Deadly Salvage

Chapter 4

Bolan and Grimaldi leaned against the three-foot-high cement wall that overlooked the lush vegetation of the valley below. Beyond the trees, they could see the coastline and ocean. The plateau was the perfect place to snap some pictures of the gorgeous island scenery. As the road wound along the next bend, the view would expand to include the ramshackle village that preceded the strip of luxury hotels. This lookout appeared to have been bulldozed flat as the road was cut through the mountains. At one time, perhaps, it had been a peak of some sort. Now it was forty yards of blacktop adjacent to the two-lane road, with several parking spaces and an array of picnic tables in the center. Bolan and Grimaldi’s rental sat in one of the spots nearby, while another Citroën was parked at the opposite end. A young couple, probably in their mid-twenties, took turns posing for photos in front of the scenic background.

Grimaldi drummed his fingers impatiently on the cement. “You think he forgot about us?”

Bolan glanced at his watch. The FBI man was fifteen minutes late. “Hal said it was all set up.”

Grimaldi puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. “What’s this dude’s name again?”

“Tim Tyler.”

“Wasn’t there an old comic strip with that name, or something?”

“Yeah. Tim Tyler’s Luck.”

Grimaldi snorted. “Well, I hope this Fed had some luck getting a line on that Monk guy. I’m starting to get an uneasy feeling about this one.”

“You and me both,” Bolan said. He heard the sound of a car approaching and looked toward the far curve. A white police jeep crested the hill and began veering toward them. The driver wore the crisp blue-and-white island police uniform. The man in the passenger seat was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and necktie. He looked young, maybe twenty-five, and had short cropped red hair and a spray of freckles across his face.

“Will you look at that?” Grimaldi said. “A beautiful, seventy-nine degree Caribbean afternoon and this guy’s dressed like Opie Taylor in a three-piece suit.”

The jeep pulled in next to their Citroën and stopped. The vehicle had no doors and the canvas roof was pulled back. The young guy unbuckled his seat belt, hopped out and walked toward them, holding out his open palm.

“I’m Special Agent Tyler from the Bureau,” he said. “Sorry we’re so late. Are you Cooper?” Tyler’s face was almost boyish.

“I am,” he said, shaking Tyler’s hand. He introduced Grimaldi, who also shook hands with the agent.

“This is Corporal Gaston of the island police,” Tyler said, pointing to the jeep’s driver. “They assigned him to help me check out the hotels and other spots on both sides of the island. He speaks French, English and Dutch.”

“What? No Italian?” Grimaldi shook Gaston’s hand.

Bolan shook the corporal’s hand in turn, noticing that it was damp.

“How do you do?” Gaston asked. He smiled, but his dark face was shiny with sweat, too. “You no doubt have much to discuss in private. I will leave you to your privacy.”

He walked over to the picnic tables, taking out his cell phone as he went. Beyond him, the young couple still flirted playfully, posing for the camera.

“So you two are with the Justice Department?” Tyler asked.

“We are,” Bolan said.

“No offense, but this is a Bureau case.” Tyler’s face scrunched up. “Why did they send you two to investigate?”

“Maybe they figured you could use some backup,” Bolan said. “You down here by yourself?”

“Yeah.” Tyler clicked his tongue. “For the moment, anyway. The agents I was originally paired with got pulled to help check things out in Puerto Rico. The vice president’s going to be there the day after tomorrow to attend the International Caribbean Security Conference.”

“We heard about that,” Bolan said.

Tyler nodded. “Well, anyway, so far we haven’t been able to trace Monk since he was in San Juan. That’s the last recorded place he was at.”

“What about his daughter?”

“She got here about a week ago, but checked out of her hotel room and hasn’t been seen since. Allegedly said she was going to spend some time on a friend’s boat. So at the moment, we don’t know if either of them is on this island. There’s no official record of Monk going through customs here, either.”

“Did you get our tip about that shady customs agent?” Bolan asked.

“Van der Hyden?”

Bolan nodded.

“Yeah, in fact, we just got back from the airport. We checked the man’s station and locker and found a substantial amount of cash.”

“I’m not surprised,” Bolan said. “Did you ask him if Monk came through on a false passport?”

“Yep,” Tyler said.

“Well, what did he say?” Grimaldi asked.

Tyler scratched his head again. “Not much. After we took him off the floor and started questioning him, he clammed up. Immediately asked for a lawyer. I had no choice but to turn him over to the Dutch authorities. He’ll most likely lose his job and be sent back to the Netherlands to face possible charges of official malfeasance.”

Grimaldi frowned and shook his head. “I wish you would’ve waited till we got there. We might have been able to get something out of the guy.”

“Now, now,” Tyler said, waggling his index finger in front of Grimaldi’s face. “Remember, we’re here on the sovereign territory of another country. Actually, in this case two separate countries, which complicates matters even more. We have to make sure our behavior stays within the appropriate confines of international law and go through proper, diplomatic channels.”

Bolan was watching Gaston. His head was jerking back and forth as he spoke on his cell phone. He cast a nervous glance in their direction and resumed talking. The hairs on the back of Bolan’s neck began to rise and he made out the high-pitched whine of an engine approaching. He asked Tyler if he had a weapon.

“I do,” the agent said, patting his chest.

“Better get ready,” Bolan said. “I think you’re going to have to use it.”

A dirty gray pickup truck whipped around the corner. The bed was filled with rough-looking men. The one in the passenger seat turned his pale, shaved head and yelled something at the driver, who angled right for the plateau’s parking area. Two of the men in the back of the truck straightened up and leveled AK-47s over the cab.

“Take cover!” Bolan yelled. “Jack, I’m going for those tourists.”

“Roger that, Cooper.”

Bolan reached under his shirt and pulled out the Beretta 93R as he zigzagged through the picnic tables. “Get down!” he shouted at the couple.

They turned and looked at him, fear fixed on both their faces. Bolan ran past Gaston, who was now standing with his arms stretched over his head. He hadn’t even touched the Manurhin MR 73 revolver holstered on his right side.

Bolan was about three steps away from the couple when the first rifle rounds zipped by him, with an accompanying burst of automatic fire. He crouched and dived into the man, reaching out and grabbing the woman and pulling her down, as well.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” the man asked.

Bolan motioned with his left hand for them to stay down, and whirled to face their adversaries. He flipped the select lever on the Beretta to the three-dot position—3-round bursts—grabbed the bench of the closest picnic table and flipped it onto its side.

Grimaldi and Tyler had taken cover behind the Citroën and were returning fire. Bolan counted eight men total from the truck, spread out across the plateau. Some crouched next to the tailgate of their vehicle, some stood in the bed leaning over the cab, and two others stood out in the open as they fired their Kalashnikovs on full-auto.

Bolan took those two out first. He snapped the front handle down for better control and sent a 3-round burst into each of them. They curled and fell forward. Grimaldi picked off one of the rooftop shooters. The other one ducked down. The big bald guy, shouting orders in what sounded like Russian, held his AK-47 up over the fender and sent a barrage at Grimaldi and Tyler, then aimed the barrel at Bolan. The picnic table’s thick boards deflected the rounds as they pierced the wood. Bolan glanced back at the tourists, who were still on the ground behind him, sheer terror on their faces. If they stayed there, hopefully, they wouldn’t get hit. He fired another 3-round burst toward the big Russian guy just as Gaston ran past him, as fast as he could, away from the fight. Bolan swore at the retreating cop, but as he did so, the back of the corporal’s crisp blue shirt was perforated by a track of bullet holes. Gaston took two more steps, slowed and fell on his face.

Bolan saw the Russian guy smiling as he looked up over the top of his rifle.

The soldier dashed forward, shooting a burst as he ran, then dived between the legs of another picnic table. He continued to roll as more rounds zipped around him. When he stopped, his arms were extended in ready position and he had a clear shot at the Russian.

The bald man’s face reflected surprise, then a grimace as he spotted Bolan. The Russian swiveled the barrel of his rifle toward him, but the soldier had already acquired a sight picture and sent 3-rounds into the man’s side. He lurched back, his rifle still pointed in Bolan’s direction. Bolan fired another burst, this time elevating his aim. The Russian’s head jerked and he recoiled backward, a cloud of scarlet mist exploding from his right temple. As the man crumpled to the asphalt, the Executioner was up and running.

Bolan knew from experience the best way to deal with an ambush was to fight your way out, and he fired more 3-round bursts as he ran. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grimaldi rising and firing his SIG at the shooters in the truck. Two more fell. The remaining two adversaries were crouching by the side of the truck, screaming at each other. It was clear they were panicking, and Bolan ran at an angle to outflank them. He knew that Grimaldi would be doing the same.

One of the men saw Bolan and raised his rifle. The Executioner dived into a slide, and as his left side hit the hard asphalt, he brought the Beretta in front of him and sent two bursts along the ground. The rounds zipped under the carriage of the pickup and into the feet and legs of the last two shooters. He saw them dancing in pain as Grimaldi rounded the other side. Jack took out the one closest to him and Bolan shot the other man in the chest. Both fell to the ground, their AK-47s tumbling out of their hands.

Bolan kept moving, keeping his Beretta trained on the fallen adversaries. He and Grimaldi kicked the rifles away from the bodies as they checked them. When they had determined that each man was, in fact, dead, Bolan straightened up and flipped his Beretta to Safe.

Tyler ran over to them, panting and still holding his pistol. The slide was locked back, indicating he’d fired all the rounds in his magazine.

“Is it over?” the FBI man asked. His voice sounded faraway, distorted.

“Looks like it.” The ringing had started to fade from Bolan’s ears. Grimaldi walked over to them and pointed to Tyler’s gun.

“Looks like you’re out of ammo,” he said.

Bolan stooped and removed a pistol from the big bald guy’s belt. It was a Russian Tokarev 9 mm.

“I’ve never been in anything like that before,” Tyler admitted. “You two guys are unbelievable.”

“First shootout?” Bolan asked.

The agent nodded, his face pinched.

Bolan turned and went to check on the young couple. He found them right where he had left them, lying prone on the ground in back of the overturned picnic table. He stooped down and gently placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. His head shot up, terror still etched across his face. Bolan smiled. “The worst is over,” he said, gesturing toward the young woman. “Are you both okay?”

She looked up, her face streaked with tears. “We are not harmed,” she said.

Bolan gave them a reassuring nod and did a quick assessment of the situation. He went over to examine the fallen island policeman. The man was dead, his weapon still in its holster. A cell phone lay in pieces next to his outstretched hand. Bolan would have liked to have been able to check the last call the dead man had made, or maybe scroll through his contacts, but he already had a pretty good idea who Gaston had phoned. The timing of this ambush had been a little too coincidental.

In the distance Bolan heard the wail of a siren. Sounds like the cavalry’s coming, he thought. Late, as usual.

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