Don Pendleton - Caribbean Kill

It had been no more than a fifty-fifty chance, and Quick Tony had won his bet, the guy had shown up, he'd been there all the time, and Quick Tony had met his fate at last.

And as he was lifted into that weightless midst of thunder and lightning, Quick Tony knew that he could thank Mack Bolan for everything he would never become.

The impact bomb had come in at dead center, instantly disintegrating the superstructure and lifting the entire cruiser out of the water. Her restraining lines were ruptured and the once-flashy speedster resettled at a crazy angle and drifted slowly into the channel, ablaze from stem to stern.

Nothing could have remained alive in that flaming wreckage. Bolan's attention had instantly swerved to the threats from other quarters, and the trusty Beretta had dispatched two gunners from the roof of the warehouse and another who had come running along the wharf.

And then he was aboard the old salvage boat and helping Juan cast off the stern lines. The ancient rig was made of stronger stuff than the Glass Bay cruiser. She had absorbed the blast shock with hardly a quiver and rode out the resultant minor tidal wave like a true queen of the seas.

Juan told Bolan, "The engine is turning. The moment I step aboard, I instruct the captain to make ready."

That was not all Juan had done the moment he stepped aboard. Sprawled out beneath the gangway was a guy in Glass Bay uniform, a gun in his clenched fist, the eyes wide and staring in surprise and fixed that way in death. Buried in his chest to the hilt was a heavy knife. The gun was a Beretta Brigadier, same model as Bolan's.

Bolan took the Beretta and shook several spare clips from the dead man's waistband, then he picked up the body and heaved it over the side.

There was a lot of running around and yelling farther up the pier, but no one seemed ready to venture down for a closer look.

The boat was heading into the channel. A guy with a big handlebar mustache and a very worried face thrust his head out of the cabin and yelled something aft in very rapid Spanish.

Juan looked up with a grimace and called back, " Gracias, Capitain. Vamos ustedes, con todo velocidad!"

He reported to Bolan, "He says the bow lines are clear and we are underway. I tell him to get the hell out of here."

Quickly, Bolan said, "Ask him if we can hook onto that pile of junk and haul it clear before the whole port is in flames."

Juan nodded and hurried forward.

Bolan remained aft to guard their rear, but no further hostile actions seemed impending — and soon he was assisting the three-man crew and Juan in the delicate business of grappling and towing a flaming marine disaster out to sea. They left the burning hulk wallowing in its own ashes a mile offshore.

They headed west then, Bolan instructing the skipper to remain within sight of shore. "Alert me immediately," he requested, "if any other vessels seem to be closing on us or crossing our course."

The captain signaled his understanding. Bolan and Juan went into the main cabin — a low-headroom affair with four bunks, a small galley, mess table, and various rough conveniences.

The mate came in behind them, grinning, to serve a half-and-half mixture of rum and hot coffee. Bolan tasted it and decided against it. He got out of the uniform which Evita had borrowed from the town constable and carefully folded it and placed it on a bunk.

The mate was very taken with the black combat suit He grinned at Juan, murmured, " Magnifico, magnifico" — and went back on deck.

Juan stared into his cup and announced, "I killed a man, Senor Bolan."

How many had Bolan killed?

He said, "Yeah, I noticed," and spread out a map which Evita had given him during those tense moments at Puerta Vista. He sat at the table with the map, gave Juan a close scrutiny, then added, "A man has a right to protect his treasures. No, he has an obligation."

"If I had your skills, senor ," Juan replied quietly, "I would kill them all. They are scum, filth — they are wild beasts with no humanity in them."

"That's what I keep telling myself," Bolan muttered.

"My Rosalita. You think she is safe now?"

"She's entirely safe, Juan. Don't worry, she's in good hands."

"She told me, before, at the first, that you would come. But she also hoped that you would not. She was fearful for you, senor."

Bolan said, "How're you feeling?"

"Fine. I am feeling like a man. I envy you, senor ."

"Don't," Bolan growled. "You have life where it's all at, amigo . Place of your own, a decent life, a good woman to share it with, a kid coming to give it all meaning. What is there left to envy?"

"You are right.''

Bolan fell to studying the map. He shoved it toward Juan and tapped a spot with his finger. "Tell the captain to put me in there at precisely midnight."

The boy finished his rum-coffee and moved toward the door.

Bolan said, "Juan… I'm damn proud of you."

This drew a flashing smile. "You rest," Juan told him. "I will take the watch on deck until midnight."

"Thanks. To tell the truth, I'm about out of my head. I can't remember the last time I slept."

"Sleep now, Senor Magnifico . I have never myself felt more awake in all of my life."

The kid went out, and Bolan tumbled onto a bunk.

Yeah.

Sleep now.

Kill later.

It was not over yet.

Jack Grimaldi eased the company car into Glass Bay and pulled up behind the office. The blackened hulk of the main house stood grimly deserted but both bungalows were blazing with light and some sort of noise contest seemed to be going on between the two. The boys had come back with booze and women, and quite a party was underway. The amplified throbbing of recorded rock was blasting from both camps above the hubbub of male voices and the gay shrieks of hired women.

As Grimaldi stepped out of the car a nude cutie burst from a doorway above the carport and ran laughing down the stairs with a guy in jockey shorts chasing close behind. They ran past him without a glance, headed toward the beach.

It was a celebration. A wake for Bolan, Grimaldi guessed.

He avoided the bungalows and went to the grassy area behind the carports. Air Two sat there gleaming in the moonlight, deserted and forlorn with her work all done. The pilot from San Juan was no doubt partying it up with the hardmen, celebrating a death which all Mafiosi been working toward.

Grimaldi slid inside and checked the fuel situation.

It was terrible.

He returned to the carport and found a five-gallon can, took it to the gas pump, and began the laborious process of refueling the copter.

Grimaldi did not feel like partying.

Nor did he feel like hanging around Glass Bay any longer than was absolutely necessary.

It was a thirty minute job of pumping, lugging, and filling — over and over again — and the party had lost no steam at all during that period.

He made an extra trip, for future contingencies, and secured the five-gallon spare inside the cabin of the helicopter.

Grimaldi was getting the hell out of Puerto Rico, as fast as those rotors would carry him.

It had been a hell of a day, though, and he needed one final item for the road. He entered the end bungalow through the kitchen door, shoved a clinched half-nude couple out of the way, and snared a bottle of bourbon from the open case on the table.

The guy was a total stranger and the girl was drunk. She mumbled something like " For favor" and Grimaldi muttered, "Yeah, same to you," and went back outside.

The moon was high and Glass Bay was basking in its soft radiance. A paradise, sure. Under somewhat different circumstances, Grimaldi could have really enjoyed the joint. But those sheet-wrapped bodies were still laid out over there. By morning they would be stinking. He shivered and went the other way. Couldn't they at least dump their dead before the orgy?