Part 12 (2/2)
”Sure.” He uncorked the bottle and handed it over. ”The windmill type. Ga.s.sed up and ready to fart. What the h.e.l.l are you doing here, Bolan?”
The guy refused the bottle. ”Looking for wings,” he said. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't waste many words. ”And a pilot.”
”You don't want to hang around and crash your own party?”
”That's my party?”
”Sure. I guess I never got around to correcting an erroneous impression. But let's not tell them now,” he added hastily. ”I figure let 'em live a little. You know? Or no, I guess you wouldn't know. I, uh, I caught your fireworks at Puerta Vista.”
The guy had him by the arm and they were walking quietly toward the rear, skirting close beside the end bungalow. He said, ”Yeah?” ”Yeah. But I, uh... I guess I jumped to a hasty conclusion. Well, I guess the curtain was for Lavag-ni, huh?”
”Buried at sea,” the guy said.
”Uh huh. It figures better that way. Uh, after you turned me loose I circled back along the waterfront. Sat there on a d.a.m.n rock just outside of town, and I guess I was thinking about a lot of things. Then I heard the ba-loom and I saw the flames, and I said, 'Contact, there goes Bolan.' I guess I should have said, 'Ho ho, there's Bolan!' Well anyway, I sat there a little while longer, then I went on into town and found one of the company cars. I hotwired the ignition... and here I am with a lonely bottle at a false wake.”
He didn't know why he told the guy all that. He wasn't talking for his life, and this realization came with quite a shock. He didn't give a d.a.m.n anymore; that was the shocking part. He just didn't give a d.a.m.n.
They reached the helicopter and they stood there for a moment, the big guy just sort of looking around, then those icy eyes lit on Grimaldi and he said, ”I've noticed you don't pack hardware, Jack.”
”Never,” the pilot replied unemotionally. ”My only crime, Bolan, is carting these clowns around. It brings me two grand a month and an unlimited credit card for expenses. The price of a soul, eh? But it beats anything else that turned up after...”
”After what?” the guy asked, as though he was really interested.
”Well... you don't know the routine. I mean, you never really tried the returning serviceman routine. You just went from one war right into another. No employment problems, right?”
”You were at 'Nam?”
”Yeah. Flew everything from single-engine scouts to Huey close supports. Enlisted pilot, later a war-rant officer. You know what kind of jobs I got offered when I got home?”
Bolan said, ”I can guess.”
”Well, a cousin got me this job. And I kissed his shoes for it. But I guess...”
”You guess what?”
”Nothing. Where're you hijacking me to this timer A soft hardman staggered across the yard about twenty feet from where they were standing and disappeared around the carport.
The big guy watched him out of sight, then he dug inside his suit and fumbled around with something at his waist and came out with a lot of green. He counted the stuff out, twelve Clevelands, and laid it in Grimaldi's palm.
”No hijack this time,” he said gruffly. ”I came looking for you specifically, Jack. I want to take you up on that suggestion that we laughed about earlier. I'd like to pay your salary for a day. That's what's left of my warchest, twelve thou.”
Yeah, the guy was too much. Grimaldi mumbled, ”What th' h.e.l.l, all you gotta do is point the gun, I'll fly you anywhere.”
”Special mission,” the guy said.
”Yeah?”
”Yeah. Not the kind you take a guy into with a gun at his head. I need you. Your skill and your guts. I mean, cooperatively. What do you say?”
The f.u.c.kin' guy was insane!
”Do I have to handle a gun?” . ”Not unless you want to.”
”This a kill mission, Bolan?”
”Yeah.”
”A biggee?”
”A h.e.l.l of a biggee.”
”Suppose I say no?”
The guy shrugged. ”Then the hit is off, I hijack you back to the mainland, we go our separate ways.”
”A real biggee.”
”A h.e.l.l of a biggee.”
So what the h.e.l.l. It was the end of schtick schtick.
Grimaldi counted off six of the Clevelands and gave them back to Mr. Death. ”Split it down the middle,” he said quietly. ”And call it a deaL”
Chapter Thirteen.
DEATH BRIEF.
An old salvage boat cruised a slow circle in the sparkling Caribbean several miles off Bahia de Vidria Bahia de Vidria. In the pilot house, Juan Escadrillo stood a tense watch over the radio equipment while the man with the handlebar mustache stared expectantly into the moonlit skies.
The mate brought coffee from the galley, and drank most of it himself, and twice the engineer came topside to restlessly roam the deck and gaze toward sh.o.r.e, and the quiet watch went on.
At almost exactly 12:30 the radio in the pilot house crackled and a familiar voice came through the international distress frequency to give the awaited announcement.
”Okay Juan, we're off and running. The number here is 25, 12, 12, 14. That is two-five, one-two, one-two, one-four. Thanks to all of you. And give those treasures back there my, uh, deepest regards.”
”A-OK,” Juan replied immediately. ”Run with luck, my friend.”
”Adios, amigo.” - ”Return to us one day.”
”Ill try, Juan. Leave a light in the window.”
”It will be there.”
The boy's eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with moisture as he s.h.i.+fted the gear to the harbor frequency. The crew had moved outside to search the sky for visible evidence of the small aircraft.
<script>