Bolan found three mines interlocked in a tight row. Working on them one by one, still leaning over the wall, he removed the sand meticulously. When he was sure no others were attached, he worked faster and removed the first mine, then the second and at last the third. He left the dirt disturbed so he could tell where to walk.
As he stepped over the wall into the sand, he wished he could blast a path to the far door with the Uzi, but in the confined space one blast would set off another, and he'd have no protection from the shrapnel. His fingers moved cautiously over the sand, not in a straight line to the far door, but in a lateral direction, around the side of the small hill. The shortest route would be the most heavily implanted.
Bolan found no mine for a two-foot span, so he carefully scraped a line across the span three inches deep. He found a trigger barely two inches under the surface, a foot from the last mine.
Sweating, he slung the Uzi over his back to get it out of the way, then removed the mine and put it to the far side, where he would not kick it or place it near a sensitive mine trigger.
Ten minutes later he had removed four more mines and was halfway across the room.
He remembered that the note said something about mines being where no one would expect. What did that mean? The Executioner looked at the retaining wall by the other door and decided he had to clear another three feet, step to the wall and jump to the floor.
No! There would be a mine planted under the floor, he realized. Make it all the way across and then blow yourself up when you thought you were home safe.
He knelt in the safe sand and stared ahead. He had angled his approach toward the end of the retaining wall beside the door, which was open slightly and swung inward.
One more mine came free. It was a different type, and Bolan hoped it could be laid on its side. He held his breath as he put it down, then exhaled.
His fingers found yet another type of device an inch under the surface.
It was ten to twelve inches, square. He detoured around it.
Bolan moved one more routine antipersonnel mine and stood. His foot could touch the wall. But the more he studied this side of the wall the more he realized it was different from the other side.
Four inches from the wall a loop trip wire extended from the retaining boards.
Bolan removed another mine so he could step closer to the door, then leaned over and swung the door inward so he could examine it and the wooden floor. Two mines lay there, with boards resting on the triggers.
Touching either board would be deadly.
He looked into the room beyond and saw a regular floor that once had been covered with linoleum tile. Now some had loosened and come off.
Leaning, he caught the top of the door and rode with it as it closed, swinging over the last two mines and touching down in the next room as his hands were about to hit the doorjamb.
The Executioner glanced at his watch. It was after 4:00 A.M. Plenty of time.
He did not need any more surprises. What was unusual and deadly about this room? There had to be something. Jody Warren was not going to give anyone a free pass through it. Did the missing nine-inch squares of tile form a pattern? No, they were random. He studied the floor. Why were some tiles removed? They had not been curled or steamed off. He examined the nearest bare spot. Strips of black adhesive that had once held tile were still visible. Around the spot the floor had been gouged and scraped.
The tiles had been removed on purpose.
Why?
Bolan turned and delicately lifted the half-inch board from the mine trigger. It was four feet long. He pushed an edge of the board against the floor where the tile had been. Nothing happened. He swung it ahead and jammed it down on the next empty square.
There was an immediate "spanging" sound, and a dartlike arrow whizzed across the room and embedded itself in the far wall.
The Executioner studied the near wall and saw a small slit four feet high. The wall was evidently an addition, built to conceal something. He could see slots along this false wall, some four feet, a few three feet high.
He watched the wall as he pushed the board against another bare square.
A black dart flashed from a slot and rammed into the far wall.
Crouching, Bolan moved toward the far wall, carefully avoiding the squares with no tiles. Finally he reached the door. When he tried the handle, it would not budge. Locked.
The time for finesse was over. Bolan still sweated from the nerve-jangling bout with the mines. He stepped back and drove his right foot forward, mightily kicking the door below the doorknob. It sprang open.
The room ahead was smaller, and empty except for another iron spiral staircase at the far end. He detected no booby traps. He held the Uzi as he walked toward the staircase. Nothing moved.
No sounds came.
He looked up the staircase and found the same type of dim electric lights that existed in all the rooms. With a critical eye, he cased the small room. No hidden dangers were apparent. Maybe he was through the gauntlet.
Electrified stairs? Easy enough, since they were metal. He dropped a penny on the metal. Nothing unusual happened.
He touched then gripped the hand rail.
He moved up the steps soundlessly, the Uzi raised, his finger on the trigger. There was no steel plate barring the top of the stairs. At last he had access to the inner sanctum of Jody Warren, Beast of Portland.
He climbed to a small landing, and peered into it over the top of the ladder. Sensing no danger, he continued upward into the room. It was about eight feet square, bare except for a door.
Soft music sounded from concealed speakers. Bolan tested the door.
Unlocked. He opened it slightly and peeked into the next room. He saw an old-fashioned parlor with a couch, chairs, a spindle-legged dining-room table in heavy oak and four oak straight-backed chairs with cane-laced seats.
Antique tintypes and a large, oval, glass-framed picture of a dour man and woman decorated the walls. The man had a heavy mustache and stood behind the chair in which the woman sat, looking very prim and proper.
Bolan hurried across the room to another door.
Beyond was a kitchen and a bath, and farther on, a large bedroom. A man and two women, all naked, lay sleeping on the king-size bed.
Jody Warren was short and fat. His stringy brown hair was scattered over the pillow. Acne scars pocked his face. Brownish stains, possibly from lack of washing, splotched his face and neck.
He mumbled in his sleep and reached for the closest girl.
The Executioner held the Uzi an inch above his ear and fired into the wall. Warren jolted upward, his eyes wild.
He saw Bolan in the soft night-lights and swore. Both women jumped up, screaming. Warren yelled, "Who are you? And who the hell let you in?"
Bolan tossed a marksman's medal onto the bed and the small man began to shake.
"Hey, it ain't me you want. Get the big shots. Me, I'm small potatoes. Get the bosses!"
"They come next, Jody."
At a sign from Bolan, the women moved off the bed and out of danger.
"Get your pants on, Jody. I hate to see a man die when he's naked."
"Hey, you got no fight with me. I just follow orders." He started to rise from the bed, rolled over and grabbed a .45 automatic from under the big pillow. Bolan slammed three shots through his wrist, and flesh and blood and bone sprayed as the heavy gun fell to the sheets.
"Bastard!"
"Get your pants on."
With his good hand, Jody picked up a pair of blue pants from a chair and got into them. He was in agony.
"May I bandage his hand?" one of the women asked.
Bolan nodded. The tall slender brunette took a scarf from a dresser and wound it around the wrist, stopping the bleeding.
"Now show me how you turn off the juice in that hallway, Jody."