Don Pendleton - Caribbean Kill

The Executioner stood over the sorry remains, and he dropped a marksman's medal onto the still chest, and he said, "You can't give me a damn thing, Edward."

As he scaled the wall, Bolan could hear the sentry dog whining somewhere off to the front, and he could hear the comforting sound of a rotary wing churning up the atmosphere in the very near distance.

He threw a final look at "the mansion in the rocks" — and it looked much more impressive in the dark.

He grunted, "Hell, it was easy," dropped to the rocks outside, and hurried off for a meeting with a good honest wop.

"We're clear," Grimaldi announced as the forbidding mountains receded to their rear and the little chopper sped on into the rising sun.

They were the first words to be spoken since lift-off.

"You're worth your price, Jack. Don't sell yourself so cheap from now on."

The pilot chuckled and said, "I guess you're not going to tell me how it went, eh."

It went," Bolan replied. "The big one is gone."

Grimaldi sighed and turned his attention to his instruments. A moment later he said, "There'll be another one before they can get him planted."

Bolan sighed also. "Well, I'm still around," he said.

Grimaldi laughed nervously. "Don't pay me any mind, Bolan. You're doing a hell of a job on the mob. You'd never know how good unless you were on the inside looking out."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

There seemed to be little more to be said.

Presently Bolan shifted about in his seat and requested, "Keep your eyes open for a Chris Craft deep sea cruiser, eh."

"You expecting one?" Grimaldi asked, sliding a sidewise gaze toward his passenger.

"I don't know. Just keep your eyes open."

"I can drop lower."

"No, this is okay."

"I, uh, I sort of had the idea that those numbers you sent down from Glass Bay were coordinates. Is it still a secret?"

Bolan smiled and told him, "A lady was worried. I had to promise her a final report."

Grimaldi rolled his eyes as he replied, 'If it's the lady I'm thinking of, I'd promise her anything."

Bolan chuckled and said, "Especially with a gun in your throat, eh?"

Grimaldi laughed, "Yell. You're really expecting a rendezvous, eh?"

"Just by radio. And… she may have decided to hell with it."

"Maybe not. Look away at ten o'clock — about, uh, ten degrees from horizon."

Bolan lifted the binoculars and scanned the area suggested.

A grin creased his face and he said, "Put me on international distress."

"You're on."

Bolan pressed his throat-mike and said, "Hello Eve, this is Adam."

"Thank God," came the instant reply. "Are you well?"

"Perfectly. Uh, the kill is over."

"Not quite," she said. "You left a lingering casualty."

"Where?"

"Right here."

Grimaldi chuckled and Bolan sent him a stern look. He told Evita, "Parallel paths have a way of crossing from time to time."

"Let's try," she suggested.

"Bet on it," he said. "Goodbye, Big Eve."

"Adios, Tall Adam."

Grimaldi made a pass directly over the boat, and it looked like a kid's toy on a placid pond. Bolan watched it out of sight, and then his eyes clashed with Grimaldi's.

The pilot winked understandingly and asked, "She come all the way up here just for that?"

Bolan sighed. "Some corners of hell you just can't hang onto, Jack, without a bit of reassurance here and there."

"Whatever that means," the pilot said soberly.

Bolan turned his gaze to the horizon.

How many men had he killed this week?

Enough.

Hell yes, enough for this week's work.

The ones he hadn't killed would be waiting for him somewhere, some time, maybe around the next comer of the map, maybe tomorrow, maybe even tonight.

He thought of Riappi, and the awful embarrassment the big guy would have to face. How would he explain it to his bosses?

There was more than one way to kill a man, Bolan realized.

But, yeah, for this week of work, it was enough.

Next week, now… well, next week would be a whole new story.

The world died 'twixt every heartbeat, and was born again with each new perception of the mind… and death itself was no more than an unusual perception.

Sure. Next week would accommodate a large number of unusual perceptions.

Bolan settled back into his own little corner of hell, and went to sleep, and dreamed of paradise. For this time, the kill was over.