He told his hijacker, "We might not have enough fuel. It's marginal at best."
Bolan growled back, "You'd better get it there, Jack. Your life is on the same margin."
Grimaldi did not doubt that for a moment. He shrugged and replied, "So I'll get it there if I have to pee in the tank."
Hell yes. Grimaldi would get it there if he had to bleedin it.
He wanted in the worse way to deliver Bolan to Puerta Vista.
With every gun on the island closing at this very moment on that tiny fishing village, Grimaldi could think of no better place to drop Mack Bolan.
It could mean paydirt yet. It could mean, hell, riches beyond Jack Grimaldi's wildest dreams.
"I'll get you there," he assured his passengers.
And then Earl Latigo's voice was crackling into the earphones. "Air One from Air Two. Where are you? What's going on?"
The cold voice in the intercom instructed Grimaldi, "Very carefully, Jack. Tell him what happened, with one exception. Bolan is dead, also. You are returning alone. Carefully now, soldier."
That impressive black Beretta with the muzzle silencer appeared in Grimaldi's peripheral vision and the barrel made a small indentation alongside the throat mike.
Grimaldi sighed and punched into the command channel. "Air One," he said tiredly. "Good news and bad. Charlie got Bolan. But he didn't live to brag about it. I'm coming in empty."
Bolan nodded approvingly and Latigo's elated tones swirled back with, "Hell, I'd about given it up! He really got the bastard? Bolan's dead? Where'd you nail him?"
"Up in the hills. I, uh, don't feel much like talking right now, Earl. Tell you all about it when we get together."
"I guess that's why I can't raise Tony," Air Two replied.
Bolan growled, "Send them home."
Grimaldi sighed again, heavily. "Boss wants you back at the joint," he told Latigo. "Go on home, Earl."
"My ground crews too?"
The Great Stone Face nodded his head.
Grimaldi pressed the throat mike and said, "Yeah, everybody is heading in."
"Okay, see you there," Air Two replied, signing off.
Bolan eased off the pressure of the Beretta and commented, "I might even pay you a salary plus bonuses, Jack."
That, thought Grimaldi, was because the guy didn't know what he was heading into. Quick Tony couldn't be reached on the radio because he was setting up something at Puerta Vista.
He went along with the gag, though, and told Bolan, "When Tony hears about this, you'd better make it enough to get me to Lower Slobbovia, eh."
Bolan did not reply, and they went on in silence until the lights of Puerta Vista became visible.
Then the woman spoke, for the first time since entering the 'copter. "Circle from the east," she instructed him. "On the first road north of the coastal highway, just inside the village, you will see the church. It has a high bell tower. You will land in the churchyard to the rear."
Grimaldi nodded his head and glanced at the ice man. "Is that what you want, Mr. Bolan?"
"You heard the lady," Bolan replied. "Do it."
He found the spot with no trouble at all, and he set her down without landing lights exactly where the lady wanted, and with hardly a bump.
The moon was coming up, and visibility was definitely improving. Grimaldi shivered, wondering what was coming up next — and fearing the worst.
He cut the engine and the rotors were still chugging around in the rundown spin when the big guy started battering the radio with his pistol and ripping out the ignition system.
Then Bolan grabbed Grimaldi and hauled him to the ground and told him, "Run east, soldier. Don't slow down, and don't look back."
Grimaldi had absolutely no desire to argue with the man. Paydirt now meant simply remaining alive.
He started running, mentally bracing himself for the shot in the back which never came.
Twice in one day the bastard had let him off. Jack Grimaldi simply could not understand it. He ran on, almost hoping that the big guy would make it through Puerta Vista in one piece. Maybe the guy wasn't such a total bastard, after all.
It was a dumb hope, though. Grimaldi was the lucky one. He was running out of Puerta Vista.
Bolan was striding into it Straight into Quick Tony's paydirt.
Chapter Ten
Soft sell
During those tense moments at the strip mine, while awaiting the arrival of the helicopter, Bolan and Evita performed reluctant farewells, both aware that this might be their last opportunity to do so. And when all the words of appreciation and mutual admiration had been said, she asked him, "What will you do upon leaving Puerto Rico?"
He reflected on the question for a moment, then replied, "I had planned to chase the brass ring but… well, I guess it's best that I tuck my tail in and make a run for home ground."
She nodded her head in agreement. "This would be best. You do not now think it wise to enter the tournament, yes?"
"I don't like the focus the thing has taken," Bolan explained. "Anything I go for now will likely be just another setup, and I'll be fighting their war their way."
"This is not good."
"No, it isn't. I'll have to pull back and hope for another try another day. My way, and on my terms. If we can capture this chopper, well go on into Puerta Vista. We'll make the meet with Juan. Then you will go your way and I will go mine."
"This would be best," she quietly agreed.
"It's a damn shame," Bolan mused. "I may never pass this way again, and there's a lot of fruit to be picked down here."
"But, as you say, the tournament would now be a sham. They will be expecting you, and lying in wait for you."
"Yeah." Bolan sighed and dug into his money-belt and produced a folded sheet of linen paper. He passed it over to the girl. "I took those names out of a book I came across in Las Vegas a couple of thousand years ago. They're the local reps — or they were, as of a day or so ago, of the mob's Caribbean operation, the entire wheel from Nassau to Panama."
Evita was scrutinizing the list of names in the fading light. "Yes, a few of these I recognize," she told him. "They make frequent visits at Glass Bay."
"Keep the list," he offered. "Give it to your bosses. Maybe it will tie in somewhere to their investigations. But tell them that they may as well cool it for a couple of months. I've an idea that those boys are all on sudden vacations. Or they will be, as soon as I'm officially declared free of the death trap here."
"There is one big name missing from this list," Evita said thoughtfully.
"Yeah? Which one?"
"You have heard the name Edward Stuart?"
Bolan smiled and shook his head. "If it's Mafia, and it's big, then it probably started as Eduardo Stuarti — but it still means nothing to me."
"This man is known as Sir Edward," Evita said casually. "He is thought to be the number one syndicate man in all of Caribe land. And this one would feel no need for a sudden vacation."
"That big?"
She nodded. 'That big. He is thought to be very influential behind the scenes in Haiti. Since Papa Doc's death, especially. I would..."
"Hold it," Bolan growled, his interest rising. "Are you saying this guy is in the Haitian government?"
"Officially, no. But, as I said, very influential. It is being said that the decline of tourism in Haiti during Papa Doc's regime is now being greatly reversed, and that Sir Edward Stuart is the man and the money behind this new surge."
"What is Puerto Rico's official interest in Stuart?"
"Officially, no interest," Evita replied. "Haiti is a free republic, a friendly neighbor. They belong to OAS and to the UN. But their government for many years has been a strong dictatorship, perhaps the most repressive, and terroristic in the Americas. And Sir Edward's influence with certain officials provides him a perfect sanctuary from which to operate illegally throughout these islands. We are naturally interested, and we are naturally observing his operations whenever possible."
>
"Sanctuary, eh," Bolan commented.
"Yes. And you have heard of the syndicate money man who has taken sanctuary in Israel?"
Bolan nodded. "Who hasn't?"
"Well, couriers travel frequently between Tel Aviv and Port au Prince."
Bolan's eyebrows went up. "You aren't speaking of official government couriers."
"No."
Bolan said, "I see."
"My department fears a choking network of influence reaching from the Mediterranean to the Caribbean. And all centering about this untouchable Sir Edward Stuart."
"You're not suggesting that the Israeli and Haitian governments are cooking up..."
"Of course not. This is entirely a syndicate matter, not a political one."
"I have the feeling you're trying to sell me something, Evita," Bolan said soberly.
"But no, I am selling nothing. It is right that you should head for the home ground, as you say. Caribe will keep for another time."
She was wearing an entirely new hat now, Bolan decided.
He said, "Sure."
She said, "I speak, of course, from the greatest confidence. Sir Edward Stuart is the new Meyer Lansky of the western world. I thought you should know this. And that he enjoys the protection of the Haitian borders. He cannot be touched by any law, anywhere."
"Except one, eh?" Bolan replied, sighing. She smiled and said, "Yes, except perhaps one."
"You're absolutely certain of the game?" She soberly nodded her head. "The game is absolute."
Bolan fiddled with the safety of the Thompson. "Okay," he said gruffly. "I'll look in on Haiti on my way out."
She gazed into the palms of her hands and said, in the now familiar mimicry of Bolan's gruffness, "Okay. And good luck."
And Bolan knew that he'd been had by an expert. He said, "You told me earlier that you had friends in high places. How high?"
She smiled and replied, "High enough." High enough to set up an executioner. Sure."
He said, "There are no police lines at Puerta Vista, are there."
Very quietly she told him, "Not that one may notice. I am the police line, Mack Bolan."
He sighed and said, "I guess it's about time you proved that."
Smiling rather sadly, she opened her blouse and freed the sculpted breasts from the confining brassiere. She turned the cups out, parted the fabric liner, and removed a small scrap of vinyl material. Reproduced upon the vinyl was a miniaturized identification card, complete with photo and official embossment. Bolan sighed and gave it back to her.
He watched her get herself back together, then he said, "Well, it's been a hell of a war game, hasn't it. You couldn't have set it up all the way, though. You've been playing it by ear, haven't you."
She said, "Yes. From the moment I realized that you were at Glass Bay. I spoke the truth, however, concerning the strike force. They are present, and they do strongly desire your body. I was ordered to do whatever possible to insure that you met death at Glass Bay. That failing, I was to attempt to contact you and lead you to San Juan, where you would be forcibly met. But then youcontacted me, and in a most dramatic manner." She tapped her breast. "I also have certain discretions which I may employ as the occasion may demand. If this iswhat you say playing by ear…" She shrugged and looked away.
He told her, "You do a great bedroom scene, Big Eve. Another discretion?"
"I will admit that it began deliberately," she replied. "But it did not continue in that fashion. You must remember that."
Bolan would never forget. He smiled soberly and said, "Well, from one pro to another, I have to admire your footwork. So okay. You think I should hit the guy in Haiti. Can I rely on your identification?"
"Positively."
"But this is not an official request from the government of Puerto Rico."
"No. This is an official suggestion from one pro to another."
He grinned. "Do your discretionary powers allow another farewell kiss?"
She threw herself into the embrace, melting against him with a new high of fervor. After a moment he pulled away and told her, "Hell, Eve, that's not farewell."
Before she could reply, the windmill sounds of a rotary wing aircraft stole between them and sent them hurrying to their stations.
There had been no further opportunity for personal communications throughout the next few minutes, and the tense journey to Puerta Vista had been marked by a brooding silence on the part of each, except for the terse commands required for the success of the mission.
And then they were down, and hurrying forward to the rendezvous with Juan Escadrillo. Bolan found himself appreciating this new hat of Evita's as much as any of the others.
She was an Eve measuring considerably larger than life.
She was, in a sense, a female Executioner.
The odd was in a hard sweat and stumbling all over his own breath.
"SenorBolan!" he cried. "I feared you would not come!"
Bolan squeezed the boy's shoulders with both hands and said, "What's the panic, Juan? Couldn't you get the boat?"
"Si, I have the boat. But…"
"But what?"
"They have my Rosalita!"
Bolan groaned, "Oh hell."
"They say they will feed her to the sharks! They say it is a trade, youfor her."
Calmly, Evita said, "Tell us what happened, Juan."
The boy's eyes dropped and he replied, "I did not follow the instructions. Rosalita did not wish to go to my uncle's without me. She insisted upon remaining with me and waiting in the truck while I conduct the business." The agonized gaze lifted in a search of Bolan's impassive face. "I allowed her to do so. It is my fault, all of it."
"What do they want you to do, Juan?" Bolan asked him.
"They wish that I go on as though nothing is changed. I am simply to meet you and take you to the boat." The eyes fell again as he added, "They would not have learned these arrangements from me, senor, except that I am so fearful for Rosalita. These men are muy malo — verybad."
Bolan could have told the kid that the muy malomen would have learned, with or without Rosalita. The girl simply provided them the delightful free kicker, the insurance ticket.
Evita commented, "Why did they not simply spring the trap here? Why take the chance with Juan?"
She was not that familiar with the Mafia mind. Bolan was.
It was another example of super-care, super strategy for the super kill. When they could control a situation, they controlled it to the finest detail. The one thing they had not taken into account was Juan Escadrillo's monumental faith in Mack Bolan. The kid was placing the whole thing in Bolan's hands, confident that he would handle the situation to Rosalita's best advantage.
Bolan asked Juan, "How did they get onto us?"
"They are watching every one, every where. I did not know this, but they have enlisted spies from the men of the village."
Bolan nodded. "Okay, I should have known better. My goof, Juan, not yours, so stop hating yourself. I gave them too damn much time. All right, Juan, what's the plot?"
"The plot is this. I am to take you to the fisherman's wharf, at the center of town. This is the market place, and also the place where the sporting boats and the commercial fishers are kept. The boat I have hired for you has been moved to the end of the wharf. Next to this is the other boat, the one in which they hold my Rosalita."
Bolan was thinking of Monte Carlo and a very similar setup involving Tony Lavagni. The old triggerman was at least a consistent planner.
"This is a very powerful — what you call a cruiser, a sportfishing boat. We will have to walk directly past it in order to reach your boat."
"And they have Rosalita aboard the cruiser," Bolan commented.
"Si. They tell me to be very careful, and my Rosalita will not be harmed. Otherwise…" The boy shivered. "… they will chop her into little pieces and use her for fishing bait."
"We won't let that happen," Bolan assured him.
"Rosalita sends
this message. She says you should not think of her, nor of me, but that you should guard your own treasures, Mack Bolan."
Bolan's eyes were glinting crystals of ice.
He said, "That's exactly what I'm going to do, Juan."
Chapter Eleven
Breakout
Puerta Vista was located in one of the less scenic areas of the Caribbean coast. The shoreline was rocky, the natural harbor was small and shallow, and tourist accommodations in the tiny village were minimal and unpretentious. Puerta Vista was a fishing village, and most who lived there made their living from the sea.
The community wharf area reflected this state of existence. It was primarily a marketplace and the center of local activity. The wharf itself fronted the entire central district and provided mooring facilities for the local fishing fleet. A small area at the west end was reserved for "public" boats — the occasional non-commercial yacht or cruiser which might put into Puerta Vista for fuel or supplies.
To conserve docking space, the harbormaster had some years earlier instituted the "Mediterranean moor" as the docking method at Puerta Vista. This is a stern-to technique, with the boats backed into the dockage and secured by stern lines to the wharf, bow lines to buoys. Using this method, Puerta Vista had managed to accommodate her local commercial fleet while maintaining open wharfage for the growing numbers of pleasure boats which had lately begun making port calls.
The setup pleased Tony Lavagni immensely. The public dock space was well removed from the market area, and something like a hundred feet of open wharf separated his cruiser from the nearest fishing boat.
The old salvage rig which had been hired for Bolan's escape was tied up right next door, to the west of the cruiser, and these were the only two boats in the public dock.
A warehouse of corrugated sheet metal stood between this end of the wharf and the town. Bolan would have to walk along the entire western side of the wharf in order to reach his boat. He would also have to pass behind the cruiser. The only other way was through or over the warehouse, and Quick Tony had made provisions for that route also. As for swimming in — forget it. Quick Tony Lavagni was not born yesterday.
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