Part 6 (1/2)

”A-OK, Mack. I will leave right away.”

Take Rosalita.”

”Senorr Take Rosalita with you. Stay gone until this mess blows over. Is there some place you can take her for a couple of days?”

”We have family in Puerta Vista,” the boy replied. ”But... r r Then do it. Take her there first first. Evita, also. Then make the arrangements for the boat.”

”Okay yes, and I will then return-”

”No, don't come back here. Chances are I'll be slipping out shortly behind you. Let's go talk to Evita and work out a time and place for a meet. Then you get those women away from here.”

That was the plan.

It did not work out quite that way, however.

Evita adamantly refused to even consider the suggestion that she accompany Juan and Rosalita to Puerta Vista. ”You will need me to get you through the police lines,” she told Bolan. ”I stay with you, and that is final.”

So it was final. Bolan shrugged his shoulders and walked to the truck with the kids.

Take care,” he instructed Juan. His eyes warmed on the girl, and he added, ”Guard your treasures, Juan.”

The youth solemnly nodded his head and translated the parting words for his wife's understanding. She did the thing with her eyes, and she brushed Bolan's cheek with her lips as he helped her into the vehicle.

”Good luck,” she whispered, in perhaps the only Inglisa Inglisa at her command. at her command.

He watched the departing truck until it was out of sight, realizing that friends.h.i.+p was a quality of caring-not a duration of acquaintance. Bolan cared cared. And he wanted those kids out of his shadow of death. The girl had understood this. She, apparently, had cared also.

He entered the cabin to the sound of water running into the bathtub. A dainty pile of feminine things was on a chair just outside the curtain. He could see the shadowy outline of Evita the Woman bending over the tub and it was quite an outline.

The noise from the plumbing chugged to a halt. The lovely Spanish-Borinquen head appeared over the top of the curtain. ”Excusame,” she sang out. ”Una momento, por favor, while I scrub away Gla.s.s Bay.”

Bolan s.n.a.t.c.hed up a primed Thompson and made a strategic retreat.

It was time for another recon, anyway. He went to the high ground and prowled about for a few minutes, then he sat down with his back against a tree and lit a cigarette.

How long had it been since he'd slept? Two weeks? Three? It seemed that long. A guy on his last mile of life could pack a lot of living into a single day. Barely more than twenty-four hours earlier, Bolan had risen from a bed in Las Vegas and gone out to test the odds against him on Sudden Death Strip. And what a h.e.l.l of a time it had been. And now here he was in Puerto Rico, of all d.a.m.n places. Bone weary, emotionally exhausted, scared out of his G.o.dd.a.m.ned skull. How many men, he vaguely wondered, had he killed this week? Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred?

The odds had to catch up sooner or later. Why not sooner? Why not right here, in Puerto Rico, at 20 degrees north lat.i.tude. Wasn't that the equatorial parallel which had given birth and first breath to The Executioner The Executioner? Sure, sure, that was where the monster was bom-at 20 degress north, not at Pitts-field. The Mafia hadn't been the midwife, but Life itself. The Executioner had been born to Mom Nature. Dad Society had knocked her up-and along came Bolan the Bold, a breech birth, a monster in military cloth. Pittsfield merely represented the inevitable coming-of-age for this b.a.s.t.a.r.d child n.o.body wanted. The Executioner.

How many men had he killed this week?

Bolan sighed and got to his feet.

Not enough.

But that was enough self-pity to last for several weeks. He crushed out the cigarette, called out his energy reserves, straightened himself up, and went back down the hill to the cabin.

Evita was standing at the kitchen sink, peering into the only mirror in the place, and brus.h.i.+ng out the s.h.i.+ney raven hair.

And she wasn't wearing a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing.

Bolan set the Thompson against the wall and told her, gruffly, ”You can't get away with that.”

Her eyes met his in the mirror. She replied, mimicking his gruffness, ”Who says I wish to get away with it?”

If that tiny nipped waist was her equatorial zone, then she owned one h.e.l.l of an interesting...

”20 degrees south south lat.i.tude,” he mumbled. ”That's a swinging parallel, Evita.” lat.i.tude,” he mumbled. ”That's a swinging parallel, Evita.”

She wrinkled her nose at him in the mirror. ”Take your bath,” she commanded. ”You also have the stink of Gla.s.s Bay.”

The stink he had, Bolan thought, would never yield to mere soap and water. But he smiled and began undressing. Maybe at least he could wash away an acc.u.mulated film of self pity.

That 20th parallel south had already taken care of his fatigue problem. He had that certain feeling, though, that it was going to greatly add to it in just a very little while.

How many beautiful women had he loved this week?

Not enough.

And that wasn't self pity talking.

Bolan was still living to the point.

Chapter Seven.

FAIRYLAND.

He slung her over his shoulder, carried her up the ladder to the loft and placed her gently on the feather mattress. Then he sat cross-legged beside her, as he silently contemplated the loveliness of this very unlikely cop.

Her eyes were warmly alive and aware as they slid slowly along his nudity. ”You are beautiful, for a caveman,” she whispered.

His gaze wavered and turned away. ”This isn't a required part of the game plan, you know. We could skip it.”

She laughed softly but did not quite manage to make it sound light and humorous as she replied, ”Now he tells me. Too late, he tells me. Too late, querido querido. It is very much required at this point.”

He reached for her, his hand finding the incredibly velvet softness of the s.h.i.+ny little belly. A forefinger delicately traced the outline of the naval depression and he said, ”Those lads, Juan and Rosalita... I wonder if they realize how great they really have it”

Her manner abruptly changed. She removed his hand and turned toward the wall.

He said, ”h.e.l.l, Evita, I didn't mean...”

”You did not mean a comparison, I know,” she replied in a m.u.f.fled tone. ”Just the same it is there, and I know this. I am three months in a Mafia bed. This morning I did not know Mack Bolan. This evening I am in his his bed. Yes, it is a harsh comparison. Much too harsh. So throw me back to the Mafia, Mack Bolan.” bed. Yes, it is a harsh comparison. Much too harsh. So throw me back to the Mafia, Mack Bolan.”

”How many men have you loved this week, Ev-ita?”

Her shoulder twitched and she said, ”Loved? I have not loved.”