Caribbean Kill

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.

Chapter Three Home and the dead

A living shadow quietly watched as the two Mafiosihurried from the presence of sudden death, and a mental mug-file review clicked to a decisive halt against the name of Quick Tony Lavagni.

Bolan knew, now, the identity of his chief opponent at Glass Bay, and the revelation gave no cause for a celebration. The crafty old Washington triggerman had built an impressive box for the Executioner on the French Riviera, and it had been as much luck as anything that had seen Bolan out of that trap. Lavagni was nobody's damn fool. He operated like a meat-grinder with radar control, quietly and efficiently bringing in all the corners of a battleground and wrapping them around a guy.

At least, though, Bolan had a fair idea of what to expect now, and he could respond accordingly.

Lavagni would be bringing his boats in to stand just offshore, appropriately spaced along the beach. He would send flankers around to cover the open ground at all sides of the small jungle area. Then he would mount a massive frontal movement, sieving in from the bay, and then… well, it would be the meat-grinder routine once again.

In France there had been a friendly black face in the enemy camp and the soft hand of providence in the person of a dazzling French movie actress to spell the difference for Bolan. Even in Vietnam there had always been the hope of making it back into home territory, or of making contact with a friendly force.

Where was home territory now? And where in all the world was a friendly force?

Bolan knew better than to even ask the question. 'Home' was wherever he could find space to breathe. 'Friendly forces' were the ones whom he could make dead.

So at least he knew where he stood. He was in the center of Lavagni's meat-grinder, somewhere between homeand the dead. The Thompson submachine gun which he had appropriated from his latest 'friend' would make little difference in any pitched battle with the forces at Glass Bay. There could be but one final result. Someone would walk away with Bolan's head in a sack.

The Executioner's combat-conditioned mind began quickly searching for a higher rationale to the situation. First, what was the enemy thinking?

They were thinking, probably, that Bolan had sniffed the trap at the last minute, and was intent only upon escape. They had him outnumbered, with the odds at about 100 to 1, and with one of their best field marshals leading the chase. And the field of play was very limited. They could afford to play the meat-grinder game, continually closing the sides of the box until they had him completely contained.

Secondly, what about Lavagni himself? Bolan knew enough about syndicate operations to be almost certain that Quick Tony was not the resident triggerman at Glass Bay. He had been hurried in from the states to arrange the reception and… yes, he would have brought his own force with him. Which meant a hasty recruiting job, probably among free-lance rodmen swept up from the street and jails of some American city.

Uh huh, so here was that larger rationale. The mob was expecting Bolan to spend his blood in an isolated jungle of America's back yard, against a ragtag army of mercenaries, while their prized little playground carousel continued merrily and un-threatened along its profitable course.

That, Bolan decided, was not the name of his game. He had come south to harass the syndicate and end their Caribbean operation if he could. If he had wanted to simply confront them and quickly spend his blood, he could have done so at any point along that escape route from Vegas.

The problem now, the immediate objective for Bolan, was to break out of that trap at Glass Bay. And to do so in such a way as to advance him toward the long range objective, the busting of the Caribbean Carousel — the kill.

Okay. Lavagni would be moving in his screen any moment now. It was time for a bit of psychological warfare… something to jar the enemy, to slow them, to take away their initiative.

Bolan slung the Thompson across his chest and affixed the silencer to his Beretta Belle.

Right.

It was time to take the offensive.

* * *

Field Marshal Lavagni had his troops in place, and he was impatiently awaiting word that the plug crews were on station. A crude, hand-drawn map of the bay area lay on the sand in front of him, and this he was studying intently.

'How long d'you figure it'd take a guy on foot to cross this patch of jungle, Charlie?' he asked his chief gunner.

Dragone shrugged his shoulders. 'Depend on the guy, I guess. It's probably slow going in there, though.'

'Probably take me half a day,' Lavagni admitted. 'A guy who knew his way around, though…'

'You figure he's making for the back side?'

'Yeh. That's what I'd do.' The Mafia boss tapped the map with a thick finger. 'I'd head straight for this sugar farm here. I'd buy or steal me some wheels, and I'd high-tail it for San Juan.'

'That's what he's doing,' Dragone agreed. 'He needs to make some connections. I'd say San Juan, yeah.' The crewchief scratched absently at his forehead. 'One thing though, Tony. I doubt if this boy know where the hell he really is. I mean, without a map…'

'He come in by plane, remember,' Lavagni said, sighing. 'Don't worry, this boy always knows where he's at. Did you tell Vince what I told you?'

'Yeh. I told him you want a complete rundown on all the civilians living in the area. He's sending a boy over, a native I guess, to talk to you. Soon as he can find him. Things are pretty lore up over there, Tony.'

'They got things about under control?'

'Yeh, pretty much. But it's a mess. What the fire didn't get, the water did.'

'Tell Latigo to send a couple of boys to the farm, this sugar farm here.'

'Okay.'

'Goodboys.'

'Sure, Tony.'