Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap

by Don Pendleton

  The blue mouse under her left eye was her reward for that kick. He figured they pretty well understood each other by now. No way would she quit trying to escape. And no way would he let her attempts go un­punished. Not that he blamed her. Nor should she blame him. People did what they had to do. And Wilmer Moore at the age of forty-six was doing exactly what the good Lord must have intended him to do all along.

  After half a lifetime of making do with second bests, it was time for Wilmer to better his lot in life. And he was planning on doing just that. It was a cau­tion the way things seemed to work out when a fellow least expected them.

  There wasn't a man or woman in Kenlandport who wasn't jumping at his own shadow these days. When Wilmer grabbed Becky, old Tom Devereaux just na­turally blamed it on those city crooks out at Eagle Nest Island.

  Wilmer allowed himself a brief smile of self-congratulation. Things just couldn't have worked out better. He had known for a long time how to get to all that duty-free stuff down in Boston. He just didn't have the craft to do the job. But Tom did. And once Tom moved his trawler full of suddenly cheap merchandise up the coast to Saint John clear up in Canada, then things would start looking up for Wil­mer Moore.

  Two, maybe three loads, and he would let Tom off the hook. By then the profits would buy Wilmer a trawler that would put Tom's to shame.

  And while old Tom was running his errands, Wil­mer would be doing a bit of tidying up at Kenland­port. By the time he blew Bud Stiles and a couple of other fellows to hell and gone, there would be a bunch of first-class lobstering rights and fishing areas up for grabs. Wilmer Moore intended to grab them in both his work-scarred hands.

  He detected the subtle shifting of weight as Becky leaned just enough to get set. He let her lay the big fork aside and take the skillet handle in both hands before he broke up her intended play.

  "You try to throw that skillet of grease and eggs in my face, Becky, and I'll surely be forced to beat the living hell out of you."

  The girl made no reply. She gave no outward reac­tion to indicate his words reached her ears. However, he saw a gradual change in body stance. Her tensed muscles slowly relaxed and a redistribution of body balance took place.

  Yep, the kid had spunk. Lots and to spare. He but­tered a slice of whole-wheat bread. His hands did the job automatically while his eyes feasted on the girl's back.

  Her black hair was cut shorter than Wilmer pre­ferred. It fell not quite to her shoulders. He would have liked it better had the ebony cascade descended to the middle of her slim back. Wilmer knew the flannel shirt concealed arms muscular from hard physical effort. Her shoulders were broad for a girl so slender.

  Wilmer Moore stared at Becky's back as though seeing her trim body anew. What had he read about hostages falling in love with their captors? Why not? Hell, he was still young enough to need and enjoy a woman whose life juices hadn't all dried up. Once he got his ducks in line he might just rid himself of his wife Sarah and get Becky to share his new success. And his bed. Definitely his bed.

  Wilmer tensed when she turned to bring his filled plate toward the table. Without so much as looking directly at him she set it before him. Then she turned and brought her own plate and sat opposite him. With her dark eyes fixed on the food, Becky mechan­ically began to fork it into her mouth.

  She wasn't hungry and didn't feel like eating. Yet Becky Devereaux knew she needed to keep her strength up. The next time she tried for the old goat she would be sure to make a success of it. To her sur­prise the eggs fried in the grease from the ham were no effort to eat. With increasing speed she chewed and swallowed.

  What time was it? At least ten and maybe later. She ate last about seven the night before. Becky reached for a slice of bread and a chunk of butter. Briefly her eyes met those of the man opposite her. She held his gaze for just long enough before looking away.

  Let him stare. She was used to being stared at. Her flannel shirt did little to conceal the thrust of her firm young breasts just as it did nothing to shorten the slim column of her long neck. They were a part of her just like her chin, which had a tendency to thrust too far when she got her mind set.

  Again she reached for the bread and butter. Becky let her dark eyes lock with the murky gray ones of the man who had already bruised her face twice. She kept the contempt she felt from showing in her face. Time enough for that later.

  Let him sit and stare at the front of her shirt. He had already squeezed both breasts like a housewife testing peaches for ripeness. But that was while she was tied hand and foot and lying across the worn and cracked seat of his old truck. She had let his disgust­ing hands touch her. Tied and hurting as she was, there had been no reason to let him know she was conscious.

  He wanted to take her to bed right now. She saw it in his eyes, in the slackness of his jaw. Every time he swallowed and worked his throat she knew just what he was thinking.

  Becky filled both his cup and her own with steam­ing coffee without being asked. No need to let him know what she had in mind. Let him believe he had her whipped and broken in spirit.

  She returned to sit on the wobbly wooden chair. Though Becky didn't know for sure where she was, she had a pretty fair idea. The Moores owned a worthless little farm about eleven miles inland from Kenlandport. She had passed it many times. Once her grandmother brought her there to pick berries in late summer.

  Her thoughts turned again to the man with his red­dened face all sticky and prickly from beard stubble. She was uncertain as to whether she would kill Wil­mer or let her grandfather do it. Or even Rick.

  She wondered what Rick was doing and thinking at this moment. Thinking of Rick caused the line of her jaw to soften, and her chin jutted a trifle less. Rick was an unknown quantity to even those who knew him. But she understood him—which was more than just knowing him.

  Though no one, not even her grandparents, knew it, Rick was a hater. He did not hate easily. But once he hated, it was forever. And once he found out about Wilmer, Rick would hate the leering old fool like he had never hated in his life. Even more, proba­bly, than Rick hated the do-gooder judge who let off the drunken driver who had killed his parents.

  She'd let Rick be the one to kill the lecherous Wil­mer with his three-day stubble of graying beard.

  With the future of Wilmer Moore settled in her own mind, Becky drained the remaining coffee from her cup. When she refilled Wilmer's cup she smiled directly into his repulsive face.

  Wilmer accepted the smile as his due. Good. She was already coming around.

  Minutes later Wilmer pulled his sawed-off twelve-gauge from its hiding place and carefully began to in­spect it. First things first. There would be time enough to think about Becky after he settled a few old scores.

  9

  Jesse Lobato eyed them speculatively. "You say Murph said to put you on?"

  "I'm taking over that boat they're just hosing off. It's mine next time it goes out," Bolan said easily. "If it's all the same to you I'll just grab a brew or two and wait until I'm needed."

  The offer triggered the response Bolan expected it would.

  "Grab a broom instead of a brew, buddy. We go twenty-four hours a day out here. The dirt gets piled up. Get on over and clean out the mess and bunk areas. By the time you get that done I'll have some­thing that will give your muscles a little exercise." He laughed at his own joke.

  "What shall I do?" Rick demanded.

  "Report in to the cook over at mess. He'll put you to work scrubbing pots and pans or peeling spuds or something."

  When Rick hesitated, Lobato raised his chin and his voice. "Move it, kid." Rick moved it.

  Bolan knew the broom order for what it was. Let the newcomer understand his place in the scheme of things. That place was at the bottom of nowhere. It was good psychology. He took his time crossing to the sleeping area. His cold blue eyes missed nothing. As hardsites went it wasn't much. But why did it need to be? Open water surrounded it. The Kenlandport residents were believed to be beyond t
he ability to protest. And who ever stopped to worry about a big guy pushing a broom?

  Rick paused before entering the brightly lighted mess hall. His fingers touched the back of Bolan's big hand.

  "Keep an eye out for Becky, will you please?" he said as softly as he could.

  Bolan signaled his answer with a quick flash of his eyes. The kid nodded his thanks and stepped into the hall.

  Bolan took his time finding a broom and dustpan. Once equipped for his cleaning detail, he picked the areas quickly and with care. Open spaces he left to clean themselves. His interest lay in those areas and rooms not readily viewed.

  At each closed door he tapped lightly, then entered without waiting for a response. He remained in each only long enough to determine there was nothing of interest inside and to push together a small pile of dust and litter. Once he resorted to dumping a small wastepaper basket to create evidence of work done.

  The rooms had a sameness about them, places to sleep with drab, utilitarian furnishings. Few personal effects were present. The troops obviously spent as little time as possible in the cramped cubicles.

  Midway down the length of the long hall the character of the tiny rooms changed. Though furnished in exactly the same institutional manner, personal items were suddenly lacking.

  Okay. It made sense. Bolan figured he was now in that portion of the sleeping quarters used by those on their way into or out of the U.S.

  His light rapping was now an automatic ritual. When a muttered response met his next warning knock, Bolan bulled the door open without pausing.

  The man who answered the knock was seated at the room's tiny desk. His head swiveled on his thick neck as Bolan entered the room.

  "Out! Get out!" The three words, though easily understood, gave evidence that English was not the first language for the agitated man.

  Bolan stood his ground and studied the seated man intently.

  "Sorry. I was just told to clean out the place." He spread his big hands wide. The gesture indicated he was merely a man doing his assigned job.

  Bolan managed to let the broom slip free of his grasp. While retrieving it, he worked at the instant recognition that flashed through his mind when the man turned to face him.

  The features were familiar. The wild, staring dark eyes and cleft chin flashed a message in Bolan's memory bank. It was the twisted upper lip that clinched it. The badly healed scar dated back to some poorly-cared-for wound in the man's past.

  Marseille. That was the last spotting of the explo­sives expert who was now coming out of his chair.

  His twisted features and clenched hands bespoke the man's agitation at being confronted.

  Yeah, the guy was upset all right. But so were the people in that café in Paris. They died when one of his specially concocted bombs filled the normally quiet boulevard with a clutter of bloody body parts and the cries of terrified citizens. Their last sounds made in this life were agonized screams of pain. Yes, and pleas for death to release them from torment they found unbearable.

  The guy's name was Claude Monet. Like the great French Impressionist painter. And, in a perverse way, this man was an artist in his own right. Only the images he created were always covered in blood and smelled of death.

  Thanking April Rose for the immense rogues' gal­lery she kept current at Stony Man Farm, Bolan forced his lips into a slack grin.

  The grin came too late. Despite Bolan's clumsy dropping of the broom, his wide-spread hands, and the pulled-down knitted cap, the man facing him was no fool. Recognition of Bolan came just as the Executioner's mind found and fitted Claude Monet into his proper niche.

  No, Monet didn't recognize Bolan as a specific in­dividual. He could not put a name to the face. Rather he saw in Bolan the enemy, a man whose stand was a full hundred eighty degrees from his own.

  Bolan had to give the shorter man credit. He was fast, both mentally and physically. As Bolan straight­ened up from picking up the fallen broom, Monet spun away from him. He grabbed for an automatic pistol lying on the desk.

  Monet's right hand covered the German-made Heckler & Koch Model P9. Bolan sprang to the at­tack. Stubby fingers were gathering up the pistol as Bolan still lacked two yards of reaching his goal. The bomb maker and dispassionate killer was turning, eager to unleash as many rounds of 9mm parabellum as were needed to stop the big guy.

  Knowing he was too slow by a fraction of a beat, Bolan extended his left arm fully. With stiffened fin­gers, he drove hard into the exposed throat of Claude Monet. The blow's force snapped the murderer's head back. His entire body recoiled in an effort to lessen the force of the attack.

  Still coming forward with undiminished speed, Bolan formed his right hand into a lethal plane. He brought it up and across with the entire weight of his body behind it. The inside edge of his stiffened hand caught Monet just below the line of his jaw. It wasn't a killing blow, but it was close.

  The H&K fell to the bare floor from fingers no longer able to bear its weight. Bolan came to a skid­ding halt, preparing himself for his next and final blow.

  The eyes of Claude Monet, artist of mutilation and unspeakable horror, met Bolan's and held. No quar­ter was asked. Hate crossed the short distance between the two men. Yes, and something else. The terrorist's realization that he was not immortal was there as well. Bolan's hand swung in a slashing motion that brought it hard against the other's neck like a huge blade of death.

  Monet's eyes dulled at the impact. He collapsed at Bolan's feet.

  Confronted with a body in hostile territory, Bolan slid the options past his mind like a deck of cards be­ing shuffled. Removal was desired but impossible. That narrowed his options to hiding the corpse.

  Where and how to hide it? Edgar Allan Poe said it best. Hide a thing by putting it out in the open. Bolan hoisted the slack body onto the narrow cot. After quickly searching the corpse and finding nothing of value, Bolan positioned the remains of Claude Monet on his back. With his head pillowed and hands folded across his chest, the man slept the deepest of all sleeps.

  There was nothing else in the room the Executioner could put to use. Knowing well the futility and dan­ger of spending valuable time in fruitless activity, Bolan grabbed the fallen broom. He left the room without a backward glance and walked down the hall to the next room.

  Suddenly a door opened at the far end of the long corridor. Mack Bolan suspected that time just might have run out.

  "Hey, you. Drop that broom and come with me." Obediently Bolan did just that.

  Once clear of the bunk and mess area, Bolan saw that the spot occupied by their dory now held a fish­ing craft. Half a dozen troops were already unload­ing boxes and crates. From the look of bent knees and straining arms, Mack was certain the boxes held something heavier than toilet tissue.

  "Come on. Hop to it, Cherboneau. Get a move on, man."

  Bolan moved quickly to obey Murph's orders. The guy who summoned him from his cleaning task was already part of the work detail. Without being obvi­ous about it, the big guy managed to work his way toward the stern of the craft. Inward relief rewarded the move. Their dory bobbed at the far end of the dock. Tied by a single loose line, it rocked with the movement of the water. From what he could see, its contents were undisturbed.

  When his turn came at the head of the line, Bolan accepted a wooden crate with markings in French. Bracing himself to carry the heavy load without loss of balance, he checked the identifying markings. It wasn't all that difficult. In his powerful arms he car­ried a crate of 5.56mm ammo.

  Moving more quickly than the soldier before him, Bolan brought that guy's cargo into eyeball range. He was packing 9mm parabellum loads. Another question answered. These guys were doing more than just moving human cargo in and out of the country. They were preparing for an all-out military thrust.

  During the half hour that followed, he served as an uncomplaining beast of burden. He transported arms and ammunition, explosives, electronic devices and a case of premium Scotch whisky that was
diverted from the supply depot directly to the day room. Cases bearing markings denoting origins in the United Kingdom, France, Belgium, Italy and Czecho­slovakia were removed from the boat by the sweating troops.

  The fishing-vessel-turned-gunrunner rose steadily in the water as the laboring men lightened its load. Once the final case was hauled over the chipped and scraped railing, the skipper fired his diesel. Bud Stiles cast off the pair of lines holding the craft beside the dock without being asked.

  For a brief instant Stiles caught the eye of the slightly younger man at the helm. Neither spoke. Bo­lan noted the exchange of glances. The intensity was not diminished by the plumes of blue gray smoke that curled from the skipper's stubby pipe. Neither of the two honest Maine fishermen liked what they were into. It showed in the meeting of their eyes when neither thought they were observed.

  And something else showed, too. Humiliation at being forced into doing this job. Resentment at being brought to heel by a bunch of men whose idea of a good day's work was shaking down the corner shop­keeper for a percentage of his profits. Yeah, and their desire to do something about it.

  Mack Bolan did not know Bud Stiles. He did not even know the name of the skipper who was now so casually reversing the clumsy-looking craft away from the dock. But he did know them for the inde­pendent men they were. Asking no mercy from the elements, they survived as men had throughout the history of the world. For them to be thus reduced in their own eyes was nearly intolerable.

  On the other side of the coin, loyalty to wives and families was big with these quiet, life-hardened men. Just how far they would let themselves be driven out of fear for the safety of their families was a big ques­tion. A question Mack Bolan had no way of answer­ing at this point.

  Bolan joined the group of grunting cargo movers without becoming a part of them. He stood to one side to study the layout of the site he intended to level before the night was done.

  A presence at his side drew his attention.