Taylor turned to face him. "Right. So why don't we grab Raul and just fly him on over to Florida. Valdez has already said he doesn't want the money. We can split it."

  Bolan almost laughed. It didn't matter what happened, Buddy Taylor would always be Buddy Taylor. He would see the world, and everyone in it, through the eyes of a man motivated solely by greed. And he would assume that everyone else had the same distorted values that he did.

  Bolan shook his head. "I'm not interested in the money."

  Taylor threw up his hands. "Okay, shit. I know what you're pissed about. Can't say as I blame you, in a way." He grinned lewdly. "It was pretty good stuff. But damn, Bolan, for what we stand to make, you can buy a hundred little whores like Janie."

  The Executioner didn't speak. He turned stony eyes toward Taylor, then returned his gaze to the sky.

  That was another thing a man like Taylor would never understand. Taylor's appetites had been his guiding force throughout his life. From the beginning, the crude mercenary had just assumed that the relationship between Bolan and Janie had to be sexual. To him, there could be no other kind.

  Well, the Executioner wouldn't waste time or breath trying to explain. Buddy Taylor wasn't worth it.

  But the score had to be settled. The books on that account would balance before the Executioner concluded this mission. Taylor was going to pay for the death of a woman whose dying wish had been for a second chance at life.

  "Okay," the merc said. "You don't like that, I got a better idea. We don't even need Valdez on this one. We snatch Raul and contact Castro ourselves. We run the operation without those government bozos. Can you imagine what that bearded son of a bitch will pay to get his top man back?"

  This time, Bolan did laugh. "And you plan to run this show?"

  Taylor nodded. "Well, me and you. Pollock."

  Bolan turned to stare at the man. Taylor was capable of shifting gears with the speed of a race car. He could threaten vainly one moment, and bootlick with the best of them in the very next. Any angle that might work — that was the one from which he always came. And if it didn't have the desired effect, he changed angles with no more shame than a righteous man kneeling in prayer.

  Yeah, he had the speed of a race car, Bolan thought. What he lacked was the precision.

  "We could pull it off together with no sweat," Taylor persisted. "Hell, either one of us could handle it ourselves."

  "And I'm sure you'd try it if I gave you half the chance," Bolan said. "But I don't intend to." He shook his head. "I'd have thought by now you'd have figured out I don't work that way. But from simply a practical point of view, Taylor, you'd be out of your league. Castro would eat you alive."

  The merc's face colored again. "I'd beat the hell out of you right now," he growled, "if I could fly this plane myself."

  "Yes, I'm sure you would. I've heard your ideas. Now shut up."

  Through the Cessna's windshield, Bolan saw the northern tip of the Gulf of California. He checked the instrument panel and set course toward Mazatlán, flying south along the western coast of the rolling blue waves.

  Taylor leaned back in the seat, silently chewing the end of an unlighted cigarette. Bolan could see the wrinkles in his forehead as he squinted in concentration.

  The man was scheming again. On what new twist, Bolan didn't know. He was angry that he'd lost the cocaine and the money it would have brought. Now, he was even losing the reward Alpha 66 would have paid for the delivery of Raul Castillo.

  Buddy Taylor was both greedy and angry, and the combination could mean only one thing: the Executioner's problems with the double-dealing merc weren't over. They couldn't be until he'd pointed out the meeting place with Valdez. Then perhaps, the Executioner could rid himself of this fat albatross once and for all.

  Taylor broke the silence as they neared Mazatlán. "Okay, shit, never mind. I've had enough of this crap anyway. All I want now is out. I'll take you to Valdez, and then there's a sweet little thing in Mazatlán I think I'll go throw a leg over. And good riddance to you. Pollock."

  "Wrong."

  "Huh?"

  "I said, 'wrong, Taylor. I'm not taking my eyes off you until I've got Montoya."

  "Hell. All I want's a piece of ass. You can't hold that against me, can you?"

  "You stay with me."

  Bolan reached under the pilot's seat and located one of the false panels where the cocaine had been hidden. He slid it open and removed the Beretta and Desert Eagle, dropping them into the compartment. He turned to Taylor. "Touch them," he said flatly, "and I'll kill you."

  "Hey, no sweat. I just want this thing over."

  The Executioner turned back to the controls and began the descent. In the distance, the tower advertising AeroMexico and Mexicana Airlines popped over the horizon and then the runway appeared below.

  The Executioner kept one eye on the runway as they touched down. He kept the other on his reluctant companion.

  9

  The Mexican customs officer swaggered toward the Cessna as Bolan and Taylor leaned against the door. He stopped in front of the plane and wrote on the clipboard in his hand. "Turista?" he asked Bolan.

  "Yes," Bolan replied in Spanish. "We're only here for the afternoon."

  The Mexican nodded and walked slowly around the plane, jotting more entries on the visitor's pass. He turned back to Bolan. "Do you have the plane registration?"

  Bolan smiled. "Somewhere. I'm an unorganized man. It would take some time to find it."

  The customs man nodded. "There's no reason to inconvenience our American friends. It's obvious you're good men, seeking only a little rest and relaxation, no?" he looked from Taylor's scuffed and scarred combat boots to his face. "Perhaps you have another form of identification you could show me before you go on your way to enjoy the delights of our fair city?" he smiled in anticipation.

  Bolan produced several bills and handed them over.

  The money disappeared into the Mexican's back pocket. "Have a pleasant stay," he said, and turned away.

  The Executioner climbed back aboard and opened the panel beneath the seat. He slid the Beretta and Desert Eagle under his shirt before rejoining Taylor.

  "Handled like a champ," the merc said, grinning.

  Bolan ignored him as they walked toward the terminal. He didn't like bribing officials — of any country. But in Mexico, it was a way of life. The police, from federates on down, were underpaid by the government and accepting «tips» for minor infractions was expected as part of their income. It was the officer's own interpretation of what constituted minor that led to the problems within that system.

  Bolan saw the uniformed man again as they cut through the terminal. He left Taylor at a row of vending machines and walked up to the man.

  "Excuse me."

  The Mexican turned to him, frowning. "Yes?"

  "I'm worried about the safety of my plane," Bolan said.

  The Mexican official's chest puffed in importance. "You Americans. You're not the only people with security for…" He broke off in midspeech at the sight of the hundred-dollar-bill in Bolan's hand.

  "I would like you to make sure no one comes near the Cessna."

  The official snatched the bill. "I will guard it with my life." He turned briefly to where Taylor was uncapping a Coke bottle. "Is your friend included in this restriction?"

  "My friend is especially included."

  The customs official headed for the Cessna.

  Bolan and Taylor continued toward the front of the terminal, where Bolan knew he'd find a line of cabs. They took seats in the back of a crumbling, unmarked Ford and listened to the cabbie's endless prattle as they rode to the Mazatlán harbor.

  The warrior ordered the cabdriver over to the curb at a shopping center a half block from their destination.

  "Look," Taylor said as they got out, "you can handle it from here. It's a Hatteras 48 — should be easy enough to spot. I think I'll look up the hooker I mentioned. You keep the plane. I'll find my own way back."

  Bolan shoved him toward a phone booth outside a souvenir shop. "Bad idea," he said. "I want you where I can see you."

  Bolan dropped a coin and dialed a special number that rang Brognola's private line at Justice. A few minutes later, the big Fed came on the line.

  "The Swiss embassy here is handling it," the Justice man said. "Castro's agreed to the trade. But he wants it on his terms."

  "What a surprise."

  "Yeah. It's got to go down in Cuba, Striker. It was the only way he'd negotiate. You up for it?"

  "Tell me where and when," Bolan replied.

  "They're still working out the details. Castro doesn't know that we don't even have Raul, yet. We're stalling through the Swiss as much as possible, but there's a time element involved. If he doesn't get his buddy back quick, he's threatened to tell the press that the CIA kidnapped him." Brognola took a breath. "That wouldn't help us much on the world scene."

  "Politics are somebody else's department. You worry about that. I'll get Raul. Where do I go from here?"

  "Naval Air Facility, Key West," Brognola instructed. "Don't announce your approach — we don't want to risk Alpha 66 or anyone else picking up your air waves."

  "What about Alpha?" Bolan asked. "Do they know anything?"

  "I don't know, Striker. But to make sure, we've asked the Company boys to keep a close rein on them the next few days."

  "Be sure they do," Bolan said. "They'd shoot their own mothers for a chance at Raul."

  The warrior hung up, and he and Taylor started toward the docks. They passed fishing and pleasure craft and then the lines of a Hatteras 48 became visible in the distance. Valdez was on deck with a mop.

  The little Cuban looked up as Bolan stepped on board. He smiled quickly at his visitor, then a frown spread slowly across his features. He looked at Taylor, then back at Bolan. "Why are you here?" he asked, dropping the mop.

  Bolan looked him square in the eyes. "I've come for Raul."

  Valdez shook his head, his hand dropping to the hilt of his Bowie knife. "I am sorry, Senor Pollock. I have admired your skill and courage since the beginning. But you cannot have him. He must pay for his crimes against my people."

  "And he will. Someday. But right now there are more important things to consider, Valdez, and I don't have time to line them up for you." Bolan pushed past the little Cuban and started for the ladder.

  Bolan heard the swish as the Bowie left the leather sheath. He ducked instinctively as the massive blade cut an arc over his head, the rays of the hot tropical sun reflecting off the wide blade as it passed above him.

  The Executioner turned as Valdez slashed again, returning the wide blade in a vicious, backhand cut. Bolan shuffled backward toward the ladder, the Bowie flashing less than an inch from his throat.

  The warrior's hand moved toward the guns in his belt, then stopped. The thunder of the Desert Eagle would bring harbor officials running from all directions. The suppressed Beretta would be quiet, but already they had attracted the eyes of passengers on nearby vessels.

  A knife fight in southern Mexico wasn't uncommon and merited only the sporting interest of the crowd. But the restrictions on firearms were rigid, and the sight of a gun, particularly with a suppressor attached, would likely mean the notification of police.

  Bolan stepped to the side as the little Cuban lunged, the knife snagging in his shirt as it passed his ribs. He threw a short jab, and Valdez's head snapped backward, dragging him across the deck.

  "Just drop it," Bolan ordered. "I don't want to hurt you."

  The Executioner didn't want to kill the little Cuban. Like Janie, he was basically a good person gone wrong. Regardless of how misdirected he might be, his primary goal was to rid his homeland of the bearded tyrant who had reigned for the past three decades.

  Unlike Buddy Taylor and men of his ilk, there was still hope for Valdez.

  Bolan retreated once more as Valdez leaped forward with a downward, overhand slash toward the skull. Anticipating the next move, the warrior reached out and caught the little Cuban's wrist as it started up in an underhand, disemboweling stroke.

  A hard right cross sent Valdez crumpling to the deck, unconscious, while the Bowie knife bounced off a seat cushion then settled next to him.

  Bolan kicked the weapon aside and turned to Taylor, "Watch him. I'm going below to get Raul."

  Castillo lay on the bed in the main stateroom, bound and gagged. His eyes widened as Bolan bent to cross the threshold.

  "Perhaps there is a God, after all," the Cuban gasped when Bolan removed the gag. He laughed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "But more likely, Fidel is still able to manipulate the Americans at will." He rubbed his wrists as soon as Bolan freed him from his bonds. The smile left his face as he assumed command. "We must leave for Cuba immediately."

  "No, not immediately."

  "I said immediately," Castillo snarled. "You must be of some importance for Fidel to have chosen you. But I'm the defense minister, I will take charge now."

  Bolan drew the huge .44 Magnum from beneath his shirt and shoved it under the Cuban's nose. "You're badly mistaken," he said. "Now get up."

  "What? You didn't come at Fidel's orders?"

  "Hardly." Bolan pushed Castillo up the ladder. "Try to break for it when you reach the top," he said, "and I'll put one between your shoulder blades." He shoved the Desert Eagle into the man's spine for emphasis.

  The Executioner followed the Cuban up the steps, returning the .44 to his belt as he reached the top. As the warrior stepped out into the sunshine, he saw Felipe Valdez laying on the deck.

  But he wasn't simply unconscious. The little Cuban's throat had been sliced from ear to ear, the blood-covered Bowie next to his body.

  Buddy Taylor was no where to be seen.

  Bolan shoved the minister into a seat and ran to the bow, scanning the docks. Taylor was sprinting back toward the boat, his red face threatening to explode from exertion.

  "I… couldn't… catch them," the puffing man gasped out.

  Bolan didn't answer.

  "There… were three… of them," Taylor continued between breaths. "Cubans, I think. Snuck up on me."

  The Executioner scanned the area again. The people on the nearby boats were conducting business as usual — the same people who had been so interested in the knife fight minutes before. Surely the sight of three men coming aboard the Hatteras and cutting the throat of an unconscious man would have sparked their curiosity once more.

  And from the stateroom, only a few feet below deck, Bolan had heard no commotion.

  No, three men hadn't boarded the boat, overpowered Taylor and cut Valdez's throat. One man had knelt quietly out of sight and killed the unconscious Cuban.

  Then he'd taken off down the dock and waited until Bolan and Castillo came above, sprinting back with another of his ridiculous, implausible lies.

  Bolan stared into Buddy Taylor's eyes. The cowardly mercenary was now responsible for the deaths of all three of his Vampire Bats. The world had a score to settle with this miserable excuse for a human being, a score that would be settled by the Executioner.

  But it would have to wait. Far in the distance, Bolan saw two harbor policemen hurrying along the docks, revolvers drawn. Someone had alerted authorities, either concerning the earlier knife fight or the murder immediately afterward.

  It didn't matter which reason now brought the law racing down the harbor. Bolan didn't need their circumspection under any conditions.

  "Take Valdez below," he ordered Taylor, then turned to Raul Castillo.

  "I don't have time to explain the whole situation right now," he said, "but I'll hit the high spots. You're going to walk out of here next to me, and you're not going to open your mouth until I tell you to. If you do, I'll kill you." He patted the bulges beneath his shirt. "You understand?"

  The Cuban nodded as Taylor reappeared from below.

  Bolan looked at him, his eyes narrowing. "Let's go."

  The warrior placed Castillo between himself and Taylor, and they walked quickly away from the Hatteras and the oncoming police. They followed the docks to the end, then turned away from the sea toward the phone booth Bolan had used earlier.

  The Executioner cast a final glance over his shoulder as the two Mexican harbor police stepped onto the Hatteras's deck.

  The Executioner hailed a cab and motioned the minister in after Taylor, taking the seat on the Cuban's other side. "Airport," he told the driver.

  Bolan saw one of the harbor police appear from the docks behind them as they pulled out into traffic. The police had discovered Valdez's body, and they were now looking for the murderer. If he was lucky, they'd figure it for just another of the many robbery-killings by local thugs that went unpublicized by the Mexican Bureau of Tourism. But if the police suspected the involvement of foreigners, they were likely to encounter problems at the airport.

  Bolan leaned over the seat and pressed several bills into the driver's hand. "We're in a hurry."

  The driver grinned and nodded his head. He floored the accelerator, cutting in and out of the honking cars around him.

  At the airport, Bolan paid off the cabbie and hurried Castillo toward the Cessna. Taylor followed, a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin on his face.

  The same uniformed customs officer they'd dealt with earlier stood next to the Cessna. He smiled graciously as the three men approached the plane. "You're leaving so soon?"

  Bolan nodded.

  "Ah, and you've picked up a friend, I see," the Mexican said. A greedy expression covered his face as he turned to Castillo. "Your passport, please," he said.

  "He's lost his passport," Bolan explained, handing several hundred dollar bills to the official.

  "Many thanks. And visit us again…" he looked at the bills in his hand"…Seňor Benjamin Franklin." He threw back his head in laughter as he walked away.

  Several minutes later Bolan taxied toward the runway as Buddy Taylor tied the Cuban's hands and feet. It didn't make sense. Why had Taylor killed Valdez? The shifty merc's sole motivation had always been greed, and cutting Valdez's throat wouldn't make him a penny.

 

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