Don Pendleton: Caribbean Kill

"I got it," the crewchief acknowledged. As he moved away, he added, "Don't worry, Tony. The guy doesn't have a prayer."

Lavagni, however, was taking no bets yet He fidgeted for a moment, then stepped off in pursuit of the gun soldier who had found the evidence of Bolan's passage. He wondered, just for the hell of it, if Bolan had meant for that stuff to get found. For a guy who was usually so damn careful, it seemed like a dumb mistake. But, why would he plant the stuff?

The Mafia veteran paused for a quick scan of the bay, then he shook his head and went on. The guy wouldn't come ashore, plant a false trail, then shove right back off into the water again. Not after a mile swim, hell no.

Lavagni found himself stepping into sudden darkness — compared to the fierce brightness out there on that beach. The thick overhead foliage of the tropical forest blocked the direct thrust of the sun, allowing the penetration of only a scattering of weak rays at infrequent intervals, and creating a sort of twilight effect.

Small living things could be heard scampering about in the dense undergrowth. Here and there in the distance the disturbed squawking of a bird rose above the ceaseless din created by hordes of. twittering, but invisible, insects.

Lavagni shivered and moved on deeper, his eyes seeking an adjustment to the sudden change of lighting. Then he spotted the hired gunner.

The guy was frozen in an oddly off-balance stance, and he was staring at a man who seemed to be leaning lazily against a tree trunk.

The Caporegime fiercely whispered, "Come on, you boys get it outta here! We don't want to..."

Tony's jungle vision was improving, and the look on the gunner's face cut him short. He moved closer, then lunged suddenly toward the leaning man in an involuntary reaction to what he saw there.

"What the hell…" he grunted.

"It's Tilly," the gunner croaked.

Yes, Quick Tony could see clearly now, it was indeed Tilly. With eyes bugging and mouth thrown open in a silent cry. And he was not lounging against that tree. Hell no, he was tied to it, at the throat, a tough jungle vine almost buried in the soft flesh and wrapped tightly around the treetrunk and holding the dead gunner rooted to the spot where death had descended.

The disturbed condition of the jungle floor at Tilly's feet told the story in stark terms. In his mind's eye, Lavagni saw the entire thing re-enacted: a swiftly moving jungle shadow, striking without being seen even, or heard — and Tilly being whirled about and garroted to that tree with his throat clamped shut before a breath of air or an outcry could pass. Yes, Tony could see it all.

He could see something else, also. A wet suit of clothes was plastered to that tree, behind Tilly's dead body.

Lavagni reached past the corpse to finger the wet fabric.

"Let that be a lesson," he muttered, casting nervous glances into the trees surrounding them. "This guy is mean as hell. Now get outta here, and tell Charlie the guy is no doubt wearing his black suit now — or else he's running around nekkid, and I can't hardly see that."

The gunner had not moved a muscle, nor did he seem to have heard Lavagni's instructions.

"Well whatta you waiting for?" the boss hissed. "Get going, for Christ sakes!"

"I don't see Tilly's hardware," the other man replied dispiritedly.

"What was he packing?"

"A chopper."

Lavagni groaned and hurried his shaken freelancer out of there.

Yeh. The bastard had planted the goddam matches, all right. And he was armed with more than a lousy handgun now, too.

The thing was looking more sour by the minute. Yeh. And for Quick Tony Lavagni, the contract at Glass Bay was becoming more and more a crown of thorns.

Nobody who'd never gone against Bolan could really appreciate that.

Nobody.

A living shadow quietly watched as the two Mafiosi hurried from the presence of sudden death, and a mental mug-file review clicked to a decisive halt against the name of Quick Tony Lavagni.

Bolan knew, now, the identity of his chief opponent at Glass Bay, and the revelation gave no cause for a celebration. The crafty old Washington triggerman had built an impressive box for the Executioner on the French Riviera, and it had been as much luck as anything that had seen Bolan out of that trap. Lavagni was nobody's damn fool. He operated like a meat-grinder with radar control, quietly and efficiently bringing in all the corners of a battleground and wrapping them around a guy.

At least, though, Bolan had a fair idea of what to expect now, and he could respond accordingly.

Lavagni would be bringing his boats in to stand just offshore, appropriately spaced along the beach. He would send flankers around to cover the open ground at all sides of the small jungle area. Then he would mount a massive frontal movement, sieving in from the bay, and then… well, it would be the meat-grinder routine once again.

In France there had been a friendly black face in the enemy camp and the soft hand of providence in the person of a dazzling French movie actress to spell the difference for Bolan. Even in Vietnam there had always been the hope of making it back into home territory, or of making contact with a friendly force.

Where was home territory now? And where in all the world was a friendly force?

Bolan knew better than to even ask the question. "Home" was wherever he could find space to breathe. "Friendly forces" were the ones whom he could make dead.

So at least he knew where he stood. He was in the center of Lavagni's meat-grinder, somewhere between home and the dead . The Thompson submachine gun which he had appropriated from his latest "friend" would make little difference in any pitched battle with the forces at Glass Bay. There could be but one final result. Someone would walk away with Bolan's head in a sack.

The Executioner's combat-conditioned mind began quickly searching for a higher rationale to the situation. First, what was the enemy thinking?

They were thinking, probably, that Bolan had sniffed the trap at the last minute, and was intent only upon escape. They had him outnumbered, with the odds at about 100 to 1, and with one of their best field marshals leading the chase. And the field of play was very limited. They could afford to play the meat-grinder game, continually closing the sides of the box until they had him completely contained.

Secondly, what about Lavagni himself? Bolan knew enough about syndicate operations to be almost certain that Quick Tony was not the resident triggerman at Glass Bay. He had been hurried in from the states to arrange the reception and… yes, he would have brought his own force with him. Which meant a hasty recruiting job, probably among free-lance rodmen swept up from the street and jails of some American city.

Uh huh , so here was that larger rationale. The mob was expecting Bolan to spend his blood in an isolated jungle of America's back yard, against a ragtag army of mercenaries, while their prized little playground carousel continued merrily and un-threatened along its profitable course.

That, Bolan decided, was not the name of his game. He had come south to harass the syndicate and end their Caribbean operation if he could. If he had wanted to simply confront them and quickly spend his blood, he could have done so at any point along that escape route from Vegas.

The problem now, the immediate objective for Bolan, was to break out of that trap at Glass Bay. And to do so in such a way as to advance him toward the long range objective, the busting of the Caribbean Carousel — the kill .

Okay. Lavagni would be moving in his screen any moment now. It was time for a bit of psychological warfare… something to jar the enemy, to slow them, to take away their initiative.