Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap

by Don Pendleton

  "Come on." Bolan's voice, while gentle, held the firmness of command.

  "My God." His voice held awe and disbelief "You did all this."

  "War is never pretty. Now let's get a move on."

  The kid remained unmoving. As one is often terrified by a horror movie yet unable to look away, he kept sweeping the area with his gaze.

  Figures filled the doorway and burst into the night from the building they had just left. Big Jim Lane directed a guy with a thrust of his hand. The man let fly with a Thompson .45.

  Bolan snapped off a quick round with the Auto­Mag. The gunner forgot about continuing his .45 fire as his belly exploded in ripping pain. Clutching his middle he sank to his knees while Big Jim sprawled on the ground, clawing for safety.

  Rick turned and headed for the dock. The kid was moving better. The strained calf muscles were loosen­ing a bit.

  Twice more Bolan had to turn and let Big Thun­der's roaring voice warn off pursuit. Backing away with one such effort, Bolan collided with the kid. Bolan spun the kid and roughly propelled him to­ward the dock.

  "Becky! What about her? We can't leave without her!"

  "She's not on the island. She probably never was."

  "'Then where is she?"

  "On the mainland."

  "But why?" the kid demanded.

  "We'll find out why and where when we reach shore," Bolan said.

  While the kid pulled the dory close enough to board, Bolan let loose a pair of blasts to discourage anyone stupid enough to want to venture closer. The grenade described an arc in the night and rained death on a hardguy more foolish than brave.

  The kid tumbled aboard and started slamming oars into their locks. Bolan followed. The line parted when the big .44 roared 240 grains of line-cutter into it.

  While Rick bent to his task, Bolan slapped a fresh clip into the AutoMag. He brought the M-3 to the limits of its lanyard without a wasted motion. Elevat­ing the muzzle high enough to clear the dock above them, Bolan's trigger finger tightened.

  The M-3 chattered until its entire thirty-round vocabulary was exhausted. Bolan's ice-blue eyes detected movement as troops regrouped. But no one was eager to charge to the end of the dock.

  BUD STILES THANKED THE FOG for lifting to allow him a good view of the destruction of the cancer on Eagle Nest Island. Overhead the moon shed its cold light on the site made hot to the point it gave its defenders a foretaste of hell.

  As Rick Cartright moved the heavy dory through the light chop of the water, Bud extended his mental congratulations to the lad. The boy was all man.

  He'd never seen anyone like this big fellow. At least Bud had the presence of mind to get the hell out of there before that one-man army let loose. And what a job he did! Not that it was over and he was home free. Not by a long shot. From Bud's private box seat he saw frantic activity.

  Nope, Rick and his newfound friend still had a hell of a problem. And unless Bud's eyesight had sudden­ly gone bad he saw problems—make that two prob­lems—forming up right now. The boathouse was alive as those slimes Bud just delivered were hustled aboard that pair of racy cabin cruisers. But that wasn't what really mattered to the guys in the dory.

  Not really. What really spelled the end of the world was Big Jim Lane's private craft. The one just now having its tarps slipped free way off to the port side of the dock. With its twin inboards, that twenty-six-footer could run the paint off of any craft for twenty miles in either direction up or down the coast.

  Put six or eight hardnoses with automatic weapons aboard, and that thing could have tackled the Spanish Armada.

  Aware that he was as visible to those ashore as they were to him, Bud Stiles slipped the throttle forward a pair of notches. The aging diesel responded.

  A minute later Bud slid the throttle forward one more stop. No sense getting caught in the crossfire. And it sure made no sense having those cabin jobs come alongside and order him to take that cargo of human sewage aboard.

  He gripped the AK-47 for what assurance it offered. Well to his starboard and slipping rapidly astern was the heavy dory. For just a passing instant Stiles considered bringing the bow around and pick­ing Rick and the monster man out of the water. Then reason prevailed.

  He advanced the throttle one more notch. There was no saving the war machine and the boy at the oars. And dying himself for what was already a lost cause made no sense at all.

  THE TEARS IN HER DARK EYES were those of total frus­tration. With chest heaving from her efforts Becky let her bottom settle on the mound of dirt she had clawed from the barn's stubborn floor.

  Her nails were split and broken. The tips of her fingers were raw and weeping blood. Her foot was raw from its constant contact with the biting edge of the shackle. It, too, seeped blood.

  There had to be some way out of this. All she need­ed was to be able to reach high enough to get her hands on the twisted wire. Untwist it, swing the chain's loose end over the beam, and she would be free. At least free to the point where she could fum­ble around and locate the pair of wrenches.

  She felt the earthen mound. At most it was not more than a foot high. Lying as she was with her rear end up higher than her head, she was very uncom­fortable. Worse, if Wilmer returned and found what she had been up to, there was no telling what torment he might dream up for her.

  "Okay, kid, it's now or never." Her words took on a hollow sound in the empty building.

  A trio of watching rats scurried a few feet at the sound.

  Becky brought the upper portion of her limber body erect by placing her arms straight back and extending them. She drew air into her lungs, held it, then puffed it out. Twice she repeated the process.

  Holding her body upright with her right arm, Becky fumbled for the chain with her left. Her efforts again pulled the edge of the shackle into the raw cuts atop her foot. Gasping from the pain, Becky caught the chain above her imprisoned ankle in her left hand.

  Becky counted steadily from one to five. On the count of five she pulled her right hand free of the earth. Lunging with all her strength, she caught the chain with her right hand. Pulling upward with both hands on the chain, awkward due to her raised leg, the girl got her free foot under her. It sought and found the earthen mound. She gave a little cry of triumph.

  Once Becky got her balance she stood on one foot, clutching the chain in both hands. Quickly she raised her hands along the chain to the limits of her reach. Too low. She still could not reach the length of baling wire interlaced with the chain's free end.

  "Now what?" She knew the next step, the only step. It was just that by asking the question aloud, Becky gained time before having to face the inevit­able.

  Again she went through the deep-breathing routine. She bent her supporting leg to the limits allowed by her dulled ankle. Dreading the pain she knew must folllow, Becky lunged upward. Her hands clawed at the chain links, slipped downward, then tightened.

  The force of her upward spring all but tore the chain from her cramped and tender hands.

  Clinging to the chain, clawing her way upward, Becky found herself mouthing half-formed prayers. She did not know whether she was progressing or whether her struggles were doomed.

  And then her trapped ankle was under her. The, metal shackle slid upward on her ankle as her weight pressed down into it. With both hands tight on the chain she hauled her body upward. Suddenly she was able to straighten her leg. The shackle rose on her ankle until it caught on the swell of her calf. And there it held.

  Becky's weight drove the metal's edge into the front of her shin. She stifled a scream and only whimpered as the intensity of the pain brought tears to her eyes. For a few seconds Becky held tight to the chain as she supported part of her body's weight with her torn and bleeding hands.

  The shackle's edge bit into her flesh and opened a new wound. For a moment Becky all but laughed aloud at the insanity of the situation. And to think how she had hated a thin line of scar on her shin. The one she put there with a razor two
years ago while shaving her shapely legs. Well, the scar she was mak­ing now would be one she would remember the rest of her life.

  Slowly the chain began to turn. The motion did not bother her. The only important thing now was to locate the twist of wire. When her probing fingers found the wire's sharp-pointed end, Becky flinched at the sudden pain. It was like a needle being thrust into her already bleeding finger.

  With the cuff of iron biting into her shin and calf, Becky traced the wire's path. At least Wilmer had not used a pair of pliers to tighten and bend back the ends. Mindless now of the pain, Becky Devereaux began to untwist the wire's twin ends.

  One thing was certain. She did not dare let her leg betray her. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how the chain spun with her clinging to it, she must not let go. The girl's mind told her there was no chance in the world she could ever again clamber up the chain.

  Damn that Wilmer Moore! Damn him to hell ever­lasting! As she fought the twisted wire Becky relented in her desire to have Rick kill the man. No way. She would do it herself!

  17

  The way the dory bit into the water's rough chop, Bolan knew the kid was putting everything he had into the oars. Everything and a bit more.

  Bolan slapped another full magazine into the M-3 after pulling the lanyard from around his neck. He eased the freshened chatter gun onto a chunk of old fishing net at his feet. It was the big .44 AutoMag in which Bolan was placing his trust and their lives.

  Lights gleamed as the boathouse doors opened into the night. Bolan permitted himself what might have passed for a quick smile detected only by the inner man. The men were forced to jimmy the doors to free the sleek cruisers. When the power went so did the electric motors that operated the door openers.

  It was just one more instance in which modern man trusted too much to uncertain technology. There was a lesson there for the learning. Bolan doubted that the men who strained to force the doors were in any mood to learn.

  Almost as one the two cabin cruisers roared into the night. Though he was in no position to see whom the craft carried, Mack Bolan knew something of the importance of their cargoes.

  Specialists in terror, bomb-planters, those who traded in fear and human suffering. Yes, precious Cargoes indeed. And why were they suddenly being channeled into an unsuspecting nation? What made their free and unopposed passage into and out of the United States so important that a village of citizens had to feel the boot heel of terror hard upon their throats? It was a question the Executioner could not answer.

  Rather than waste valuable mental energy seeking an answer without sufficient input, he pushed the whys and wherefores from his mind. Instead he found the setting on the remote device, which was in­deed an all-weather implement. Gadgets Schwarz would be happy to learn that immersion in salt water did not affect its capabilities. Happy, hell. The elec­tronics genius already knew.

  Bolan thumbed the control. By feel he readjusted and thumbed again. The first cruiser's brilliant de­mise lighted the way for the second. Quick on the heels of the first blast came its companion. The carefully positioned plastic explosive charges did their job and more.

  By the light of the first flaming craft Bolan saw the second's stern lift free of the water. Dark shadows, which could only be bodies, assumed impossible positions as they were airborne. Flailing arms and legs testified to the force of the explosions.

  Behind Bolan the kid missed a beat with the long, heavy oars.

  "You did that. How did you do it?"

  "Plastic explosive. I set the charges earlier." He held up his hand so the kid could see Gadgets's device in the light cast by the burning craft. "This triggered the charges."

  "I thought you traded my life for yours. In the building. When you got me out of there and didn't tell them I thought you were making a trade." His tone was close to that of one bringing an accusation.

  "There was no trade mentioned nor implied. They weren't going to let you go free. I didn't trade for your life. I took it from them."

  End of statement. End of philosophy.

  Slowly, then with increasing power, the kid again began putting his entire body into the oars. The rhythmic creak of the oars in their locks brought reality back to that portion of the world lighted by the still leaping flames of shattered vessels.

  Other than a few initial cries of surprise and pain, those aboard the two doomed boats made no outcry. That part of Bolan's job was done.

  The kid hauled at the oars in silence. Sure, Rick had a lot to work out in his mind. It was one thing to read about life and death. The actual reality of the process, in three-dimensional living color, was some­thing else.

  And the kid had been wading knee-deep in reality. The shocks to mind and body were enough to knock the pins from under most. Only an inner fiber, tough beyond expectation, could have enabled the kid to hold up thus far.

  "What about Becky?"

  Before Bolan could frame an answer to this expect­ed question, the night's stillness was shattered by the roar of Big Jim Lane's twin inboards. Bolan's head came up in a listening attitude.

  "Twin inboards," Rick hissed.

  For the first time the blade of one oar caught the top of a wave. The icy water sprayed the big man. "Sorry."

  Bolan gave no indication he heard the apology or felt the frigid water. His entire attention was centered on the probing finger of light that was preceding the pursuing craft.

  Without changing his position on the seat, he turned his head to survey the shore. It was too distant by far. At the rate the needle of electric brilliance was closing in on them it was strictly no contest.

  A chatter of .45 Thompson warning filled the air. A shouted command silenced the gunner.

  Okay. This might be it. The few seconds that re­mained offered no hope. If the onrushing craft held even five or six gunners with stutter guns, they were finished. It was that simple.

  The kid's breath was coming in sobbing gasps as he put physical reserves on the line.

  Careful not to diminish his night vision by looking directly toward the searching spotlight, Bolan readied the big .44 for battle.

  Subconsciously he realized the straining diesel to which he had been only half listening was still. Stiles had reached shore. The chances of Bolan and the kid joining him in Kenlandport were so minimal only Lloyd's would be likely to cover the risk. And they only with great reluctance.

  BUD STILES EXPERIENCED A BAD MOMENT when he heard the pair of cabin cruisers break from their shel­ter. If they were after him he could visualize the out­come of the confrontation.

  He gripped the AK-47 and glanced over his shoul­der. At that instant the lead cruiser became a flaming marker in the water.

  As the tall fisherman tried to understand what had befallen the craft, its mate met a similar fate. The rolling booms of the twin explosions came to Bud across open water.

  A broad, unconscious grin came and spread to light his eyes. That big devil! It had to be his doing. Stiles shook his head in a silent gesture of admira­tion. Who in hell was that guy?

  No. Bud did not really want to know who the man was. Some things a man was better off not knowing. All that mattered now was that the unknown warrior was breaking the backs of those who had come to control the lives of most of the residents of tiny Ken­landport.

  Aware the wharf was approaching rapidly, Bud throttled back. By the light of the ever brightening moon he caught the silhouette of Tom Devereaux's trawler off to starboard. Tied up for the night at the village's main dock, it lent assurance in a world seem­ingly gone mad.

  But it was over now. The nightmare was at an end.

  For the first time in weeks Bud Stiles could suck air into his lungs and again feel like a free man.

  As his aging craft eased toward the dock, a figure rose from where it was seated.

  "Send me a line, Bud. I'll get you tied up."

  Bud cast the line as requested. Hell, how long had it been since someone offered to help him tie up an hour or
so before dawn? And especially Wilmer?

  Wondering what the wily lobster poacher had in mind, Bud cut the throttle back, reversed, then let the prop pull against the bow line now made fast. It was the easiest docking he had accomplished in a month.

  Wilmer cleated the stern line and Bud killed the faithful diesel.

  "Thanks." Bud moved toward the rail. "Hold up a second." He turned and took a step toward the under-the-shelf- hiding- place for the assault rifle he had liberated from the island.

  Bud Stiles never saw Wilmer reach for the cut-down twelve. He did hear the twin hammers come back to full cock. For the space of half a heartbeat Stiles struggled mentally to place the metallic sound.

  The second half of the beat was lost in the thunder­ous report as the lead trigger responded to the pres­s of Wilmer's thick forefinger.

  It was like the time the boom came around on a schooner Bud crewed as a kid. Then, he had feared his back was broken. Now, the same sort of body-wrenching pain took possession of him.

  With the AK-47 still in his roughened hand, Bud swung to face the back-shooter. The assault rifle muzzle swung toward the man on the dock.

  A second time the shortened twelve roared into the night. The load of double-ought ripped and tore their way into the chest of the man aboard the fishing vessel. The force of the pellets straightened Stil­es from the crouch he had assumed. Straightened and pressed him back a pace.

  The dying man's own finger tightened. The AK-47 on full automatic, chattered its reply to the shotgun’s roar. Its 7.62mm missiles ripped and chewed at the sagging dock. A pair of the deadly slugs tore their way into the belly of Wilmer Moore. Clutching himself at the sudden burning agony, the man who would be king of Kenlandport dropped to his knees.

  Without ever knowing he had repaid Wilmer, Bud Stiles slumped to the deck of his vessel. There, in silent suffering, his life slowly leaked out on the deck he had walked for so many years.

  In the village a dog barked, then was silent. Though residents lay silent and fearful in their beds, not a single fresh light showed. The response to the shooting was silence and an unwillingness to become further entangled in the terror ruling their lives.