Caribbean Kill

the boat?'

'Si, I have the boat. But…'

'But what?'

'They have my Rosalita!'

Bolan groaned, 'Oh hell.'

'They say they will feed her to the sharks! They say it is a trade, youfor her.'

Calmly, Evita said, 'Tell us what happened, Juan.'

The boy's eyes dropped and he replied, 'I did not follow the instructions. Rosalita did not wish to go to my uncle's without me. She insisted upon remaining with me and waiting in the truck while I conduct the business.' The agonized gaze lifted in a search of Bolan's impassive face. 'I allowed her to do so. It is my fault, all of it.'

'What do they want you to do, Juan?' Bolan asked him.

'They wish that I go on as though nothing is changed. I am simply to meet you and take you to the boat.' The eyes fell again as he added, 'They would not have learned these arrangements from me, senor, except that I am so fearful for Rosalita. These men are muy malo — verybad.'

Bolan could have told the kid that the muy malomen would have learned, with or without Rosalita. The girl simply provided them the delightful free kicker, the insurance ticket.

Evita commented, 'Why did they not simply spring the trap here? Why take the chance with Juan?'

She was not that familiar with the Mafia mind. Bolan was.

It was another example of super-care, super strategy for the super kill. When they could control a situation, they controlled it to the finest detail. The one thing they had not taken into account was Juan Escadrillo's monumental faith in Mack Bolan. The kid was placing the whole thing in Bolan's hands, confident that he would handle the situation to Rosalita's best advantage.

Bolan asked Juan, 'How did they get onto us?'

'They are watching every one, every where. I did not know this, but they have enlisted spies from the men of the village.'

Bolan nodded. 'Okay, I should have known better. My goof, Juan, not yours, so stop hating yourself. I gave them too damn much time. All right, Juan, what's the plot?'

'The plot is this. I am to take you to the fisherman's wharf, at the center of town. This is the market place, and also the place where the sporting boats and the commercial fishers are kept. The boat I have hired for you has been moved to the end of the wharf. Next to this is the other boat, the one in which they hold my Rosalita.'

Bolan was thinking of Monte Carlo and a very similar setup involving Tony Lavagni. The old triggerman was at least a consistent planner.

'This is a very powerful — what you call a cruiser, a sportfishing boat. We will have to walk directly past it in order to reach your boat.'

'And they have Rosalita aboard the cruiser,' Bolan commented.

'Si. They tell me to be very careful, and my Rosalita will not be harmed. Otherwise…' The boy shivered. '… they will chop her into little pieces and use her for fishing bait.'

'We won't let that happen,' Bolan assured him.

'Rosalita sends this message. She says you should not think of her, nor of me, but that you should guard your own treasures, Mack Bolan.'

Bolan's eyes were glinting crystals of ice.

He said, 'That's exactly what I'm going to do, Juan.'

Chapter Eleven Breakout

Puerta Vista was located in one of the less scenic areas of the Caribbean coast. The shoreline was rocky, the natural harbor was small and shallow, and tourist accommodations in the tiny village were minimal and unpretentious. Puerta Vista was a fishing village, and most who lived there made their living from the sea.

The community wharf area reflected this state of existence. It was primarily a marketplace and the center of local activity. The wharf itself fronted the entire central district and provided mooring facilities for the local fishing fleet. A small area at the west end was reserved for 'public' boats — the occasional non-commercial yacht or cruiser which might put into Puerta Vista for fuel or supplies.

To conserve docking space, the harbormaster had some years earlier instituted the 'Mediterranean moor' as the docking method at Puerta Vista. This is a stern-to technique, with the boats backed into the dockage and secured by stern lines to the wharf, bow lines to buoys. Using this method, Puerta Vista had managed to accommodate her local commercial fleet while maintaining open wharfage for the growing numbers of pleasure boats which had lately begun making port calls.

The setup pleased Tony Lavagni immensely. The public dock space was well removed from the market area, and something like a hundred feet of open wharf separated his cruiser from the nearest fishing boat.

The old salvage rig which had been hired for Bolan's escape was tied up right next door, to the west of the cruiser, and these were the only two boats in the public dock.

A warehouse of corrugated sheet metal stood between this end of the wharf and the town. Bolan would have to walk along the entire western side of the wharf in order to reach his boat. He would also have to pass behind the cruiser. The only other way was through or over the warehouse, and Quick Tony had made provisions for that route also. As for swimming in — forget it. Quick Tony Lavagni was not born yesterday.

So he was ready, the taste of victory strong on his palate. Even if somehow Bolan should manage to get past them and onto his boat, he'd never make it out of the harbor. This 'Med moor' bit was tailor-made for a fast getaway. The guy had told him that the U.S. Navy used the method for its Sixth Fleet operations in the Mediterranean, so they could haul out of port on a moment's notice, without all the dicking around with tugs and crap trying to get underway.

Bolan might like the setup too, naturally. As long as he didn't think there was any chance of a hot pursuit out of that place. The cruiser could run rings around that falling-apart salvage boat, so just let the hotshot bastard try some of his razzle-dazzle around here. He'd find out damn quick how far he could get with it.

Tony had six guns on the cruiser itself, and two of those were heavy automatics. He had two boys up on top of the warehouse with shotguns, and two more inside. He had boys spotted all along that wharf, mixing it up with the local yokels and ready to fall in behind Bolan and plug any escape out the back door. And he had a boy stationed on the salvage rig, just for the locker. Bolan, Quick Tony was absolutely certain, would never set a foot on that boat

It was a lot different here than at Monte Carlo. If it hadn't been for police interference, Lavagni would have nailed Bolan at Monte Carlo and ended all the anguish once and for all.

But there would be no such interference here. The village had one hick constable or something, sheriff maybe, a real comedian with a uniform like a Manhattan hotel doorman and about the same police ability.

Also, Tony had this time been given plenty of time to set the thing up properly. He had Bolan right where he wanted him, by the balls that's where, and Quick Tony could hardly wait to start squeezing.

Nothing could go wrong, nothing. Even if the kid suddenly lost his mind and tipped the thing to Bolan — even that wouldn't change anything.

Bolan fancied himself as a Sir Galahad or something when it came to the dames. He had even put his head on the block for a bunch of damn French whores — if the guy had a weak point, that was it. He couldn't walk away from a dame in trouble.

The pregnant kid broad meant nothing at all to Tony Lavagni. He didn't let himself get involved with people that way. She wasn't a peopleat all, she was just a tool, and he'd use her any damn way he could. He's shove a hook up her ass and dangle her from the yardarm if he thought that would bring Bolan around.