The Terrible Ones

by Nick Carter

  “Fidelista traitor!” he panted, and tried to wrench away. Nick was in no mood to bandy compliments. His thigh was jammed tightly between the rotting boards and his weight was distributed in an uncomfortably awkward way. He held onto Tom Kee with all the strength that he could muster and screwed the arm around until the shoulder bent toward him. Then he jerked viciously. Something snapped with a sound like a pistol shot. The Chinaman screamed and chopped wildly at Nick’s temple. Nick rocked sideways and felt his fingers loose at the other man’s throat. Tom Kee clawed at them with desperate strength and tore himself away. He leapt to his feet and slammed a kick into Nick’s face. Nick ducked, caught a glancing blow on the side of his head, and dimly saw the Chinaman’s good hand reach again into its owner’s jacket.

  Nick clawed at the planking and heaved himself upward. The sharp splinters of the boardwalk dug through his trouser leg and raked into his flesh like the prongs of an animal trap. Tom Kee’s arm reached out toward him, pointing. Nick wrenched himself free as a tiny tongue of flame spat in the darkness and bit into his arm. He leapt sideways and then dived forward, arms outstretched and reaching for the gunhand. There was another zap! of sound and he had Tom Kee by the arm and over his head before he felt the sting. The Chinaman slammed down headfirst onto the boardwalk and Nick went after him. He landed heavily with his knee in the other man’s back and his arm jerking under his chin. There was another crack, even sharper this time, and Tom Kee lay crumpled in the stillness of death. Nick got up and heaved a sigh. So much for the question-and-answer game. He knew the fellow was Chinese, but that was all he knew.

  “Are you all right?” He started at the voice. For a moment he had forgotten all about Paula. Then he was glad of her voice in the darkness. “Yes. Grab that light and let’s have a quick look at him.” She shone the light down onto the prone form as Nick turned the body over.

  “He’s one of them,” she said quietly. “I’ve seen him in Santo Domingo with Tsing-fu.”

  But there was nothing on his body to tell them anything more about him.

  Nick dragged Tom Kee to the edge of the boardwalk and thrust him between the rotten planks and the sighing reeds. Then he walked back to the borrowed boathouse with Paula by his side.

  “I wanted to help you,” Paula said as they sat down together on the tarpaulin. “But I could see so little in the dark and I was afraid of hitting you.”

  “ ‘Afraid’ is not the word for you, Paula,” Nick said quietly. “You did the right thing. Except,” he added, “that you were supposed to stay under the tarpaulin.”

  She laughed softly. “Now you know that was impossible for me!” Her hand rested lightly on his arm and he tingled at her touch. “You are hurt,” she said gently. “Please let us go to the boat before Henri comes. I know there are medical supplies on board.”

  “They’ll keep,” said Nick. “I’d rather stay where we are and keep an eye out for more visitors.”

  She was silent for a moment. Nick stared out onto the boardwalk and wondered again about her friends Marie and Jacques. Jacques had known they were going to the castle, Jacques had known that they were coming here . . . He wondered if they could really trust Henri Duclos.

  “Do you know,” said Paula, “that you have not even told me your name?”

  He stared at her in the darkness. It was true. Jacques had not even wanted to know—it was safer that way, he had said— and the occasion had never seemed to have arisen with Paula. He had a cover name, of course, and papers to go with it. But he was sure of Paula now, if of nothing else.

  “My friends call me Nick,” he said.

  “Nick. I like that.” Her hand brushed lightly over his bearded cheek. “I wonder what you really look like.” She drew her hand away.

  “Ugly as hell,” Nick said cheerfully. “Chinless and covered with warts.”

  She laughed again. It was a pleasant sound; not a girlish giggle but a woman’s laugh. “And your body—that is a facade too, I suppose?”

  “Ah, no,” said Nick, suddenly very conscious of his body and its proximity to hers. “No, it’s all solid me—except for the padded shoulders and the built-up shoes.”

  “I did not like you at first,” she said abruptly.

  “That was my impression,” Nick murmured.

  “You see, I had expected—”

  “I know, Paula.” Nick chuckled. “A posse of men. You told me once or twice. But look at it our way. Time and time again the United States has sent squads of men into a country to help, and time and time again half the world has turned on us and snarled about American intervention. Lately certain groups have begun to capitalize on this, sending up fake howls for help and then screaming to the world that Uncle Sam has done it again. We know for a fact that we’ve fallen for a couple of deliberate traps, It’s only a propaganda gambit, but it pays off for them in hatred for us every time. So, no posse. No Marines. Least of all into Santo Domingo, where they’re already spitting at us. We’re getting a little tired of spit. That’s why you’ve had to settle for one man rather than a squad.”

  “I should have understood that. I am sorry.” She paused and then said, “But I am glad that you are the one man. It was wrong of me to be—so ungrateful. Would you like me to tell you now about Alonzo?”

  “That would be nice,” Nick said drily, and checked the radium dial of his Cuban Army watch. One fifteen. It was still as black as a coalpit outside and as silent as the grave.

  “He is a member of a special force of Cubans who have a camp in the hills west of Santo Domingo. I know it is hard for you Americans to understand this, but many of us in the Dominican Republic cannot think of them as enemies. They are propagandists, infiltrators, advisers—call them what you will. Of course they are Communists. But they bring with them a kind of revolutionary spirit that our country needs, a hope that some day we will have a leader who is neither fool nor Fascist. We do not work with them, but neither do we obstruct them and they do not interfere with us. Or so I thought. At any rate, one or two of them have become our friends. Alonzo Escobar was very taken with little Luz, one of my Terrible Ones. He has been seeing much of her.”

  “And did she know where you were going when you left Santo Domingo?”

  “Yes.” Paula gave a little sigh. “Whenever any one of us goes anywhere we always tell three others. It is a rule, and it has often helped us out of trouble. This time, it seems, it made trouble for us. It is obvious that she must have told him where you were to land. I wonder if he also expected a platoon.

  But she’s the only one who could have told him and I can’t think why she did. He is not such a catch as a man. I hope she has not gone over to the Fidelistas.”

  “I hope not,” Nick said thoughtfully. “I suppose it would be understandable if she did.” But his thoughts were quite different from his words. He had seen one badly tortured girl already and he had an unpleasant feeling that somewhere there might be another, name of Luz.

  “What are you thinking?” Paula asked a little sharply.

  “To tell you the truth,” he lied, “I was wondering how come you’re so blond and leggy and almost English looking. Oh, I approve, of course. But I can’t help wondering.”

  “Oh. I am almost English. Only my father was one-half part Spanish. He died a long, long time ago . . . .”

  She was telling him, suddenly, about life under Trujillo and about her husband, Tonio Martelo, who had died six years ago of a bullet in the head for being a member of a political organization opposed to the dictator. He had been more than a member, he had been its leader. He had called his group La Trinitaria, after the independence fighters of an earlier century. But every last man of his group had either died in prison or been shot after a farcical trial, and every one of their families had been stripped of all possessions while Trujillo bragged about the stolen millions he had waiting for him in the banks of Switzerland. And because he was a braggart he let slip something about a cache of gold and precious stones that he had not yet s
ent away. One hundred million dollars worth. One hundred million dollars in golden ornaments and coins, in precious stones and semi-precious gems, in rubies, sapphires, emeralds, black pearls . . . all stolen. Some had been stripped off the widows of his victims, and it was said that these gave him his greatest pleasure.

  With his death the rumors spread like wildfire, until there was so much fantasy in them that the truth seemed altogether lost. Years passed, and the story of the treasure lay dormant. But the wives of the victims had not forgotten. Under Paula’s leadership they had formed a group dedicated to the righting of old wrongs—and the finding of the treasure. And they had been extremely interested when a new story had found its way to them through the underground, the story of a Chinese treasure hunt and of various clues leading to the cache. There was also the suggestion of a special Chinese use for the easily negotiable gold and jewels in a project of their own called Operation Blast. No one knew what Blast could be.

  “Hold it a minute!” Nick whispered suddenly. He was enthralled with Paula’s story but he was still tuned in to the world outside. And he had heard the distant sound of running feet. It was still too early for Duclos.

  The boardwalk thumped and creaked and the footsteps slowed to a fast walk. Someone came toward them, whistling breathily and pausing between notes to pant with exertion. A light flashed on and off three times.

  “It is Henri!” Paula breathed, springing to her feet.

  “Careful!” Nick was beside her at the door.

  Her light flashed three times into a dark face whose eyes blinked in the glare.

  “Paula! Thank God you are here early! Who—who is that with you?” A hand flashed to a shoulder holster.

  “It’s all right, Henri. He is a friend.” Paula went to him with her long, quick strides. “What is the matter—is someone after you?”

  “No, no!” he gasped, still fighting for breath to speak. “I do not think so, anyway. But there has been a terrible tragedy, terrible!”

  “What is it?” she rapped.

  “Jacques.” Henri drew his hand across his twitching face and swallowed noisily. “Jacques, Marie, the whole house up in flames! It burnt in minutes, only minutes, right to the ground. Police, everybody crowding around, nobody could do anything. The heat unbearable, white flames eating into everything, everything all gone!”

  “No!” Paula cried. It was a cry of agony and disbelief.

  “Yes, yes, I am so sorry. God knows I am sorry. Incendiaries, they say. Deliberate arson, horrible.”

  “Evita too,” Paula whispered. Nick grasped her shoulders and felt her trembling violently. “Oh, God. Burnt alive!”

  “Evita! I do not know Evita,” Henri said hurriedly. “But they died in seconds, seconds only. It was deliberate, for sure. Someone heard explosions, and a horse leaving the village, and looked out. There was no horse any more, but the house was one big sheet of flame. Catastrophe! We cannot leave tonight, Paula. Tontons Macoute are everywhere, questioning. Anybody missing, dreadful trouble. Tomorrow instead, maybe not even then. Also, now they think that djuba thing was murder, and they are hunting for a man. Everybody must be accounted for, or else the family—you know what they do to family of a missing man.”

  Paula nodded slowly. “But we can’t go back there,” she said quietly. “We have to leave.”

  “No, no, we cannot go. You will have to hide!”

  “We have to go, Henri,” Nick said firmly. “And we will go. But you don’t need to. I’ll pay what you want for the boat, but I’m going to take it out of here tonight.”

  Henri stared at him. “Paula is my friend,” he said finally. “There is no payment for the boat. Leave it in the cove at San Jorge where Paula will show you. If I can collect it, I will. If not—” he shrugged.

  “Thanks, Henri,” said Nick. “Show me the boat.”

  Ten minutes later they were out in the bay. It was a small boat with a tiny motor and a lateen sail; nothing much to look at, but it would take them where they were going. On board there were medical supplies, fishing gear, rough fishermen’s clothes, a little food.

  A mild breeze edged them seaward. Nick could see the lights of other small boats dotting the sea. Paula sat in the stern and stared at nothing.

  “We are early, there is no need to hurry,” she said tonelessly. “If they are searching for us they will not find us out here. But we must wait to go into San Jorge with the rest of the fishing boats or we might be stopped when we get there. Drop the net and fish if you like. We have time. Also it will look better.”

  Nick spread the net and calculated how much time they had. Plenty, he decided. They could drift for a couple of hours before heading directly for San Jorge. Both of them could use the rest. A slight foggy drizzle was oozing down upon them, and he lowered the lateen sail over the spar so it could serve as a shelter. Then he found the sea anchor and pitched it overboard so that they would not drift too far out to sea. Paula did not even notice as he opened the medicine chest and applied rough plasters to the two bullet scrapes inflicted by Tom Kee.

  When he finished he looked at her in the dim light of their inboard lamp. Her face was expressionless but her cheeks were wet. It was not from the rain, he knew.

  “Paula.”

  No answer.

  “Paula. Get under the sail. I know what you’re thinking— but don’t. We have all the more reason now to take hold of ourselves and get on with the job.” He knew it must have sounded inane, but there were times when even he ran out of the right things to say. “Come here.”

  He reached for her gently and drew her beneath the canvas shelter. Then he cupped her face between his hands and kissed her tenderly.

  And suddenly she was in his arms.

  In the Darkness Before Dawn

  He held her while she sobbed silently against his chest, and he went on holding her when the sobbing had subsided. She clung to him as if she would drown without his strength to save her.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she gasped. “It is most . . . unwomanly of me.”

  “It is very womanly of you,” he said firmly, and softly stroked her hair. The firm breasts, surprisingly full and ripe beneath the coarse, loose shirt, pressed against his chest and her fingers squeezed into his back. His breathing accelerated suddenly in spite of all his years of Yoga training.

  “Paula . . . .” he whispered. He touched her lips again with his and let them linger longingly, and when she did not pull away he drew her even closer and kissed her with growing heat. Her mouth opened slightly and she responded with an urgency that sent his pulses racing. Her hands moved to the back of his neck and held it with a sort of desperation so that their mouths crushed together hotly and he could scarcely have turned his head even if he had wanted to. His hand slid down her side and down her thigh, and still she did not protest. The kiss burned even brighter.

  At last she turned her head aside.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she breathed. “I don’t want sympathy.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m not offering it to you. Is that what you think this is?”

  He kissed her again, this time almost savagely, and cupped her breast in his hand. It swelled beneath the cloth and he caressed it while his tongue met hers. She kissed back hungrily and her tense body gradually relaxed. They were breathless when they drew apart.

  When she spoke she sounded almost formal.

  “I have not thought of love since Tonio died,” she said. “I have not wanted any man to touch me.” She began to unbutton her rough shirt. “Did you hear me? I said Move.”

  “I heard you,” said Nick, and a little pulse beat in his temple. And not only in his temple. He touched the smooth skin beneath her breasts as her shirt slid off. She caught his hand and held it against her.

  “I knew you thought me hard,” she whispered. “Do you still think so?”

  “No,” he murmured, sliding his arms around her and unfastening a tiny catch. “Soft, beautifully soft. Are you like that al
l over?”

  “Why should I tell you? Is it so difficult for you to find out?”

  It was not so difficult. He found that out as he helped her finish her undressing, and as she helped him finish his. Her skin was petal-soft all over, and beneath it lay a splendid form that was taut where it should be taut and yielding where it should be yielding. Nick made a blanket of their clothes and together they lay upon it, touching each other eagerly as they lay down and drawing close even before their heads touched the skimpy pillow. Their mouths met again in a long explosive kiss and then they were exploring each other with their movements and their hands. Nick felt her thighs tremble beside him as he kissed her perfect nipples and made them rise into tiny peaks. He made his hands glide slowly over her body, although the passion was already so strong in him that he knew she must know it also. She touched him lightly where he ached the most, and he sighed with pleasure. He caressed her marvelous flat belly, covering it with kisses, and moved down. Her legs parted a little as he felt her warmth and softness, felt her eagerness. His probe was gentle, loving, though his kisses were becoming bites of urgency.

  “Oh, my darling!” she gasped suddenly. “Not too soon, not too soon! Hold me for a little while.”

  He stopped instantly and held her so close that she was almost part of him. Soon she would be part of him, but not until she wanted it. She moved her thighs slowly against his and kissed him with such gentle longing that his desire for her became something more than lust for a lithe body. It had been a little more than that ever since he’d caught the faint breath of her perfume and felt the softness of her lips back there in the cave, but now it was growing into something that he seldom permitted himself to feel. Nick Carter, Killmaster for AXE, was close to something like real love.

  Nick caressed her very gently, Paula relaxed like a cat, but like a cat she was ready to respond to every touch, and like a cat she nibbled at the one caressing her. Her hips were undulating slightly, stimulating him, and her fingers clutched at him with all their supple strength. She was no Oriental houri, no pseudo-sophisticated college girl, no succubus to drain the life from him and leave him empty and unsatisfied. She was hungry for love, and so was he, and they matched each other as though they had been born to come together. Nick measured her against him as they lay together and found nothing wanting. For the first time he could fully appreciate the splendors that had been concealed by her workmanlike clothes. His body and his hands discovered what his eyes had never seen—a shape that was perfection, a feminine body at its magnificent best, a streamlined lovely thing that was vibrant with energy and yet wonderfully controlled. And there was a strength about her that excited him enormously, a pliant sort of strength that challenged and yet begged to be subdued.