Blood Of The Falcon

by Nick Carter - [Killmaster 222]

  "Had you the wit to slay the spy along with Lemniak, I might have let you live," Reguiba said. "But as it is…"

  He did not complete the sentence, nor did he need to. Not all his men spoke English, but all knew when their master had decreed death. They were all smiles, like whorehouse patrons waiting in the parlor for their turn to come up.

  "Why me?" Petra sobbed. "It's not my fault! What about the others?"

  "They have paid the price of failure. So will you." Reguiba indicated Ten Eyck, jackknifed on the floor. "So will he."

  Reguiba's men disputed the method of dispatch. Mansour said, "Why not shoot them?"

  "Why waste bullets on the likes of them?" Lotah wanted to know. "These hands will snap their pale, thin necks."

  "Our way was ever the way of the knife!" Idir maintained. "Cut their throats and be done with it."

  "Too simple," the Camel said. "Too easy."

  Reguiba tended to agree with the Camel. Between the botched Lemniak kill, and the Melina's harmless destruction at sea, he was in an ill humor and required some amusing diversion.

  Handling a length of rope, Reguiba remarked, "How thin is the cord which binds us to life!"

  He knotted a pair of nooses at the ends of the rope. The rope was tossed over a rafter beam, the nooses dangling level with one another. Benches were set under each noose.

  Petra and Ten Eyck were set on the benches, facing each other, their hands tied behind their backs. The nooses were fixed around their necks with loving care.

  Idir tied a heavy cement block to Petra's ankles, resting it on the bench. It would offset Ten Eyck's heavier weight. The victims had to be evenly balanced for the game to succeed.

  The Camel pointed out that Petra was wounded, while Ten Eyck had two good arms.

  "That is true." Reguiba drew his pistol and shot Ten Eyck in the arm. The booming report knocked dust down from the rafters.

  Ten Eyck was knocked off the bench, which fell to the floor. Petra's support was kicked out from under her. Thanks to the block tied to her ankles, she and the Boer were more or less evenly matched in weight. They were hanged face to face on the same rope.

  Reguiba pulled a hawking glove on his right hand, and whistled. His falcon fluttered down from the roof beams, alighting on his outstretched arm. He stroked the bird's head while watching the fun.

  An exquisite refinement of cruelty was added after a minute had passed. The hands of the victims were cut free from their bonds, injecting the torture of hope, the hope that they might hoist themselves up and somehow relieve the suffocating pressure of the noose.

  A false hope, but no less tantalizing for that.

  Reguiba's men had a hilarious time savoring the death struggles, as did their master. It was the first bright spot in an otherwise dismal day of setbacks.

  Much later, when the authorities finally discovered the warehouse, they were confronted with the victims of the dual hanging. By then, the lawmen were already so numbed by the violence that had previously gone down, that they hardly batted an eye at the bizarre execution.

  Seven

  Gianni Girotti's pose of world-weary sophistication was carved in stone. His many acquaintances in the jet-set world of café society knew him as a blasé idler whose most violent response to a scandal or crisis was a raised eyebrow, a tolerant smile, an eloquent shrug. His comrades in the international terror network knew him to be no less unflappable.

  But when his men hustled Nick Carter into his presence, Girotti looked like he'd been goosed with a cattle prod.

  His eyes bulged. His jaw dropped. A lit cigarette fell from his gaping mouth into his lap, where it scorched a hole in his expensive custom-tailored slacks. He jumped up from his chair, both in response to Carter's unexpected appearance and to the painful burn inflicted by the cigarette.

  "Solano! What are you doing here?"

  "Surprised to see me?" Carter said. "I shouldn't wonder."

  "I thought you were dead!"

  "I'm not — no thanks to you and those idiots you teamed me up with. And speaking of idiots, tell your stooge to take his gun out of my back."

  It was night, and Carter had come to Gianni Girotti's villa, an imposing structure set atop a rocky hill overlooking the town of Lulav on the bay.

  Villa? Palazzo was a more accurate description. Built in the 1920s, it mingled Mediterranean and Turkish motifs in a mansion that was many-roomed, lavish, sprawling. It was surrounded by terraces, gardens, and arcades. Its grounds even boasted some ancient stone blocks, silent reminders that the villa was but a brash newcomer in this storied land.

  The grounds also boasted plenty of guards, some of whom had taken Carter in hand when he strolled up the curving road rising from town. They escorted him indoors, where he was turned over to tougher, more brutal guards.

  One of them, Tuttle, an American, ground the muzzle of his.357 magnum into Carter's spine as he was taken to Girotti. A mean-faced neo-Nazi from Nebraska, Tuttle fled his native land following a string of violent crimes committed in the Midwest. He ached for an excuse to hurt somebody, and Carter/Solano struck him as the likeliest candidate.

  Girotti was lounging on the deck of an indoor swimming pool, located in its own separate wing. The pool was just short of Olympic size. It was illuminated by multicolored underwater lights. Chlorine-laden moisture thickened the air.

  Far more spectacular than the pool was the blonde floating in it on a raft. She lounged indolently, stretched out on her belly, folded left arm pillowing her head, right arm trailing lazily in the water.

  Long-legged and sleek, with a glowing tan, she wore nothing more than a shocking pink bikini bottom. Only a female with a form divine would dare to wear so minimal a costume. And this stunning female had nothing to hide — almost literally.

  Her form was the only thing divine about her. She was Eva Reichenbach, and she was amoral, violent, hedonistic, and perverse. It was Eva who had provided Carter entree to Gianni Girotti's inner circle back in Milan two months ago. Girotti employed her as a "honey trap" to further his numerous schemes.

  Eva stirred, lazily looking up when she heard the commotion caused by the new arrivals. When she recognized Carter at the center of the scene, her bright blue eyes went wide, narrowed, then smoldered with desire.

  "Solano!"

  Her cry rang in the echoing chamber. She rolled off her raft into the water and swam to the far end of the pool with swift, strong strokes.

  She hoisted herself out of the pool and ran dripping across the tiles, bare feet slapping. Her short hair framed her chiseled Nordic face like a golden cap. Her tan was uniform, unbroken by any pale bikini lines. She wore no top. Her full breasts were sassily uptilted, crowned by neat dark nipples.

  Carter grinned. "If you must know, she's the main reason I came back."

  A snarl replaced his grin as Tuttle prodded him with the revolver.

  Tuttle said, "Hey, how about you boys speakin' English so I can know what you're gabbin' about?"

  "All right, Tuttle," Girotti said. "If it will make you happy. You Americans have no gift for languages."

  Carter could have laughed at that one. His flawless Italian had enabled him to pass as a native for months. But Tuttle wasn't so funny. He was starting to distinctly annoy the Killmaster.

  More dangerous than the clownish Nebraskan were Girotti's two personal bodyguards, the duo Carter had mentally labeled Bob and Bill.

  Bill was Guillermo Lopez-Ortiz, a fine-boned Argentinian dandy who'd left the savage pampas to ply the gunman's trade on the Continent.

  Bob was Roberto Martinez. Where Bill was slim and slight, Bob was a hulking physical presence, slope-shouldered and big-boned. Bob hailed from Uruguay, one of the original Tupamaros. His compañeros in that cause were all dead or rotting in jail, but he was still going strong on the other side of the world. His dark eyes, wide face, and high cheekbones testified that Indian blood ran in his veins.

  Despite his brutish exterior, Bob was the brains of the pair. He an
d Bill were partners, working only as a team. A pair of dangerous professionals.

  Now they flanked their boss, Girotti, who never left home without them, or stayed at home without them either. They lounged with seeming casualness, as if they couldn't have been less interested in the byplay, but they had covered Carter even before he stepped into the room.

  "Solano, you beautiful bastard, I knew you were too tough to die!" Eva said. Sensing the tension, she stopped short a few paces from him. "What's wrong?"

  By now, Girotti had recovered some of his savoir-faire. "We need to get a few things straightened out with our friend Solano, Eva."

  She was nothing if not a survivor, knowing when to back off.

  Bill and Bob were good, all right. They had to be good not to be distracted by Eva's erotic beauty. Their intent eyes never left Carter.

  Staying in Solano's character, Carter blew Eva a kiss. "Keep it warm for me, baby. We've got a lot of lost time to make up for."

  Eva smiled, saying nothing. She wouldn't commit herself one way or the other until she saw which way the deal went down.

  "Shut up, you!" Tuttle jabbed Carter hard. Earlier, he had grabbed Carter's arm to steer him to Girotti. It was so corded with sinewy muscle that it was like taking hold of a tree limb. But Tuttle had already forgotten about that.

  "So tell us, Solano, what happened to the Melina?"

  Girotti drawled.

  "Don't you watch television?"

  "I want to hear it from you."

  "She blew up. Those idiots on the ship must have crossed the wrong wires or something, and — kaboom!"

  "Why didn't you blow up with it?"

  "My squad had already cast off."

  "You didn't blow up the oil depot," Girotti chided.

  "After the explosion, the waters were crawling with patrol boats and covered with helicopters," Carter explained. "I signed on to do a job, not to commit suicide."

  "And — the others in your group?"

  "You know Abu-Bakir?"

  "The Palestinian? I've heard of him."

  "Too bad you didn't warn me about him," Carter said. "We made it to shore with no problem, but that guy didn't like the way some policemen were looking at him. He started shooting. They shot better. I was lucky. The others weren't."

  "You deserted your comrades under fire?" Girotti asked silkily.

  "With pleasure. You can't desert dead men, and they sure looked dead to me. I got away, stole a car, and made my way here."

  Carter got mad. "Are you through playing twenty questions? It seems to me that I'm the injured party here! I signed on to do a professional job with professionals, and what do I get? A one-way ride on a ship of fools that nearly got me killed not once but often! I hold you responsible, Girotti!"

  "I told you to take it easy, greaseball!" Tuttle growled.

  "Where did you pick up this drugstore cowboy?" Carter asked.

  "Why, you dirty…"

  "That's enough, Tuttle!" Girotti barked.

  "You buy that story?"

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Hell, it's no mystery to me!" Tuttle said. "This guy's yellow, just plain yellow, that's all! He got scared and chickened out on the job, and on his partners, too! You said it yourself — he's a damned lily-livered deserter!"

  "I think not," Girotti said.

  "You trust him?"

  "I didn't say that, either."

  "Use your head," Carter said. "I could have bought myself immunity and a fat reward by turning you all in. Instead, I came here. Maybe that was a mistake, eh?"

  "It was for you, buddy boy," Tuttle snarled.

  "Who's giving the orders around here, Girotti?" Carter demanded. "You, or this idiot?"

  "I am," Girotti said. "Put your gun away, Tuttle."

  "But…"

  "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you! Put your gun down and stop baiting him!"

  "Suit yourself." Tuttle sullenly obeyed.

  "Sorry, but in this business, one can't be too careful. Sorry about the job, too, but, uh, these things happen. I'm glad you made it," Girotti said.

  "So am I," Eva purred.

  Girotti held out his hand. Carter shook it. Bob and Bill eased their intent awareness.

  "My boss will want to talk to you," Girotti said.

  "You know where to find me," Carter said. "Oh, yes, one thing more."

  The Killmaster's right hand was a blur of lightninglike motion as he planted a solid haymaker square on the button of Tuttle's chin.

  There was the solid, satisfying thud of fist striking flesh, a click as the blow slammed Tuttle's jaws shut, and a rush of air as Tuttle backpedaled, arms windmilling. A wall interrupted his progress. He slid down and slumped to the floor, head lolling, out cold.

  Carter messaged his front knuckles. "Sweet dreams, buddy boy."

  Bob and Bill exchanged glances, impressed.

  Carter said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to get some good food in my belly. It's been too long since I've had a decent meal. All they ever served on board ship was couscous. If I ever seen another plate of that slop again, I'll vomit."

  "I think you'll find our bill of fare to your liking," Girotti said with a smile.

  "Knowing your gourmet tastes, I'm sure of it. And while I'm on the subject, a bit of vino wouldn't hurt either."

  "The wine cellar is extensive. Make yourself at home."

  "Thanks, I'll do just that," Carter said.

  "Ah, one thing, Solano. It would be best if you didn't try to leave the villa for now."

  "With a dragnet in full swing, and me without a passport? Where would I go?"

  "My sentiments exactly."

  Carter slipped an arm around Eva's waist. Her satin skin was still moist from the pool.

  "Solano, ummmm " She leaned into him. "Long time no see."

  "You don't know the half of it. I haven't so much as seen a woman for over six weeks."

  "You're seeing me."

  "I'll do a lot more than see," he promised.

  "Then what are we waiting for?"

  "Lead on, carissima." Arm in arm, they went to the exit. Carter paused under the archway to deliver a parting shot. "Your hired hand's got a glass jaw, Girotti."

  Tuttle was still out cold. He came to after Bob and Bill tossed him in the pool.

  * * *

  A cordon of Israeli commandos surrounded the villa. Taking advantage of the excellent cover provided by the rugged terrain, they had moved within a few dozen yards of the structure, where they impatiently awaited the go signal. Girotti's guards, patrolling the grounds, were blissfully unaware of the camouflaged action team lurking a scant stone's throw away.

  It was an Israeli operation and the AXE contingent had to take a back seat. Griff and Stanton chafed under the enforced inaction.

  Hawk had told them, "Remember, we're here to observe, and that's all. Our little escapade this afternoon didn't exactly make us the most popular kids on the block. Of course, if somebody snoots at us, we can shoot back."

  "That's a comfort," Griff had said. "You think this ploy will flush out the big boss, Reguiba?"

  "It's worth a try."

  Stanton looked long and hard at the villa. "I wonder how Nick's making out right now?"

  * * *

  The dinner that Girotti's chef sent up to the guest room on the second floor looked and smelled delicious. Nick Carter didn't take a bite of it. The wine accompanying it was an excellent vintage. Carter didn't drink a drop.

  He didn't suspect that the food and wine were poisoned. Girotti wanted to keep him alive, at least until his boss had a chance to interrogate the sole survivor of the Melina. But it might well be drugged. Knocking him out would be an easy way to keep him on ice until needed. He couldn't even use Eva as an unwitting food taster, since they were perfectly capable of drugging her along with him to lend credibility to the ploy.

  He couldn't eat and he couldn't drink. That left him with only one source of amusement: Eva. She was in an adjoining dressing room, hav
ing showered after her swim.

  The room — suite of rooms, actually — was ornate, opulent, filled with heavy antique furniture and objets d'art. There was a crystal chandelier, a gilded oval mirror, a big bed. A bed that looked particularly inviting.

  Opposite the bed, French doors opened onto a small stone balcony. Carter stepped out for a breath of fresh air.

  A guard stationed on the patio below looked up. Carter flashed him a friendly wave that was neither acknowledged nor returned.

  A slight motion flashed in the corner of his eye. Turning to discover its source, he saw another guard stationed on a balcony two rooms away.

  He saw no sign of the Israeli action team that should have been in position by then. That was all to the good. If he couldn't see them, neither could the opposition. If he could see them, he'd really have cause for worry.

  "I'll be right with you," Eva sang out.

  "Good." Closing the French doors, Carter went back into the room. Eva joined him.

  He whistled. "Bellissima!"

  "You like?" she teased.

  "I like."

  There was plenty to like. Plenty of Eva, that is. He'd already seen her near naked tonight, so for a change of pace she'd put on something more appropriate to the bedroom, a tiny one-piece garment of black silk and lace. It tied in a halter at the back of her neck, the translucent fabric capturing her firm breasts. Its black lace hem barely reached the tops of her thighs, doing next to nothing to conceal the blond triangle between them.

  Carter's hormones kicked into overdrive. It had been a long, long time…

  Black spike heels added inches to her already lofty height. She pirouetted, exhibiting a rear view, the cheeks of her firm buttocks only half-hidden by the teddy.

  Carter applauded the total effect. Eva winced as she went to him.

  "Ouch!"

  "What's wrong?"

  "I can hardly walk in these damned things."

  "Then why wear them?"

  "I like the way they look. Besides," she added, "I don't have to do much walking in bed."

  "Speaking of which…" Carter said, embracing her. Eva made quite an armful. She had the face and figure of a high-fashion model, which she had once been before her lust for kicks and danger took her into bad company.