Read Online The Hostaged Island by Don Pendleton, Dick Stivers - Free Book Online
Authors: Don Pendleton, Dick Stivers
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, det_action, Bolan; Mack (Fictitious character), Santa Catalina Island (Calif.)
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attackers. The shot caught him in the arm and ribs, knocking him down. He tried to crawl, but his broken arm collapsed underneath him.
Should we take him for interrogation? thought Lyons, hesitating an instant. But the man pulled a pistol from his belt holster. Even as Lyons snapped off two shots, a second ultrahigh-velocity slug slammed the biker into the asphalt. Lyons spoke into the radio again:
"Keep watch. If we got time, I'm going to strip those creeps."
"Role camouflage?"
"And transportation."
Blancanales was grinning as Lyons ran up to him. "Just the man I wanted to see."
His wired wrists hung from a bolt in the utility pole. Lyons lifted his friend off. Then he helped him untwist the wire.
"Can't you keep out of trouble?"
"Trouble is my business," Blancanales countered. He appeared unhurt from his ordeal, although his wrists were bleeding, and his head was badly banged up at the back, where he had received the rifle butt.
"Gadgets is up there." Lyons looked toward the top of the hill as he finished uncoiling the wire from Pol's wrists. "We got to get back there. A goon squad is coming this way. Which motorcycle you want?"
The hand-radio buzzed. "What's happening?" snapped Lyons.
"A car and three motorcycles, moving fast!"
"Let them come in the parking lot, fire when we do."
Lyons grabbed the G-3 from the asphalt and threw it to Blancanales, who had already regained his hijacked Beretta. Then he jerked the dead biker into a sitting position against a motorcycle. He pulled the messy heart-shot biker up against the utility pole where Blancanales had hung, and left the dead man sitting there, still leaking dark fluids. He went to the last biker, rolled him over to take his jacket, had to look away. Nausea twisted his gut.
Not looking at the part that had been a face before the accelerator got to it, Lyons stripped off the jacket. He dumped the body in the bushes. He found a chromed Nazi helmet, flipped it on, then sat on a Harley to wait, nonchalantly wiping bits of human tissue from the denim jacket.
Escorted by three low-slung motorcycles, a Lincoln Continental fishtailed into the parking lot and came to a tire-smoking stop. The Harleys swung in a wide loop, coming to a slower stop. Lyons waited.
A hoodlum resplendent in chrome-studded black leather jacket and pants stepped out of the Lincoln. He wore a western holster with a nickel-plated, pearl-handled six-gun. He looked at Lyons, lifted his sunglasses. "Who the fuck..."
"Surprise!"
* * *
Leaving the gravel road behind them, Able Team followed a rutted, four-wheel drive track several hundred yards into the hills on their captured Harleys. Blancanales pointed to a grassy area shaded by a sheer hillside. They coasted to a stop and propped the motorcycles against the embankment. Lyons looked back. They could not be seen from the main road.
"So, gentlemen, what's the plan? Where do we hit next?"
"I don't think our next engagement will be so easy," Blancanales said. He spread out his map of Catalina Island on the grass.
"Able Team eight, Outlaws zero," Lyons said without emotion.
"...but now they know we're here."
"I want you guys to hear something." Gadgets took the scanner/auto-recorder from his pack and rewound the cassette. "The name of the Outlaws' leader is Horse. That's what the LAPD file said, and all the calls I've heard, the name of the man giving the orders is Horse. But listen to this."
He touched the play button. "Horse, this is your friend. Answer."
"Yessir! This is Horse. Is there anything you need?"
"No, everything's fine. I'm quite comfortable. Brief me..."
Gadgets played the conversation through. "That went out on a different frequency. What does it sound like to you?"
"Sounds like this isn't all Horse's game," Lyons replied. "He's just the front man."
"Is he talking with someone off the island?" Blancanales was fieldstripping the Beretta, spreading out the components on the plastic map. When the Outlaws had captured him,
Should we take him for interrogation? thought Lyons, hesitating an instant. But the man pulled a pistol from his belt holster. Even as Lyons snapped off two shots, a second ultrahigh-velocity slug slammed the biker into the asphalt. Lyons spoke into the radio again:
"Keep watch. If we got time, I'm going to strip those creeps."
"Role camouflage?"
"And transportation."
Blancanales was grinning as Lyons ran up to him. "Just the man I wanted to see."
His wired wrists hung from a bolt in the utility pole. Lyons lifted his friend off. Then he helped him untwist the wire.
"Can't you keep out of trouble?"
"Trouble is my business," Blancanales countered. He appeared unhurt from his ordeal, although his wrists were bleeding, and his head was badly banged up at the back, where he had received the rifle butt.
"Gadgets is up there." Lyons looked toward the top of the hill as he finished uncoiling the wire from Pol's wrists. "We got to get back there. A goon squad is coming this way. Which motorcycle you want?"
The hand-radio buzzed. "What's happening?" snapped Lyons.
"A car and three motorcycles, moving fast!"
"Let them come in the parking lot, fire when we do."
Lyons grabbed the G-3 from the asphalt and threw it to Blancanales, who had already regained his hijacked Beretta. Then he jerked the dead biker into a sitting position against a motorcycle. He pulled the messy heart-shot biker up against the utility pole where Blancanales had hung, and left the dead man sitting there, still leaking dark fluids. He went to the last biker, rolled him over to take his jacket, had to look away. Nausea twisted his gut.
Not looking at the part that had been a face before the accelerator got to it, Lyons stripped off the jacket. He dumped the body in the bushes. He found a chromed Nazi helmet, flipped it on, then sat on a Harley to wait, nonchalantly wiping bits of human tissue from the denim jacket.
Escorted by three low-slung motorcycles, a Lincoln Continental fishtailed into the parking lot and came to a tire-smoking stop. The Harleys swung in a wide loop, coming to a slower stop. Lyons waited.
A hoodlum resplendent in chrome-studded black leather jacket and pants stepped out of the Lincoln. He wore a western holster with a nickel-plated, pearl-handled six-gun. He looked at Lyons, lifted his sunglasses. "Who the fuck..."
"Surprise!"
* * *
Leaving the gravel road behind them, Able Team followed a rutted, four-wheel drive track several hundred yards into the hills on their captured Harleys. Blancanales pointed to a grassy area shaded by a sheer hillside. They coasted to a stop and propped the motorcycles against the embankment. Lyons looked back. They could not be seen from the main road.
"So, gentlemen, what's the plan? Where do we hit next?"
"I don't think our next engagement will be so easy," Blancanales said. He spread out his map of Catalina Island on the grass.
"Able Team eight, Outlaws zero," Lyons said without emotion.
"...but now they know we're here."
"I want you guys to hear something." Gadgets took the scanner/auto-recorder from his pack and rewound the cassette. "The name of the Outlaws' leader is Horse. That's what the LAPD file said, and all the calls I've heard, the name of the man giving the orders is Horse. But listen to this."
He touched the play button. "Horse, this is your friend. Answer."
"Yessir! This is Horse. Is there anything you need?"
"No, everything's fine. I'm quite comfortable. Brief me..."
Gadgets played the conversation through. "That went out on a different frequency. What does it sound like to you?"
"Sounds like this isn't all Horse's game," Lyons replied. "He's just the front man."
"Is he talking with someone off the island?" Blancanales was fieldstripping the Beretta, spreading out the components on the plastic map. When the Outlaws had captured him,
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