Bolan sat casually in the top of a coconut palm at the western rim of the bay and field-stripped his Beretta, cleaning away the corrosive salt water he'd picked up during that long swim to shore. He reassembled the finely-tuned weapon and gave the same careful attention to the spare clips of ammo, finishing off with a close inspection of the muzzle silencer — then, satisfied that the Beretta Belle would serve upon demand, he allowed his mind to ponder the present predicament.
He was in an unfamiliar land, and with only the most general sort of geographic orientation. He knew that Puerto Rico was bounded on the north by the Atlantic, and on the other side by the Caribbean. It was the outer — most island of the West Indies. Hispaniola, the island shared by both Haiti and the Dominican Republic, lay to the west — also Jamaica and Cuba. The Bahamas were due north, Venezuela was south. To the east were the Virgin Islands.
All this he had quickly assimilated from a wall map at the private airport at Nassau, while the seaplane was being readied for this last leg of travel. For whatever it was worth, he at least knew approximately where he was located with respect to the rest of the world — and with respect to the new super operation which the mob was calling The Caribbean Carousel. It was small comfort at the moment.
Realistically, here was the situation: he had two full eight-round clips of ammo, plus six rounds in the service clip. He was literally up a tree, soaked to the slid with sticky salt water. He was hungry, and he was just about physically exhausted.
Less than a quarter-mile away, an army of some fifty to seventy-five guns was methodically sweeping the periphery of the bay in a determined hunt for his person.
He would very probably die in this jungle. And a grinning Mafiosowould drop his head into a paper sack and deliver it to the grinning old men back home.
That was the situation.
Except that he was not dead yet.
Okay, he was alive and breathing. And it had not gone all that badly. He had broken out of the trap at Vegas and crashed the heart of the Caribbean operation all in one motion. And he was not dead yet.
Bolan raised his head and sighted along the beach toward the flaming house, trying to orient himself with respect to the birdseye view he had gained while in the plane. He was west of the house, about a thousand yards. Behind him, then, through maybe a half-mile of dense jungle, should lie the plantation he'd spotted from the air. The seaside villages lay in the opposite direction, with all of Glass Bay and its legion blocking the only practicable route of access.
Four motor launches were making a cross-grid search of the bay itself, another was just then disembarking a head party on the southwest tip of beach. These, about a dozen, would be working their way back toward Bolan's position. The main body of gunners were sweeping down from the house area. A pincers movement. With the jungle at his back and the open bay in front. And they were closing fast.
Bolan smiled grimly to himself and wondered who was commanding the Glass Bay forces. Whoever, the guy knew his business. And he had not been long fooled by the diversionary play with the seaplane.
The Executioner was going to have one hell of an interesting survival problem on his hands.
What could a dead man lose?
Bolan slid silently to the ground and quickly divested himself of the soggy suit of clothing he'd worn from Vegas. The fancy threads would be a hard liability now. He stripped down to the skintight black outfit which had become a trademark of the Executioner's war on the Mafia, transferring necessary personal items from the pockets of the discarded suit. Bolan was not impressed by trademarks. His interest was combat-readiness, and he knew the importance of appropriate garb.
He was not, by God, dead yet.
In a survival problem, a seasoned warrior would take every possible advantage, anything and everything which could make that hairline of difference between Me and death. And a seasoned junglewarrior would push that difference to the limit.
The enemy was pushing ever closer. Bolan could hear their excited comments to one another as they swept along the beach. Apparently someone had spotted the point where he'd left the water.
He bared his teeth in a humorless grin and quickly arranged the wet suit of clothing against the trunk of a young tree. Under jungle law, the best man always won. That meant the quickest, the quietest, and the deadliest — and there were no juries to sway or clouted judges to appeal to. Here it was simply Man the Beast, reduced to his most basic elements and the rage to survive.
Bolan had been there before. He knew the rules.
He attended to final details, then he faded into the thick jungle growth, and merged with it, and became a living part of it.
They were allies now, he and the jungle.
And the Caribbean kill was finally underway.
At the time of his first run-in with Mack Bolan, Quick Tony Lavagni had been a lieutenant in the Washington-based family of Arnesto "Arnie Fanner" Castiglione, and he had been coasting comfortably toward old age with a so-so position in the national hierarchy of organized crime. But Bolan had brought many changes — dramatic ones — into Tony Lavagni's comfortable life. First had been that disastrous headhunting expedition to France, and Tony damn — near died in France. He had actually been reported dead.
Next had come actual death, for Castiglione himself, in England. Bolan, sure — who else?
What had followed was Family history, and not very pleasant stuff either, with Arnie's heirs jockeying for position in the new family line-up.
Lavagni had never seriously regarded himself as a candidate for Arnie Farmer's vacant throne. A wishful thought or two, sure, any guy would think about a thing like that. But Quick Tony had been not quite so quick to reach for those heady reins of power. For one thing, he was convalescing from that close scrape with death in France. Also, there were a couple others clearly above him in the line of succession, very capable others whom Lavagni did not really wish to cross. He preferred to play it cool, and almost surely he would be moved into an underboss spot regardless of who eventually succeeded to Amie's crown. Tony was content to leave the scrambling to Weeney Scarbo and Big Gus Riappi, the major contenders.
But then, before the Commissionehad time to pick the successor, another round of attrition started. Weeney had been in New York, politicking with the big city bosses, when Bolan made his hit up there… and Weeney had got hisself caught in that horror out at the Long Island joint — not killed, no, but enough of his brains were removed so he'd probably never be up and walking around again — hell, Weeney would probably never even feed himself again.
That left only Big Gus, and Tony was next in rank below him.
Lavagni had been in Miami, fully recovered now from that mess in France but content to lie about in the Florida sun for awhile longer, when the call came down from the top.
"The Talifero brothers lost it at Vegas," was the message, which could mean they were dead or anything. "We've got Bolan made, though. He's calling himself Frank Vinton, and right now he's on a run to the Caribbean in one of our planes. We want you to get up a party and meet him at Glass Bay."
"Okay, sure, I'll be glad to," Lavagni had replied without hesitation.
"We knew you would. Something else you should know, Tony. We haven't made up our minds yet about the new head of the Atlantic Seaboard Company. You make a good show at Glass Bay and… well, what else do we have to say, Tony?"
The thinly veiled promise had struck Lavagni momentarily dumb. When his voice returned he simply replied, "Yessir, I understand. How much time do I have to get there?"
"We're slowing him all we can without actually showing our hand. But you have, at the very most, six hours. You'll have to move fast."
"What if I don't beat him there?" Tony had wanted to know.
"Then he'll get met by Vince Triesta."
"Oh, well, I guess I sure better move fast," he'd replied soberly.
"We're making all the arrangements for your transportation, Tony. Just get a party together and get in touch with Jake Schuman for the rest. You're jetting to San Juan direct, helicopters on into Glass Bay. Jake will handle your financing and all of your materials requirements. You know. Recruit as many hunters as you can round up, keeping in mind the time problem. They'll be paid in advance as they board the plane."
Freelancers. Quick Tony had again gotten stuck with a bunch of goddam freelance streetcorner rod-men. So okay, fuck it. He'd known that Charlie Dragone was in town, also probably two or three other experienced hands were around, enough to build a force on.
"I want an open ticket," he'd told the commissioner. "I want authority to tap any boy around here that I like. And I want it clearly understood with Vince Triesta who'll be running the show at Glass Bay."
"Don't worry, Tony, we're putting out the word. He's all yours, baby."
Yeah. All Tony's. As quick as that. And Quick Tony had left Miami less than two hours later, and with a pretty good force after all, considering the sudden notice plus the fact that he was a long way from home turf. And it was not until he had settled into the cushions of the chartered jetliner that the full implications of the thing crashed into his mind.
God, he could come out of this contract wearing the crown of the Lower Atlantic Seaboard, boss of all that moved and breathed between Jersey and Jacksonville. Arnie Farmer's crown was still floating around, awaiting a suitable head to descend upon. And Quick Tony Lavagni had suddenly decided that his very own head was both suitable and deserving. And why not? He had been a loyal and hard working family man for going onto a quarter of a century now. His only serious failure had been that business in France… and, hell, Bolan had disgraced better triggermen than Tony Lavagni.
Maybe, he'd decided, this was the Commissione'sreasoning: give Tony another shot at the bastard, let him redeem himself. Yeh. And surely the guy who could come up with Bolan's skull would be worthy of something extra special for his own head. Something like, say, the Lower Atlantic Seaboard. Yeh. And Quick Tony had begun to dream of empire.
So what the hell, the thing had started going sour right at the start. No time for the setup at Glass Bay, and Bolan's goddam grandstand play, the bastard. So what kind of a nut should believe that Bolan would be a pushover? The guy hadn't won anything yet… the thing had only started, not ended… and Quick Tony was now satisfied that he had found the place where his quarry had come ashore.
He was kneeling in the finely packed sand near the waterline and running a visual triangulation between the house, which was about a half a mile downshore, and the encroachment of jungle flora, less than twenty feet away. The shoreline jogged slightly at that point, creating a shallow indentation which would be invisible from the house.
Sure, it all fit. "This is where, all right," Lavagnl announced to chief gunner Charlie Dragone. He lifted an arm and sighted across the bay. "Yeah, and it was a hell of a long swim, nearly a mile I'd say. He could've cut that in half, but he was looking for cover, not comfort. And looka here…" The Mafia chieftain was running the palm of his hand along the sand. "Still wet right here. We can't be more than a few minutes behind him. I bet that goddam guy swum underwater the whole way. Now… that can only mean…"
The voice trailed away and Lavagni stared speculatively across the small width of beach.
Dragone rose nervously to his feet, standing in a half-crouch with both hands on his hips and gazed back toward the house. Smoke was still pouring out back there. Now and then a tongue of flame would lick clear of the smoke, a reminder that all was not over down there, either.
"You figure maybe he's circling back to the joint?" the crewchief mused.
"Naw." Lavagni stood up and spat into the water. Somewhere he'd heard that it was supposed to bring good luck. "After a swim like that he's probably all worn out. Probably laying low, somewheres in that Jungle there, just getting his breath. What Grimaldi have to say about his hardware?"
"He only saw one gun. Said it was an automatic with a silencer."
Lavagni snorted. "That Beretta, probably. That's his hotsy, but it ain't going to be hot enough this time."
Dragone looked worried. He said, "Well the longer we wait…."
"Let 'im run awhile," Lavagni said casually. "Who's got the walky-talky?"
"Latigo."
"Awright. You tell Latigo to get those plugs in place. Just the way we laid it out. And tell him not to screw around with this guy, he's bad news all the way. Don't give 'im an inch, not a damn inch."
"Okay." Dragone took a step forward, then froze and whirled about as one of his gunners moved quickly onto the beach and hoarsely whispered, "Boss! We found something!"
Both men hurried across the sand to inspect a soggy package of cigarettes and a paper matchbook bearing the imprint of a Las Vegas casino. The gunner was explaining, "We found it in the bushes back here, just off the beach."
"Where's Tilly?" Dragone asked quickly.
"He's in there, looking for tracks."
Lavagni hissed, "Tracks hell! Get that guy outta there!" He took his crewchief by the arm and whispered, "Get Latigo moving. Then get all your boys down here and lined up. No more'n ten foot intervals. Put the center of your line right here. But we don't start the sweep until Latigo says the plugs are all in. You got that?"
"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 meantfor that stuff to get found. For a guy who was usually so damn careful, it seemed like a dumb mistake. But, why would he plantthe 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 Caporegimefiercely 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.