housing.

  "Got it!" Rick's voice held triumph.

  The youth grasped the thick shaft in both hands. Then he thrust it over the stern. The single oar now became a rudder. If Rick could manage to hold on to it, he might even use the oar to scull with.

  Just as Bolan again faced the onrushing shore, the dory's bow rose. The wooden hull yawed toward port. The crunch and scrape of rock on vessel was a deadly sound.

  Rick was a dark shape sailing over Bolan's shoul­der. The night warrior grabbed for the kid. Grabbed and missed. He vanished into the churning froth of the waves. The heavy oar followed him into the sea. The blade of the airborne oar caught Bolan a glanc­ing blow back of the ear. By then it was the least of his worries. He, too, was in the cold grasp of the roil­ing waters.

  Bolan hit bottom and drove upward with all his strength. He surfaced just as the dory slid free of its imprisoning rock. Man and boat collided. Momen­tarily stunned, Mack grabbed at the hull and hung on.

  From the corner of his eye he saw something dark break the water's rough surface. It was Rick's head. Eel slick, his hair formed a black helmet. Bolan saw the youth grab a lungful of air. Then he had his own worries.

  There was no clear direction in the current. The placement of jutting rocks caused the waves to form chaotic patterns. Concealed boulders altered those patterns. There was no logic to the waters.

  The dory was coming around, using Bolan as a crude sea anchor. Before he was able to avoid it, the craft was between him and the sea. The rocky seabed grabbed at his feet and threatened to trip him up. The relentless push of waves against dory drove both man and boat ashore.

  Rick yelled something at him. The words became a sound without meaning.

  And suddenly Bolan was pinned against an im­movable jutting of stone. The dory was a fantastic force pressing against him.

  With all the strength available to his arms and shoulders, Mack Bolan tried to fend off the wooden monster. Rather than push uselessly outward, he sought to twist the craft to one side. For too many lost beats, Bolan knew he had failed. The life was be­ing crushed from him. Strong though he was, he was physically unable to expand his lungs.

  Slowly the dory began to respond. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, it sideslipped away. Bolan let the craft go free, preoccupied for the mo­ment in drawing air into tortured lungs. The dory reached shore with a scrape of wood on stone. Then it began to withdraw.

  Bolan gained his balance in the swirling water and lunged for the dory. Suddenly docile, it allowed him to shove it ashore, well above the clutching fingers of the icy water.

  Water droplets flashed as the capricious breeze momentarily thinned the fog. Rick was using a single overhand stroke to come toward shore. In his other hand
he clutched the oar that had followed him over­board.

  Bolan glanced at the dory. The second oar was still secure in its lock.

  He helped Rick stumble through the last half-dozen feet of rocks and water. The kid placed the oar silently in the dory. Then he collapsed to sit on the hard dis­comfort of the stony beach. Bolan knelt beside him.

  Rick drew half a dozen long, sobbing breaths. Bolan placed a hand on the kid's shoulder. Beneath sodden material, muscles jerked and danced in the rhythm of exhaustion.

  Rick looked up, met Bolan's gaze.

  "Sorry. I screwed up.

  "Don't worry. We made it."

  "Suppose anyone heard us? There was a hell of a noise when that rock damn near holed the dory. And then I yelled my fool head off."

  "We'll just sit here and give it a couple of min­utes."

  Mack's nylon suit had protected him somewhat from the icy cold of the seawater; it allowed a thin film of liquid to coat his body beneath the garment and prevent the kind of severe heat-loss that Rick had experienced.

  Sooner than Mack dared hope, the youth's muscle twitches slowed and all but ceased. Rick raised his head and peered about in the off-and-on fog.

  "At least we're exactly where I thought we were." It was a small triumph.

  Meanwhile Bolan completed checking himself and the dory. Nothing was missing despite their nearly disastrous landing.

  "Do you want to use the clothing Mrs. Devereaux gave you?" The boy's lips were close to the big guy's ear.

  "Not this trip. I'm going to do a quick reconnais­sance from this side. Depending on what I discover I'll either cross the island or have you row me around to the landing area. In that case I'll go with the clothing."

  "Let's go."

  Bolan recognized and understood the kid's need to be a part of the operation. He also realized the dan­ger of what needed doing. And at the same time the man known as Colonel John Phoenix was aware the youth at his side was not one to be put off by ex­planations of danger. Instantly he reached a com­promise.

  Bolan gave Rick quick instructions. "Let's move inland about ten paces. I want you to take up obser­vation there. Protect my back while I do a quick recon. If you spot anyone, heave a rock into the woods toward me. Just throw the rock and get down."