Caribbean Kill

representation,' an unconscionable gouging and exploitation of the economy of a people. It was the invisible hand forever in the pocket of the consumer. The corruptor of a nation's morals and of its government. Looter and rapist of industry and labor alike, temptress and panderer, and cheerleader to mass-man's baser appetites and needs.

In harsher variations it was contract murder, intimidation, white slavery, manipulation of competitive sports, narcotics, unrestrained political power, bigtime theft, black marketry — the whole wide range of criminal conspiracy.

Bolan had framed his reply to Evita in characteristic terseness, however. 'A guy I met in Vegas,' he'd told her, 'wrapped up the whole rotten mess in just four words. Ants at a picnic. That's the mob. They don't build or produce, they just plunder. And wherever the picnic is, that's where you'll find them swarming. Where are the picnics in the Caribbean, Evita?'

She had raised her shoulders in a gentle shrug and replied, 'Everywhere. Caribe land is the new swinging scene, and not merely for the idle rich. From the Bahamas throughout the West Indies and the Antilles, this is where the action is. The picnic, yes, the one bigpicnic.'

'The Caribbean Carousel,' he'd commented musingly.

'I have heard this term and wondered about it,' the girl replied. 'I am sometimes handicapped with the language, you see. Spanish is our official language but English is required teaching in all public schools. And in English, the carousel is a… a…'

She was making a circular motion with her hands. Bolan grinned and helped her complete the idea. 'Yeah, a circular horse race without a start or a finish — a merry-go-round.'

'Ah yes. The British call it a round-a-bout. In the Italian, this word is carosello, originally meaning a tournament.'

'Well, maybe that comes closer to the real meaning,' Bolan had commented. 'As the mob uses it, I mean. I believe you could help me get into that tournament, Evita.'

'I will do what I can,' she had promised him.

And now as Bolan returned to the shanty cabin in Puerto Rico's back country, he found himself wondering if any of it was really worthwhile, after all. Here was a lovely young woman, obviously well educated and strongly principled, offering herself up body and soul as a sacrificial victim to the gods of human justice — and to what damned end?

Long after Evita Aguilar had been fully and finally desecrated, long after she had ceased to exist altogether — wouldn't the ants still be swarming at every human picnic?

Well… that was what life was all about, wasn't it? It was neither the picnics nor the ants that made humanity worthwhile. It was the struggle itself, the fight for balance — and the sacrifices that some humans were willing to make to maintain that balance.

Sure, Bolan understood.

It was the story of his own life.

Evita was waiting for him at the doorway.

She smiled and waved to him and called out, 'The food is waiting. Come in and meet your friends.'

Bolan understood that, also.

He took her arm and went inside to warm human companionship and a moment of relaxation.

In a little while the hell would begin again and the Caribbean carosellowould resume at full gallop.

For now, it was enough to simply re-discover and remember what it was all about. The horse race without beginning or end could wait awhile.

For the moment, Mack Bolan was home… and remembering.

Chapter Six The parallels

The Escadrillo kids were obviously very much in love and caught up in the adventure of establishing home and family — as humble as the home and as tentative as the family might be. The girl appeared to be about six months pregnant. She was a pretty little thing with long black hair and glistening eyes — and beginning to move a bit clumsily with her extra burden. Rosalita, the little rose, was the perfect name for her, Bolan decided. She spoke very little English and at first seemed a bit awed with Bolan's presence in her home. He bridged their communications gap with an occasional complimentary phrase from his limited knowledge of her language, and they got a thing going with the eyes which transcended language barriers.

It was a simple meal, but the food was plentiful and tasty — and there were no social tensions in the Escadrillo household by meal's end.

The cabin was a single large room with a sleeping loft. It was spotlessly clean. The furnishings and decorations were minimal and inexpensive, but the end effect was surprisingly attractive and comfortable.

They had inside plumbing and electricity, a few modern gadgets in the kitchen area, a television set that didn't work and an impressive looking multi-band radio that did.

The bathroom was a mere closet with a toilet fixture. A small porcelain-enameled bathtub was plumbed to a corner of the open living area and shielded from public view only by a thin curtain on an overhead rod.

The fancy radio had been a gift from Evita. Juan was a short-wave addict. He kept a log of foreign broadcast stations and their schedules. He was also an informal student of languages and had spent many hours at that radio. Evita had provided him with a collection of language textbooks, which showed evidence of heavy use.

The lads had purchased the five-acre truckfarm via a government-subsidized loan program. Part of Operation Bootstrap, Bolan assumed. They also owned an ancient one-ton flatbed truck which Juan used to haul his produce to the marketplaces of San Juan. He did not plan to be a fanner forever, though. 'One day,' he told Bolan, 'I will work as a linguist — an interpreter. Maybe I will work for the United Nations.'

The young couple were aware of Bolan's situation. Evita had explained the problem at the outset; still, they had welcomed him as an honored guest and seemed to be planning on him remaining for an extended stay.

But Bolan was not so certain that they fully understood all the implications of his visit. As the women cleared the table, he caught Juan's eye and stepped outside to light a cigarette.

The youth followed him through the doorway and told him, 'It is all right, SenorBolan. You may smoke inside.'

'I want to talk to you,' Bolan explained. 'One guy to another.'

'Si. Talk.'

'I'm leaving pretty quick. Don't misunderstand. I appreciate your hospitality. But I'm a walking plague, Juan. The hounds of hell are after me. Sooner or later they'll find me. I don't want them to find me here.'

The boy fidgeted and stared at the ground. 'I will help you,' he stated quietly. 'Show me how to shoot the big gun.'

'No good,' Bolan said. 'There's more to making war than shooting a gun. When death is staring at you, or when blood starts flowing, you suddenly lose everything that's human. If you're not trained for that sort of thing, you're left with nothing but blind reaction. A trained soldier is programmed into certain instinctive actions. I can't program you, Juan, simply by showing you where the trigger is on a gun.'

'I can be of help,' the boy insisted.

'Sure you could, but not enough,' Bolan told him. 'If the headhunters find me here, blood will flow. And not just yours and mine.' He jerked his head toward the cabin. 'Their's too. So I've got to move on.'

'I will help you to move on, then. Unless it is that you do not trust me.'

'You know better than that.' Bolan looked into the sky and tried to estimate the angle between the sun and the western horizon. 'We're pretty close to the equator, aren't we,' he murmured.

'Si, about 20 degrees north latitude.' The boy smiled and somewhat slyly added, 'I do not know this until I study my radio propagation tables. It is a good thing to know, yes?'

Bolan sighed. 'Yes, Juan, it's always a good idea to know where you are. And 20 degrees north also happens to be where South Vietnam is at. Isn't that a hell of a parallel.' He grimaced and added, 'Would you say