Deadly Salvage. Don Pendleton

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      * * *

      GRIMES WATCHED WILLARD FORSYTHE EVERETT III finish going through the digital images on the camera. Everett was sitting on a sumptuous sofa in the massive penthouse suite atop the Omni hotel. Everett wasn’t a big man by normal standards, but he always carried himself as if he were six feet four. In reality, he was more like five-eight or -nine, depending on the size of the lifts in his shoes.

      But there was no denying that he was in incredible shape. He wore a short-sleeved polo shirt and the muscles in his arms rippled with each movement. He regularly worked out with full-contact karate fighters and boxers. His latest kick was the Mixed Martial Arts stuff, but Grimes figured that was because he could keep hitting people after he had them down. Of course, those sparring with Everett knew better than to try too hard to win. The boss didn’t like to lose. He had a bit of what was traditionally referred to as a “Napoleon complex.”

      Everett turned off the camera and stood, tossing it next to the pile of papers on his large desk. He walked over to the open patio doors overlooking the beach, and clasped his hands behind his back.

      “Those broads were kind of good-looking,” he said. “Too bad you had to eliminate them.”

      Grimes waited for Everett’s further comment on the tactical neutralization of the people on the yacht, but the billionaire didn’t seem that concerned. Collateral damage had been an accurate assessment on Grimes’s part, after all. Everett looked tired, though. Grimes knew the rich bastard had just returned from receiving his biannual regimen of steroid and hormone treatments that allowed him to maintain his youthful constitution as he crested middle age. Hair transplants, cosmetic tucks, hormone shots, cheek implants.... Maybe Everett was contemplating another run for the White House.

      “What’s the status of the recovery?” he asked.

      “I’ve had the men working twenty-four/seven,” Grimes said. “We’ve cut through the second hull, but we have to constantly monitor the radiation levels.”

      “Understandable,” Everett allowed, “but the clock’s ticking. Remember I’m juggling the timing of the takeover of the Xerxes, too. It was just getting to Cuba when I left for my treatments.”

      “It’s on its way back now,” Grimes said. “Near the Isla de Margarita. We’re tracking it by satellite, waiting till it gets past Tobago before we make our move.”

      “Where’s Tanner?”

      “Went to Jamaica yesterday to tag up with the Russians. They’re tracking the Xerxes and will intercept with the helicopter from there, once it gets into the Caribbean.”

      Everett’s face twisted into a frown. “Is Zelenkov sure he can handle it?”

      “He’s ex-Spetsnaz and was fully trained in ship assaults. The Iranians will never know what hit them.”

      Everett nodded, but blew out a long breath. “Everything has to coincide exactly, without...creating too many waves.” He paused and smiled at his own pun. “And imagine me playing on the same team as the Ruskies. Who would have thought?” He laughed.

      Grimes forced a laugh, too. This seemed to please the boss. Good. The last thing he wanted to do was piss the guy off. His temper was legendary.

      “What about those FBI agents?” Everett asked.

      “Most of them are in Ponce helping check things out for the vice president’s visit.”

      Everett smiled. “They won’t know what hit ’em. What about the agent they sent here?”

      “Just a big, dumb Iowa farm boy. He’s being led around by one of Le Pierre’s goons on a snipe hunt.”

      “We can’t assume that’ll last forever.” Everett glanced at his watch. “Okay, line up a couple sparring partners for me. I want to work out before we go out on the rig.” He strode back to the desk and picked up the camera.

      “Want me to delete those pics?” Grimes asked.

      Everett rotated his head, as if loosening up his neck muscles. “Not till I tell you. Keep me posted on the salvage progress, and keep your eyes open for any new arrivals. Especially Americans.”

       Chapter 2

      The airport was on the southern, Dutch side of the island and situated uncomfortably close to the populated beach. Grimaldi remarked that a high serve from one of the beach volleyball games could have bounced off the big 747’s window as they skidded onto the tarmac and began braking to a stop.

      “It looks pretty tight, all right,” Bolan said. “Maybe that’s why they booked us commercial instead of having you try to fly us down.”

      “Like hell.” Grimaldi frowned. “I could’ve landed this tub so smoothly it would have been like flopping down onto a featherbed.”

      Bolan grinned. His old friend always prided himself on being able to fly anything with wings or rotors better than anyone else. And he was probably right.

      As the two of them stood in the customs line for arriving passengers, the soldier looked around. Their line was full of tourist groups and was moving at a snail’s pace, compared to the one on their right, which moved faster but was considerably longer. Grimaldi seemed to notice this, too.

      “The line you’re in always seems to move slowest, doesn’t it?” he said.

      Bolan nodded as he studied the makeup of the other line. It was overwhelmingly composed of black and Hispanic people with makeshift luggage. They weren’t dressed like tourists, and seemed to be conversing in either Spanish or French.

      Prospective workers, Bolan thought, probably from the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico or Haiti.

      He looked at the customs agent scrutinizing the passports and papers. The man waved one arrival through and accepted a passport from the next person. Bolan watched as the agent opened the passport, holding it up in front of him, then quickly rubbed his hand over it. A quick cough followed and he brought his right palm up to cover his mouth. Then he dipped his hand beneath the counter, appearing to wipe it on his pant leg. He asked a few more questions and then waved the person through the gate.

      As their line progressed Bolan watched the man repeat the coughing gesture, or a variation of it, sometimes using a sneeze, with four other arriving passengers. Bolan was close enough to read the agent’s name tag now: J. Van der Hyden.

      Grimaldi was next in line and stepped forward, handing over his passport with an exasperated, “Finally.”

      The customs agent smiled pleasantly and gave a welcome greeting in accented English. “And what, may I ask, is the purpose of your visit?”

      “You may ask,” Grimaldi said, gesturing toward Bolan and himself. “We’re reporters. My partner and I are here to cover the big movie that Willard Everett III is producing down here.”

      “Ah, yes,” the agent said. “That is on the French side. May I see your passport, as well, sir?”

      Bolan handed the man his passport, which was under СКАЧАТЬ