Caribbean Kill te-10

by Don Pendleton

  And she wasn't wearing a goddamned thing.

  Bolan set the Thompson against the wall and told her, gruffly, "You can't get away with that."

  Her eyes met his in the mirror. She replied, mimicking his gruffness, "Who says I wish to get away with it?"

  If that tiny nipped waist was her equatorial zone, then she owned one hell of an interesting…

  "20 degrees southlatitude," he mumbled. "That's a swinging parallel, Evita."

  She wrinkled her nose at him in the mirror. "Take your bath," she commanded. "You also have the stink of Glass Bay."

  The stink he had, Bolan thought, would never yield to mere soap and water. But he smiled and began undressing. Maybe at least he could wash away an accumulated film of self pity.

  That 20th parallel south had already taken care of his fatigue problem. He had that certain feeling, though, that it was going to greatly add to it in just a very little while.

  How many beautiful women had he loved this week?

  Not enough.

  And that wasn't self pity talking.

  Bolan was still living to the point.

  Chapter Seven

  Fairyland

  He slung her over his shoulder, carried her up the ladder to the loft and placed her gently on the feather mattress. Then he sat cross-legged beside her, as he silently contemplated the loveliness of this very unlikely cop.

  Her eyes were warmly alive and aware as they slid slowly along his nudity. "You are beautiful, for a caveman," she whispered.

  His gaze wavered and turned away. "This isn't a required part of the game plan, you know. We could skip it."

  She laughed softly but did not quite manage to make it sound light and humorous as she replied, "Nowhe tells me. Too late, querido. It is very much required at this point."

  He reached for her, his hand finding the incredibly velvet softness of the shiny little belly. A forefinger delicately traced the outline of the naval depression and he said, "Those lads, Juan and Rosalita… I wonder if they realize how great they really have it"

  Her manner abruptly changed. She removed his hand and turned toward the wall.

  He said, "Hell, Evita, I didn't mean…"

  "You did not mean a comparison, I know," she replied in a muffled tone. "Just the same it is there, and I know this. I am three months in a Mafia bed. This morning I did not know Mack Bolan. This evening I am in hisbed. Yes, it is a harsh comparison. Much too harsh. So throw me back to the Mafia, Mack Bolan."

  "How many men have you loved this week, Evita?"

  Her shoulder twitched and she said, "Loved? I have not loved."

  "And I have not murdered," he told her.

  She turned slowly to look at him. "What does this mean?"

  "We're pro's, Evita. We make war, not love, not murder. That's all it means. When I mentioned Juan and Rosalita I was only thinking of that very innocent and special fairyland that you and I have left forever. Would you like to trade places with Rosalita, Eve? Would you, if you could?"

  She moved her head in a slow negative, her eyes pinned to Bolan's. "Would you like it better if I did?"

  He grinned and shook his head. "I wouldn't know what to do with a Rosalita."

  "You call me Eve," she whispered. "Do you know what to do with an Eve?"

  "The original Eve wanted truth," he reminded her. "She picked the forbidden fruit of knowledge."

  "Yes?"

  "Yes."

  "And found love?"

  He shook his head again, soberly. "She found war. And hell. And damnation. And eviction from fairyland."

  "Adam, also? He found all this?"

  "Yes."

  They were fools, this Adam and Eve," she declared bitterly.

  "Where would this world be, Evita," he quietly asked her, "without fools hike these?"

  She understood. "Thank you," she said huskily.

  He gathered her into his arms and pulled her close. "I left out the most important point of the story," he said.

  Her arms went tightly about his neck and she clung to him. Her breathing was a bit ragged and he had the taste of tears on his lips as she said, "You did?"

  "Yes," he replied, finding a bit of difficulty with his own breathing. "Through it all, Adam and Eve found each other."

  "Oh Dios, Mack!" she cried. "Find me, please find me!"

  He found her, and was glad, understanding in that jarring moment of truth that each had desperately needed to find the other at just that point in time and space.

  Even a couple of war-hardened pro's needed a trip through fairyland from time to time.

  The war faded, hell wavered, and even damnation lost its sting as Bolan and the law traded points of reality, and merged them, and expanded them into that all-consuming flame which is known only to those who live largely, love largely, and fully expect to die in the same manner.

  For those who live to the point, Bolan decided, there are very special rewards.

  The sun had become quite low in the sky when Bolan stirred and gently disentangled himself from that sweet press.

  "Let us die here now, like this," Evita murmured lazily.

  "We just might," he told her. He rubbed her thigh and said, "Come on, rise and shine, time to hit the firing line. The enemy could have brought a battalion in here on us and we'd have never known it."

  "I have been listening to your heart beat," she said, "in all the world there has been no other sound. The war drums have fallen silent. Anyway, the battalions would never find us here."

  "Don't be too sure of that." He rolled onto his knees and knelt there for a moment, studying her. Then he smiled and said, "I like this hat."

  "Sombrero? Por la cabeza? — thehead? I do not wear the hat."

  "Figure of speech," he explained. "Por la senorita de amor."

  Her eyes glowed at him and she replied, "Yes, I also like this hat."

  "Let's put the other one back on for a minute," Bolan suggested, regretfully. "You told me that Triesta overheard you making a phone call."

  "This is true."

  "It was an official call?"

  "Official, yes. I was reporting the events at Glass Bay."

  "In English?"

  Her eyes fell. "Yes."

  "Why not in Spanish? You said it's the official language here. Wouldn't it have been safer to use the native tongue? Did Triesta know Spanish?"

  "The man… my contact… he does not know Spanish."

  Bolan sighed. "I'd feel much better, Evita, if you'd level with me. The whole story."

  She sighed also. "Some things, Mack Bolan, I can not..."

  "No games," he said firmly. "I have to know."

  The interrogation was becoming an ordeal for Evita. "You have heard… the expression… strike forcer."

  He nodded. "Feds. Does Washington have men here?"

  She hesitated, then replied, "Yes. Officially, these are special advisors. At the moment their greatest concern seems to be for… for Mack Bolan."

  "I see," he said quietly.

  "They were expecting you in Puerto Rico."

  "And you confirmed their expectations."

  "Yes. I told them you had arrived."

  "And this isthe conversation Triesta overheard?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay, so what was the game plan from that point?"

  "I was to report back… when you were dead."

  "What else?"

  "As insurance… in case you should break free… a containment network would be established."

  "Uh huh. This is the police line you mentioned?"

  "Yes. Their only interest is Mack Bolan." She said it with a sigh. "They do not wish to show their hand at Glass Bay. Not yet. Too much work has gone into..."

  He said, "All right, I have the picture. Now let's talk about the lady cop. What was your Mack Bolan assignment?"

  "None, but to report your death. Or your escape."

  "And everything between you and me has been strictly on the level."

  "This I swear,
yes."

  He said, "Okay, I believe you. Now. Other than the headhunters, exactly what is waiting for me out there, Evita?"

  She shrugged daintily. "I do not know. I know only that they are very determined that you die in Puerto Rico."

  "Yeah, I got the same reception in Vegas," Bolan muttered. "The Bolan kill is on. They don't even want me in court. They just want me dead."

  "They?"

  "The feds. The political heat is on."

  "This is not just," she whispered.

  "Sure it is," he told her. "Nobody gave me a hunting license." He shrugged. "A guy takes his ride and pays his fare. It makes no sense to scream about the high cost of riding. Anyway, this is the way I want it. I don't want a free ride. That would make me just another contract killer."

  "You are a man unique," Evita murmured.

  "I am a man realistic," Bolan argued. He smiled. "Don't forget Adam and Eve. If they hadn't paid their fare the world would have seen nothing more than a population explosion of hairless apes. The human race is more than a tribe of naked apes, Evita."

  "That is most profound," she commented, eyes sparkling.

  He kissed her, with tenderness, and then he quickly went down the ladder and began getting into his clothing.

  Evita followed a moment later, as he was harnessing into the Beretta's sideleather. She watched him briefly, warmly, then she sighed and began rounding up her own things.

  Bolan grabbed her from behind and kissed her again, then he picked up a Thompson and went outside, clad only in the black skinsuit.

  The sun was setting at 20 degrees north latitude. He stood quietly on the high ground for a couple of minutes and watched the surrounding countryside and thought of Evita while his ears tuned themselves to the sounds of the land.

  She was a hell of a gal. The name itself was the Spanish diminutive for Eve. Little Eve. Not her, hell no. BigEve. Very soon now he would be saying goodbye… to this land, to this woman, to the eternal part of himself which he would be leaving there.

  Yes, there were rewards for living large. There were also heavy taxes. He thought of another Big Eve, a Cuban lady soldier he'd met and left forever at Miami Beach… large Margarita. She had died large at Miami Beach, and she'd left a hell of a large marker in the memory of Mack Bolan.

  He remembered her stirring poetry, also… stirring for a guy in Bolan's shoes.

  "The world dies 'twixt every heartbeat, and is born again in each new perception of the mind." Yeah. Right on, Margarita. "For each of us the order of life is to perceiveand perish and perceiveagain."

  The battleorder, Margarita. Life is a battle, from womb to grave, if there is any meaning to it at all. "And who can say which is which — for every human experience builds a new world in its own image — and death itself is but an unusual perception."

  Right on, little soldada.

  You too, Evita, little policia, right the hell on. He left the hill and circled to the far side of the cabin, continuing the soft recon. Another twenty minutes and it would be dark enough to move out, to keep the rendezvous with Juan Escadrillo, and to go on to the next horse of the carousel.

  He stopped to inspect the jeep, then stiffened suddenly and released the safety on the Thompson. A vehicle was coming along that road.

  Bolan threw a quick look toward the cabin, then stepped into the timber and moved swiftly along a parallel course with the roadway.

  The Executioner felt another unusual perception coming on.

  It was, he knew, time to go out of fairyland.

  Chapter Eight

  The choice

  It was a Chevy, one of the small economy models, about two years old, and it was carrying a fresh accumulation of plateau dust. It also carried four men, each of whom seemed very much out of place on this Puerto Rico back-road.

  They were total strangers to Bolan. They were also, he quickly deduced, strangers to the land. The vehicle had come to a quick halt at first sight of the cabin, then quietly reversed its track and came to rest around a bend in the road.

  As four men stepped outside and stood conversing across the roof of the vehicle. They spoke quietly, too softly for Bolan's ears to pick up more than a word here and there — but definitely English words.

  The car was radio equipped. One of the men leaned inside and said something into a mike. A responsive squawk from the radio receiver confirmed that English was the language in use, but again without sufficient clarity for Bolan's understanding.

  The problem, from Bolan's standpoint, was the question of identification. If the guys were cops, he could simply fade out. Evita would be left in good hands and Bolan himself would be in no worse shape than at any time since he'd hit the island.

  If they were not cops though…

  One of the men was pulling a sawed-off shotgun from the rear seat. Another was spinning the cylinder of a heavy revolver and checking the load. The guy at the radio swung back to the outside and passed a soft command to the others.

  They split up.

  One remained with the vehicle. Another advanced along the road toward the cabin. The other two went to opposite sides and disappeared into the brush.

  They were closing on the house.

  Bolan would have preferred to take them while they were bunched up. If the guys turned out to be some of Lavagni's scouts, there could be hell to pay now. A guy on the short end of the odds could not afford to allow such a situation to get out of his direct control.

  Bolan had done so.

  But there was that nagging question of identification… another of the built-in handicaps to the Executioner's war effort.

  He moved on deeper and circled back for an approach from the rear, then he stepped onto the road and came in with the fiery red sun setting directly behind him.

  The guy was leaning against the car, his attention focused in the direction of the house, when the quiet jungle cat moved in behind him and the heavy steel muzzle of the Thompson dug into his spine.

  He stiffened, and froze there, and Bolan could almost feel the tumbling energies of that suddenly electrified mind.

  "Okay, okay," the guy said, in a voice with all the moisture suddenly gone out of it. "Don't, for God's sake."

  It was a matter of blind reaction versus conditioned instincts, and Bolan had his identification. The guy was no American federal cop; he was no kind of cop.

  Without wasting another precious second of time, Bolan whipped the stock of the heavy gun up and against the back of the soldier's skull in a lashing slap. The guy crumbled without a sound and sprawled face down in the dust. Bolan turned him over and gave him another vicious jab to the throat, then he stepped over the lifeless remains and hurried on along the road toward the cabin.

  Big Eve was alone up there and definitely not about to fall into good hands.

  The one with the shotgun was moving into the yard as Bolan rounded the bend, another was stepping out of the bushes to the right.

  The front door to the cabin was standing open, and he saw a flash of motion across that open doorway.

  "Hold it!" Bolan yelled, more for Evita's benefit than for anything else.

  The guy in front whirled, bringing the shotgun around with him, and the Thompson's opening argument caught him in mid-turn and laid him down in a convulsive sideways sprawl. The shotgun boomed, sending its double-oughts spraying harmlessly into the air.

  And then Evita was standing there in that doorway, clad only in a bra and a half-slip, and a Thompson was in her arms.

  She screamed, "Mack!" as her chopper erupted, the fire going toward a point on Bolan's blind left side.

  The weapon was too much for her and she was fighting to keep that bucking muzzle down, but to no avail. Her fire-track was a chaotic sweep skyward — but it was evidently soarey enough to send her target diving for cover after one wild shot at Bolan. Meanwhile the guy on the right had gone for Evita. He was running across the yard and firing from the hip, the heavy slugs from the revolver chewing up the doorjamb behind her
.

  Living large, a lot of life could be packed into a single second.

  And a lot of death.

  All of the foregoing had been playing upon the background of Bolan's consciousness, reeling out in frozen sequences of peripheral awareness; perhaps, he reflected later, it was the awareness of that submerged human side of man-in-combat.

  From the moment of first blood, however, back at the vehicle, Bolan's single overriding consideration was for the safety of Evita Aguilar, Big Eve. The combat order was as single-minded, and the panoramic action outside that cabin was telescoped into a single moment in time and as a continuous movement in attack-mode.

  His first burst caught the front man and sent him beyond the lens of that mental telescope. The second burst unfalteringly found its track onto the gunner at the right, and the guy's last couple of rounds toward Evita were probably no more than the dying reflex of his trigger-finger. He was stopped in mid-stride and punched back for several yards loss before touching down — and already Bolan was swinging into the threat from the left.

  The guy over there was diving away from that harmless confrontation with Evita's Thompson, and Bolan's next burst added measurably to that movement, sending the guy into a somersaulting roll into the bushes.

  A snap-glance toward the cabin assured Bolan that the girl was okay. He went quickly from body to body, verifying the results, then he slung the heated Thompson across his back and went to the woman.

  Her eyes were wild but exhilarated as she let the heavy weapon droop and then fall to the steps. She crumbled into his arms and he pulled her in close.

  "You okay?" he asked anxiously.

  "Yes, yes, okay," she panted.

  "You were great," he told her.

  "Great, no. Out of mind, yes. Why would anyone build a locogun such as this one?"

  Bolan strangled off a chuckle as his fingers encountered the unmistakable sticky warmth of blood. "You're hit," he announced calmly, and spun her about for inspection.

  "It was wee a sting of the bee," she said raggedly. "It is nothing?"

  He grunted and replied, "Well, almost nothing. But you'll have a souvenir to show your grandchildren."