It was not a guy, no. It was Jean Kirkpatrick Russell, scared eyes as large as saucers, gurgling and gasping in the struggle for air. He continued to work on her until she was breathing satisfactorily on her own. She had apparently not lost consciousness at any point during the ordeal and she seemed to understand the situation perfectly, maintaining all the quiet possible under the circumstances.
Bolan placed his lips close to her ear and whispered, “Okay now?”
She sat up, both hands at her throat, and nodded her head in positive response. “My fault,” she croaked. “My own fault. Don’t apologize.”
“I thought we had a deal.”
“I couldn’t … just sit there.” The voice was coming better, now, a good sign. “Thought maybe … okay, I’m stupid. Mack, that man is the most important thing in my life. I had to … and I heard an explosion, and …”
He understood, and told her so, then asked her, “How’d you get here?”
“Boat,” she whispered. “I tied it in the grass offshore and waded in. They’re patrolling out there, all around.”
He said, “Yeah, I know.”
“What’s happening?”
“Exactly what I promised you would happen,” he replied. “But I still can’t promise any results. And all you’re likely to do around here is screw it up. Think you can walk okay?”
“I’m fine, yes.”
He gave her a compass bearing with his arm and told her, “That’s the backtrack. You beat it out that way, quiet and quick. It will take you to within a few hundred yards of the land bridge. Go on to the other side and look for a signal. Will you do that?”
She jerked her head in a nod of acceptance and asked, “What kind of signal?”
Bolan activated the shoulder-pocket radio and placed his lips close to the built-in mike. “Base.”
April Rose bounced right back, terse but clear. “Go.”
“Sending you a lady. Watch for her. Give her a sign.”
“Wilco.”
He told Kirkpatrick, “She’ll have you in sight all the way across that bridge. Keep your eyes peeled about thirty degrees east. She’ll guide you in.”
“Right.”
“Don’t screw it up, Jean. Get clear and leave it to me.”
“Right, don’t worry, I’ve had my lesson for the night.”
She brushed his face with hers and moved away, quiet and quick.
Bolan knelt in the dirt for a couple more minutes, listening in on his brother, the night, and thinking-in his strategy for the next move. Sixty pounds of explosives were in the backpack along with an assortment of timers and fuses. The problem of the moment was to cover the final forty yards of canefield, breach the wire fence, and penetrate the defenses of that lighted compound to set his charges without any hue or cry.
It was not exactly a new situation for Mack Bolan. But this time, he knew, he did not have the element of surprise working for him. By this time, he was sure, Carlo the Pip would be up and ready for another visit by the Executioner. The guy was not a dummy, even though Bolan may have made him look like one. He was not a dummy, no. He was a capable and competent survivor in the most hazardous jungleland ever devised by the mind of man. And Carlo the Pip would be waiting, somewhere in there, for Mack Bolan’s head to fall into his waiting sack.
“I want your best two men, radio-equipped, on walking checks constantly. I mean constantly. The whole perimeter, all of it, everything. I want every boy out there pers’nally eyeballed and spoke to at least once every five minutes. If two men can’t cover it, then use what you got to use, but cover it.”
“Right, Carlo. That go for the hammock, too?”
“Naw. Enzio and his boys will cover that in the boats. I’m not worried about that. Nothing out there that guy wants and the territory is too tight. The percentage play is right here. He’ll be coming after us, Rock. First, anyway. So, now, you know how he operates. He comes in like a damned shadow and lays all over you. So we go to …”
“You was at that, uh, in Jersey, wasn’t you.”
“Yeh. I been tryin’ to forget it, ever since. But, listen, there might be an angle there. In Jersey, he went soft on old man Marinello. After he blew ’im in half, of course. But he let ’em take the old man out. The guy’s got soft spots in his head, if you can just find ’em. I been thinking. It might build our percentages some if we bring Doc Anderson and his hardhats over here. You know what I mean.”
“You mean like hostages.”
“Not exactly hostages, naw. Say, in his eyes, they’re probably in the same league with us. But … wait a minute, Rock. I think maybe you said the magic words, there. He sure went to a lot of trouble to—maybe it wasn’t all shitface—you know, what I told you, all that bleeding crap about the prisoners. Scurvy, for God’s sake. That college boy we got working the boats says the scurvy is nothing but vitamin deficiency. You can’t catch it. I figured the guy was just shitfacing me but … maybe it was more than that. Maybe he’s really got a soft spot there. Listen, you better get on the radio and tell Enzio I said he should hold off on them guys. We might need ’em. And you better hurry ’cause I believe he’s right now getting ready to load them in the boats and haul them off to the gator pond.”
“Right. Should I also send some more boys over to the bridge?”
“Naw, I told you, that’s too late. I bet the guy is looking at us right now.”
Vesperanza turned his fat head and peered into the darkness beyond the lights, shivered slightly, said, “Don’t say things like that,” and trotted off on his errands.
Papriello snagged another lieutenant who was hurrying across the front yard, and asked him, “What about the monorail?”
“Jimmy Wheels is still working on it. Says the controls have been tampered with and he’s trying to find where.”
“You should give ’im a lawnmower,” Papriello growled disgustedly. “Where you going?”
“I was going down to the dock to talk to Rudy.”
“Rudy’s doing fine. You stay here with me. I might need a runner and I don’t want to have to depend on any of these green boys around here for something important. Even the Rock is starting to talk in whispers. Funny how that damn Bolan guy can get into your nerves, isn’t it?”
“Well, Carlo, they all saw the guy walking around here today. And that’s something to see. I mean, how many of us ever actually saw the guy? I mean in broad daylight.” The yardman patted his chopper. “I’d just like to see ’im again.”
Carlo the Pip shivered involuntarily.
The lieutenant chuckled nervously and said, “It’s a little cool out here, tonight.”
The Pip growled, “Yeah.”
Two of the floodlights on the east side winked out suddenly.
Papriello softly exclaimed. “Watch it!”
“Maybe a fuse,” said the lieutenant.
“And maybe not. Go see. And get those lights back on.”
“Right.”
The yard lieutenant hurried away. Papriello folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the porch railing, peering into the darkness at where the lights went out.
Something at the dark corner of the house quivered, or maybe his eyes quivered, Pip didn’t know. A chill trickled along his spine as he strained to focus upon the darkness.
The guy had a way of getting into the nerves, yeah.
Papriello picked up his shotgun and trudged casually toward that darkened corner, feeling a little silly about the whole thing.
There was nothing there, either, but the Pip’s overactive imagination—but a boy came running in from the eastside at just that minute with his breath all jerking around in his throat.
“What’s the matter?” Papriello asked the kid.
“We found a cut in the fence. And Jerry C-Note laying in the cane with a choker buried around his neck.”
“What? Where?”
The kid pointed into the darkened quadrant. “Right over there. I swear I passed that point no more’n two
minutes ago, Mr. Papriello, and it was okay then. And Jerry’s still warm.”
The yard lieutenant hurried into that hushed conference with another breathless report. “The fuses are okay,” he said. “But about ten feet of wire is missing.”
Papriello’s spine was doing its little dance, again. Something was lying on the ground beside his foot, something alien, something that really did not belong there. He knelt to pick it up and stayed there, examining it under his flashlight.”
“Whattaya got?” asked the lieutenant.
“Any of our boys been picking sugar cane lately? Anybody even been out there?”
The kid said, “I was, sir. But that didn’t come offa me. I wasn’t standing there.”
No, Papriello really had not even considered the possibility that one of his own boys had dropped it. And his spine had not been guessing at anything.
The son of a bitch had been standing there—in the darkness at the corner, with armed boys walking all around—just standing there, the nervy bastard, standing there in the dark and looking at Carlo the Pip.
“I’m going inside,” he said casually. “Get that wire fixed and get those lights back on quick as you can. I gotta call Miami.”
Yeh, dammit, he would have to call Miami, now. With crap all over his face. With Guido missing and with Frankie the Fox for damn sure back in town. There was no quieting it, now, though he’d been hoping against hope that he could pull this thing out of the fire before having to report it to Miami.
How nice it would have been if he could have taken them Mack Bolan’s head as the final item in that report. But “Frankie” was evidently foxier than Carlo the Pip had cared to remember. And it was no time, now, to be standing on dumb pride.
But, shit, the damned phone was dead, too.
The guy was laying all over them, all right.
Nothing ever really changed, did it?
Papriello turned out all the lights, released the safety on his shotgun, and sat down in Guido’s chair. So okay. Let the bastard come. It was going to be every man for himself, anyway.
So let the bastard come.
19
THE DOOMED, THE DAMNED
The thing had gone without a hitch, so far. He’d found all the right avenues and created a few, here and there, of his own, and he had that camp wired to go on a ten-minute fuse. He left it, then, abandoning the empty backpack in the shack at the portal and quietly descending into the tunnel of love.
A guy down there in bluejeans and a greasy undershirt was sitting in the monorail car, puffing on a cigarette and staring with deep concentration at the control panel. He looked up and did a double-take on the imposing figure in black then quickly raised both hands above his head and yelled, “Okay, okay, I’m clean.”
Bolan growled, “Haul the tail out of there, guy.”
The guy began hauling it out, lowering one hand to haul with then bringing it up quickly, hauling hardware instead of tail. He did not even get it clear of the siderail. The silent Beretta spat once, sneezing out nine millimeters of sighing death and flinging tail and all clear of the car to fall bloodied-face down in the shallow flow of water beneath the car.
Bolan stepped over the body and into the car, popped the connector into place, and set sail for devil’s island. There was no strategy beyond this point. He was strictly on the ear, now, hopefully prepared for whatever he may find over there and ready to take whatever advantage may present itself.
The activities in the dry hole appeared to have reached a more normal level—at least, a quieter one. The compressors were evidently shut down and the sounds coming from the lower levels were within tolerable range.
Two guys wearing bellbottom whites and toting automatic weapons were leaning over the guardrail, quietly watching the proceedings below. One of them looked around and reacted immediately as Bolan stepped clear of the monorail. The Beretta phutted twice again, closing the twenty-foot separation before either guy could bring his piece to bear on the problem. One of the hits was sloppy, though, tearing away a piece of cheek instead of reaming headbone as it should have done. That one’s chopper went sailing over the side as he instinctively raised both hands to the damaged area. Another quiet round, following quickly, corrected the error and set things straight—but the falling weapon struck something solid down below and hit with a clatter.
By the time Bolan had stepped to the railing for a look-see, everyone down there was taking a look-see upstairs. Five hardhats were down there in clear view, grouped around a strange-looking vehicle which was suspended by a harness from the overhead crane. The thing looked a little bit like a submarine, a little like a military tank, and a whole lot like something from a science fiction movie. But there was very little opportunity for Bolan to make a detailed study of the strange craft. One of the hardhats jerked a pistol from his belt and started banging away at Bolan.
He stepped clear and went around to the control booth. Doc Anderson was in there, oblivious to the ruckus outside his soundproofed domain. Bolan went on inside, spun the guy around, and introduced the muzzle of the Beretta to his wide-open mouth.
“In phrases short and simple,” he demanded coldly, “what is this you’ve got here?”
The man was nobody’s fool. He knew exactly where he was at and what was going down. The lips made a couple of flaps without sound then found the way toward an intelligent response. “I have here, young man, the greatest natural wonder of the world.”
“So why’d you sell it out?” Bolan inquired icily. “To the meanest perverts of the natural world?”
The guy bristled and said, “I tried all the others, first. I gave them all a chance. All the government agencies, all the foundations, all the academies. They laughed at me. They all laughed at me. Well. I found someone who didn’t laugh. And with more resources than all the damned foundations combined.”
“You didn’t sell them a hole in the ground, Doctor. You sold them your soul.”
“It’s all one and the same thing,” the guy said, with a shrug. “So it’s okay. Go ahead and shoot me. I’ll die a happy man, at least. I proved my thesis. Dammit, I proved it.”
“I’m not going to shoot you, Happy,” Bolan told him. He stepped over to the control panel and began studying it.
“What are you doing there?”
“I’m going to dis-prove it, guy.”
“The hell you are!” The man came at him like a maniac, all rolling eyes and slavering mouth, grunting and panting and obviously determined to kill with his bare hands.
Bolan popped him once between the eyes with the butt of the Beretta, staggering the guy and setting him down. Then he grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him onto the catwalk, went back inside, closed and locked the door. While out there, he noted that the cable from the overhead crane was paying out. Those guys down below were apparently going ahead with whatever they’d been doing.
So was Bolan. It was a relatively simple control panel. Switches for “Inflow” and “Outflow,” air pressure and water pressure gauges, level control readings. The only thing that really interested Bolan at the moment was the flow switches. He closed all the outflow and opened all the inflow—then, as an afterthought, opened a switch marked “Backflow to Lagoon.” As a final item, he opened the panel door and dropped a grenade in there.
He was back on the catwalk beside Doc Anderson when the grenade exploded. But he felt rather than heard it. Even without the soundproofed walls, Bolan doubted that he would have been able to hear such a puny sound, buried as it were in the deafening roar from below.
Fantastic columns of water were spouting into that once dry hole from six different levels along the sheer rock walls, as a gargantuan steel door slid aside to permit the unrestricted flow. And that hole was filling fast. The strange craft was bobbing around in that and Bolan could see two of the hardhats clinging to it for dear life as the torrents pounded at them. There was no evidence of the other three.
Bolan mumbled his regrets and walke
d out of there, leaving Doc Anderson gripping the railing like a man going down with a sinking ship and staring at the catastrophe with eyes already dead.
He surfaced with a sliver of golden moon edging above the flat horizon—and with quite a local disturbance breaking across the surface of the lagoon.
Several swamp buggies were jockeying around out there, caught in the sudden flow from an upgushing subterranean river and fighting to keep the awkward boats from being bowled over and swept away in the onrushing current.
The Doomed One Hundred were over there, as well, standing two by two in a double column along the water’s edge. A ripple effect of excitement was moving along that column, produced perhaps by the “sign” in the lagoon. But that was not exactly the sign promised. Several bare chested peers had broken the formation and were striding along the column, waving the arms and obviously trying to calm the promised ones. A couple of nervous guards with chatter-guns were trying to divide their attention between the phenomenon in the lagoon and the disturbed prisoners.
Well, Bolan had promised them a sign. But this one was coming straight from the ear. He unslung the M-16 combo, thumbed in a forty-millimeter round of high explosive, and let it fly toward the watch tower—then immediately repeated with another round flying toward the lagoon.
Two men came tumbling down from the flame-wreathed tower, the screaming descent partially eclipsed by the second explosion at head level among the struggling water craft.
That double column down there dissolved immediately, with people flowing joyously in every direction—some, even, into the turbulent waters of the lagoon.
Two more guys in fancy bellbottom whites came out of the trees by the lagoon and began spraying Bolan’s general area with automatic weapons fire. But he could see a hell of a lot better than they could, moonrise or no; the answering burst from the chattering M-16 swept those two into a heap and rolled them back into the trees.
A ragged cheer went up from a group of nearby exprisoners—and it was at just that moment that the timed charges across the way found the end of their fuses. The residence compound at Santelli Island whoofed into the night with columns of fire and spinning fragments cutting donuts in the darkness high overhead. A voice in the distance behind Bolan screamed something unintelligible in a terrorized voice—and Bolan knew, by that single sound, that he’d broken the devil’s back on this turf.
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