The Terrible Ones (2 page)

Nick wiped his streaming face against his shoulder and flexed his straining arms. Incredibly, he felt rested and refreshed. His clawed fingers reached upward; his feet sought and found another skimpy hold. A stubborn root brushed against his hands, the first he’d found. He reached for it tentatively and It held.

Perhaps he would make it after all. It seemed easier now.

The night was silent but for the slap of the water below and the gusts of wind through the trees above. He could hear the scrabbling, slithering sounds of his own climb, but he knew that his tiny, ratlike noises were normal sounds for night and would not be noticed. Unless, of course, there were listeners much nearer than there were supposed to be.

Out in the dark sea behind him the baby submarine submerged. The silent boat was in its special compartment and Jean Pierre was in his, his ear to a listening device that relayed the quiet sounds of a man’s slow climb up an impossible incline. He heard, but he was one who was supposed to.

Someone else heard too.

The watcher who knew what to wait for stole silently away from the clifftop and glided shadowlike to the appointed meeting place.

Nick climbed. The going was rough but it no longer seemed impossible. The hardest part of it, now that he knew he was well past the halfway point, was that uncertainty about what lay ahead. A kind of anger swelled within him.

Treasure! for Chrissake! he thought to himself. Trujillo’s hidden millions, and I’m supposed to find them in Haiti? This whole thing was insane. Somewhere up there in the darkness was a man named Paolo, leader of an outfit with the comicbook name of The Terrible Ones. The Terrible Ones! Nick chuckled silently and bitterly. No doubt the Mafia of the Caribbean, and Uncle Sam was being taken for another ride. Supposedly these people were an organization of Dominican patriots, itching to get their hands on some of the ex-dictator’s loot and use it for the good of their country. That was their story, anyway, and they had gone to Hawk, and the head of AXE had called on Carter. So here was Killmaster, climbing up a cliff in Haiti to meet the kingpin of The Terrible Ones. And what was he to do when he met them?

Hawk had shrugged. “The usual. Find out who they are and how they stand. Help them if they’re on the level. Check into this business of Operation Blast and put a stop to it. That’s all. Now, as to how you’ll be making contact, you’ll go with Jean Pierre Turnier in the Q-boat and aim for Cap St. Michel. Here’s the map . . .

It always looked so simple, back in Washington.

Now it was Haiti, one hour past midnight, and Paolo of The Terrible Ones was waiting in the shadows.

Nick glanced upward. The rim of the cliff and the low fringe of bushes were now only a few feet above him. He paused for a moment and took breath for the final effort. It was windier up here, and the gusts plucked at his clothes. And it seemed a little lighter, too. He took a quick look at the sky. Yes, the clouds were thinner, and a few stars gleamed above.

It was just as well, for he would need their trace of light to lead him through the trees.

He reached up for the last lap of his climb and moved on steadily.

His clawing hands came at last to the edge and clung there. One more thrust of his weary legs, and he would have it made. He peered over the edge to see what lay beyond, for he had no intention of grasping loose twigs and sliding back down that monstrous slope.

He stared straight ahead at something that should not have been there. At the cave, yes, but not right there in front of him only inches away from his eyes. His gaze traveled up from the heavily booted feet, up the unmoving, stolid legs, up over a massive chest, up to a bearded face.

The face split into a grin of broken teeth. Even in the dimness it did not look like a pleasant face.

“Welcome, amigo,” a low voice whispered. “I help you, yes?”

Nick gave a quiet grunt and nodded as if in acknowledgment, but his brain was racing. Welcome, amigo, hell. There were names and code phrases to exchange, and “Welcome, amigo,” was not among them. He saw the big dim form move even closer to him, and he dug his clawed feet into the cliffside with all his strength. One hand grasped at the roots of a bush and the other raised as if reaching for help. There was a low chuckle, and a heavy boot smashed down agonizingly on his grasping hand.

“Yankee pig!” hissed the voice, and the boot swung again. This time it came straight for Nick’s head.

The sub was miles away, sliding silently through the black sea. Jean Pierre sat in his cramped quarters with his ear to a small black box and his mouth open in horror.

“Yankee pig!” the receiver whispered. Then there was a second thump, louder than the first, and a sound that began as a grunt and ended in a piercing scream.

Take Me to Your Leader

He struck again with savage fury. His head still reeled from the glancing kick and his ears were full of the animal howl, but it was his life or the other’s and he was damned if he was going to lose his life at this stage of the game. The first swift raking of his reaching hand had already torn a lower leg to shreds. Now he had an advantage and he was going to use it.

Nick lunged upward as he struck, driving the steel claws into the thick thigh and slashing them sideways across the lower abdomen. The scream now was one long continuous litany of frightful pain and the booted feet no longer kicked out but tried to back away. The claws caught deep into the flesh and held; there was no retreat for the welcomer with the unfriendly feet. Nick heaved himself up over the cliff edge, exhausted and half-dazed, still clutching his quarry. The big fellow made a handy anchor, with the hand-pitons sunk into the squirming body, and Nick had no qualms about using him as long as he was there. The scream rose and the man staggered backwards and fell. Nick landed heavily on top of him and wrenched his hand free of the oozing flesh. His welcoming committee squirmed under him, legs and arms jerking, obscenities babbling from his throat. For a moment they both lay there, writhing like a pair of unlikely lovers, and then the big man suddenly twisted his body and stumbled to his feet. Nick rolled over, exhausted beyond endurance. He could see the big shape looming over him, clothes torn open and hideous wounds deforming his lower body, and he could see the long knife that appeared in the other man’s hand, but he could not seem to make his muscles move.

The cliff edge was behind him. The big man came toward him, knife poised for a downward thrust and his face a maddened mask of pain and hatred.

For God’s sake do something, Nick told himself wearily, and felt like vomiting. The fellow’s guts were dribbling out.

The knife came downward in slow motion and the man staggered forward. Nick gathered strength and kicked out in a swift jack knifing movement that caught the man in the chest and clawed him up into the air. Again there was that horrible scream, and the man hung balanced in the air like a circus acrobat on his partner’s feet. Only these feet were hooked and deadly. Nick kicked up again, heard the ripping of cloth, and felt his burden fall free. He twisted sideways away from the thing that flew howling through the air, over the edge and off the cliff.

The scream ended with a sickening thud. Then there was a splash. Then—nothing.

Nick sat up wearily. So much for his silent arrival. He rose groggily to his feet and listened to the night sounds. There were shouts somewhere in the distance. He’d better get going.

He moved clumsily into the stand of trees and propped himself against a sturdy trunk while he removed the piton-claws from his hands and feet. They were sticky with blood. Handy little bastards you turned out to be, he congratulated them grimly, and thrust them into his back pack. He stood under the trees for a moment gathering breath and willing his heart to slow its galloping motion. A light flickered somewhere to the left of him. He could not tell how far away it was, but the sounds of men’s voices were still muted. A bird chirped anxiously close by, and he noted its sound absently as he moved on. No doubt disturbed by my stealthy arrival, he told himself sourly, and made for the narrow path between the trees that Jean Pierre had told him he would find.

He did find it, and he walked along it with silent care, listening and watching. Funny, that damned bird seemed to be following him.

Nick looked over his shoulder. Nothing there. And nothing moved in the trees. The bird chirped again . . . and the chirp wandered off-key.

Suddenly he remembered the small two-way radio in his inside underarm pocket Feeling slightly foolish, he bent his head and chirped into his armpit. Two chirps, and then he spoke.

“It’s okay, Jean Pierre,” he said, very softly but distinctly. “That was the other fellow.”

“Thank God!” His fellow AXEman’s voice came to him as a tiny, distant sound, but he could hear Jean Pierre’s relief. There was a pause. Then: “What other fellow?”

“Don’t know,” Nick said softly. “He didn’t mention his name. But he wasn’t friendly. Neither was he Chinese, nor Haitian. If a guess is any good, I’d say he could have been a Cuban.”

“Cuban!”

“Yeah.”

“But why—? What happened, anyway?”

The lights were coming closer, though not directly toward him. Nick put his lips closer to the tiny mike.

“Look, we’ll chat some other time, all right? If that wasn’t Paolo who just went over the cliff I still have to meet him, and these woods of yours are filling up with people. Tell Hawk I made it as far as the path on the cliff top. And next time don’t chirp me, I’ll chirp you. Okay?”

“Right.”

Nick moved on through the trees. His body felt as though it had been caught in a garbage grinder and he knew he was in no shape for any more heavy action tonight. So he trod softly, listened well, and hoped that it was not Paolo he had clawed to death. The thought that it might have been opened up a range of possibilities he did not care to think about, and most of them spelled t-r-a-p. And if it wasn’t Paolo of course it was somebody else, and that didn’t make for an any more pleasant picture.

He gave up thinking about it and concentrated on heading silently for the cave. Maybe there he’d find some sort of answer.

Lights were stabbing through the trees and voices passed him perhaps a quarter mile away. He stopped and flattened himself against a tree, listening. One of the voices came to him loud and clear in the swinging, lilting French of a native Haitian. It seemed to be giving some kind of order. A military order. Fine. The Haitian military were to be avoided, yes, but not feared as hidden enemies.

The ground began to slope upward beneath his feet and ahead of him he could see a huge and curiously gnarled tree that had been included in his briefing as a landmark. Another hundred yards, then, and he would be at the mouth of the mountain cave whistling to be let in. Damp moss cushioned his footfalls. Through years of practice in silent skulking he avoided twigs that might snap beneath his feet or branches that might brush and rustle against his body, and he came swiftly to the cave mouth like a tiger in the night.

He blended into the darkness of a leafy bush and looked at the narrow crevice in the rock. It was almost concealed by trailing vines and clumps of shrubbery, and if he had not known where to look the chances were he might not have noticed it. If it opened up into a cave of any size within the mountain it would be a good hiding place for a band of outlawed patriots. Just as good for a band of thieves. Or cell of Communist agents. It was too bad that AXE had so little information on this bunch that called itself The Terrible Ones. They could be anything but what they said they were. Dedicated Dominicans? Maybe. He hoped so. In his mind’s eye he saw a company of toughs, rebels of the Fidelista type but maybe a little more pro-West, hard as nails and very likely none too scrupulous, all armed to the teeth with submachine guns and machetes.

And also, apparently, invisible.

Nick slunk back further into the concealing bush and stared. intently into the darkness. His eyes roved over rock and crevice, foliage, tree trunks and branches, and saw nothing that could possibly be a man on silent watch. Insects scurried through the leaves and the distant shouts still rang out, yet there was no sound of a human presence nearby. Nevertheless he sensed that there was such a presence. And at the same time he did not feel that curious prickling at the back of the neck that was the sign of his danger-instinct at work. This was normal. Probably Paolo the Terrible was waiting in the cave as promised and would emerge on signal.

Nick whistled softly. It was a bird call of the islands, not the radio chirruping call but a long, melodious sound that rose and fell like the voice of a wild bird in flight. He waited for a moment and then mouthed the second part of the call, a tricky little variation straight out of Jean Pierre’s intimate knowledge of Haitian wildlife. Then he listened.

The first call came back to him from the recesses of the rock crevice. Then the second, muffled by foliage and rock but unmistakably right. Nick tensed as leaves rustled and a thin dark shape blocked the opening in the rock and stood there silently. He could see little but a blob of extra darkness and something that looked vaguely like a cowboy hat or maybe a sort of sombrero and a suggestion of booted and trousered legs.

“Not too late for those who seek their friends,” Nick whispered back.

“It is late for honest travelers,” a low voice whispered in soft Spanish.

“Who is it that you seek?”

“Paolo.”

“Ah. You have found the one you look for, if you have the axe.”

So far so good. He had the axe, all right, a tiny tattoo on his inner elbow, though Paolo knew nothing of that.

“It will be at your disposal,” he murmured into the night, and the code exchange was ended. All the right things had been said and now it only remained to follow Paolo through the crevice into the cave. Yet a growing sense of unease made him hesitate. There was something odd here. And the idea of going into a dark cave with a stranger was not one that appealed to him. Especially If there were other strangers inside with some dark plans of their own.