Don Pendleton - Save the Children

"Who's this guy?" he asked Jake.

"Says he's here to look at the heating."

"The boss didn't say nothing to me about it. And why at nine at night?"

At the foot of the gangplank the man in the coveralls spread his hands.

"Hey, you don't want me on board, it's no big deal to me. I'll just go back and tell 'em to tell Mr. Parelli you said to forget it."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Jake said hurriedly. "I didn't say you couldn't check out the heating, f'chrissake. Come on aboard."

Bolan hid a slight grin.

Nothing scared guys like this more than the idea of inadvertently offending their boss.

He strode up the gangplank to the deck.

Jake put out a big hand to stop him.

"If you're a mechanic, where the hell are your tools? You ain't got no toolbox."

"I'm not a mechanic, pal. I'm a technical diagnostician. I listen to the gizmos and look 'em over and then I tell the mechanics what to fix. My tools are all up here." Bolan tapped his temple with a forefinger.

"Oh."

Clearly, Jake did not know what to make of Bolan but he was not going to disagree yet, either.

Bolan walked confidently to the companionway.

Jake and the other hood followed close behind.

"We're going to have to keep an eye on you," Jake growled.

"Suit yourself," Bolan grunted. "What's the matter, afraid I'm going to plant a bomb or something?"

Ominous silence from the two hoods was their only response.

He cast a last glance around before descending into the cabin. There was practically no activity around the yacht club at this time of the year, at this time of night.

A speedboat was moored on one side of the Lady Denise but it was empty. The slip on the other side was deserted.

Good enough, thought Bolan.

No civilians in the immediate vicinity.

He glanced over his shoulder at the two hardguys, who were crowding down the steps behind him.

"One of you flick up the thermostat for me," he said.

"You do it, Hughie," said Jake. "I'll watch this guy."

"Gotcha," Hughie rumbled.

Bolan figured his strategy. When they reached the cabin, he would take care of these two, then search the yacht.

He was now sure he would not find Parelli here.

Boarding the yacht had been too easy.

But he might find something that would clear up the strange feeling he had about what was happening tonight in Chicago.

Hughie said to Bolan, conversationally, "You know, when you came up to the boat, I thought for a second you might be that Bolan guy. I heard he was around."

Jake stopped short on the steps, causing Hughie to bump into him.

"Why don't you keep your friggin' mouth shut?" he grated.

Two steps below, the Executioner also stopped and turned toward the two with a querulous look on his face.

"Bolan? You mean the Mafia guy?"

"Nah, he fights the Mafia," Hughie corrected.

"Will you shut up?" Jake snarled. "This dope's here to work on the boat, not to keep us company."

"Hell, I didn't mean nothin'..." Hughie began.

The sound of an approaching engine cut him off.

Jake and Hughie exchanged puzzled glances, then turned around to head back up the steps.

Jake paused long enough to glance at Bolan.

"You go ahead to the engine room. We'll go see who that is and be right with you."

"Sure," said Bolan, nodding.

He waited until both of them disappeared onto the deck, then catfooted back up the stairs after them.

He heard Jake say, "What the hell are those clowns doing?"

Bolan stopped at the head of the companionway, spotting Jake and Hughie standing by the rail, watching a speedboat cutting fancy capers in the cold gray water close by.

There were three men in the boat but they were too far away for Bolan to identify.

The speedboat raced in closer.

Bolan stepped up onto the deck.

Jake glared over his shoulder.

"Thought I told you to go below."

Then Jake's eyes widened as the mechanic ripped open his coveralls to reveal the tight-fitting blacksuit beneath.

Bolan's right hand darted under the coveralls to snatch the Beretta from shoulder leather.

Jake yelled, "Hughie!" then started to grab for his own gun.

Bolan had not had Jake and Hughie in mind when he grabbed for his hardware. He had discerned the two passengers in the approaching speedboat raising automatic weapons into firing position.

The small craft surged forward with even more speed, veering straight toward the yacht.

Suddenly orange tips of flame lanced from the subguns as the men in the speedboat opened fire.

Jake and Hughie had turned their backs on the speedboat to concentrate on Bolan, perceiving him to be the greater threat. They started to spin toward the speedboat at the first sounds of autofire.

Too late.

The incoming rounds chewed splinters from the gunwale of the yacht, then lined up on target.

Slugs stitched up Hughie's back, slicing bright red seams into his jacket before bursting out his front, taking most of his insides with them. The lethal hailstorm punched the hood forward, making the deck slick with blood.

Jake realized his mistake about the same time the bullets from the gunners caught him in the side, tumbling him into the railing. But he was not fatally hit yet. He straightened and tried to turn around, still clutching his pistol. He lifted it, managed to trigger off one round before another subgun burst slammed into him, pitching his body off the side.

Bolan hit the deck.

Hundreds of slugs razored through the air above him.

He twisted out of the coveralls and tossed them aside. He rammed the Beretta back into its harness, then unleathered Big Thunder.

Bolan's combat senses were on full alert.

Jake and Hughie had stood at the rail for several seconds while the speedboat had approached, yet the gunners had not opened up until Bolan appeared from the companionway.

The two thugs were just unlucky to have been in the way.

This was a planned hit, Bolan realized, and he was the target.

That told him something about the caliber of enemy he was up against.

It was a trap!

Parelli had expected Bolan to search that house, that bedroom. The Mafia savage had expected Bolan to discover the telephone number purposely left on that note pad.

The speedboat full of gunners had been cruising offshore with the Lady Denise under surveillance, waiting for Bolan to walk into this setup.

Gunfire continued to riddle the yacht. Bolan reached into the discarded coveralls and came out with one of the surprises he had stored in its roomy pockets.

He yanked the pin from the grenade. Holding it in his left hand, he came up in a crouch that let him see over the gunwale.

The boat veered away, this time to keep from smashing into the yacht, the graceful curve of the turn putting it roughly parallel to the bigger craft.

The gunners continued blasting nonstop, gun flashes lighting up the night, reflecting from the water like strobe lights.

Bolan showed himself several feet away from where the men concentrated their fire. He fired twice, Big Thunder bucking hard in his grip, before they could adjust their aim.

Both .44-caliber projectiles missed the moving speedboat, but served their purpose anyway. For a few seconds, the gunners became more interested in seeking cover than in killing Bolan, giving him time to pitch the grenade.

It hit the water a little aft of the speedboat, disappearing into the foamy wake before detonating a split second later, the explosion kicking up a plume of water.

Bolan heard a scream above the roar of the boat's engine.

As the spray thrown up by the grenade's blast hissed back down like a miniature rain shower, he spotted the speedboat banking away from the yacht, the subguns silent.