Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap

by Don Pendleton

  "But you have seen the people you think may have been responsible," Bolan prodded.

  "Yeah. Everyone's seen them. It was only Uncle Ed who had the nerve to try to do anything about them."

  "Where can I find these people?"

  "You really mean to do them in, don't you?"

  "If you tell me where to find them."

  "They have a stronghold out on the island. It's called Eagle Nest Island, though there hasn't been an eagle there since before I was born. It's out about a mile or so from Kenlandport Bay."

  "How far is the bay from here?" asked Bolan. "Half a mile at most."

  "We don't need my car. Let's go."

  To their right, the incoming tide lapped the rocky shore. A gull screamed its protest at the worsening fog and the approaching night.

  The woods threatened to advance across the nar­row shore to meet the incoming sea. A suggestion of evening breeze sighed through the tops of the taller trees. Close to the ground the tangle of brushy un­dergrowth served to bar all but the most deter­mined.

  Bolan and the kid covered less than a hundred yards when a shadowy figure clutching a shotgun rose from the gloom. There was no mistaking the threat posed by the dark outline of man and weapon.

  "Friend?" Bolan whispered to the youth, his voice low but intense.

  Rick peered into the mist. "No way."

  The Beretta again left leather to breathe the damp air of coming night.

  "You two lost or something?" It was the bullying voice of one accustomed to having his way. Bolan placed the accent as no farther north than New Jer­sey.

  Without waiting for a command from Bolan, Rick answered for both of them.

  "We're just on our way back to Kenlandport. We're late." His flat Maine twang was in sharp con­trast to the Mid-Atlantic inflections of the guy with the automatic shotgun.

  The narrowing distance between them became critical. The time for choosing was all but past. The man blocking their path made the decision on his own.

  "I heard a twelve-gauge let go a few minutes ago. You know you hicks were told to turn in your wea­pons. I guess you backwoods 'billies need a little help in understanding plain English. Get up here where I can see you."

  The autoloading twelve-gauge began to swing for­ward. It viewed Bolan and the kid in its single staring eye. With that motion the guy made an unscheduled appointment with dark and silent death.

  The Beretta sighed twice in response to a pair of quick tightenings of Bolan's trigger finger. Without ever realizing it took more than six twelve-gauge shells and tough talk to make him a man, the guy started to drop, his knees refusing to support his weight. He sank to the rocks of the shore.

  Rick advanced on shaky legs toward the corpse. His weak light came to life and cast its faint beam down onto the dead man.

  Bolan heard the kid's sharp intake of breath. Death is final. It is never pretty and seldom pleasant. A youth capable of viewing the effects of violent death and remaining unmoved would not be someone Bolan could trust at his side. Or at his back. Rick Cartright passed a test he was unaware he had taken.

  "My God, Mr. Phoenix. You got him right in the center of his chest." The dim light wavered. "And through the nose."

  The kid circled the downed body. Bolan heard some small rocks go flying as Rick slipped, then he saw the weak beam of light directed at the kid's feet.

  "Oh, my God! His brains are scattered all over these rocks! I slipped on his brains!"

  Without warning, the light switched off. Bolan fol­lowed the boy's stumbling progress with his ears.

  After eight or ten steps, the kid halted. Sounds of retching destroyed the calm.

  Bolan gave the kid time enough to get over the worst of it before moving to stand by his side. He dropped his big hand to Rick's lean shoulder.

  "Ready?"

  The single word was enough. The kid stood and nodded, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Again the pair moved north toward Kenlandport.

  "You have one hell of a fast draw," Rick said after they had walked in silence for a few min­utes. "How did you know you could beat him to the punch?" The words tumbled from his lips as if to disguise what the kid viewed as his own weak­ness.

  "I didn't outdraw him. My hand was filled before he ever became a threat."

  They continued to cover ground. Again the Execu­tioner spoke. "The time to unholster a weapon is be­fore it's needed. Not after. After may be too late. If you want to survive, that is."

  It was a short but vital speech. Bolan could only trust that the kid understood.

  When the two of them rounded a slight jutting of the shore, Kenlandport came into view. Seen only as a scattered cluster of dim lights, the village was not impressive. Each of the fifteen or so lights was an in­distinct, yellow orange glow. If anything, the fog was thicker here on the little bay.

  The youth spoke. "We've got to get a boat—if you're really serious about getting those guys on the island."

  "I'm serious," Bolan said.

  Again the pair moved ahead. From their left, ani­mal sounds cut through the fog and dark.

  "Pigs," Rick explained. "They're upset. Do we have time to see what's bothering them?"

  They didn't, but Bolan said it would be all right. Long ago he had learned not to overlook anything, however trivial it might seem. If the youth felt the grunting and squealing of the animals was worth checking, it was worth a few minutes of their time.

  Rick's light swept the solidly built enclosure that housed perhaps eight or ten huge sows.

  "They haven't been fed. That's because Becky isn't here."

  "Becky?"

  "Becky Devereaux. She's a friend."

  Rick's tone alerted Bolan.

  "You said Becky isn't here. Where is she?"

  "Her grandmother said she went up to Bangor to visit an aunt. I can't buy that. Becky takes care of these pigs, and she's real responsible. She wouldn't go on a visit without having someone feed and water them. And she wouldn't leave without telling me."

  "How old is Becky?" Bolan asked.

  "Fifteen. Going on sixteen."

  "And you like her."

  The kid hesitated. "I love her." His words were uttered flatly. They left no room for misunderstand­ing.

  "If you don't think Becky's in Bangor, where do you think she is?"

  Rick located a sack of cracked corn before he an­swered.

  "I think they have Becky." He jerked his head in the direction of the bay. "Her grandfather owns the best diesel trawler along this stretch of coast."

  Rick scattered a five-gallon bucket of feed along the length of a worn and empty trough. Instantly the im­mense sows began to shoulder one another aside in an effort to fill empty bellies. White teeth in massive mouths slashed at one another as the hungry animals Rushed and shoved. The angry gruntings were less­ened as powerful jaws chomped on the welcome grain.

  "Does Becky like these pigs?"

  The kid shrugged his thin shoulders. "She under­stands them. That's why I know she didn't just up and go to Bangor. She wouldn't do that to them."

  A question tugged at Bolan's mind.

  "How many people know the way you feel about Becky?"

  "It's the way we feel about each other, sir. Not all that many. Uncle Ed knew. Becky's grandfather probably suspects." He turned back to look at the animals.

  "Time's getting away from us," Bolan prompted. "Right. Let's see if I can't rustle up a boat. It will have to be a dory. I'll row us out to the island."

  Bolan would have preferred making his initial probe alone. At the same time he could not justify a refusal that would limit Rick's participation. The kid had a lot at stake. He deserved the right to lend a hand.

  With the slightly built shadow leading the way, the two figures moved again toward whatever awaited them.

  4

  Bolan was glad to be back in the remote regions, iso­lated from the cities.

  For the moment, he had had it with the
"big time" of international counterterrorism.

  It was good to be back in the true heartland of his country, which was wherever the individual could face hardship on his or her own, without benefit of government interference of any sort.

  On the rocky coastland of Maine, despite the rum­blings of trouble he felt here, and despite the vulner­ability of such an area because of its freedom from any involvement by the authorities, Bolan knew he moved among his kind of people.

  The Laser Wagon was garaged after its test run in Europe; Stony Man Farm continued to hum through day and night in its mission to prey upon political killers everywhere; and the huge machine of Mack Bolan's heavily soldiered effort to scourge the world of terror was in high gear and advancing inex­orably.

  But sometimes Mack felt no part of it.

  The human being that was The Executioner under­stood the danger of the supreme power that he wielded. The danger was not only a threat to his enemies, it also menaced himself and his allies.

  The blitzing Able Team and Phoenix Force over­kill that he and Hal had unleashed against Yoshida's troika and the forces of Hydra, in one of the big­gest battle events of modern times, threatened by its very victory to dehumanize the victors into overcon­fident killing machines. Bolan smelled the bad odor of that possibility and it turned him off such supreme power.

  The logic of the danger was apparent to him on every mission. His campaign against Paradine, for example, included the use of the Laser Lok scope for ultimate accuracy. But had the device, finally, saved April Rose from being hit? No.

  In an earlier mission, Bolan had secretly and only briefly used the first-ever 9mm AutoMag, a double-action, stainless-steel weapon from Wildey, with vent rib and fixed barrel, that could shoot fifteen rounds of 9mm Winchester "big-game" Magnums. Was the new piece worth it, compared with his faithful Big Thunder? At a purchase price of $5000 with all the trimmings, probably not. He had put the gun into storage.

  Mack Bolan preferred to trust his own combat ex­perience, not just the top-of-the-line toys that were so easily available through his organization. The time was inevitably approaching when he would free him­self from his sanctioned backup and approach his world of fire and fury by himself.

  He could feel in his chilled bones the rumblings of such a change as he paced through the twilight fog of Kenlandport's remote and private world.

  He loved all the men and women of Stony Man Farm like his own family, and it was for that reason that Bolan could not endanger them by allowing the organization to get mightier and more powerful than each of the individuals who operated it.

  "Perfection is the enemy of the good," said the French thinker Voltaire. What he meant was that power corrupts, that success can lead to self-destruction.

  A man is made hard by hardship, and that was the way Mack Bolan intended to proceed.

  By hardship.

  There was a time in the bloody campaign against Yoshida when Bolan thought his ruthless drive into zones that were forbidden would put his fighters beyond the pale of government sanction forever. And that thought, although it had disturbed him because of his love for his warriors, nevertheless enlivened his mind and brought forth a resurgence of energy within his commitment to war everlasting. For it reminded him of the days when he had fought the Mafia outside of the law; it brought back the sensa­tion of dealing out justice while simultaneously fend­ing off the powerhouse of law enforcement.

  And he liked that sensation.

  It brought him home, back to his psychological roots as a sniper, as a stony man whose doctrine was personal war.

  Prowling now into the unknown with a young man called Rick, in one of the more obscure coastal havens of America's northeast, produced these latest thoughts within Bolan. He welcomed the thoughts. They helped him define his direction on his third mile. Already he owed more to Rick, and to the real people he represented, than the young man would ever know.

  All this, even before the battle had begun. . .

  5

  "'That's Eagle Nest Island." The kid's outstretched arm directed Bolan's keen gaze.

  The island crouched low on the near horizon about a mile away. Faint flickers of light appeared and van­ished.

  "Fog's really coming in pretty thick now, but you can see the lights on the island."

  "How big is it?"

  "The island's about four hundred yards north to south. Maybe a thousand east to west. The trees come right down to the shore on all sides, and there are some pretty big rocks in lots of places. The only good landing site is on the south side about midway round. That's where those lights are."

  "How are the rocks on the north side—on the opposite side of the island from the lights?" Bolan asked.

  "Bad. About as bad as anywhere except the point at the east end."

  "Could you set me ashore on the north side?" "You don't scare easy, do you?"

  "No."

  "It's up to you. Yep, I can set you ashore there, but lots of really brave people get chicken when the waves start banging them against the rocks."

  "And pick me up later?"

  "I said I could." His voice carried a statement of fact, not a boast. To the kid it was unthinkable that he would put Bolan ashore and not stand by to ferry him back. Bolan realized the kid saw the total picture and he liked that kind of vision.

  The chuffing of a diesel carried through the mist.

  "Boat coming." Rick cocked his head to hear bet­ter. "Probably a lobsterman coming in. More than likely one of the guys who caved in and is running his boat for those bastards on the island."

  "Doing what?"

  "Meeting ships out at sea. Bringing people in. Taking others out. No one wants to talk about it. As though silence makes wrong into right."

  Yeah, it was pretty much the way Hal and April Rose doped it out. What better place than the isolat­ed coast of Maine to become a safe conduit for those who did not want to attempt entry or exit through normal channels?

  And what more logical way to ensure cooperation of the local citizens than to threaten their wives and families?

  It was the warped and twisted logic of those who lived off the fear of others.

  The arrival of the diesel right on the heels of their encounter with the goon on the shore might be just coincidence. It might also be the result of a radioed report of the earlier shotgun blast back at Warner's shack. Bolan viewed coincidence as unlikely. It was that sort of thinking that kept the Executioner alive.

  "Rick, I need some stuff from my car. I want to check out some things. Will you get my car and drive it back here?"

  "You trust me with your car and equipment?"

  "Only as far as you trust yourself."

  "Do you have the keys?" Bolan caught the change in the kid's inflection. Trust meant much to the lean Rick Cartright.

  "Stuck in the tailpipe."

  Without further comment the kid left the shore. He was lost to Bolan's sight within seconds. The sound of the kid's deck shoes crunching on the ground cover continued longer.

  Moving rapidly but cautiously, the man in black let his ears lead him to the diesel's landing site. A spot­light mounted on the boat's oak bow probed the growing dark. It acted as a homing signal for Bolan.

  "Watch it! Can't see a damn thing in this fog. Easy now. We're about there," came the words from the boat.

  The engine slowed in response.

  Fingers of fog parted to allow Bolan a quick glimpse of the incoming craft. Two men stood at the bow. At least one more was out of view where he manned the wheel in the tiny cabin at the stern.

  "Easy. Don't want to sink this tub."

  Once more the spotlight probed. This time it lo­cated what it sought. The man directing it let the light cling like a leech to an ancient pier. Little more than a walkway, the plank and pile construction extended no more than ten yards into the bay.

  The guy stopped directing the light and reached for a line. The moment the spotlight swung free, Bolan caught the quick glint of li
ght on gunmetal. A pair of Uzis and some side arms was his instant assessment. So much for the possibility that a lobsterman was returning late.

  Bolan stepped onto the shore end of the ram­shackle pier and moved to meet the newcomers.

  The craft's worn bow nuzzled the nearest planks as the line was tossed awkwardly toward the top of the mossy piling. The loop missed and fell into the sea.

  "Dammit!"

  "Come on," ordered a voice from the stern. "Hank said he needed backup. Let's give it to him."

  A fraction too late, the man at the helm reversed the idling engine. The missed cast of the line and the tardy reverse of the slowly turning prop allowed the boat to continue along the side of the pier. Bumpers made of worn auto tires scraped against the gray green pilings.

  Aware of what was happening, the helmsman in­creased the flow of fuel to the nearly quiet engine. The propeller began to thrash in the water, and Bolan made his move.

  No more than ten yards separated him from the bow when he called out.

  "Hank sent you a message!"

  Bolan could all but feel the surprise his words evoked. An unseen hand groped for and found the spot light's handle. The beam of light began to rise from where it pointed down toward the sea.

  The 93-R gently coughed, and life gave way to death for the guy manning the light. The spot swung upward as the man fell, and Bolan noted a chunk of skull torn free and sent toward the boat's stern. The guy had just received Hank's message.

  His companion was bringing the Uzi to bear on the Beretta's muzzle-flash. Mack Bolan stroked the weapon's hair trigger twice in rapid succession. The twin 9mm parabellum slugs covered the distance from muzzle to target hot on the trail of one another.

  The first caught some portion of the Israeli-manufactured weapon. The slug's force drove the man backward as if he'd been punched.

  The second jacketed bit of death located his coat button. With the brass button leading the way, the parabellum slug plowed its way into and through the breastbone. The heavy metal button acted as an ex­pander, and the chunk of parabellum terror continued to do its deadly work. The corner of the guy's right lung area suddenly developed an inability to do its job. Fragments from the brass button tore a trio of rips in the muscle of the heart itself. That valiant organ continued to pump its life-giving fluid. Thim­blefuls of precious crimson filled the chest cavity within the first second. A pair of beats later and enough blood to fill a man's cupped hand flowed into the damaged lung area.