The plane comes in low over the Puerto Rican resort, getting Mack Bolan close enough to notice snipers in the hotel windows and shotguns in the cabanas. He escaped his latest battle against the Mafia by fleeing to the Caribbean, but the tentacles of the mob stretch everywhere, and they are waiting for him to land. He rigs the plane for a collision course with the resort, bailing out just before impact and escaping into the jungle. He has only thirty bullets, and there are more than a hundred Mafia soldiers hot on his trail. He likes those odds.
It was in the jungles of Vietnam that Bolan was first dubbed the Executioner, and in the steamy forests of Puerto Rico, he will start a guerrilla war. He is one man against an army—but Mack Bolan is the deadliest man this island has ever seen.
Caribbean Kill is the 10th book in the Executioner series, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.
The plane comes in low over the Puerto Rican resort, getting Mack Bolan close enough to notice snipers in the hotel windows and shotguns in the cabanas. He escaped his latest battle against the Mafia by fleeing to the Caribbean, but the tentacles of the mob stretch everywhere, and they are waiting for him to land. He rigs the plane for a collision course with the resort, bailing out just before impact and escaping into the jungle. He has only thirty bullets, and there are more than a hundred Mafia soldiers hot on his trail. He likes those odds.
It was in the jungles of Vietnam that Bolan was first dubbed the Executioner, and in the steamy forests of Puerto Rico, he will start a guerrilla war. He is one man against an army—but Mack Bolan is the deadliest man this island has ever seen.
Caribbean Kill is the 10th book in the Executioner series, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.
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Overview
The plane comes in low over the Puerto Rican resort, getting Mack Bolan close enough to notice snipers in the hotel windows and shotguns in the cabanas. He escaped his latest battle against the Mafia by fleeing to the Caribbean, but the tentacles of the mob stretch everywhere, and they are waiting for him to land. He rigs the plane for a collision course with the resort, bailing out just before impact and escaping into the jungle. He has only thirty bullets, and there are more than a hundred Mafia soldiers hot on his trail. He likes those odds.
It was in the jungles of Vietnam that Bolan was first dubbed the Executioner, and in the steamy forests of Puerto Rico, he will start a guerrilla war. He is one man against an army—but Mack Bolan is the deadliest man this island has ever seen.
Caribbean Kill is the 10th book in the Executioner series, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497685635 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller |
| Publication date: | 12/16/2014 |
| Series: | Executioner (Mack Bolan) Series , #10 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 184 |
| File size: | 5 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Caribbean Kill
The Executioner, Book Ten
By Don Pendleton
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1972 Pinnacle BooksAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8563-5
CHAPTER 1
COLLISION COURSE
They circled low over the breakwater and dropped smoothly onto the glasslike surface of Bahia de Vidria, the pontoons taking a gentle bite and skimming along the water runway toward the beach. The pilot had cut back on the power and they were idling slowly in a soft glide for the seaplane dock, a hundred yards or so downrange, when the Beretta slid into Bolan's fist and muzzled into the guy's throat.
"End of game, Grimaldi," the Executioner announced coldly.
The pilot swallowed hard past the outside pressure of cool steel and muttered, "I don't get you, Mr. Vinton."
"Sure you do," Bolan told him. "When the engine dies, you die."
He divided his attention to lift the binoculars into a close scan of the shoreline. A signboard on the pier loomed into the vision-field:
GLASS BAY RESORT PRIVATE
Beyond the pier lay neatly landscaped grounds and a rambling structure resembling an oversized plantation house—a two-story job with verandas at top and bottom levels. Colorful cabanas lined the beach. People in bathing suits sprawled about here and there in the sand—all male-type people, Bolan wryly noted. Others strolled casually about the grounds or lounged at the railings of the verandas. Say, thirty people in plain sight. Two guys in white ducks and sneakers waited on the pier to dock the plane.
It all would seem perfectly innocuous, to the casual observer.
Mack Bolan was not observing casually.
Not a native Puerto Rican was in sight. No females, no relaxed frivolity, no fun or games anywhere in evidence. It was a set stage, sloppily done—no doubt, Bolan mused, the result of haste. They hadn't had time to get all the props out. Something inside a beach cabana was giving off telltale flashes as it reflected the strong rays of the midday tropical sun—a telescopic lens, maybe. The beach towels of the "bathers" revealed oblong lumps of just about the proper size and shape to suggest concealed rifles or shotguns.
As the plane steadily closed the distance, clumps of men on the lower verenda of the house began drifting down the steps and disappearing into the vegetation.
Yeah, Glass Bay was the hardsite. And it was primed and waiting for a gate-crasher in masquerade.
It was, of course, time for the official unmasking. Bolan had known in his bones, for several hours now, that his little game was over. And now the time had come to pay the fare for that wild-ass exit from Vegas.
By the numbers, now, very carefully. A single moment would decide life or death for Mack Bolan—a very precise moment in psychological time.
The pilot had been with Bolan through three exchanges of aircraft. He was a versatile flyer, but hardcore Mafia all the same, and he knew all the tricks of illegal evasion. Here was one situation that could not be evaded, however, and the knowledge of that truth was pasted all over the guy's face. He nervously cleared his throat and said, "Look, Bolan, it's all in a day's work, eh? Nothing personal. I just follow orders."
Bolan said, "Yeah."
"I didn't know it was you until the switch at Nassau. And I still didn't know for sure, I mean nobody told me. They just said Glass Bay instead of San Juan. That was the tipoff, I mean I knew something was up. And I put it together myself."
"Sure."
The guy was reaching for life. "You got to believe me, I wasn't in on the setup."
"I believe you," Bolan muttered.
A strangled sound from the rear announced that the bagman was not quite ready to die, either. He was cowering against his bags of bucks and trembling as he croaked, "Me, too, Mr. Bolan. Honest to God I didn't know until just now."
"Okay, get out," Bolan growned.
"Right here?" the accountant warbled hopefully.
Bolan nodded. The pier was less than fifty yards ahead now. "Not the money, just you." To the pilot, he commanded, "Pre-set those controls for a quick lift-off. Then you follow Lemke."
"Too late," Grimaldi replied, sighing. "Can you fly this crate?"
"Watch me," Bolan told him.
"You'll never make it out of here now. They'll blow this thing out of the water before you can get it turned around. You waited too long, Bolan."
"Just set it up," the Executioner commanded.
Lemke pushed the hatch open and gazed apprehensively at the water slipping gently by just below, then he jumped and disappeared from view. The two men on the pier reacted immediately, and a sudden film of perspiration appeared on the pilot's brow.
"Okay she's set!" he yelled, and pushed himself clear of the seat.
The people on shore were beginning to look alive. A man on the pier cupped his hands and shouted something toward the house. A clump of men wearing bathing suits and openly displaying weapons broke into a run for the seaplane dock.
Girmaldi threw himself through the hatch and Bolan swung around behind him to punch a pair of Parabellums into the two agitated figures on the pier. They went over backwards, their own weapons firing reflexively and wildly, and Bolan made a lunge for the throttle.
That precise moment had arrived.
He gave the little craft full throttle, swung the nose around to the desired course and locked the controls in that position, then he moved swiftly to the blind-side hatch as the seaplane hunched into the sudden acceleration.
He had no intention of trying to fly that water bird out of there. The intention was to make the opposing troops think that he was.
A startled moment of confusion was all he'd been bidding for. And he got it, sliding into the calm Caribbean depths just as the reaction-fire came crashing into the speeding craft.
Bolan remained shallow and concentrated on achieving maximum underwater distance. By the time he surfaced, the pilotless plane had reached flightspeed and was just beginning a rather ragged lift-off. It broke land with only inches of clearance between pontoons and beach, then rose swiftly in a steady pull for treetop level, winging through a sustained and withering fire that was reaching out from every spot about that lagoon.
He had miscalculated the guns at Glass Bay. For each obvious one noted during that hasty landing recon, three and maybe four were now unloading in a massive and determined effort to abort the "getaway."
The trajectory of that speeding airborne missile must have suddenly become obvious to all who watched; the gunfire ceased as abruptly as it had begun and Bolan could see energetic bodies hastily disembarking from the second-story veranda. All along the beach, men were erupting from places of concealment and sprinting toward the house.
Hell was winging into paradise, and everybody there seemed to know it.
The men who had raced onto the pier were now stampeding back toward land, and the grounds surrounding the big house had come alive with frantic figures lunging about in diffuse patterns of escape.
The plane itself seemed poised motionless in the air, like a football in a stop-action forward-pass replay on the Game of the Week, with the plantation house representing the only eligible receiver downfield, and with the chagrined defenders hoping to God that the pass was going wild but knowing in their sinking hearts that it was directly on target.
And then the plane hit, slicing in just above the second-story porch and punching on through into the house with a shattering roar and exploding flames. Bolan saw airborne bodies, one of them flaming like a chunk of flying shish kebab, and a shrieking hubbub of panicky voices was wafting toward him across the still waters.
He watched just long enough to assess the probable results of the hit, then he sank once again beneath the smooth surface of Bahia de Vidria and continued his quiet approach to the beach.
His departure from the plane had apparently gone unnoticed. He had seen a motor launch speeding to the other swimmers, Lemke and Grimaldi; chances were excellent that not even they had been aware of Bolan's exit. So far, then, so good. If he could make a landfall with the same good fortune, then maybe he would be able to climb aboard that Caribbean Carousel and give it one mad ride.
He had not continued into that trap at Glass Bay for the sheer thrill of living dangerously. Bolan was living to the point. He had arrived at the scene of the kill.
For Quick Tony Lavagni, the flame-leapt scene at Glass Bay was anything but comforting. It was too much like re-entering an old and familiar nightmare, that's what it was like, and Quick Tony had that sick feeling at the pit of his gut.
Not that Lavagni was worried about the damned joint. Vince Triesta was the head man at Glass Bay. Let Vince worry about the damned real estate. Tony had, in fact, already set Vince straight about that matter.
"Bullshit," he'd calmly told him. "My boys ain't playing firemen. We didn't come all the way down here to pick up your broken pieces. Put out your own goddam fires."
And Vince had gone off raving and waving his arms around. Some guys never changed. Bullshit. Tony Lavagni had come for Bolan's head. That was all. And until that churning feeling left his gut, he wasn't about to take away his boys' guns and give 'em fire hoses.
Guys were laying around, burned and blasted; some dead, some almost. None of Tony's boys, though. So these boys down here at Glass Bay had been living it soft. Tony felt sorry for them, sure, the ones that got in the way. In the meanwhile, Quick Tony's guts did not feel right about Mack Bolan. And until they did.…
He snared his chief gunner, Charlie Dragone, as the big triggerman ambled past. "Where the hell you going, Charlie?" he asked him.
"To piss on Bolan's ashes," the crewchief replied, grinning.
"I ain't seen no ashes yet," Lavagni reported.
The grin left the big guy's face. He clasped his arms over his chest and watched two of the Glass Bay homeguard as they struggled up from the pier with a fire hose, then he turned back to his boss to ask, "No?"
"No is right."
Dragone's eyes traveled the white sand beach behind him for a moment, then the gaze rested briefly on the scene of confusion at the burning house. "You think maybe he wasn't in that plane?" he asked woodenly.
"My gut thinks maybe that," Lavagni told him.
"Who was it, then?"
"Well find out in a minute. Here comes Grimaldi."
A group of men were rapidly approaching from the pier, two of them fully clothed and soaking wet. Jack Grimaldi, the pilot, recognized Lavagni immediately and threw him a tired salute. "Hell, I'm sorry, Mr. Lavagni," he called out, sending the apology ahead of the confrontation.
"You should be," Quick Tony replied calmly. Then he grinned and added, "Or I guess not. You're a lucky shit, buddy."
"Don't I know it," the pilot replied. He and Lemke had pulled to a halt and were standing rather disconsolately in the presence of the Caporegime. The other men had gone on to help with the disaster operations.
Dragone's eyes flashed to the house as he said, "How about it, Grimaldi. Is that Bolan or isn't it?"
The pilot was studying the crewchiefs face, trying to place it in his memory. His gaze slid on to Lavagni as he responded to the question. "It sure wasn't sweet old Aunt Martha," he growled.
"It was him, all right," Lemke put in excitedly. "Cold as ice. Death eyes. I'll tell you, I've never seen—"
Lavagni's heavy tones overrode the testament to Bolan's deadliness. "I suppose you lost your shipment," he said, eyeing the accountant with displeasure.
The guy's eyes fell and he replied, "He made me leave it on the plane."
Lavagni gave Charlie Dragone a deadpan stare and told him, "So go piss on the ashes of a quarter million bucks, Charlie."
The triggerman sighed and scuffed his feet about in the sand. "Did we get the guy or didn't we?" he quietly asked.
Lavagni was staring at the pilot.
Grimaldi said, "What?"
Lavagni said, "You heard the question."
"Tony has a gut feeling," Dragone explained. "He thinks maybe the plane flew itself into that house."
The comment was given as very light sarcasm. Grimaldi, however, replied in cold seriousness. "It could have," he said.
"Shit, I knew it," Quick Tony said calmly.
"He had a gun at my throat. Told me to set the controls for take-off." The pilot shrugged. "Anything to make the gentleman happy. I knew he'd never get it off. I mean, I knew it would be a suicidal attempt. All I wanted was to hell out of there. But you're right, Mr. Lavagni. He could have pulled a fast one. I mean, all he had to do was shove in the throttle and jump, that baby would have lifted out of there with or without him."
Dragone snapped, "Goddammit you should've thought about that!"
"Fuck you," the pilot snapped back, "and don't tell me what to think with a gun barrel jamming my throat!"
"You guys shut up," Lavagni softly commanded. He walked to the water's edge and sighted out across the bay as he sifted through the wild array of thoughts which were chugging across his mind.
If Bolan had in fact been in that plane when it crashed, there would be one hell of a time trying to prove it—even if they should find an extra body to account for. Charlie had been certainly right about one thing, for damn sure—there would be nothing left but ashes, and ashes sometimes could be pretty damn tough to identify.
But now, take Tony's tumbling gut. And Grimaldi had given support to what the gut seemed to already know. Mack the Bastard had not come to Glass Bay just to roast hisself in a plane crash. Not that guy, not that hard case goddamn guy.
Yeh. Quick Tony had tangled with Mack the Bastard already before. And only by a medical miracle and plenty of trans-Atlantic political clout was Tony standing there right now remembering it.
Sure. There was only one way to play it. Since he could not prove that Mack Bolan had crashed with that plane, he would have to assume that he had not.
Lavagni tried to ignore a little chill that was quivering at his spine. He rejoined the others, who were standing locked in a stiff silence, and he quietly announced, "Bolan swam for it. So let's go find him."
Dragone sighed, cast a melancholy eye on the burning house, and asked, "Where do we start?"
"We start right where he wants us," Lavagni replied heavily. "The guy's a jungle fighter, Charlie. That's where he'll go. I want Paul—and Duke… get Joe, too. And they better have those maps in their pockets."
"Plug crews," Dragone decided.
"Yeh. And get those boat crews over here, they get a piece of this too."
"Can I go now?" Grimaldi asked quickly. "I need a drink."
Lavagni ignored the pilot's request. "Jack, you'll know who to contact, I want a couple of whirly birds out here. I wish I'd kept a couple here, now. Dammit, why the hell didn't I think of that?"
Dragone was walking away. The Caporegime called after him, "Don't forget the walky-talkies." To Grimaldi, he snapped, "Well, move it, move it!"
"Yessir," the pilot said, and hurried off.
Lemke's eyes flashed uncertainly between Lavagni and the retreating figure of the pilot.
"Go help fight the fire!" Lavagni barked.
The accountant fled, leaving Quick Tony Lavagni, the terror of the Atlantic Seaboard, to stand a lone vigil on the waters of Glass Bay.
Yeh. What a hell of a note. Here was Quick Tony, again, with a goddam contract on Mack the Blitzing Bastard. Mack the Jungle Cat. And in his own element now.
A tumbling gut just couldn't be wrong. Quick Tony was on a collision course with his own fate. Yeh. What a hell of a note.
CHAPTER 2THE CROWN
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 skin 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 Mafioso would drop his head into a paper sack and deliver it to the grinning old men back home.
That was the situation.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Caribbean Kill by Don Pendleton. Copyright © 1972 Pinnacle Books. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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