Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap

by Don Pendleton

  The parabellum round had no interest in excuses. It twisted its way into flesh and tissue without regard for whether the startled tough guy held up his end of the job or not. The projectile did not distinguish be­tween those who were alert and those who dogged it.

  The near-silent body-buster did unthinkable things to the chest cavity and even worse to muscle and tis­sue as it exited. Its mate left the silenced muzzle in a flash of bright and plowed a trail of destruction through an unprotected cheekbone. The angle of fa­cial bone caused the 9mm slug to veer from its in­tended course.

  Rather than proceed in a straight line through soft tissue and out cranial bone, the slug altered its direc­tion. Combat veterans often report having seen or heard a slug pierce a steel helmet, then encircle the in­ner portion of the headgear like an enraged hornet seeking a way out. The jacketed missile from the Beretta did exactly that. Only its path was around the inside of the guy's skull.

  In making one complete tour of the inside of the skull, the slug created internal havoc only a forensic physician could fully appreciate. Its second tearing circuit ended abruptly when the chunk of life-taking metal encountered the opening of the outer ear. It left the ravaged skull and spent its remaining energies against the block wall close by.

  Unaware of the path taken by either 9mm hum­mer, Bolan stepped around the body of the dead man. With hands made capable by experience, Bolan worked a chunk of plastic explosive free. He fitted it to the fuel tank's outlet pipe. Working entirely by his sense of touch he poked a detonator into place. Then, without needing to check his work, he put dis­tance between the generator building and himself.

  A passing worry tugged at Bolan's thoughts. Like a mosquito buzzing around in the top of a tent, it claimed his attention.

  Hermann "Gadgets" Schwarz said the remote electronic unit was an all-weather unit. And when Gadgets said something, at least something about electronics, you could go to the bank on it.

  "Take this little beauty out in the rain. Use it in a snowstorm. Expose it to dirt and dust. Then, when you're ready to bring hell to earth, activate it. It won't let you down. On that you've got my word."

  And his word was as good as gold and better than the dollar. But Gadgets never said anything about dunking it in cold salt water. Not once but twice in the course of an hour. The worry continued to nag. He wouldn't know if he had a problem until he actually thumbed the device to life. And then it could he too late. Too late by far if it failed.

  Bolan shot a glance at his watch. It lacked two in the morning by so few seconds they could be dis­counted. In every battle plan there came a time of no return. A time when every effort had to be given, when each pound of thrust must be supplied. That time had come for The Executioner.

  Covering ground fast, this time making no effort to remain hidden, he retraced the distance to the lighted end of the living quarters. When the armed guard on security loomed before him, Bolan did not so much as pause.

  "Hold it, sport! Where do you think you're go­ing?"

  In his effort to establish his authority the sentry ac­cepted Bolan as one of his own. Now his eyes wid­ened as the tall man continued toward him without slowing his pace. Once clear of the shadow cast by the roof's overhang, the approaching man still re­mained black.

  The skintight battle rig registered at precisely the same instant the silenced Beretta again uttered its muted sigh of warning. The warning came too late to still another who considered himself beyond the law and who would rule by the power of the gun.

  As his optic nerve relayed the muzzle flash to his brain for analysis, it was already too late for defensive action. A third "eye" magically appeared just below and to one side of his right nostril.

  His free hand, the one not burdened with the military .45 gut-ripper, rose toward the wound as if to confirm its reality.

  The second muzzle glow served warning that an­other parabellum was in flight. It passed through the rising hand and tore two of the heart's four chambers to shreds.

  Without needing to check the guy's pulse or listen for heart flutters, Bolan sidestepped the body and ran into the building.

  Two beats later he burst into the gathering. Little seemed changed during his short absence. Seven men still surrounded a bottle. Other than that, all eyes were centered on Rick Cartright.

  Yeah, Rick had changed a bit and not for the bet­ter. The kid's nose flowed scarlet. His upper lip was split. Both his slender hands were pinioned behind the chair's back by a grinning goon.

  And Big Jim's face was perhaps a tone or two deeper red. Other than that, it was the same scene. "We've got troubles!"

  Bolan's bellowed words made him the instant cen­ter of attention.

  "The Coast Guard is right on top of us. They've got a cutter holding steady right off the point. And two landing boats are heading toward the dock at flank speed!"

  With every eye now turned toward him, Mack Bo­lan was well aware it was do-or-die time.

  14

  Tom Devereaux peered through the thinning fog. Smoke curled in lazy spirals from his pipe with its tooth-marked curved stem. The elderly skipper sucked on the pipe only often enough to keep the coal alive in the blackened bowl.

  His faded eyes bleak, Tom turned his head a frac­tion to study Eagle Nest as it came up on his star­board side. Bastards! The electric power they were wasting keeping the dock area lighted up like a Christmas tree would be enough for the people of Kenlandport for a week. His teeth tightened on the pipe's stem. For long seconds he neglected to draw smoke from it.

  Somewhere in that devil's den was his granddaugh­ter. If those animals had harmed her, had despoiled her. . . He let the thought and its attending threat lie incomplete.

  It had been a day of mentally contemplated re­venge. All the way down to Boston, throughout the loading, and during the long haul back up the coast his mind had been only partially on running his craft. Damn and blast them! To take the girl to force him to do their vile bidding!

  Who bought and eventually used the cigarettes in his ship's hold bothered Tom not in the least. Whether or not the tax was ever paid on them did not matter. A bit of smuggling never harmed anyone.

  But this. Forcing a man to carry illegal cargo in order to protect blood kin. No man deserved to live after inflicting that sort of insult on another.

  Tom berated himself for having neither the cour­age nor the vision to join Ed Warner. After this ordeal ended he would be on Ed's doorstep before the next sunset. Together they would do something to put an end to what was going on. Someone had to act. The pity was he played the part of self-interest too long. Funny how a man's outlook changed once it was his own toes getting stomped on.

  Unconsciously his chapped, big-knuckled hand moved to throttle back slightly. Still giving his atten­tion to Eagle Nest's lighted dock, Tom recognized the familiar outline of Bud Stiles's old craft.

  Bud was one of the first who started running out to meet the ocean-going ships. Ships, hell. They were rust buckets. Didn't sailors from Panama or Liberia know how to maintain their vessels?

  He couldn't blame Bud. How does a man stand up against threats to his wife and kids?. He knew they paid Bud something. How much didn't matter. It was all supposed to be some sort of big secret. Well, it wasn't. There weren't any secrets in Kenlandport. There couldn't be. 'Port was like one big, unhappy family in which everyone knew the business of every­one else.

  He eased the throttle back another notch. Ahead a few lights shone. Tom Devereaux isolated his kitchen light glinting its welcome through the dissipating fog.

  The battered but sturdy dock loomed on his port side. Once more he eased back on the throttle. Dock­ing alone was a bit tricky, especially when the tide was running. But it was not something he hadn't done before and would not do again.

  He reversed the propeller. While the brass blades began to churn the water into snowy froth, he hur­ried to the bow. Almost casually he tossed the looped line over the top of a mossy piling. By the time To
m reached the stern, the craft was just beginning to take the slack out of the bowline.

  With practiced skill Tom shoved the craft into neut­ral and stepped onto the dock. The line found the big, green-stained cleat almost by itself. A couple of quick turnings and Tom wrapped it off in a seaman's knot atop the cleat. After tying off a safety line roughly amidships his work was done.

  Tom shut down the idling diesel and stood in the sudden silence. He studied the rocky coast all but in­visible in the dark. God, what a hard and cruel place in which to live. But what sort of man would choose to live elsewhere?

  Suddenly weary, he tapped his pipe bowl clean and stuck the cold briar in his side pocket. On legs aware their years he moved the length of the aged dock. Then, with its lights to guide him, he started home. The old man's steps soon slowed and halted. A thought he had nurtured the entire day without admitting it lived in his mind refused to die. Why did they want him to leave the cargo at the Kenlandport dock? It did not make a hell of a lot of sense. Other craft stopped at Eagle Nest Island. When they came back to home port they were riding high in the water. What if, just for the sake of argument, his cargo was going to be stored somewhere near at hand?

  Tom turned, merged with the shadows, and began retracing his steps.

  With the moon finally breaking through he would be able to see. He would just find himself a little sit down spot and see what was going on.

  HAD WILMER MOORE been the hand-rubbing type he would have rubbed his big hands raw in self-congratulation. From his vantage point less than fifty yards from the end of the sagging wharf, he saw the Stella Vel dock. She did not ride all that low in the water, but any fool knew cigarettes weighed less than fish. Besides, Tom did not dare try anything funny. Not the way he doted over his black-haired grandkid.

  Working fast, Wilmer backed his old Dodge half-ton right up to the start of the dock. Scarcely daring to breathe, he edged the vehicle slowly, ever so slow­ly, onto the old planks themselves.

  With half the distance yet remaining, Wilmer lost his courage and killed the engine. Better not get greedy. Dropping the rear end through a weak plank was not in his plans.

  Eager to get on with it, he edged around the side of the truck and all but ran to the waiting vessel. From his pocket he extracted the instructions for Tom's next run. Carefully printed in bold block letters, it showed Tom the time and exact place up in Saint John. He thrust the folded sheet of cheap white paper into the throttle slot. No way it could be missed.

  Seconds later he was playing his flashlight over the treasure trove stowed in the hull. As the beam of light located and settled on those cases Wilmer wished to hold on to, he jerked them free of their companions. No need sending everything up to Canada. He had worked it out carefully. Keep some of the best items right here locked safely in his old storage shed. Even­tually transport them to the barn out at the farm.

  At thoughts of the barn and the treasure it con­tained Wilmer moved faster. What a night! What a night! Breathing through his mouth, unaware that his heart was racing, he gathered his selected trea­sures from within the hull.

  By the time the truck was fully loaded, Wilmer's thick-chested body was awash in his own sweat. Wil­mer eased the old Dodge forward off the dock and onto firm land. Only then did he check his watch.

  When would Bud Stiles likely come in and tie up? Stiles would arrive before dawn. He always did. If he tied up sooner, then he could die sooner. If he was late getting in, then Wilmer would just truck the stuff right on out to the farm. And the barn. He never for­got the barn.

  Lights off, running in low gear almost at an idle, he eased along the coast a hundred yards or so. After running the half-ton up behind a couple of weathered sheds he cut the ignition.

  Wilmer climbed out of the vehicle. Then he turned and dragged the sawed-off twelve from the seat. Tak­ing his time he crossed the open area between his truck and the wharf Stiles always used. After a quick glance about him, Wilmer slowly walked half its length.

  Then he sat down to wait. Two loads of double-ought, and Bud Stiles would no longer be interested in his lobster pots. By the time anyone reacted to the shotgun's blast, Wilmer would be long clear.

  It was a plan so simple it was totally safe. The thing that made it so was fear. Men who thought they did not know the word's meaning now dropped their eyes when meeting others on the street. There wasn't a chance in the world that those same men would come busting out of their beds to see who was firing down on the wharf. Not a chance.

  While Wilmer contemplated his destiny, a pair of slow-moving figures detached themselves from the shadows. They followed the path just taken by the old truck with its valuable cargo.

  One of the pair wondered where the man in black, the Phoenix man, was and what he was doing. The other worried that perhaps Thomas might not find the note she left for him. Might not remain at home as the note suggested.

  Tom Devereaux was on his feet and moving when the two women appeared from nowhere. Now, like a rubber raft bobbing in their wake, he trailed them.

  IN THAT DEAD-SILENT ROOM, Mack Bolan was the cen­tre of attention. His words alone were enough to make everyone stop what he was doing. Had they not been sufficient to draw every eye to him, his appear­ance would have done the trick.

  There he stood. Well over six feet of death encased in skintight nylon. Eyes of icy blue that threatened to bore into and through the very soul of those pierced by their unrelenting gaze. The Executioner's inner presence sent forth emanations that even the least perceptive received and registered for what they were. He was not a man to be ignored.

  And had not his physical being caught and held the attention of those within the room, his armaments would. Silenced Beretta in hand, submachine gun hanging from his neck, he was not a figure quickly forgotten. Add to that the massive silver hand can­non riding his right hip and the twin fragmentation grenades dangling from his webbing.

  With all those eye-grabbers going for him, it was small wonder none of the troops saw Mack's left hand vanish within the fabric of his nightsuit.

  Mack Bolan was not a praying man. At least he was not in the conventional sense. But as his thumb found and stroked the proper button on the remote device, he mentally sent up a word of supplication to whatever gods or fates guided his life.

  The plastic explosive erupted the instant he triggered the electronic impulse. The blast ripped the entire side from the fuel storage tank. Bolan's trained ear distinguished between two explosions. To all others it was simply one massive blast that shook the building.

  The tremendous heat ignited the secondary blast as superheated diesel erupted in a wall-shaking inferno all its own. The cinder-block wall beside the tank ceased to exist. The roof of the generator room lifted free of its moorings, hung suspended in space, then folded in on top of the massive diesel generators.

  Faithful to the end, the monster generator in use continued to provide power despite the wall and much of the roof crashing in on it. When the fuel in its line was expended, however, the gallant machine ground to a reluctant halt.

  Those confronted by Bolan remained suspended in time as the two-in-one explosion rocked the building and assaulted their senses.

  "The Coast Guard is firing on the site!" His words were deliberately loud to penetrate dulled senses. "They've opened fire on us!"

  At that instant the room's lights dimmed, then everyone was engulfed in total darkness.

  "They've hit the generator! The place is on fire!"

  The room erupted in an explosion of its own. Voices were raised in question and in protest. Big Jim Lane bellowed to make himself heard above the tu­mult.

  "Louie! Hang onto that kid! Don't let him get free! The rest of you—stand fast! The emergency lights will be on in a second. Stand fast, I said!"

  His final words were in response to a body that plowed its way from the drinking table toward the dully outlined window. Despite Big Jim's orders, the man, a taker of hostages and raper of women, launched his b
ody through the glass and into the night.

  As though in reaction to Big Jim's words, the battery-powered emergency system brought light to the chaotic room. A pair of lights mounted above the room's two entrances provided sufficient light to enable Big Jim to rally his troops.

  His first glance was toward the entrance leading outside. The big devil was gone. No problem. They'd get to him later. And when they did. . .

  His second look was directed toward where the kid was last sitting. He was no longer sitting. Now he was standing up, the kid's entire weight on his toes as he tried to rise even higher to escape the punishing pres­sure as Bad Louie twisted his tortured arm ever more tightly. Good man, Louie. He was one of those guys Big Jim knew he could depend on.

  "Hang onto him." His blazing eyes served to punctuate his words.

  Louie nodded his understanding.

  "Jesse."

  Lobato's head came up.

  “Take about half these soldiers and see about get­ting that fire under control." Through the room's seaward windows they could all see smoke and flames boiling into the night sky.

  "You got it." With a combination of head jerks and a stabbing of index finger Lobato indicated those who were to accompany him.

  As that portion of the group made a quick exit, Big Jim gave his attention to the men still grouped around the drinking table, then his eyes did a quick tour of the remaining troops.

  "Fish, pick three or four guns and make certain the rest of this building is secure. Post them down the hall." He jerked his huge head toward the far end of the building.

  "Once you've secured the area, get your butt back here. These guys—" he gestured with his shaggy brows toward the table "—are your responsibility. Nothing, and I mean nothing better happen to them."

  Fish indicated his understanding by a flash of white teeth marred only by the absence of one canine lost in a misunderstanding concerning a payoff. The misunderstanding was settled, but not before a store owner extracted the canine with the business end of a claw hammer. A couple of Fish's boys returned the favor, and now the owner gummed his food.