Bolan was a military realist, not a wishful thinker. He had known that the Vegas deception could last just so long, and was expecting the trap that awaited him at Puerto Rico. It was another calculated risk, little different than all the others. The important thing was that they had revealed their hardsite to him.
The next move was up to him.
A tropical paradise lay just beyond that airplane window.
But the Executioner had not come to America's backyard playground to gambol in the sun and sand.
He was living to the point, and he had come for the Caribbean Kill. Bolan was blitzing into paradise.
Chapter One
Collision course
They circled low over the breakwater and dropped smoothly onto the glasslike surface of Bahia de Vidria, the pontoons taking a gentle bite and skimming along the water runway toward the beach. The pilot had cut back on the power and they were idling slowly in a soft glide for the seaplane dock, a hundred yards or so downrange, when the Beretta slid into Bolan's fist and muzzled into the guy's throat.
"End of game, Grimaldi," the Executioner announced coldly.
The pilot swallowed hard past the outside pressure of cool steel and muttered, "I don't get you, Mr. Vinton."
"Sure you do," Bolan told him. "When the engine dies, you die."
He divided his attention to lift the binoculars into a close scan of the shoreline. A signboard on the pier loomed into the vision-field:
GLASS BAY RESORT PRIVATE
Beyond the pier lay neatly landscaped grounds and a rambling structure resembling an oversized plantation house — a two-story job with verandas at top and bottom levels.