Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap

by Don Pendleton

  Taking great care that his hands and feet complet­ed their entire movements below the water's surface so there would be no telltale splashing, Bolan made good time. Whether it was his imagination or his body's reaction to its second immersion in the frigid waters he had no way of telling. Whatever the cause, he found his second crossing more chilling than the first.

  A faint glimmer of light on the water ahead fore­told another difficulty. The fog was lifting rapidly, and the nearly full moon was trying to light the land and water below. Yeah, it could turn into just the sort of night Bolan didn't need.

  He surfaced beneath the shelter of the dock. With­out pausing to rest he swam immediately to the struc­ture's end. In what was becoming a standard maneuver, his hand sought the line. Firm pressure caused the heavy dory to begin its second short voyage from the limits of the line to the edge of the dock.

  When his free hand located the familiar bulk of the mighty .44 AutoMag, Bolan paused in mid-motion. His mind computed weights, distances and risks in a blur. Then the time factor was entered. The gradual lessening of confusion and noise ashore as men took their positions was the final factor considered. Hav­ing weighed all the available information, Bolan made his decision.

  Holding his upper body clear of the incoming tide, he slipped the big silver .44 around his neck. The web belt containing the fragmentation grenades came next. Finally the M-3 was hung by its lanyard. The weight of the armaments pulled hard. Automatically he tensed muscles to compensate for the weight.

  Before shoving off into whatever battle awaited him, his practiced fingers traced the length of the web belt. The spare clips for the greedy M-3 were still in their canvas pouches. Now all that remained was to put his arsenal to use.

  He uncoiled his fingers from the line and the dory immediately began to retreat from the dock. Grip­ping the underside of the rot-resistant stringers that ran the length of the dock, Bolan inched his way to­ward shore. After having traveled two-thirds of the length of the dock in this fashion, his fingers and hands were two sets of cramped and frozen talons. But his searching toes finally found the rocky bot­tom.

  While still maintaining hand contact with the over­head timbers for balance, Bolan increased his pace. Within seconds he was at the point where he could no longer stand erect beneath the structure. Ducking his head to enable him to clear the timbers, Bolan emerged from his shelter. Crouched beside the dock, he remained as silent and unmoving as the death he dealt. As far as he could tell, no one was aware of his presence.

  Ten yards from where the Executioner huddled in the icy water was a stack of timbers and concrete blocks just past the searching fingers of the incoming high tide. After giving the immediate area a final visual search, Bolan stayed low and covered the dis­tance in a running shuffle.

  Once amid the clutter of building materials, he made quick work of getting the .44 AutoMag proper­ly seated on his right hip. The military belt and its precious cargo encircled his waist. He left the M-3 hanging around his neck. Its lanyard allowed the weapon just enough swing so that it could be used immediately.

  Yeah, the sight was calmer. It had lost its kicked anthill appearance. The troops had reached their positions and were waiting. And the smoking lamp was not lit, much to Bolan's regret. A soldier with a burning cigarette was easily located by the smell of tobacco. A guard tending his cigarette was not giving one hundred percent attention to the job at hand.

  The Executioner noticed that the sleeping area was now fully aglow. At least one end was. The end through which he'd moved on his cleaning detail had its lights on. The newly delivered human cargo was probably there. The absence of sound from the com­mand post-day room gave further indication that the center of operations had shifted to the near end of the living quarters.

  Beretta in hand, Bolan left his observation post and took the shortest path toward the shelter of the woods. For a few seconds he thought himself home free. Movement to his right squelched any self-congratulation he might have considered.

  "Who's there?" The question was hissed from the dark.

  A sentry strained to identify the shadowy figure. Slight though his movement was, it brought him to the attention of stalking death itself.

  Twice the Beretta coughed, and the guy manning his solitary outpost ceased wondering who it was that passed in the night. The first slug shredded the trachea just at the hollow of the throat. The second jacketed 9mm death-dealer plowed its course through the right temporal portion of the skull. The guy's brain ceased to function.

  Bolan's partial recon of the site brought no more challenge. As he closed in on his destination he ran his eye the length of the long, low building. A light shone a bit past the building's center. Claude Monet's deep and lasting sleep had become a matter of public record. That, at least in part, explained the increased concern in regard to location security.

  Bolan considered and discarded half a dozen ap­proaches. Like so many military tactics, the simplest often proved the most successful. Each additional twist added at least one, and often more, opportuni­ties for discovery or failure.

  The man in black moved out of the cover of trees and edged toward the nearest window.

  No one challenged him. No alarms sounded. Though he was certain guards were posted within thirty or forty yards on either side of where he stood, Mack Bolan also understood something else as well. Their attention was centered on the woods from which he just emerged. Danger was equated in their minds with the dark and mysterious growth that ringed the site on three sides. The fourth side fronted the sea, a fearful mystery in its own right.

  Crouched, moving at quick time, the lean warrior reached the edge of the building. Once certain that no city-bred ambusher was moving up on his position, Mack raised his head to peer through the window. He look in the big room's interior in a sweeping glance.

  It was as he suspected. Only worse. Lots worse. Seven new arrivals were clustered together around a small table in the room's southeast corner. They seemed more concerned with bottle and glasses than with the activity in the center of the room.

  One guy, obviously in charge, loomed big, dwarf­ing those about him. Big Jim Lane. April Rose had put a picture of him in Bolan's info folder for him to check on the flight. The hulk now dominating the room was none other than the guy Hal mentioned in his briefing.

  Bolan decided at a glance he'd rather not put his considerable strength to a test in physical combat with the monster. Big Jim wasn't fat. He was a mountain of hard muscle. And he was now in a state of anger bordering on frenzy.

  The object of his attention sat pale and motionless in a straight-backed wooden chair. Rick Cartright's jaw was set. His eyes were fixed on the face of the giant who loomed threateningly above him.

  "Don't give me any of that crap, kid." The poorly installed windowframes proved no barrier to Big Jim's words. "We've been out here three, going on four weeks. Not one sign of trouble. Then you ap­pear and right off the bat I've got a corpse on my hands. And a couple of missing boys. And you ex­pect me to believe you had nothing to do with all this?"

  The kid's response was low. His words were lost to Bolan. But his eyes never wavered. Guts. The kid had them by the bucketful.

  "Where's the big guy you came in with? Why's he all of a sudden so hard to find?" The hulk's voice was that of one accustomed to being obeyed.

  Rick shook his head slowly from side to side. His lips were pressed firmly together in a straight, stub­born line of defiance.

  Despite his great size Big Jim had the speed of a welterweight. His open right hand flashed. Be­fore Rick knew the blow was coming it impacted on his cheekbone. From his vantage point Bolan saw the kid's head snap back on his neck. Yeah, snap back then come forward as the kid reacted. White areas Bolan knew would quickly turn to red blotches appeared on the left side of the kid's face. Rick never took his eyes from the face of his tor­mentor.

  "Where the hell is he, kid?"

  Instead of responding, Rick touched his cheek wit
h his fingers. When he did answer, his words didn't carry to Bolan.

  A hardguy, the one the others called Bad Louie, extracted a switchblade from his waistband. At the touch of his thumb a wicked five inches of lovingly honed steel sprang into view. He made a quick ges­ture with the blade in the direction of the kid's crotch. The guy's leer was more menacing than his blade.

  Bolan caught Rick's reaction. The kid, if possible, went whiter. Nothing more. But it was enough to indicate his inner fear.

  Mack Bolan retreated from the window, inwardly regretting the way things were. If he could only com­municate to the kid and let him know it would be okay for him to describe the big guy. To buy precious time for both of them by talking and then talking some more. But there wasn't. The kid was on his own, bound by a code of honor foreign to any other man in that room.

  PART OF THE NUMBNESS SHE FELT in her shackled foot came from the chill night air upon her bare flesh. But most of it, Becky realized, was because circulation to her elevated foot had slowed or even stopped.

  The bolt-locked bands of metal were not tight enough to restrict the flow of blood. Her problem was that the imprisoned leg was suspended so that her left buttock was actually clear of the ground by a fraction of an inch. This pulled her weight down on the bolted device. The twin bands of metal cut into the top of her foot and heel. This restriction, coupled with the elevated foot and leg, was slowing the flow of blood to her tingling foot.

  For perhaps the tenth time Becky shifted her posi­tion as much as the chain allowed. And again she slid her hands open and flat beneath her taut, trim but­tocks. Resting with her weight atop her spread hands, she was able to gain a bit of precious height and relieve some of the pressure on her extended foot.

  This time the move proved less successful than the time before. The homemade shackle refused to slide even fractionally back along her slim ankle. Desper­ately she jiggled her foot the small amount allowed by the all but nonexistent slack in the chain. Nothing happened. The metal band maintained its position.

  Trying to keep her mind from panicking in sudden fear, Becky Devereaux attempted to recall what she knew concerning circulation. And the fact that kept surfacing, over and over, was that prolonged loss of circulation could result in loss of a limb.

  At that thought her body went chill with a cold that spread from her flat belly upward and outward until it encompassed her mind. The cold seemed to sweep over her, to envelop her total being.

  "No!" The sound of her own voice startled the girl. Then, deciding the drafty barn was less lonely for the sound, she continued talking to herself in a calmer, less shrill tone.

  "Think, stupid. What would Rick do?"

  For that matter, what was he doing at this very minute? Was he thinking of her? Was he worried, searching, frantic?

  The pressure of her own weight was once again causing her hand to cramp.

  "Lift your butt, stupid. Get your hand out before it cramps up on you."

  Slowly, painfully, she shifted her weight to free the protesting hand. As she dragged it from under her rear, her fingers pulled tiny grooves in the packed earth. The short nail on her middle finger was in­stantly packed with the oil-stained earth.

  For seconds she worked with the ball of her thumb in an effort to free the nail of the packed mess of filth and dirt.

  When it struck her, Becky quit breathing. There it was. Problems come paired with solutions. But together, they're not always neatly packaged, and you have to find that other half. Rick told her that once, and he was right.

  Her numbing foot forgotten in the excitement of discovery, Becky Devereaux began to claw and scrape at the packed earth with both hands.

  The shackle responded to her efforts by cutting into the top of her foot. A tiny rivulet of red began to work its way beneath the collar of metal. But Becky felt none of that. With both hands she clawed and ripped at the hard-packed earthen floor beneath her. Even though the dirt had not been turned during her lifetime she began to make inroads into its hard sur­face. Every bit of dirt she freed, Becky pushed be­neath her rump. Within ten minutes she rested on a flattened mound of oily earth two inches high.

  When she paused to take a breather, Becky became aware of the biting hurt in her foot. Then the rapid beating of her heart took her attention from the pain. Forcing herself to draw long, slow breaths of air, she gradually stilled the frantic pounding within her heaving chest.

  Rodent sounds came again. Becky heard them as she had earlier. The rats, frightened away by her burst of frantic activity, now edged closer. For the moment they caused her no alarm. Much as she de­tested them, she knew they represented no immediate danger. They would watch and wait. From time to time they might sit up on furry haunches and preen their whiskers in hungry anticipation. But as long as she remained conscious and active they posed no threat. They were a warning of the price of failure.

  A digging tool. Her hands explored the area in twin half circles. Nothing. The wrenches were too far away to waste time considering. Not even a broken stick was at hand.

  "Don't just lie there like a ninny. Get on with it."

  At her own command Becky again began to tear and claw at the time-hardened earth. The watching rodents retreated and eyed the scene with questioning eyes.

  How deep must she dig before encountering soft earth? Oh, where was Rick? Why didn't he come for her? For an instant her hands ceased their efforts.

  Becky shook her head in a gesture of self-disgust. Her jet hair tossed, then settled in the dirt.

  "There's only one place to look for help, girl. And that's right out there at the ends of your arms."

  Like twin claws, her hands and fingers formed small but determined scrapers that attacked the earth with renewed vigor.

  STELLA DEVEREAUX RAISED her eyes from her clasped hands resting near her teacup to the clock on the kitchen wall. She'd checked it ten times in as many minutes.

  "Thomas should have returned by now."

  "It's a long run down to Boston and back," Velma Whitmore said.

  "He's been gone a long time."

  Velma's eyes went cloudy. "Finish your tea. I'll wrap a scarf about my head against the fog and damp, and then we'll walk down to the wharf. We can watch and listen for his trawler."

  "Is that a good idea? To be seen waiting, I mean?" asked Stella.

  "We can wait and watch without being seen. Tom may need our help when he comes ashore. We're gaining nothing by sitting here and stewing. Let's clean up and we'll get our coats."

  Her sister, grateful for a sense of direction, began clearing the table.

  13

  Mack Bolan resisted the urge to create an immediate diversion by triggering the remote device he carried with him. Sending one or both of the sleek cabin cruisers into flames inside the boathouse might serve to create enough confusion to enable him to snatch the kid from their clutches. As a long-term tactic it was lacking. No, the kid would have to fend for him­self for the time being. That was the way it had to be.

  His quick survey of the seven newly arrived men failed to provide Mack with ID’S he could pin down. He knew their presence in the country spelled trou­ble. They were the important cargo the island waited for. Add them to the explosives expert whose career had so recently ended, and the potential for major dirty tricks was great.

  His first responsibility was to make certain these cannibals never left the island. Only after that was accomplished could Bolan turn his attention to the twin problems of Rick Cartright and the missing Becky Devereaux.

  With his probe turning into a blitz-to-be, the Execu­tioner cast aside any pretense of secrecy. It was hit­-and-git time. And God help any who stood in his way.

  His wet feet in their damp ripple-soled footgear took the determined warrior toward the building housing the pair of big diesel generators. One of the two roared gutturally as it provided power to light the area. Its mate sat silent and waiting. Separated from the two by the building's wall of cinder blocks stood a five-hundr
ed-gallon tank of diesel fuel.

  The fuel tank rested on twin support brackets. They stood atop cement blocks that sat on the ground. Knowing the base was temporary, certain it would be deserted before the coming of winter storms, those who constructed the site left the big tank aboveground. The effort of digging and blasting to place it under the surface seemed wasted in view of the site's short life.

  With the exposed tank his immediate goal, Bolan kept to the shadows. He moved rapidly but with an economy of motion, attempting to remain lost to view.

  He spotted the guard beside the generator building seconds before the guy was certain the moving shadow was for real.

  "Big Jim says to keep your eyes open." Bolan's tone was that of one used to giving orders. And, yeah, having them followed. To the letter or know the reason why.

  His hissed order took any initiative from the guy. The guard's spine stiffened as he tried to determine just who in hell was giving him the word.

  "And Murph says he wants to know who gave you the idea you could get away with dogging it out here?" Bolan closed the distance between them and added, "Just between us, you've got it caught in the wringer."

  Before the other's indignation got the better of him, the Executioner put his fears to rest. The Beret­ta spat a quick indicator of the guy's real problem across the short distance between muzzle and living flesh.

  The guy's lower jaw dropped. It was as though he had mentally framed a reply to the accusations Bolan threw at him but forgot the words.