Part 2 (2/2)

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 Gla.s.s 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 hara.s.s 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 Gla.s.s 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 iniative.

Bolan slung the Thompson across his chest and affixed the silencer to his Beretta Belle.

Right.

It was time to take the offensive.

Field Marshal Lavagni had his troops in place, and he was impatiently awaiting word that the plug crews were on station. A crude, hand-drawn map of the bay area lay on the sand in front of him, and this he was studying intently.

”How long d'you figure it'd take a guy on foot to cross this patch of jungle, Charlie?” he asked his chief gunner.

Dragone shrugged his shoulders. ”Depend on the guy, I guess. It's probably slow going in there, though.”

”Probably take me half a day,” Lavagni admitted. ”A guy who knew his way around, though...”

”You figure he's making for the back side?”

”Yeh. That's what I'd do.” The Mafia boss tapped the map with a thick finger. ”I'd head straight for this sugar farm here. I'd buy or steal me some wheels, and I'd high-tail it for San Juan.”

”That's what he's doing,” Dragone agreed. ”He needs to make some connections. I'd say San Juan, yeah.” The crewchief scratched absently at his forehead. ”One thing though, Tony. I doubt if this boy know where the h.e.l.l he really is. I mean, without a map...”

”He come in by plane, remember,** Lavagni said, sighing. ”Don't worry, this boy always knows where he's at. Did you tell Vince what I told you?”

”Yeh. I told him you want a complete rundown on all the civilians living in the area. He's sending a boy over, a native I guess, to talk to you. Soon as he can find him. Things are pretty lore up over there, Tony.”

”They got things about under control?”

”Yeh, pretty much. But it's a mess. What the fire didn't get, the water did.”

”Tell Latigo to send a couple of boys to the farm, this sugar farm here.”

”Okay.”

”Good boys.” boys.”

”Sure, Tony.”

”How about those whirly birds?”

”Taken care of. Grimaldi says itil take about an hour.”

”An hour from when?” Lavagni wanted to know.

”Well... about fifty-five minutes from right now.” Dragone heaved to his feet and motioned to a man in bathing trunks who was standing just down-range. ”Bring that radio, Kelly,” he growled.

The man hurried over with a small transistorized two-way radio and thrust it toward the chief gunner.

”Lavagni was saying, ”Tell Latigo...” and Drag-one was reaching for the radio when suddenly it took flight, propelled with a screech from Kelly's hand by a sizzling lump of hot metal.

Another sizzler came in a heartbeat ahead of any possible reaction, this one squarely between the startled Kelly's eyes, and the man in the swimsuit toppled over and slid toward the water without a sound.

The other two found themselves lying shoulder to shoulder on the sand, their weapons up and searching for a target.

”Where'd it come from?” Lavagni puffed.

”It just came,” the crewchief replied in a taut voice. ”He got Kelly.”

”f.u.c.k Kelly, where's that sonuvab.i.t.c.h at!”

”I don't see a G.o.ddam thing, Tony. I didn't even hear nothing.”

”b.a.s.t.a.r.d! He's using his silencer.”

Silencer or not, the line of gun soldiers flanking the two men had become aware of the drama at their center, and all were sprawled in the sand and anxiously watching for some sign of the enemy.

Dragone said, ”I guess he ain't making for no sugar farm, Tony.”

”He shot up the d.a.m.n radio, didn't he.”

Teh.”

Lavagni was building toward a huge rage. ”Dammit, we just can't lay here. Listen. Now listen close! Work your way along your side of the line, but dammit keep yourself down! Tell your boys we move on my signal. I'll take this side and clue everybody in on the action. When I get to the far end I'll fire two shots. That's the signal to move it move it. Tell each boy this, he's to stay in sight of the man next to him, I mean looldn' toward the center. That's important, so tell 'em. Dammitl”

Bolan's angle of vision onto the beach had given him a limited choice of targets. It had been like looking through a twenty-yard length of two-foot diameter pipeline and seeing clearly only those objects which happened to pa.s.s by the far end. Another foot or two to the right and he could as easily have taken out Lavagni himself, instead of settling for an anonymous soldier and a radio. Just the same, the message had been sent and received, and this had been the primary consideration.

He wanted those guys to get the taste of sand in their mouths and a fresh vision of death in their consciousness. And he'd wanted them to eat sand long enough to allow him a chance to advance to the next firing line.

That objective had been accomplished also, and now he was lying at the very edge of the forest, in a p.r.o.ne firing position and with good cover behind the rotting remains of a fallen tree. The terrain dropped away sharply just beyond that point, with the beach sloping abruptly to meet the water. From his ground-level point of view, only the gla.s.sy surface of the bay lay directly ahead of him. Off to either flank, however, he had an excellent view of the activities underway on the beach itself.

To his right he saw Lavagni emerge from the blind spot, moving quickly in a low scamper along a line of rifle-toting gunners. The guys were flaked out there like a landing party in an amphibious a.s.sault, awaiting the signal to proceed inland. Then the other guy, obviously Lavagni's good right arm, appeared on the other flank in a similar movement.

Bolan precisely understood what they were doing.

<script>