Sicilian Slaughter

the immunity law for cop-outs, she was scared and seldom turned anything but cinches, stuff she already had a buyer for, and she cut out the middle guy, letting the 'buyer' pick it up himself. It lowered her take, but it also lowered her risks.

Now, on this particular gloomy, wet, gray, filthy day, she felt as out of sorts as everyone else. In fact, she thought, maybe it would be a hell of a good thing if she did whip a little on Teaf. She could use a good lay herself, maybe cheer her up. If the son of a bitch just didn't strut so! Like some 25,000-hour senior airline captain, when she knew for a fact Teaf was a TWA reject.

And then the whole world turned rosy for Annabelle Caine.

Mack The Bastard Bolan walked into the office. Just like that. God, ballsy guy, like a goddam cape buffalo! The word was already out, she'd heard it the night before from a contact she still maintained with the organization. Bolan had shot his way out of a trap at the hospital, then vanished.

Except, there he stood! Bolan. The man with $100,000 on his head! Her hands shook as she dialed. But her connection was out of pocket, Oh, the bastard, why couldn't he be shacked up with some —

Christ, they were already rolling out the long-range jet!

Answer the phone, you son of a bitch! I've got a hundred thousand fuckin' dollars standing fifty feet from me! Teaf came in and wrote up the charter, gave Anna-belle ten thousand in cash, advised her to call an armored car service immediately because it was risky having that kind of dough.

She could hardly breathe. She dropped the money. Scrabbled around on the floor gathering the bills up. She heard Teaf go out. She couldn't stand it. There he went, getting aboard, a hundred thousand dollars. Oh, God, no!

She jerked open the back door and screamed at one of the lineboys. He came running. She thrust the money into his hands and pointed, 'Clean it up, call an armored car service, ten thousand,' and shoved past him, running, almost tripping in high-heels. She stopped and jerked her shoes off and ran.

Mack Bolan became aware of another presence aboard the aircraft when he felt a slight change in the cabin air pressure. He did not move until he felt the pressure normalize, and heard a faint click!

Still lying back in his seat as though asleep, he eased his hand under his jacket and gripped the Beretta, then like a cat, he rolled out of the seat and flat on the floor, pistol aimed.

The girl shrieked: 'No!' and shoved her hands out palms forward as though they would stop 9mm Parabellum sizzlers.

Bolan relaxed pressure on the trigger and got to his feet.

Teeth chattering, eyes sprung wide as saucers, the woman managed, 'Mr. Borzi ... can I, can I bring you anything?'

Bolan sat down, motioning her forward. She stopped directly beside the seat. Never in his life had Mack Bolan seen such bosoms. Looking up he could not see her face, only the underside of a brown knit jersey jutting out. Then she leaned over and Mack saw an ordinary face, a few years on it, thin lips, muddy eyes, bad complexion not hidden by pancake. The only thing she had going for her was the tits and she knew it.

Her right hand dropped to Mack's left thigh. 'Or anything I can do for you?'

'No, darlin,' I'm fine.' Mack gestured toward a seat across the narrow aisle. 'Sit down.'

He noticed she wore a pants suit. Probably had legs as bad as her face, tits the whole show.

'When did you come aboard?'

'While they loaded your crate. Machinery, I believe it was stenciled.'

Mack Bolan did not know for sure, quite yet, positively, but he believed he'd have to kill this girl. Her nose was much too long. He answered. 'That's right. Machinery.'

'What business are you in?'

'Well, ah, various. Actually, salvage and demolition are my main specialties.'

'Of what?'

Mack knew then. He would have to kill her. She played it too clever. Possibly . . . hell, probably she had already been down into the cargo hold with a prybar.

'Is there any booze aboard?' Mack asked, as though the thought had just occurred to him.

'Anything you wish,' the girl said, smiling. She had good teeth. 'Not limited to drinks, I might add.'

'So nice to know. If the mood strikes me, dear. What's your name?'

'Annabelle.'

'Annabelle, who, what?'

'Just Annabelle.'

'Okay, Annabelle no last name, I'll take a Bloody Mary and go very light on the hot.'

'Right on, Mr. Bo-oh-orzi.'

Well, The Executioner thought, that's a death warrant. My passport and visas and documents and the few travelers' checks he'd bought, all in the name Mike Borzi; but she damned near called me Bolan. And it took her too long to build the drink.

Bolan winked, faked a sip, reached up and touched, found a hard unyielding silicone stiffness and dropped his hand. She had dropped to her knees beside him, hand going to his belt the moment Mack touched her. He acted as though he understood nothing, unlatched his lap strap and rose to his feet and shoved past her.

In the cockpit Teaf lazed back in his seat, the aircraft on flight director, a highly sophisticated autopilot. Bolan shot a look at the altimeter. It showed FL 23: Flight Level 23,000 feet. He glanced past the pilot and looked out the window.

Bolan was not a pilot, though he had flown many hours in Nam and in the Army, in fixed wing aircraft and helicopters. He also had phenomenal eyesight and depth perception. He was not sure they were actually 23,000 feet above the ocean, but knew the airplane was tremendously high.

Laconically, Bolan said, 'Christ, we're so high it looks like a calm lake down there.'

Teaf roused himself, reached forward, rapped the altimeter sharply, and the big marker moved some forty feet higher. Teaf then twisted the knob on the instrument and set the tiny window marker on the left side of the altimeter to read 29.92 inches mercury, the standard setting for over-ocean flights so all aircraft had the same altimeter reading and would, theoretically, if conforming to assigned altitudes, avoid mid-air collisions.

'We're a little high,' Teaf said, but did nothing. The extra forty feet did not seem to bother him.

'What about oxygen?' Mack Bolan/Borzi asked.

'Plane's pressurized, sir. No sweat.'

'What if something busts open?'

Condescendingly, expert explaining to frightened novice, Teaf said, 'Still no sweat. Get a might cold before we got down to lower altitude, but we have portable ox-bottles all over the ship. The green ones, stashed in niches, with a mask. Notice them?'

'Yeah, but what the hell, man. Like it goes, I mean all of a sudden?'

'You mean explosive decompression?' Teaf turned in his seat and grinned at Mack. 'No sweat. If you can't reach an ox-bottle soon enough, you might hypoxia, oxygen starvation, and pass out.'

Teaf pointed vaguely at the instrument. 'But that would show up here instantly and I'd put her down on the deck. Like I said, Mr. Borzi, no sweat.'

'Unless I happened to be standing next to a door or window that went, huh?'

With obvious and decided discomfort, Teaf sat up straight in his seat. He did not answer. He took the bizjet off flight director and began flying manually.

Bolan/Borzi jerked up the armrest of the right side pilot seat and sat down sideways so he could look directly at Teaf. Deliberately, he thumbed the pilot in the ribs.

'I don't remember an answer, ace.'

Evidently knowing that both silence and lies had become worthless, Teaf shrugged, sighed, and said, 'Okay, sure, at this altitude we are pressurized for eight thousand feet while flying at twenty-three thousand. If we had an explosive decompression — extremely unlikely, mind you! — then anything close to the leak would go.'

'You mean ME?' Bolan/Borzi shouted.

'Oh, no, sir, unless a big, I mean big hole. Like a window or door. The chances of that are so remote, hell, I'd give you million to one odds.'

'That's a bet,' Bolan said, getting to his feet.