Deadly Salvage. Don Pendleton
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out the three above, but wait till I get aboard,” Grimes said. “I’ll take the other two.”
Grimes stepped out onto the deck of the skiff and pulled on a pair of leather driving gloves. “Nice looking boat. How many does she hold?”
“Enough,” Harv said, lowering the binoculars. His brow furrowed as Grimes reached for the ladder on the side of the yacht. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“Permission to come aboard,” Grimes replied with a smile. He began to hoist himself up the ladder.
“I didn’t say you could do that,” Harv said, his drunken voice rising with the first vestiges of alarm. He turned to the young Latino. “Angel, get us out of here.”
The man nodded and reached down toward a shiny silver lever.
A shot rang out. Angel’s head jerked back, momentarily surrounded by a red halo, as a spiderweb of cracks sprang outward from the neat, round hole in the glass windshield. Harv’s jaw dropped as a second shot pierced the glass, and he grabbed his chest as he dropped. The tan woman started to scream. A third shot burst into the wheelhouse. Her voice ceased as she fell.
Grimes was at the top of the ladder now and going over the side. He drew his Heckler and Koch 9 millimeter and aimed at Norm, who was frozen in place on the stern. Grimes double-tapped the trigger, sending two rounds into his chest. Norm lurched forward, clutching the growing red stain expanding over the front of his crisp white shirt. The woman next to him was paralyzed for a moment, too, but as he collapsed she turned and ran toward the cabin doors.
“You’ve got no place to go,” Grimes said. The next round from his H&K caught her in the side and she flopped onto the deck, squirming and crying as her long legs kicked.
Not bad for a one-handed shot, thought Grimes as he assumed a two-handed grip and aimed carefully before sending his next round directly into her left temple. The screaming stopped abruptly and a trickle of blood flowed from her open mouth.
Grimes leaped down onto the deck, immediately moved to the cabin doors and kicked them open. A quick search revealed no other passengers. He surveyed the interior. Nice flat-screen television, a wet bar, and three separate sleeping quarters on either side. Tanner appeared in the doorway, holding out his hand.
“Here’s your brass. And their camera.”
Grimes holstered his H&K, placed the spent shell casings in his pocket and began to review the digital photos. Most of them showed the now-departed crew in a variety of poses. Obviously, they were exhibitionists, but that didn’t matter now. They’d been a security risk, pure and simple. The boss would probably not be happy, but he would no doubt approve.
The camera also contained several clear shots of Grimes, Tanner, the divers and the submersible. Grimes started to press the delete button, but hesitated. Perhaps these would be worth showing to Everett when he got here in case he was miffed at the shooting. He was going to want a full briefing, and this way it would contain visual aids. Grimes smiled at his wit as he slung the camera strap over his neck. “Leave some men here to secure this boat. Find their passports. After you take me back, return here and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Dump everything of value overboard. Then set this thing adrift far away from here. Make it look like the work of pirates, or drug smugglers or something.”
“Understood, sir,” Tanner said.
Grimes climbed the steps and strode past the two bodies, which were still leaking bright crimson onto the pristine whiteness of the lower deck. He hesitated, but couldn’t resist taking a few photos of his handiwork. He turned and snapped a few of good old Harv, his pretty lady, and the dead Latino kid, as well.
A bit of an untidy mess, but necessary for the mission, Grimes thought as he stepped over them. Collateral damage.
Mack Bolan, also known as the Executioner, passed the three-mile marker and noted that he had finally broken a sweat. He carried a five-pound dumbbell in each hand. The trees and bushes on either side of the macadamized track that led through the heavily wooden area surrounding Stony Man Farm had just started to sprout their seasonal leaves. Bright sunshine filtered through the swirls of green buds, dappling the trail ahead with splashes of brilliance. Running this five-mile course was a great way to unwind after returning from a mission. Up ahead, two deer walked across the path, stopped, saw Bolan and scampered into the forest.
Suddenly, a distant but distinct buzzing began to intrude on the peaceful scene. The birds became silent as the buzzing grew louder. Bolan had already identified it: a motorcycle—a trail bike most likely—and it was heading his way. Although the soldier normally felt totally comfortable and safe within the confines of Stony Man Farm, his survival instinct never allowed him to completely drop his guard. The trail curved to the left and he quickened his pace, sprinting around the turn, at once out of view from the approaching motorcyclist. He slowed and waded into the heavy foliage. Stopping next to an oak tree, he dropped the dumbbells and pulled his SIG Sauer P938 Nightmare from the pocket of his sweatpants. Then he waited.
When Bolan heard the motorcycle slowing to make the turn, he brought the SIG up and braced his arm against the heavy trunk. The motorcycle rider accelerated and zoomed past Bolan’s position, only to slow down and screech to a halt about eight seconds later.
The rider removed his helmet, but Bolan had already identified him.
It was Jack Grimaldi. Bolan lowered the pistol, grabbing the weights with his left hand and stepping out of the trees.
Grimaldi swiveled in the seat. “Are you slipping or something?” he asked. “You made more noise than a troop of Boy Scouts.”
“I’ll give back my merit badge.”
Grimaldi’s eyebrows rose as he looked at the pistol. “Where’s your Beretta? It’s not like you to be without your baby.”
“Sometimes less is more when it comes to concealment,” Bolan said. He pocketed the SIG, took a dumbbell in each hand and began running again.
Grimaldi twisted the accelerator and pulled up beside Bolan. “Hal sent me to get you.”
“Well, you got me.”
The pilot smiled. “Come on, he wants to see you right away.”
Bolan kept running.
“Did you hear me?” Grimaldi asked. “He said ‘right away.’”
“I heard. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
“Hop on and I’ll give you a ride.”
“Nope,” Bolan said. “I’ve been promising myself this run ever since I got back. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes? You slowed down that much?”
“I can make it quicker if I skip my shower,” Bolan said drily.
Grimaldi grinned. “We wouldn’t want that. See you later.” He stopped, replaced the helmet on his head, and asked, “Want to race?”
Bolan didn’t answer, and seconds later Grimaldi zoomed past him with a spray of gravel.
* * *
BOLAN WALKED INTO the War Room freshly showered and changed. Hal Brognola glanced up from his big desk. “Have a nice run?”
“Pretty good until you and Jack ruined it. What’s up?”
“We may have something brewing in the Caribbean.”
“Like what?”
“Missing yacht, for one thing,” Brognola said. “A bunch of rich folks out of Miami. Big campaign contributors to a lot of politicians on the Hill. They took off for the islands and haven’t been heard from in two days.”
“Sounds