San Diego Siege

He went on to the bow and leaned out to watch the water swirling past.

Yeah.

He hoped he knew what he was doing.

In all truth, though, he had not the faintest idea of where he was going or what he would do when he got there.

Danger's Folly, hell!

It was very possibly going to prove Bolan's folly... and that was the brutal truth of that.

8 The buy

They'd been underway for nearly an hour and — to Bolan's best calculation — on a due-west heading. There'd been no conversation between Bolan and the crew. He had not encouraged any, but spent the early time prowling the boat to get the feel of it.

The main cabin — marked 'Salon' with a brass plaque above the doorway — was done up for solid creature comforts. It was not overly large, but a lot of entertaining could be done in there. Couches and chairs, he noted, converted to sleeping arrangements for eight.

The engine room was crammed full of the most impressive-looking power plant Bolan had ever seen. It was quietly and smoothly propelling the big boat through the heavy swells of the open sea at a very respectable cruising speed.

The crews' quarters were housed in a small cabin behind the engine room. Four bunks, adequate headroom, small galley and lounge area — all of it clean and neatly shipshape.

The familiarization completed, Bolan sprawled into a deck chair on the fantail and watched the churning wake billow out beneath him.

They must have been twenty-five miles or so out when Bolan spotted the other boat. It was a classy speedster, deep draft, done up for sports fishing and flying a line of pennants from the mast.

He left his chair immediately and headed casually toward the bridge. Tarantini was inspecting the other boat through binoculars. He lowered the glasses as Bolan walked up and handed them to him.

'That's her,' Tarantini announced. 'And ready to deal.'

They were still about a mile away.

Bolan growled, 'How do you know?'

'Those pennants. It's a signal meaning everything's okay. If the Coast Guard or anything else suspicious had been in the area recently, she'd be flying a warning signal.'

Bolan nodded. He said, 'Okay, let's go.'

They were running on the other boat's beam, passing to the rear now.

'We're going,' Tarantini assured his passenger. 'We don't just run right up to them, y'know. But you can relax. I don't see no signs of trouble.'

'You won't until we get there,' Bolan warned. 'Tell your boys to stay alert. And you run with my play. Understand?'

The Turtle smiled soberly. 'You expecting some kind of double-cross?'

'Maybe something like that,' the Executioner replied, and turned his full attention to a binocular surveillance of his target.

Five minutes later Danger's Folly was coming alongside the other boat, sliding in from the starboard quarter. She was marked Pepe and, beneath the name, Ensenada. A Mexican registry.

Undoubtedly the rendezvous was taking place in international waters.

Bolan had to give Tarantini due credit. He knew his boat handling. It was a delicate maneuver; boats in open sea did not handle like rolling objects on a stable surface. They slid, wallowed, lunged and leaped. Both boats were maintaining sufficient headway for maneuverability, moving along at a speed of about ten knots. Horizontal separation was only about twenty feet, but both were maintaining station beautifully.

Bolan counted four Mexican crewmen, including the guy at the wheel. Standing beside the Mexican skipper was a beefy, red-faced man wearing slacks and a gaudy sports shirt, no hat, partially bald. American ... or European.

The sailors were throwing lines across and setting up a transfer operation, the usual nautical bit of pulleys and control lines.

Tarantini's full attention was being absorbed by the demanding job at the wheel. Without looking at Bolan, he told him, 'Okay, we're on station. You can do your thing now.'

Bolan had already noticed that his counterpart aboard the Pepe was moving toward the main deck. He took his cue from that and descended the ladder, dropping beside the two crewmen near the transfer lines. One of them silently handed him a battery-powered megaphone.

Bolan growled, 'Watch those bastards.' The crewman nodded understandingly and stepped aside.

The guy on the Pepe's dealing deck had a bullhorn also. He called across, in a strong French accent, 'Where is M'sieur Danger?'

'Couldn't make it,' Bolan horned back. 'You got the stuff?'

'My arrangement was with M'sieur Danger.' 'Then go deal with him,' Bolan replied. He raised the attache case. 'But what counts is right here.'

'You have one hundred American?' 'That was the deal, wasn't it,' Bolan called back.

'And five for the Pepe.'

'Yeah, sure. I gotta check the stuff first, though.'

The Frenchman dug into a rubberized bag and produced a small packet which he passed to a seaman beside htm. The sample went into a transfer basket and moved smoothly across the twenty intervening feet of Pacific.

Bolan removed it from the basket and opened the small plastic bag. He touched his tongue to the white powder in there. It was pure heroin, or damned close to pure. A hundred-thousand worth of the stuff would produce a million-buck's worth of street junk.

He raised the bullhorn and demanded, 'Let's see the rest of it.'

'I would see the color of your American first.'

Bolan obligingly opened the attache case and pulled out a packet of bills. He dropped them in the basket and gave the signal to the sailors. As it was making the transit, he called over, 'That's the five for the Pepe. The rest is just like it.' The guy was already inspecting the money. He was smiling as he announced, 'Okay. We have the deal. Send over the hundred.' 'You send over the stuff first.' The smile evaporated as the Frenchman, visibly upset, called back, 'This is not the way. M'sieur Tony Danger has never done business this way. You pay, I deliver. This is the way.' Bolan replied, 'So I'll pay.' He reached into the attache case again, but this time his fist came out filled with a big silver pistol, the .44 AutoMag, and it spoke instantly in a big rolling boom as the magnum missile dissolved the distance between the Executioner and his target. The Frenchman received his payment at the rail and his head exploded in receipt.

The Mexican seamen stood in stunned stupor and watched the lifeless body spin over the rail and into the water between the boats.

The AutoMag was at full extension and staring down on them when Bolan's taut voice again crackled through the bullhorn: 'You amigos have your five thousand American and that's all you were in it for! Do the smart thing and send that junk on over here!'

The skipper of the Pepe, like the American skipper, had his hands full with the delicate job of maintaining station. He had undoubtedly seen little of what had transpired between the two boats, but obviously he had heard enough. A shouted command in Spanish came down from the bridge and the stunned sailors reacted instantly, stuffing the Frenchman's rubberized bag into the transfer basket and hauling away on the