Caribbean Kill

'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,