Bolan did not reply, and they went on in silence until the lights of Puerta Vista became visible.

Then the woman spoke, for the first time since entering the 'copter. "Circle from the east," she instructed him. "On the first road north of the coastal highway, just inside the village, you will see the church. It has a high bell tower. You will land in the churchyard to the rear."

Grimaldi nodded his head and glanced at the ice man. "Is that what you want, Mr. Bolan?"

"You heard the lady," Bolan replied. "Do it."

He found the spot with no trouble at all, and he set her down without landing lights exactly where the lady wanted, and with hardly a bump.

The moon was coming up, and visibility was definitely improving. Grimaldi shivered, wondering what was coming up next — and fearing the worst.

He cut the engine and the rotors were still chugging around in the rundown spin when the big guy started battering the radio with his pistol and ripping out the ignition system.

Then Bolan grabbed Grimaldi and hauled him to the ground and told him, "Run east, soldier. Don't slow down, and don't look back."

Grimaldi had absolutely no desire to argue with the man. Paydirt now meant simply remaining alive.

He started running, mentally bracing himself for the shot in the back which never came.

Twice in one day the bastard had let him off. Jack Grimaldi simply could not understand it. He ran on, almost hoping that the big guy would make it through Puerta Vista in one piece. Maybe the guy wasn't such a total bastard, after all.

It was a dumb hope, though. Grimaldi was the lucky one. He was running out of Puerta Vista.

Bolan was striding into it Straight into Quick Tony's paydirt.

Chapter Ten

Soft sell

During those tense moments at the strip mine, while awaiting the arrival of the helicopter, Bolan and Evita performed reluctant farewells, both aware that this might be their last opportunity to do so. And when all the words of appreciation and mutual admiration had been said, she asked him, "What will you do upon leaving Puerto Rico?"

He reflected on the question for a moment, then replied, "I had planned to chase the brass ring but… well, I guess it's best that I tuck my tail in and make a run for home ground."

She nodded her head in agreement. "This would be best. You do not now think it wise to enter the tournament, yes?"

"I don't like the focus the thing has taken," Bolan explained. "Anything I go for now will likely be just another setup, and I'll be fighting their war their way."

"This is not good."

"No, it isn't. I'll have to pull back and hope for another try another day. My way, and on my terms. If we can capture this chopper, well go on into Puerta Vista. We'll make the meet with Juan. Then you will go your way and I will go mine."

"This would be best," she quietly agreed.

"It's a damn shame," Bolan mused. "I may never pass this way again, and there's a lot of fruit to be picked down here."

"But, as you say, the tournament would now be a sham. They will be expecting you, and lying in wait for you."

"Yeah." Bolan sighed and dug into his money-belt and produced a folded sheet of linen paper. He passed it over to the girl. "I took those names out of a book I came across in Las Vegas a couple of thousand years ago. They're the local reps — or they were, as of a day or so ago, of the mob's Caribbean operation, the entire wheel from Nassau to Panama."

Evita was scrutinizing the list of names in the fading light. "Yes, a few of these I recognize," she told him. "They make frequent visits at Glass Bay."

"Keep the list," he offered. "Give it to your bosses. Maybe it will tie in somewhere to their investigations. But tell them that they may as well cool it for a couple of months. I've an idea that those boys are all on sudden vacations. Or they will be, as soon as I'm officially declared free of the death trap here."

"There is one big name missing from this list," Evita said thoughtfully.

"Yeah? Which one?"

"You have heard the name Edward Stuart?"

Bolan smiled and shook his head. "If it's Mafia, and it's big, then it probably started as Eduardo Stuarti — but it still means nothing to me."

"This man is known as Sir Edward," Evita said casually. "He is thought to be the number one syndicate man in all of Caribe land. And this one would feel no need for a sudden vacation."

"That big?"

She nodded. 'That big. He is thought to be very influential behind the scenes in Haiti. Since Papa Doc's death, especially. I would..."

"Hold it," Bolan growled, his interest rising. "Are you saying this guy is in the Haitian government?"

"Officially, no. But, as I said, very influential. It is being said that the decline of tourism in Haiti during Papa Doc's regime is now being greatly reversed, and that Sir Edward Stuart is the man and the money behind this new surge."

"What is Puerto Rico's official interest in Stuart?"

"Officially, no interest," Evita replied. "Haiti is a free republic, a friendly neighbor. They belong to OAS and to the UN. But their government for many years has been a strong dictatorship, perhaps the most repressive, and terroristic in the Americas. And Sir Edward's influence with certain officials provides him a perfect sanctuary from which to operate illegally throughout these islands. We are naturally interested, and we are naturally observing his operations whenever possible."

"Sanctuary, eh," Bolan commented.

"Yes. And you have heard of the syndicate money man who has taken sanctuary in Israel?"

Bolan nodded. "Who hasn't?"

"Well, couriers travel frequently between Tel Aviv and Port au Prince."

Bolan's eyebrows went up. "You aren't speaking of official government couriers."

"No."

Bolan said, "I see."

"My department fears a choking network of influence reaching from the Mediterranean to the Caribbean. And all centering about this untouchable Sir Edward Stuart."

"You're not suggesting that the Israeli and Haitian governments are cooking up..."

"Of course not. This is entirely a syndicate matter, not a political one."

"I have the feeling you're trying to sell me something, Evita," Bolan said soberly.

"But no, I am selling nothing. It is right that you should head for the home ground, as you say. Caribe will keep for another time."

She was wearing an entirely new hat now, Bolan decided.

He said, "Sure."

She said, "I speak, of course, from the greatest confidence. Sir Edward Stuart is the new Meyer Lansky of the western world. I thought you should know this. And that he enjoys the protection of the Haitian borders. He cannot be touched by any law, anywhere."

"Except one, eh?" Bolan replied, sighing. She smiled and said, "Yes, except perhaps one."

"You're absolutely certain of the game?" She soberly nodded her head. "The game is absolute."

Bolan fiddled with the safety of the Thompson. "Okay," he said gruffly. "I'll look in on Haiti on my way out."

She gazed into the palms of her hands and said, in the now familiar mimicry of Bolan's gruffness, "Okay. And good luck."

And Bolan knew that he'd been had by an expert. He said, "You told me earlier that you had friends in high places. How high?"

She smiled and replied, "High enough." High enough to set up an executioner. Sure."

He said, "There are no police lines at Puerta Vista, are there."

Very quietly she told him, "Not that one may notice. I am the police line, Mack Bolan."

He sighed and said, "I guess it's about time you proved that."

Smiling rather sadly, she opened her blouse and freed the sculpted breasts from the confining brassiere. She turned the cups out, parted the fabric liner, and removed a small scrap of vinyl material. Reproduced upon the vinyl was a miniaturized identification card, complete with photo and official embossment. Bolan sighed and gave it back to her.