Caribbean Kill

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 Vidriaand 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, 'Nor?'

'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 crewchief's 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 himself 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 provethat 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 hell 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 Caporegimecalled 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