The Terrible Ones

by Nick Carter

  Nick lunged upward as he struck, driving the steel claws into the thick thigh and slashing them sideways across the lower abdomen. The scream now was one long continuous litany of frightful pain and the booted feet no longer kicked out but tried to back away. The claws caught deep into the flesh and held; there was no retreat for the welcomer with the unfriendly feet. Nick heaved himself up over the cliff edge, exhausted and half-dazed, still clutching his quarry. The big fellow made a handy anchor, with the hand-pitons sunk into the squirming body, and Nick had no qualms about using him as long as he was there. The scream rose and the man staggered backwards and fell. Nick landed heavily on top of him and wrenched his hand free of the oozing flesh. His welcoming committee squirmed under him, legs and arms jerking, obscenities babbling from his throat. For a moment they both lay there, writhing like a pair of unlikely lovers, and then the big man suddenly twisted his body and stumbled to his feet. Nick rolled over, exhausted beyond endurance. He could see the big shape looming over him, clothes torn open and hideous wounds deforming his lower body, and he could see the long knife that appeared in the other man’s hand, but he could not seem to make his muscles move.

  The cliff edge was behind him. The big man came toward him, knife poised for a downward thrust and his face a maddened mask of pain and hatred.

  For God’s sake do something, Nick told himself wearily, and felt like vomiting. The fellow’s guts were dribbling out.

  The knife came downward in slow motion and the man staggered forward. Nick gathered strength and kicked out in a swift jack knifing movement that caught the man in the chest and clawed him up into the air. Again there was that horrible scream, and the man hung balanced in the air like a circus acrobat on his partner’s feet. Only these feet were hooked and deadly. Nick kicked up again, heard the ripping of cloth, and felt his burden fall free. He twisted sideways away from the thing that flew howling through the air, over the edge and off the cliff.

  The scream ended with a sickening thud. Then there was a splash. Then—nothing.

  Nick sat up wearily. So much for his silent arrival. He rose groggily to his feet and listened to the night sounds. There were shouts somewhere in the distance. He’d better get going.

  He moved clumsily into the stand of trees and propped himself against a sturdy trunk while he removed the piton-claws from his hands and feet. They were sticky with blood. Handy little bastards you turned out to be, he congratulated them grimly, and thrust them into his back pack. He stood under the trees for a moment gathering breath and willing his heart to slow its galloping motion. A light flickered somewhere to the left of him. He could not tell how far away it was, but the sounds of men’s voices were still muted. A bird chirped anxiously close by, and he noted its sound absently as he moved on. No doubt disturbed by my stealthy arrival, he told himself sourly, and made for the narrow path between the trees that Jean Pierre had told him he would find.

  He did find it, and he walked along it with silent care, listening and watching. Funny, that damned bird seemed to be following him.

  Nick looked over his shoulder. Nothing there. And nothing moved in the trees. The bird chirped again . . . and the chirp wandered off-key.

  Suddenly he remembered the small two-way radio in his inside underarm pocket Feeling slightly foolish, he bent his head and chirped into his armpit. Two chirps, and then he spoke.

  “It’s okay, Jean Pierre,” he said, very softly but distinctly. “That was the other fellow.”

  “Thank God!” His fellow AXEman’s voice came to him as a tiny, distant sound, but he could hear Jean Pierre’s relief. There was a pause. Then: “What other fellow?”

  “Don’t know,” Nick said softly. “He didn’t mention his name. But he wasn’t friendly. Neither was he Chinese, nor Haitian. If a guess is any good, I’d say he could have been a Cuban.”

  “Cuban!”

  “Yeah.”

  “But why—? What happened, anyway?”

  The lights were coming closer, though not directly toward him. Nick put his lips closer to the tiny mike.

  “Look, we’ll chat some other time, all right? If that wasn’t Paolo who just went over the cliff I still have to meet him, and these woods of yours are filling up with people. Tell Hawk I made it as far as the path on the cliff top. And next time don’t chirp me, I’ll chirp you. Okay?”

  “Right.”

  Nick moved on through the trees. His body felt as though it had been caught in a garbage grinder and he knew he was in no shape for any more heavy action tonight. So he trod softly, listened well, and hoped that it was not Paolo he had clawed to death. The thought that it might have been opened up a range of possibilities he did not care to think about, and most of them spelled t-r-a-p. And if it wasn’t Paolo of course it was somebody else, and that didn’t make for an any more pleasant picture.

  He gave up thinking about it and concentrated on heading silently for the cave. Maybe there he’d find some sort of answer.

  Lights were stabbing through the trees and voices passed him perhaps a quarter mile away. He stopped and flattened himself against a tree, listening. One of the voices came to him loud and clear in the swinging, lilting French of a native Haitian. It seemed to be giving some kind of order. A military order. Fine. The Haitian military were to be avoided, yes, but not feared as hidden enemies.

  The ground began to slope upward beneath his feet and ahead of him he could see a huge and curiously gnarled tree that had been included in his briefing as a landmark. Another hundred yards, then, and he would be at the mouth of the mountain cave whistling to be let in. Damp moss cushioned his footfalls. Through years of practice in silent skulking he avoided twigs that might snap beneath his feet or branches that might brush and rustle against his body, and he came swiftly to the cave mouth like a tiger in the night.

  He blended into the darkness of a leafy bush and looked at the narrow crevice in the rock. It was almost concealed by trailing vines and clumps of shrubbery, and if he had not known where to look the chances were he might not have noticed it. If it opened up into a cave of any size within the mountain it would be a good hiding place for a band of outlawed patriots. Just as good for a band of thieves. Or cell of Communist agents. It was too bad that AXE had so little information on this bunch that called itself The Terrible Ones. They could be anything but what they said they were. Dedicated Dominicans? Maybe. He hoped so. In his mind’s eye he saw a company of toughs, rebels of the Fidelista type but maybe a little more pro-West, hard as nails and very likely none too scrupulous, all armed to the teeth with submachine guns and machetes.

  And also, apparently, invisible.

  Nick slunk back further into the concealing bush and stared. intently into the darkness. His eyes roved over rock and crevice, foliage, tree trunks and branches, and saw nothing that could possibly be a man on silent watch. Insects scurried through the leaves and the distant shouts still rang out, yet there was no sound of a human presence nearby. Nevertheless he sensed that there was such a presence. And at the same time he did not feel that curious prickling at the back of the neck that was the sign of his danger-instinct at work. This was normal. Probably Paolo the Terrible was waiting in the cave as promised and would emerge on signal.

  Nick whistled softly. It was a bird call of the islands, not the radio chirruping call but a long, melodious sound that rose and fell like the voice of a wild bird in flight. He waited for a moment and then mouthed the second part of the call, a tricky little variation straight out of Jean Pierre’s intimate knowledge of Haitian wildlife. Then he listened.

  The first call came back to him from the recesses of the rock crevice. Then the second, muffled by foliage and rock but unmistakably right. Nick tensed as leaves rustled and a thin dark shape blocked the opening in the rock and stood there silently. He could see little but a blob of extra darkness and something that looked vaguely like a cowboy hat or maybe a sort of sombrero and a suggestion of booted and trousered legs.

  “Not too late for those
who seek their friends,” Nick whispered back.

  “It is late for honest travelers,” a low voice whispered in soft Spanish.

  “Who is it that you seek?”

  “Paolo.”

  “Ah. You have found the one you look for, if you have the axe.”

  So far so good. He had the axe, all right, a tiny tattoo on his inner elbow, though Paolo knew nothing of that.

  “It will be at your disposal,” he murmured into the night, and the code exchange was ended. All the right things had been said and now it only remained to follow Paolo through the crevice into the cave. Yet a growing sense of unease made him hesitate. There was something odd here. And the idea of going into a dark cave with a stranger was not one that appealed to him. Especially If there were other strangers inside with some dark plans of their own.

  He glanced about him, listening intently. The only sounds were far away. If there were watchers near they were silent ones indeed.

  The dark shape stepped aside from the entrance to the cave.

  “Enter, then,” the low voice said.

  Nick took a slow step forward and silently slid Wilhelmina from her holster into his hand.

  “Turn, please,” he said softly. “You go first into the cave.”

  He heard a low snort. “You are afraid?” the low voice asked.

  “I am cautious,” he answered. “Move, please. I do not wish to stand out here and talk all night.” The aching fingers of his left hand reached for the pen-shaped tube in his upper pocket.

  There was an Irritated intake of breath, and then, reluctantly, “As you say.”

  “Your back toward me, now.”

  “But naturally, cautious one.”

  The figure turned and disappeared into the crevice.

  Nick followed quickly, in one swift and silent bound. He stood sideways in the opening, Wilhelmina poised for action, and flicked the switch on the tiny flashlight tube. Brilliant light flashed around the small hideout.

  “Turn that off, you fool!” the voice hissed.

  He turned it off and ducked inside, surprised and angry. The cave was empty of people but for himself and the one with the whispering voice. That was as it should be. But the one he had seen in the sharp beam of light was not at all what he had expected.

  The tiniest of glowing lights appeared in the other’s hand. There was a movement at the entrance and he saw a curtain of shrubbery and a dark cloth being drawn across the entrance. The one who answered to the name of Paolo reached for something on a rocky ledge and suddenly the small cave was filled with a soft glow.

  “Do you want to give everything away?” Nick’s companion said furiously. “Already you people have made enough noise to wake the dead! Did you think you would be pounced upon by bandits when you came in here?”

  “I thought many things,” Nick said slowly, “but you, friend Paolo, are the last thing I expected.” He took one step forward and let his gaze travel deliberately down from the ranchero-type hat, over the loose army jacket, over the dirt-stained slacks covering the well-formed legs, and over the battered riding boots. Then he let his eyes travel upward again to scrutinize such shape as he could distinguish beneath the concealing jacket. He took his time; it was an insolent survey, but his anger made him do it. At last he stared into the face, with its hard mouth and cold-slate-colored eyes. And its peaches-and-cream complexion, marred only by the small scar on the lower left cheek.

  The eyes stared back at him, flickering over his bearded face and his bloodied clothes.

  Nick sighed and sat down abruptly on an outcropping of rock.

  The girl gave a short laugh and swept the ranchero hat from her head. Her hair tumbled out from beneath it. It was long and honey-blonde.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Have you seen all you wanted to see?”

  “Not enough,” he said harshly. “Are you really a woman, or haven’t you made up your mind?”

  Her eyes spat fire. “I suppose you expect me to tramp through the mountains in high heels and an evening gown?” She flung the hat away from her as if it were Nick’s head, and glared at him. “Spare me the insults, if you please, and let us get down to business. First we must get your men together— though God alone knows how you plan to do it after all the disturbance you’ve created. What was that all about, may I ask?” She was looking again at the blood on his shirt. “You are hurt, I see. Was there an accident, or were you seen?”

  “How nice of you to inquire,” said Nick, putting Wilhelmina on the rock beside him and sliding the back-pack off his weary shoulders. “Who do you think might have seen me?”

  “Haitian patrol, of course,” she said impatiently. “No one else comes up here, at least not at night. There is a voodoo superstition about the place. That is why I chose it.”

  “No one else?” Nick stared at her. “And it was impossible, was it, for anyone to follow you here?”

  “Of course no one followed me,” she snapped, but her cold eyes were worried. “What are you talking about?”

  “About someone who was not a Haitian guard and who might even be a friend of yours, for all I know.” Nick watched her carefully while he spoke. “A big man, a little taller than myself and heavier, and dressed in the same sort of fatigues.

  Bearded, Latin features, so far as T could see, and a mouthful of broken teeth.” Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “And he called me a Yankee pig,” Nick went on. “I don’t mind being called names, but how would he know? I am not wearing my capitalistic, Wall Street clothes tonight, as you may have noticed.”

  “Indeed T have noticed,” she said quietly, and her cool gaze swept once again over his darkened, bearded face and his bloodied fatigues. “Where was this man?”

  “He was waiting for me at the top of the cliff,” said Nick, “trying his best to kick me into space. I had to kill him, of course. There was no time to exchange pleasantries.” His tone sharpened suddenly. “Who was he? You recognized the description, didn’t you?”

  She shook her head slowly. “It is hot an unusual one. Many men these days wear what you are wearing, and many of them have beards and broken teeth. It is quite true that he sounds like a man I know, but I cannot be sure unless I were to see him. And that I suppose is quite impossible?”

  “Quite impossible,” Nick agreed. “Perhaps you are just as glad”

  “Why should I be?” The slight softening of her features gave way instantly to the tight-mouthed hardness that seemed to be her normal expression. “We asked for help, and if you intend to give it there should be a mutual trust. I will not name a name I am unsure of. When we get to Santo Domingo I will ask about this man. If he is alive, then he is not the one, yes? But if he has disappeared, then I will tell you about him.”

  He almost admired her for the moment. She was being so fair and square, so old-school-tie. And perhaps she was even being honest.

  “All right,” he said quietly. “Next question. Who are you? You are obviously not Paolo, whom I was led to believe that I would meet. Somebody lied. Was it you?”

  “There was no lie!” she flared. “It is no fault of mine if there was a misunderstanding!”

  “What misunderstanding?” He almost spat the words at her. “Who and where is Paolo? And who are you?”

  She seemed to shrink away from him. Then she drew her chin up defiantly and spat words back at him.

  “There is no Paolo. There never was and no one ever said there was. I sent the messages that brought you here. And I did not lie. The name is Paula. Paula! If there was a mistake in the transcription it was none of my doing! Besides, what difference does it make?”

  “And what about The Terrible Ones?” he said icily. “You are not going to tell me that a band of freedom fighters chose a woman to do a man’s errand?”

  She laughed at him, but there was no humor in her laughter.

  “What men? There are few men left to do the errands of a man. I chose myself. Why should I not? I am their leader.”

  He stare
d at her. It seemed to be getting to be a habit with him. But the tiny doubt that had been kindled by the first sound of the whispered voice was growing into a fire of suspicion.

  “I see. You are their leader. And what is the male strength of your company? You may as well tell me now; I’ll find out soon enough—if I decide to stay. And, as you said, there should be a mutual trust.” He waited.

  She looked at him defiantly. “You know now, do you not? We have no men. The Terrible Ones are women. All of them.”

  “And aptly named,” he said, and thoughtfully scratched his chest. The little switch that connected him with Jean Pierre flicked to the Off position. When he knew more, he’d tell, but Papa Hawk was not going to get a blow-by-blow account of his dealings with this hard-eyed woman.

  Nick peeled off his bloodied shirt. The sewn-in radio came off with it.

  “Well, I’ve had a hard day’s night,” he said. “I don’t know what entertainment you’ve planned for the rest of it, but I’m going to get some sleep. You can keep watch if you think its necessary.”

  “But what about the rest?” she said, and he was glad to see that she was looking puzzled. “Surely you will need to make contact with your men?”

  “Surprise, surprise,” he said amiably, making a pillow of his shirt and pack and sliding Wilhelmina underneath the bundle. “I’ve had one; now here’s one for you. There are no other men. I am all you’re going to get. Goodnight, Paolo baby, and please turn off the light.”

  “You’re what?” She started toward him, her slim body galvanized by fury. “I ask for help, and I get—?”

  “Be quiet!” he hissed. His hackles were crawling and he reached for the Luger as he bounded to his feet.

  Her mouth opened angrily and he clamped a hand over it.

  “I said be quiet!” He cocked his ears and listened. He felt her slight movement and saw that she understood. At least she was quick on the trigger, this bitch of a girl.