Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap

by Don Pendleton

  "Those soft-soled shoes do pretty well on the deck, don't they?" Bud Stiles struck fire to his big-bowled pipe.

  "The soles keep me from slipping," Bolan said easi­ly. Every sense was instantly alert. Stiles had shot one bolt and missed earlier. The man was nobody's fool.

  Stiles drew on his pipe until an even glow in the bowl rewarded him.

  "You keep them pretty clean, considering." Stiles exhaled smoke and let his comment stand.

  "Oh, when things get wet and slimy I wear boots."

  Again Stiles drew on his pipe. He held the stem tight between strong teeth and held both his hands out before him with their fingers spread. Reflectively he turned them palms inward and pretended to study them. The harsh light of the portable units turned the dock area into day despite the night and fog.

  Bolan went along with the charade. Aware that Bud Stiles was studying him, not his hands, he played the game. He located a cigarette and brought it to life. Stiles eyed the filter tip without comment. The quirking of one of his bushy brows said enough.

  "See you barked a knuckle, Maurice."

  Bolan studied the big knuckle that still wept blood as the result of contact with a wooden crate.

  "One of life's hazards," he said, his voice low. Stiles drew again on his pipe and appeared to re­flect on Bolan's words.

  "Life is full of hazards," Stiles said at last.

  Bolan let a small cloud of cigarette smoke mingle with the mist. It was Stiles's game. Let him play it.

  When the large man at his side elected to remain si­lent, the Kenlandport fisherman nodded his head as though in answer to an unspoken question. He turned his lean back on the man whose bloody hand he had just studied. Without hurry Bud Stiles walked toward the command post.

  Yeah, you can fool some people some of the time . . .. And he had not fooled the savvy Bud Stiles. Not for a minute. First the knife, then the boots, fi­nally the hands. To a man of the sea Bolan's hands were a dead giveaway. Bud's big chapped hands with their cuts and calluses were the battered hands of a man who went to sea in a small boat and hoped like hell he could make a living and remain alive. Bolan's bigger, stronger hands were not those of a working fisherman. It was that simple.

  What was not simple was the position taken by Bud Stiles. It is strange what fear does to a man. Especially to a man who previously thought he feared nothing except the gods of the sea and the unknown terrors of an economy based on uncertainty.

  Stiles and the skipper whose craft was now lost to view shared a common fear. They also shared other feelings. Which would win out now?

  Whether Stiles's fear of the cannibals who infested the island was great enough to cause him to inform on the new man, Bolan had no way of telling. He would like to think the quiet Kenlandport native would keep his knowledge to himself. But there was no way he could be certain.

  Sure, Bolan knew he could take the guy out and end the threat. But Bud Stiles was not the enemy. In the end it came down to that. Though he might bring about Bolan's defeat, he still was not the enemy.

  10

  Rick Cartright crossed between the mess hall and the command post-day room at slow speed. In his hands he held a heaping dinner tray destined for consump­tion by Big Jim Lane. A clean dish towel covered the tray and its contents.

  Midway there, Rick caught sight of Bud Stiles as the lean man approached the door that was Rick's destination. Simultaneously each acknowledged the presence of the other.

  Bud veered from his intended path to meet Rick halfway. Rick slowed his pace to a crawl so he could take his eyes from the tray and concentrate on the ap­proaching man.

  Stiles did not speak until both came to a halt with less than a yard of clear space between them.

  "What are you doing out here, Rick?" Bud spoke around the stem of his pipe with its big charred bowl.

  "Right now I'm taking this food to Mr. Lane." Rick deliberately misunderstood the question.

  "Not what I mean and you know it. Why are you out here?"

  Rick swiveled his head on his thin neck. No one ap­peared to take notice of their encounter. No one except John Phoenix who now lounged against a piling, Rick could almost feel the force of those icy blue eyes boring into his very being. The big man missed noth­ing.

  Rick edged forward a fraction, hoping the in­creased proximity would help to press home the in­formation he was about to reveal to the fisherman. In quick, terse statements he described what had be­fallen his uncle as well as what Ed Warner had at­tempted to do for the people of Kenlandport. When he ended his brief recitation Rick was aware of a quiver of lips and a break in his voice. Despite his best efforts he could not maintain the emotionless calm for which he reached.

  Stiles removed the dead pipe from his lips. With­out glancing at it he began to prod the tobacco into better position. His throat worked. Twice he started to speak.

  At last he jerked his head in the direction of the dock. Toward Mack Bolan.

  "What about that guy?"

  "He's with me. He's a friend." Rick hesitated. "He was the one Uncle Ed tried to contact."

  Bud Stiles seemed to give the statement considera­tion as he again brought his pipe to life.

  "You sure he didn't kill Ed?"

  "I'm sure." Rick shifted his position. Holding the filled tray was beginning to tell on the muscles and tendons of his forearms and shoulders.

  For some seconds, which to Rick threatened to be­come forever, the fisherman sucked on his pipe. But the kid came to a decision. He had to trust the man. Life is based on trust. And if he couldn't trust Bud Stiles, a friend and neighbor, who could he trust? The man dragging on the pipe was even kin. Some sort of distant relation to Uncle Ed. That was the way it was in Kenlandport. Everyone was related to most everyone else by either blood or marriage or both.

  "He's okay, Mr. Stiles. I know he is."

  "He sure as hell ain't from up north of Rock­land." It was a flat statement leaving no room for contradiction.

  "I don't know where he's from. Washington, I imagine. D.C., that is."

  The older man's chin came up as he gave his entire attention to the youth with the heavy tray.

  It was now or never. Trust or fear.

  "I know he's not with these guys out here." Rick took in the site with a toss of his head. "He's already killed two of them tonight." Immediately he realized his error. "Make that three. Two on shore and one on the island."

  Bud Stiles continued to stare at the boy and suck on his pipe. It did not surprise him all that much. The big fellow had that sort of look about him. He did not panic all that easily. His thoughts came full circle to include the craft circling at full power with three dead men aboard.

  "Sure it wasn't six?" he asked.

  "Six what?"

  "Six men he killed."

  Rick considered briefly. "I saw him kill three."

  Beyond that the boy was unwilling to commit him­self.

  "Let me catch the door for you," Stiles said sud­denly. His decision was made. "Wouldn't want you to drop the great leader's food on the floor."

  Wanting to ask but knowing better, Rick Cartright trailed behind. When the door was held open for him, he entered the room with its haze of cigarette smoke. Stiles did not follow him in.

  Mack Bolan started to walk from where he'd been leaning. He sensed the instant Stiles made his deci­sion by an almost imperceptible straightening of the man's body. He only hoped the decision was one fa­vorable to him and to the task before him.

  Moving slowly, Bolan reached the point where the dock met the rocky shore at the same time as did Stiles. The two stopped and for a couple of beats communicated only with their eyes. Stiles broke the silence.

  "I don't know you. I never saw you before. In fact, I didn't see you on Eagle Nest. Not ever. Just let me get the hell off this chunk of rock before you do whatever it is you came to do."

  He halted, seemed to consider, then added softly, "I've got a ship to meet. I'll be bringing in some pret­ty imp
ortant men not that long after I leave the dock. At least these people here seem to think they're pretty important."

  Bolan waited for the man to continue. Instead Stiles clamped his teeth onto the well-chewed stem of his pipe and deliberately stepped around the big guy.

  He had said what he was going to say. He had made his choice. It was all he felt able to do. And all things considered, Bolan could not have asked for more.

  For the moment, activity at the site was at a stand­still. Those who participated in unloading the cargo were taking what they viewed as a well-deserved break. From overheard scraps of conversation Bolan knew the activity he had observed earlier resulted in a doubling of those on guard. All in all, the site now took on the look of an outpost bedding down for the night. Nothing, Bolan knew, could be further from what was actually happening.

  When Bolan moved along the shoreline following his short encounter with Stiles, no one paid any at­tention to his movement. No one, at least, that he noticed.

  The boathouse he had earlier identified was his ob­jective. Walking as if he knew where he was going yet in no obvious hurry to get there, the night warrior shortened the distance between himself and his tar­get. From long experience Bolan knew the impor­tance of timing in any situation involving role camouflage. It could make or break the best or the least likely disguise.

  Right now, the trick was to appear as one with the site. Move with the air of one who has a goal in mind, who is executing a task. Show just enough speed to indicate the job is important, but not enough to ex­cite comment or draw attention. It was a fine line and the Executioner knew it.

  Though several heads turned and one troop who passed close to Bolan spoke, no one challenged his right to pass. He eased through the side door of the structure and closed it firmly behind him. He had been careful to look ahead and into the night's misty darkness while moving away from the lighted dock area. His night vision was nearly total when he en­tered the dark building.

  Standing on the board catwalk that ran the length of the near side of the covered landing and storage area, Bolan realized he had hit pay dirt of a sort. The pair of sleek vessels that filled the structure bow to stern were to the lumbering fishing vessels what fal­cons were to ostriches. The pair of cabin cruisers could be described simply as fast.

  Yeah, and ready. Ready and able and willing. Without checking their power plants, Bolan knew be­yond a doubt that this pair could deliver thirty knots and more, and could continue to deliver hour after hour. It made good sense. Use the local fishing craft to make deep-sea pickups and deliveries. When a VIP or group of them were ready for transport either south toward Boston or north into Canada, simply fire up one of these beauties and make delivery.

  Bringing the recent words of Stiles to mind, Bolan knew he didn't have all that much time in which to act. Slowing the departure of the cruisers would pose no problem. However, it stood to reason that the crew here had mechanics capable of maintaining the costly craft. Therefore a more lasting solution was called for.

  Bolan replayed the walk along the edge of the lapping water from dock to boathouse. No way could he expect to repeat it after having visited the dory tied so carelessly at the dock's end. Like a good computer, his brain moved to the supply depot he had just helped stock. And like the capable computer it was, his mind rejected the possibility.

  He moved along the wooden catwalk toward the far end, the ocean end, of the long narrow building as he assessed alternate plans of action. There being none better than the obvious, he dismissed the in­ferior plans and gave his total concentration to what must be done. Yeah, and done quickly.

  He stripped off his outer clothing and stacked it out of sight near the end of the walkway. Kneeling, he dipped a hand into the water lapping gently below where he stood. Liquid ice. Bolan slipped silently into the chill of the Atlantic where it intruded be­neath the shortened outer doors of the boat shelter.

  Bolan swam beneath the big garagelike doors with their overhead openers. Once clear of the entrance, he changed course and headed toward the far end of the lighted dock. The troops showed no hurry in re­moving the portable high-intensity lights. They were confident in both their location and hold over the local populace.

  Using a modified breaststroke, Bolan stayed just below the surface of the frigid water. His black body-suit kept him all but invisible to those ashore.

  Rather than approach the bobbing dory from the sea, Bolan swam directly beneath the far end of the dock. Once under its welcome shelter, he shook the numbing water from his face and hair while treading water with slow, even scissors kicks.

  The burbling underwater sounds of Stiles's diesel alerted him to the craft's departure before it began to move. The vessel's propeller churned and whipped the black water to creamy froth. Wavelets and ripples lapped more and more rapidly against the pilings sur­rounding the man in the water.

  Knowing that all attention was directed toward the departing craft, Bolan made his move. After making certain no troops stood directly overhead, he tugged the slack line and slowly drew the broad-beamed dory toward the dock's edge.

  Once the boat was at his side, Bolan's long black nylon-clad arm reached over the low railing. Fingers already feeling the effects of immersion in the chilly ocean probed for equipment hidden beneath rotting sacking and canvas. He reached, then reached fur­ther. After what seemed at least two eternities of stretching and searching with frozen fingers, the man in the cold sea located what he sought.

  A couple of chunks of plastic explosive, secure in waxed paper wrappings, became his. Seconds later the package of detonators and the remote sending device were thrust into one of the numerous slit pockets so much a part of his battle gear. Without looking back he released his hold on the boat. As the dory slowly drifted toward the end of its nylon tether, Mack Bolan repeated his crossing between the dock's end and the boathouse entrance.

  Cold, dripping, eager to get on with the task before him, Bolan surfaced inside the shelter. Immediately he heaved his body onto the wooden walkway. Knowing he left a trail of water on the boards, aware it was a risk unavoidable at the moment, he headed toward the nearer craft. Already he was anticipating his next moves.

  The voice from the shadows was as deathly cold as was the snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson prodding at Bolan's spine.

  "Move and you die."

  "Nobody's moving." Again he had underestimat­ed the professional level of the cannibals opposing him.

  A lewd chuckle came out of the dark.

  "What's that you're carrying?"

  "Nitro." The word came easily to Bolan's numb lips.

  "In a pig's eye." Disbelief all but dripped from the lips of the man behind the .38.

  "Want me to drop it to show you?" Bolan moved both hands forward as though to insure a direct fall.

  The guy considered and reached his decision in record time.

  "Hold up. Don't do something stupid and get us both wiped. Why should I believe you've got nitro?"

  "Why not? What better way to get rid of competi­tion than to lay aboard a charge in each of these?" He gestured toward the two carefully moored craft. Behind him the guy's sharp intake of breath indicat­ed he bought the nitro tale.

  "Hey, man, don't wave that stuff around."

  "Waving it won't set it off. But the force of a hull hitting the waves will. Or just dropping it."

  "What's that you said about competition?"

  When Bolan turned to face the guy, the other's only reaction was to step back a pace.

  "You fellows don't think you're the only ones looking to make a buck out of import-export, do you?" Bolan let open disdain creep into his tone.

  "So where you from?"

  "That doesn't matter. It's where we're at that's important."

  Yeah, sure. That and the numbers sliding past as though on greased runners.

  "Do you go with a winner or do we both die?" Bolan put the decision squarely on the guy with the .38. "There's no way I'm going to swim back
out and face the boss and tell him I failed. If I do that I'm dead. And there's no way I'm going to let you take me to your boss. I'm also finished if that happens. So either you let me do my stuff and you come with the winning side, or we both die together."

  Indecision ran across the man's ferret-thin face and back again. The weapon's muzzle dipped frac­tionally.

  "Man, my fingers are cold. I don't want to drop this stuff. Here, hang onto it."

  Bolan extended his left hand and its contents to­ward the gunner. Reflexes took over. The guy reached for the "nitro" he could hardly see. Bolan relaxed his grip and the pair of parcels seemed to slide from his opened hand.

  The .38 dipped as the guy lunged to save himself. Bolan leaned into the hardguy's forward movement and helped speed it along.

  As the harmless chunks of plastic explosive fell clear of grasping hands, a new and terrible danger entered what little remained of the gunner's life. Powerful hands and talonlike fingers caught at head and hair. Massive biceps contracted. Bolan's right knee came up and out, seeking flesh.

  The guy's face collided with the unyielding knee in its black nylon cover. His nose and several upper teeth ceased to function as nature intended. Numb from the impact, his mind gibbering about the fallen "nitro," the would-be captor felt his brain turn to jelly from the force of the blow.

  Bolan's left hand stayed enlaced in the gunman's thick hair. The fingers and thumb of the Execution­er's other hand went on a search-and-destroy mission directed at the exposed larynx of the gasping man. Fragile bones collapsed as a pressure they were never intended to bear closed about them. At his next at­tempt to inhale, the hardguy was rewarded with lungs full of his own blood. A trio of further attempts and he drowned in his own life fluid.

  The plastic, as stable as any explosive, lay on the walkway awaiting Bolan's next move. It was a few seconds' work to scoop up the chunks and stash them aboard the two craft. The stuff was packed firmly into place near the propeller housings of both boats. Detonators were pressed carefully into the puttylike mass, and the job was done.

  All that remained was for Bolan to adjust the selec­tive sequencing of the little electronic device and press the red firing-button. But that was for later.