Don Pendleton - The Hostaged Island

"They're all getting agitated," another man said. "They're not so cocky. Something's got them scared."

A tourist came up to Shirley. He was a middle-aged man in a suit. Gray hair streaked his temples. "Can I talk to your leader?"

"Leader?" she asked, confused. "Leader of what? Who do you mean?"

"I'm Mike Carst." The stately tourist shook hands with her. "Of the RayShine Corporation. Who is the man who limps?"

"You mean Max?" She didn't really trust the tourists. The group had decided not to involve nonresidents in their planning and organization. The tourists had no stake in the community: they would not weigh the value of their lives against the lives of the island's families; to save themselves, they might betray the island people; or a tourist might even be an Outlaw spy.

"He must be the mayor, correct?" Mike Carst continued.

"No, he sells houses. He has a number of ice cream accounts too."

"He appears very military."

"His wife told me he used to be a sergeant in the army. He was in a war and he got hurt. He's lived here ever since. Knows everybody. But he's not a leader of anything. He's just talking to people, keeping them calm."

"I'd like to talk to him. It's very important."

"I don't think an appointment is necessary," Shirley said.

Max was limping up to them. Max recognized the stranger as one of the men guarded by the murdered Secret Service agent.

"Mike Carst, sir." The stranger shook hands with Max. "And your name?"

"Max. You don't live on the island, do you?"

"No, Max. I'm only a visitor."

"Mr. Carst thinks you're some kind of leader," Shirley told Max.

"A leader? Me?"

Carst took Max's arm, led him away from Shirley to an open area where they wouldn't be overheard. "Putting the charade aside, I have information for you and your people. In turn, I need your help."

"What is the information?"

"One of the men in my party has a radio. He appears to be communicating at hourly intervals with someone outside. If you have your people watch this man... if they could possibly overhear a transmission — both our groups would benefit. Do we have an agreement?"

"Why are you and the Secret Service on the island?" Max asked.

"Secret Service?" Carst smiled.

"Agreed, then," Max told him. "From now on, you don't talk to me. You must point the man out to Shirley. She'll organize the surveillance. A pleasure doing business with you. Goodbye."

Max moved on to the Websters, Jack's parents. Mr. Webster grabbed Max by the arm. His voice quavered: "Jack here, he's just told us something. He's not a bad kid, really. He's troubled, but..."

"What is it, Webster?" glared Max.

"They're going to tear him apart limb from limb, they're going to castrate him for God's sake, up on that stage over there unless he spies for them. Unless he tells them everything that's going on in here, everything we've planned. He just told us. It's not the kid's fault..."

Max interrupted. "Don't sweat it. Relax. So he'll do exactly what they told him to do." He turned to the stricken youth. "Jack will give them all sorts of information, won't you, lad? You're going to feed them everything we want them to hear."

Climbing up the thick trunk of the carob tree, Glen Shepard walked along a branch. He stepped off of it onto the roof of the house. He pushed through the leaves and branches that shaded the roof. He stood at the rear of the house, concealed by the lush foliage. He was armed with his Colt, and he wore a biker's jacket. Between him and the front of the house, there was thirty feet of open roof.

Smoke billowed at the far end of the block. From where he stood, he saw only the smoke. He heard shouts, a few shots. But to observe the Outlaws, he would have to cross the open roof to where his view was unobstructed.

To his left, the direction of the Outlaws, there was no cover. To his right, a neighbor's row of tall cedars screened that side. He had to chance it.

He crawled to that side of the roof ridge. Motorcycles passed. He froze, waited until the motorcycles stopped at the far end of the block, then he continued. Any Outlaw who happened to glance up to the roof could see him. He hurried to the front, then looked.

At the end of the block, the two-story house in which they had hidden was burning. Outlaws watched the house, shotguns and assault rifles ready. Carrying red and yellow cans of gasoline, other Outlaws ran to the next house.

Glen crabbed back to the tree and thrashed through the branches. He scampered along the branch until it merged with the trunk, then hopped the last six feet and started for the back door.

"Hey, brother. See any of those hero locos?"

Reaching for the Magnum under his leather jacket, Glen turned. A Latin-featured Outlaw with a Fu Manchu mustache and a chromed Nazi helmet lounged in the yard, an M-14 rifle cradled in his hands. Seeing Glen's face, the biker realized his mistake. He brought up the rifle. Glen jerked the Colt Lawman from his belt.

The revolver's hammer snagged on Glen's shirt. Even before he heard the shot, he knew he was about to die.

His head exploding, the biker flew aside, his dead finger sending a burst into the carob's trunk and the next-door house. Window glass fell. Glen disentangled the Colt from his shirt, pointed the Magnum everywhere in the yard, looking for any other bikers. Shooting continued elsewhere in the neighborhood. Glen went to the back door, looked inside the house.

Chris Davis gagged, the auto-loading shotgun on the floor beside him. Glen jerked him to his feet, put the shotgun in his hands.

"Great timing, kid. But get sick later, I need you to cover the driveway."

Wiping his mouth, Chris nodded. He lifted the auto-loader and went to a window over the driveway.

Glen dashed outside, stripped the biker's jacket, weapons and ammunition. He had no radio. Seeing the helmet, Glen spilled out the blood and took possession of it also.

"Stay here," Glen told Chris. He dropped the jacket and helmet beside the teenager. "Put those on." Then he ran into the living room, where his wife and Roger watched the street.

"We couldn't warn you!" Ann told him.

"Chris took care of him. Pack up, we're moving again."

"What's going on up there?" Roger asked.

"They're burning the block. We've got to find someplace to hide where they won't look, won't even suspect..."

"Where?" Ann asked.

"I don't know," he told them. "I don't know."

Running up the hillside, Blancanales saw Carl's body sprawled just below the ridge. "Oh, no! Lyons, Lyons."

Blancanales ripped the compact first-aid kit from his battle rig, and popped open the plastic lid as he fell to his knees beside Lyons. Something sagged under the bullet-torn Outlaws jacket. Hoping to God he wouldn't see spilled intestines, Blancanales opened the jacket.

The .308 slug had sliced across Lyons' ribs, cutting the nylon strap of the bandolier of cartridges for the Mannlicher. It was the bandolier that made the bulge in the jacket. Blancanales tore open Lyons' shirt, looking for the wound. A long, bloody gash marked the path of the slug. But only at one small point did the white of a rib show. There were no other bullet wounds. Lyons groaned.

"Ah, you crazy bastard, you're alive!" Blancanales half-lifted his friend from the dirt and dry grass of the slope.

"Let me go, Latin lover," Lyons groaned. "Oh... does my head hurt."

Blancanales took a squeeze bottle of alcohol from his kit and doused the long wound as Lyons lay back. The ex-cop jerked up, his eyes wide with pain. He shoved the squeeze bottle away, then touched the back of his head, his hand coming away bloody.

They both glanced up the hillside and saw one particular rock. Some of Lyons' hair and blood smeared the jutting stone. "What luck," Lyons griped. "One rock on the hill, and I hit my head on it."