Read Online San Diego Siege by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Pendleton
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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
"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
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