Executioner 056 - Island Deathtrap

by Don Pendleton

  Eventually a shadow detached itself from the larger shadow of which it was a part. That shadow became two as the pair of women slowly moved toward the death scene. And, unseen by them, Tom Devereaux moved to better observe what his two women were up to.

  The women advanced along the length of the deck. Its uneven surface lent caution to their steps.

  The moaning of Wilmer Moore came clearly to them. In the pale light of the fog-free moon, the two saw him curled around his torn belly as he lay hunched on the dock. The injured man rocked from side to side as though by so doing he could quench the fire threatening his very being.

  In the light of Wilmer's own flashlight, the two old women studied him.

  Wilmer peered into the light with squinting eyes.

  "Help me! For the love of God, help me! I'm dy­ing!"

  In silence the two studied the nail-furrows that showed like rust streaks on the man's face and through his whiskery stubble.

  "Help me! I need help!" he moaned.

  "Where's Becky?" Stella's voice was low, scarcely more than a harsh whisper.

  For the first time Wilmer was aware of the identity of those who held his flashlight.

  "I'm gut shot, Stella. I've got to have help!"

  “Where's my granddaughter? Where in thundera­tion is Becky?"

  Despite the pain Wilmer forced, his head to move from side to side. "I haven't seen her all day." Velma's toe found Wilmer's ribs. A gasp of pain slipped from between his lips.

  “Oh God! Don't do that. I hurt something terrible"

  "I'll ask one more time, Wilmer. Where is Becky?" The flat finality in Stella's voice decided for him.

  "She's out at the farm. Our farm. She's in the barn."

  "She'd better be unhurt." Menace so thick it could be cut with a knife filled her voice.

  "She's fine. I never intended her harm. Now, help me!"

  The two women exchanged a quick glance.

  "There's an old wheelbarrow beside that nearest shed. I'll bring it." Velma moved away to bring it without waiting for Stella's response.

  A few minutes later the two sisters hoisted and helped the gut-shot man into the barrow. His legs extended to flop on either side of the wheel.

  Velma bent and took both handles in her hands. A smile tightened the sagging flesh of her face.

  "God bless the two of you."

  "Rest yourself, Wilmer. Stella and I will take care of you."

  As the procession made its way up the rock beach, Tom Devereaux considered stopping the slow moving group. Just as quickly he rejected the thought. It was women's work they were about. Best leave them to it.

  Drifting in and out of consciousness, the stricken man lost track of time and direction. When the wheelbarrow came to rest on its rear supports Wilmer forced his eyes open. His nostrils reacted to a familiar smell.

  "Just give us a bit of help, Wilmer. We'll get you onto your feet." Stella's voice was that of an adult soothing a child with a badly skinned knee.

  Wilmer willed his legs to cooperate. He shook his head. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  "Here we go now. Up you come." Velma's words were indistinct as she strained to aid in moving the man's bulk.

  A wooden partition struck his torn belly and brought a grunt of pain. As the two women, working as a team, bent to grasp his feet, realization came to the injured man.

  "No!" The protest was torn from his lips as his feet rose. "No!"

  For a long, terrible second his ripped and savaged belly supported his weight across the top board of the low fence. Eyes open now and seeing, Wilmer was face to face with the reddened eyes of a sow who easi­ly outweighed him by two hundred pounds.

  Wilmer's feet described an arc as he plunged head first into the pen of hungry, angry sows. He forgot his burning pain in his belly as he fought to get his legs under him. The enraged sows gave him all the chance he earlier allowed Bud Stiles.

  Drawn by the smell of warm blood, hurt and an­gered at their recent lack of care, the big-snouted animals were upon him in an instant.

  Huge jowls, razor like teeth, and powerful jaws tore into the living flesh. One sow, the one Wilmer first saw, planted a hoof firmly in his lower ribs and buried her teeth and snout in the bloody warmth of his opened belly.

  A second beast nuzzled his upper thighs before ripping into the flesh between them. A howl of animal fear and misery filled the night as his fate struck home.

  Desperately, Wilmer tried to beat a third animal away from his face and throat. She grabbed his flailing arm at the wrist. And then Wilmer was trying to beat her away with only a stump from which scarlet spattered and drew the other sows to their feast.

  Without looking back, Velma and Stella retraced their steps. Between them they pushed the empty wheelbarrow.

  18

  Murph O'Reilly held the rocketing craft on course with capable hands. It was not his first time at the helm on a mad dash across the water. Behind the light, Fish braced against the hull chop and quartered the beam across the black water.

  "Have you spotted them yet?" Big Jim Lane's voice was such that a listener in Boston could have heard.

  "We'll find 'em," Fish assured his boss. "No way they can outrun us."

  When we do I want that big bastard in black. But I want him alive. He's got some questions to answer."

  Fish gave no indication he had heard. That sort of thing did not appeal to him. Hell, it didn't set well with any man who was a man. But Big Jim was boss. He called the shots.

  On either side of the careening craft armed troops stood ready to do battle. Not counting Big Jim and those at the helm and light, there were eight men aboard. All equipped with automatic weapons. And all ready and eager to draw blood. No man liked having his world kicked to pieces around him. Especially not troops used to doing the kicking.

  It was the moon rather than the spotlight that be­trayed Bolan and the kid. Both of them heard the ex­cited cry of the hardnose who caught a glimpse of the silver of an oar splash.

  Okay, so it came down to this. No need to try for quiet, to hope against desperate hope that shore would arrive in time.

  And there was nothing to be gained from retreat. In battle, victory more often than not went to the force that took the conflict to the enemy. Mack Bolan steadied himself as best he could against the motion of the dory and let the .44 thunder a word of warning. At just under a hundred yards the hand-held weapon was as accurate as a rifle. With the frantic dory as a fire base, however, accuracy was something else again.

  Even so, the big 240-grain convincer convinced one hardman that the battle was far from won. The bone-crushing mass of metal removed the guy's arm just above the elbow. It was the sort of warning anyone could understand.

  Unknowing and uncaring as to who was hit, Big Jim again filled the bay with the sound of his voice.

  "Take 'em! Gun 'em down!" All memory that he had just ordered his troops to take at least one of the pair alive vanished. For the moment Big Jim was pos­sessed with a bloodlust.

  The sound of automatic weapons filled the night. A hail of lethal slugs peppered the water near and around the dory. A few of the projectiles whined from wave tops and spent themselves in space.

  Bolan triggered a trio of booming responses. Of the three, one spent itself in the boat's hull while a second removed the lower part of an eager hardguy's ear . The third chunk of roaring death found its tar­get. A guy on the port side of the craft lost interest in the quest.

  The big slug entered just beneath his lower right rib cage. Due to Bolan's angle at the water level, the slug was traveling upward when it impacted on flesh. It’s path took it through the diaphragm and the lower portion of the lung. On exiting, the death-bringer took chunks of five ribs and pieces of spine with it.

  When Murph adjusted the helm to bring the craft about slightly, the torn and battered man pitched into the bay. None of his crewmates mourned his passing. It was doubtful any were aware he was no longer with them.

 
Bolan's next targets centered on the probing light in the bow. Twice he let fly roaring rounds of thun­der . And twice his efforts met with success. The first smashed into the light, sending hunks of glass and metal spraying into the night.

  The second round was unleashed while the first was still in flight. It took the light's operator squarely beneath the breastbone. The slug's force lifted him back from the light and deposited him at the feet of Big Jim Lane.

  In the moon's silvery glow Big Jim gazed down at the dead man who regarded his boss with solemn dead eyes.

  Bolan spent the last of the AutoMag's magazine in an attempt to take out either the helmsman or one of the inboards. His attempt ended in failure.

  As the big warrior slapped a fresh clip into the big handgun, the first .45 and 7.62mm seekers found their range. The dory's heavy hull absorbed chunks of punishment, and the oar closest to the on rushing craft lost a portion of its blade in the assault.

  Yeah, the numbers were all gone. Totally spent.

  "Rick, where's a life jacket?"

  "Under that seat you're sitting on," the kid responded.

  Bolan located the once-orange jacket by touch and fumbled it free of where it was stuffed for safekeeping.

  He knew what needed doing, what had to be done whether the vanished numbers would allow it was something else again.

  The waxed paper covering of his remaining chunk of plastic explosive was familiar to his touch. The Executioner’s powerful thumb and fingers drove the detonator through the paper and deep inside the malleable mass of instant death.

  As a cross-sweep of .45-caliber fire filled the water with a line of waterspouts, Bolan extracted his stiletto, from a slit pocket and dug the blade's point into the material of the life jacket. The wound in the fabric enlarged as the stiletto's edge parted the material.

  Bolan dug a fistful of kapok filling from the life preserver and let it fall to his feet. Into this nest he pressed the chunk of plastic explosive and its inserted detonator. He tossed the jacket and its precious cargo over the dory's stern. A dozen yards astern of their fleeing boat the jacket struck the water.

  "Give it all you've got, Rick!"

  Something in Bolan's voice urged the youth to maximize his efforts.

  Bolan recognized the increase in cadence and appreciated the kid's obedience and stamina. The stained orange life jacket bobbed on the choppy water. The approaching gunnery platform was clos­ing in fast. Now or never time was heartbeats away.

  "Hold course, Murph." Big Jim's shouted order carried clearly above the chatter of automatic weaponry. "We'll ram the bastard."

  The bellowed command was all Bolan needed, knowing that the wave-hopping speedster would continue to run dead on, no matter what, he again let the .44 speak for him. Yeah, and for the kid and for Becky wherever she was.

  His first pair of heart-stoppers took the fight out of the nearest soldier on the starboard side. While his fellow troops struggled to bring weapons to bear despite the craft's wild bounding from wave crest to wave crest, the latest casualty went overboard.

  The combination of bouncing pursuit craft and bobbing dory took the next pair of belly-busters wide of their mark. Beneath him, Bolan felt the dory beginning to yaw. The exhausted kid was fighting the oars in desperation.

  The Executioner loosed another one-two pair of 240 grain hell-raisers before giving his total attention to the life jacket. He strained to verify the jacket's position. The pursuing craft relentlessly slammed its way through the choppy water only yards from the life jacket.

  The bow waves were just pushing the orange float to the boat's port side when Bolan thumbed the remote firing indicator. Orange fire erupted from the sea. The racing firing platform came prow up in the water. Moonlight shone through the savaged hull.

  Stern-heavy with the two mighty inboards, thrown onto its churning propellers by the blast, the speedster never had a chance. It slipped beneath the water's surface within seconds.

  Above the craft's watery grave concussion-shocked troops made confused efforts to remain afloat. Explosion-stunned non-swimmers sank as quickly did the ravaged boat.

  Loyal to the end, Murph O'Reilly struggled through the chill water. Though scarcely conscious himself Murph managed to get an arm around the neck of his towering boss. The motion briefly pulled Big Jim’s mouth and nose underwater.

  In blind panic, Big Jim clawed for salvation. For any straw he might clutch in his mindless fear in the icy sea. His right hand found hope. His left joined it. Try as he might Murph was incapable of breaking the stranglehold about his throat. Big Jim Lane pulled his faithful lieutenant down with him without even knowing that both his massive posts of legs were already at the bottom of the bay.

  "Ease off, Rick."

  In response the kid shipped the heavy oars. The solid dory bounced and bobbed in the explosion's wake like a wine cork set adrift. But the staunch dory coped with the rough water.

  "Are they all dead?" The words slipped from be­tween the youth's lips as his lungs gulped in the cool air.

  "Probably. Those that aren't are keeping a low profile."

  Seconds became minutes and still they sat. Bolan might have offered to take the oars but he knew bet­ter. The kid brought them out. The kid would take them back. That was the way it should be, had to be.

  Eventually, in the pale light of the moon, the kid began to slowly, stoically dip the oars.

  19

  So the damn fools finally blew themselves to kingdom come. Tom Devereaux emitted a grunt of satisfaction. Only two of them left in the dory. And from the look of it, probably his, Tom's, dory to boot. Now the slightly built guy at the oars was making toward the main dock. Probably thought to liberate Tom's trawler and its hold full of goodies.

  He'd blow the larger of the two right out of the, dory. Then, by all that was holy, the other could damn well tell him where his grandkid was. And, quick, too, unless he wanted to find how it felt to have a foot shot from under him. He cocked the twin hammers of the cut-down twelve that had belonged to Wilmer Moore.

  Whoever was at the oars was fixing to run the dory onto the beach. That suited Tom fine. Using an over­turned dory for cover he waited patiently. He had all the time in the world. They didn't, but he did.

  The big guy must be some sort of diver. He wore the same kind of skintight outfit he'd seen divers wear in the year-round cold waters of coastal Maine. No matter. He reckoned a load of double-ought buck would find its way through the suit.

  The big guy hopped into the water and helped the dory onto the stony beach. Then the smaller of the two was on foot and tugging the dory up the shore.

  And hell yes, it was his dory! Bastards thought they owned Kenlandport. But they did not own Tom Devereaux. He made today's run for Becky. Not out of fear for himself. And now he would help that big so-and-so on his way to hell.

  "Stand fast or die!"

  Then things happened faster than old Tom intend­ed.

  "Tom! It's me, Rick Cartright! Don't shoot!"

  And just like that, the guy in black was pointing some sort of hand cannon at Tom's chest. Probably the one he kept blasting out in the bay.

  "No!" Rick's voice rose in alarm. "That's Tom Devereaux! Don't kill him!" The youth saw Tom's gun. "Don't shoot, Tom. This man is a friend!"

  The group stood unmoving, then Tom realized it really was Rick Cartright. Slowly he eased the pressure on the trigger. When it happened Tom never knew, could not recall later, but when he again glanc­ed at the dark-clad man, the big cannon was riding his hip.

  By then Rick was sitting on the edge of the dory with his face buried in his hands.

  "I'm John Phoenix," Bolan said as he closed the distance between the two of them, his right arm out.

  "Reckon I'm an old fool name of Tom Devereaux."

  The strength of Tom's grip belied his years.

  WITH THE KID CALLING THE SHOTS, Bolan piloted the car through the lifting dark.

  "There it is. The lane entrance is just ahead.
"

  Bolan killed the vehicle's lights and swung into the lane. Scarcely more than two tracks with a weed-grown dividing strip, it led directly toward the dark­ened house and outbuildings.

  "Oh, God, let her be all right." Rick was unaware he spoke aloud.

  "Easy," Bolan cautioned as he cut the ignition.

  But Rick was free of the car and calling her name as he raced toward the barn.

  At a slower pace Mack Bolan followed. Alert, wary, his gaze swept the immediate area missing nothing.

  The kid was flinging aside the heavy sliding door as if it were made of cardboard.

  "Becky!" He strained to peer into the darkness of the barn.

  There was movement just inside the door and to the right. Bolan shot the pencil-thin beam of his pocket flash in that direction.

  Her hair was matted with grease and dirt. Wild, dark eyes that could fill with love or hate stared from a grimy face.

  Overhead she held a twelve-inch wrench poised to strike in a skull-busting stroke. Slowly, hesitantly, the girl lowered her weapon. It fell beside her bloody foot as she threw herself into the arms of the kid.

  Minutes later Becky Devereaux accepted John Phoenix with the same unruffled appraisal as had her grandmother.

  She held Rick's hand while Bolan freed the fabric of her jeans from the crusted bruises on her shin. Twice as he cleaned and dressed the gouged shin and foot Becky flinched free of his gentle fingers. And each time she returned her foot to him without hav­ing to be told.

  Yeah, Rick had guts and to spare. But he was not the only one. Bolan was ready to take any odds offered in favor of their eventual success in life. Any odds at all and cover all bets. And come up a sure winner.

  During the return ride to Kenlandport, Becky buried herself in the warmth of the kid's body. Though he was not bound by omens, Mack Bolan was willing to accept the horizon's lightening as a portent of good things to come for these brave kids.