“Thanks, I have it.”
Royal’s eyes raised in appreciation of that revelation. “How long have you been around here?”
“Long enough,” Bolan assured him.
“How are we going to handle this, uh, thing at the airport?”
“We’ll have to play the ear. You spot the ladies for me. I’ll take care of their escort. You take care of the ladies. Take them back to your place, I guess, for now. We’ll work out something from there.”
“But, uh, you won’t be coming back with us?”
“No. I’ll be taking their place on the plane.”
“Oh. Hell. Uh … what does that mean?”
“I told you, JR. I’m going to send the guy an airplane.”
“Yeah, but … Uh, I mean … how?”
Bolan chuckled without humor. “The only way I know how. First rule of warfare, Royal, if you mean to win—don’t hit their weaknesses, hit their strengths.”
The actor laughed nervously. “Which means?”
“You tell me. What is Spielke’s greatest strength?”
“Hell, I—the joint on the hill?”
“No. That’s his weakness. It can wait. Right now, JR, I have to hit the phantom.”
“The what?”
“I have to hit his strength, JR.”
It was not a particularly impressive airport, by U.S. standards, but it was a very active one. Several U.S. airlines operate directly into Acapulco, as do Canadian and Australian flights. The Mexican lines, AeroMexico and Mexicana, provide frequent service to and from Mexico City, Puerto Vallarta, Guadalajara, and other points within Mexico.
Norte Americanos seemed to be the principal users of these services—and there were many of these in constant coming and going—but the atmosphere there was a truly intercontinental thing.
The Lear jet, with its Compania Maximillia decals in modest display, was taxiing toward a special area reserved for private aircraft.
Bolan was wearing a new outfit from she waist up, courtesy of a local flying service employee—a hat which actually fit and a shirt which almost, with Aero Acapulco embroidered above the heart. All it cost him was fifty bucks American. Tossed in for free was a set of noise-blanketing earmuffs and the guy’s job for ten minutes. The AutoMag had remained behind, at JR’s villa. The .38 snub, in leg holster, was all he’d need for this relatively simple task.
Royal’s women were clustered at the service ramp, awaiting the arrival. They were dressed alike, in a sort of feminine uniform resembling those worn by flight attendants, and each carried a small, over-the-shoulder bag.
Waiting with them was a big Mexican in a tropical suit of impeccable white, packing a briefcase.
“Who’s the guy?” Bolan asked his new partner.
“Cabrillo, one of the company couriers. He’s always armed, so watch him.”
“Think the girls understand what’s happening to them?”
“Aw, no. They think they’re off on a lark somewhere. They’ve been at Tres Vidas, the fancy country club hotel down here by the airport, ever since the shooting. Naw. Max handles this sort of thing with class. They won’t know where they’re headed until the door slams behind them.”
“Okay, that’s a problem for you,” Bolan said. “You’ll have to convince them, and get them out of here with minimum fuss.”
“I can handle it,” Royal assured him.
“Okay. I’ll take care of the courier. Play by ear and take it from there. I want you off and moving before the fireworks start.”
“Bet on it,” the actor said lightly.
Bolan squeezed his arm and walked onto the ramp to direct the Lear to its unloading station.
He’d never done it before but he brought the big craft right to its mark without a hitch—wondering, as he did so, just how much the pilots really needed this little act of guidance.
Two guys were in the cockpit, formally uniformed. He gave them a cheery wave and went around to position the stairway at the cabin door.
John Royal had made his approach to the group on the ground. The courier, Cabrillo, was engaging him in angry conversation, and the women were beginning to mill around the two.
Bolan stepped over and pushed inside the circle, conked the courier with the butt of his pistol, and told Royal: “Buzz off!”
The group flowed one way, Bolan the other. He was on the boarding steps when the aircraft door opened, and he was inside with the startled steward by the throat before the guy even saw him.
“Close this door!” he growled. “No salida del avion! Comprende?”
“Yes, I understand,” the guy replied in perfect English. He understood the .38 in Bolan’s big fist, too.
So did the guys in the cabin.
It was a plushy, VIP-lounge type of configuration with full-recliner chairs and all conceivable animal comforts. Full bar, conference table, the works. Four guys were in there, getting their stuff together, primping.
Everything froze for a timeless second when Bolan made his entry—but then time moved on and the two bodyguards must have thought it was on their side.
They went immediately for hardware. There was not that much time left in the world for either of them. The snub .38 crackled like a toy in Bolan’s paw, spitting twice and spattering that lovely cabin with exploding life forces.
The other two cowered in a corner as Bolan collected the weapons. He motioned the attendant to a chair and shoved the VIPs face down on the cabin floor.
The door to the flight deck opened, and a startled face peered out.
Bolan shoved the guy back inside and held the door open, taking station in the doorway for equal visibility both ways. “Vamos, de prisa!” he commanded in cold and precise Spanish. “Do you read me, Capitan?”
“Hijack,” the guy replied, with a lot of cool.
“That’s it. Take ’er up. And let’s have no cuteness with the tower. Yo comprendo Espanol, Capitan.”
The guy was young, perhaps thirty years, and he spoke American-English like a native Angeleno. “Your wish is my command, mister,” he replied coolly, with a glance at the carnage in his main cabin.
He was already cranking the engines. The copilot had not left his chair. He was a bit younger than the captain, and apparently spoke little English.
The copilot pulled on a headset and began a transaction with the control tower, in Spanish.
Bolan was not really all that great with the language—but he could pick up key words and phrases.
“Hijack” must have become a part of the international language. The guy used it several times during his request for immediate take-off clearance.
The tower was haggling, hedging, trying to delay the departure.
“Tell them,” Bolan said heavily, “to clear out the traffic. We’re taking off. Capitan—your choice of runways.”
The skipper sighed and began his taxi roll while the other guy passed the word along to the tower.
A moment later, they were airborne.
The guy was a good pilot—cool, steady, alert. “Where are we going, friend?” he asked.
“Head west,” Bolan instructed.
“I’m short on fuel. Why don’t I take you to Puerto Vallarta?”
“I said west … friend.”
The cool was cracking, just a bit. The pilot glanced at his mate and tried it again. “There’s nothing west but endless stretches of Pacific Ocean. Let’s be reasonable. I simply don’t have the fuel capability.”
“We aren’t going that far west,” Bolan assured him. “Once we clear the airport zone, head west. Fly a two minute leg, then come about on a direct course for Puerto Marques.”
“You fly planes, friend?”
“I fly whatever is handy … friend. Right now I’m flying you. Start your move.”
Bolan was certainly no pilot, but apparently he had the guy thinking that he might be. Which was okay.
They started out the west leg of the flight plan as the skipper inquired, “Okay, it’s Puerto Marque
s for landfall. Then what?”
“We’re landing there, friend.”
“At Puerto Marques?” The guy laughed and poked his partner with an elbow. “There’s no place to land at Puerto Marques,” he declared, very patiently, as though speaking to a total cuckoo. “We took off from Puerto Marques, friend. Acapulco International serves this entire area. There isn’t even a spot large enough to handle a Piper Cub at—”
“We won’t be needing an airport,” Bolan told him. He was beginning to enjoy the conversation. “We’re landing at Villa Maximillia.”
“Nuts,” the guy said. “No way, man. I wouldn’t try to put a helicopter down on that eagle’s roost.”
“You know the place, then.”
“Sure. This is their company plane. Didn’t you know that?”
“I knew it,” Bolan replied. “But that’s where we’re landing, Capitan.”
“No, see, you don’t get it. There’s no—”
“We’re landing in the front yard.”
The guy chuckled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Bolan said, chuckling with him. 96
“There’s nothing out front but water, friend.”
“That’s right. What’s wrong? Haven’t you ever ditched a plane before?”
The guy looked at his copilot with a sick grin. “Get serious,” he said to Bolan.
Bolan dropped a marksman’s medal on him and said, “You get serious. It’s going to take all the skill you have—but then I’m counting on you having a lot of that. Knowing Max, he wouldn’t have a toonerville conductor handling his property.”
The guy was fascinated by the bull’s-eye cross. He showed it to his copilot and said, “Yeah, sure. You want an ocean ditch, eh?”
“Here’s the way you’re going to do it,” Bolan instructed. “You’ll make a straight-in approach, right out of the sun, low level. You’ll set her down as close as possible to the shore. Unless you enjoy long swims in deep water at sunset, I suggest you get very close.”
“What if I tell you this plane won’t take a ditch?”
“Would it take a dive, better?”
“It’s not a DC-3, you know.”
“Where do you want to put it, Capitan? In the pond or on the patio?”
The guy let out a quivering sigh and said, “Okay. We’ll do it your way. How many live passengers do I have left back there?”
“There’s still a couple.”
“How do you know they can swim?”
“I don’t especially give a damn whether they can or not.”
The copilot was whispering something into his headset. Bolan snatched it away and tossed it into the main cabin.
“Radio silence from here on,” he commanded.
“Okay,” the skipper said. “If you want to commit suicide, mister, okay.”
“I guess I’m leaving that in your hands, aren’t I,” Bolan told the guy. “And it works both ways. Believe it.”
The guy believed it.
He began explaining the situation to his copilot. Map cases opened, and the preparations for a ditching at sea got underway.
The Compania Maximillia Lear jet was heading home.
10: The Convincer
The noisy circus of curious onlookers had been efficiently herded away by the naval authorities and some degree of calm had returned. A covey of official boats remained on the scene, however, and a large crew of salvage workers swarmed the rocky shoreline directly below.
Seaward lay partially on her side, firmly aground and impaled upon an outcropping of jagged rock, the tide retreating around her, bow agape but—for now—that wound well above the waterline.
Bad news had just come up from the naval inspector, though—the yacht had sustained other serious structural damage along the keel line. It would be impossible to pump her out without first raising her and repairing the damage.
Spielke, watching the activities from above, groaned with that news and sent the word back: “Okay, let’s get some securing lines on her so she won’t slip away from us. I want a couple of barges down there, damn quick, to support the after section and keep her from breaking apart. Whatever it takes, do it. I got a couple of naval architects and a salvage expert on the way. Let me know as soon as they arrive. Oh, and tell Captain Gonzales I appreciate him sealing the area off.”
It was sickening, just sickening—the whole miserable affair. Spielke’s head was splitting and his guts were churning. Sick, yeah, he was a sick man. Somebody else was going to get sick over this, too—sick to death. And Max Spielke was going to stand there and laugh at that bastard’s dying screams.
He turned to his chief lieutenant and snarled, “Did that jerk call back yet?”
“Nothing,” Too Bad replied. “I think he was putting you on, sir.”
“I want this town took apart! Are you reading me? I want that son of a bitch found! I want his balls, Paul!”
“It’s just a matter of time, sir,” the lieutenant assured his lord. “There’s no way he’s going to make another move without us knowing it. I got that description from Captain Padilla circulated all around, now. Cabs, buses, hotels, restaurants, cantinas—both sides of the bay, up and down and all around. We’ll nail him.”
“What about the helicopter? Any word yet?”
“No, sir. It went out, and it didn’t come back. I guess those reports were true.”
Spielke gnashed his teeth and snaried, “Okay! That makes a yacht and a helicopter that bastard owes me! It’ll take him a long time to pay, Paul.”
“Yes, sir.” Too Bad understood that. It was going to take Mack Bolan a long time to die. “I passed the word that we want him alive, if there’s any way.”
“You better believe it,” Spielke muttered as he turned back to the parapet.
Another lieutenant hurried over to report, “Mr. Spielke, Cabrillo is on the phone. Something’s funny at the airport.”
“That’s a break,” the boss growled. “I haven’t heard anything funny all day.” He glanced at his watch. “He should be on his way to Tampico.”
“Yessir, that’s the problem. Cabrillo says he got mugged at the airport while he was waiting to get on the plane. Sounds kind of confused. You want to talk to him?”
“I got a headache, Juan. What the hell is …?”
“Well, he says Royal was there and, I don’t know, something about interference; they were having a beef about one thing or another, I don’t know. Somebody, maybe Royal, I couldn’t get it straight—somebody slugs Cabrillo. Next thing he knows, the plane is gone and he’s lying there on the ramp and the airport cops are asking him a lot of questions. He sounds confused.”
Another telephone rang, and Too Bad went to get it.
Spielke told the other man, “Handle it, Juan. Get the straight story and handle it. Contact the flight if you have to and find out if those broads got aboard. Then make sure someone is at Tampico to take them in tow. And tell Cabrillo I said his story damn well better be straight.”
Too Bad yelled from the conference table: “Boss! This is the control tower at the airport! They say our plane has been hijacked!”
Spielke put a hand to his forehead and groaned.
Too Bad said something into the telephone and hung up then hurried back to the boss’s side. “Nobody knows exactly what happened,” he reported calmly. “The plane came in from Tampico okay. Landed and went to the gate. They think nobody got on or off. But then the plane radios the tower and says they have a hijacker aboard. It took off and headed west. They still got it on radar. Say it’s heading out to sea.”
Spielke muttered, “It was him, Paul—him! He calls here with cute threats. So we draw in our defense line. And all the time he’s lamming out of the country—with our plane.”
“You think so?”
“Sure I think so. He was probably at the airport when he made that dumb call. And I fell for it. God, Paul, my head hurts bad. Did you say nobody got off?”
“That’s what they think.”
Sp
ielke groaned again. “Hell, Lambrighetta and Zolotti were on that flight. He’s got them, too.”
“Uh, yeah, boss, there were gunshots just before the plane took off.”
The Sultan was pressing both hands against his head. “Put in a call to General del Gado in Mexico City. Use my name, say it’s urgent.” The instructions were barely audible. “Let me know when he’s on the line. I’ll speak to him personally.”
“That’s, uh, the air force guy—right?”
“Right.”
“You okay, sir?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. He’s not getting away with it, Paul. I’ll chase the bastard all the way to China, if I have to.”
“I’ll make the call,” Too Bad said quietly, and went away to do so.
The Capo Mexicana turned his throbbing head back to the sea. Hell, everything had gone sour. It was unbelievable that one guy—a foreigner, operating alone on Max Spielke’s own turf—could come romping in and, in a matter of hours, turn the whole thing completely sour. Unbelievable, yes. But it had happened.
Maximillian Spielke had always taken quiet pride in the knowledge that he was not a “made” man but a self-made one—and he had enjoyed making this fact known to visiting Mafia VIPs in various subtle ways. He’d taken virgin territory and moulded it into his own image, and he owned homage to no man. It was his territory, and he shared it with no one. The Italians strutted and sneered and played their silly games with secret societies and mock royalty; Maximillian Spielke ruled absolute, like the One God, alone and aloof, allowing the International Strutting and Sneering Society to play in his sunshine.
So maybe he’d allowed too much.
They had brought their problems with them as well as their golden opportunities.
And what did Compania Maximillia need of their wealth and their so-called power?
What did the Golden Land need of their problems?
He had quietly chided them, many times, for their weakness in the face of this Bolan el Verdugo, the fierce El Matador of their own making.
Acapulco Rampage Page 7