"But now they've joined the worldwide terrorist fraternity."
"Looks that way," Hawk said, chewing his rope thoughtfully. "It happens. The Irish IRA provos get together with the Italian Red Brigade. The Palestinians help out the rebel Turks. It's all an exchange of favors."
"So we nip the Latinos for Freedom in the bud before they form a coalition?"
"Right," Hawk replied. "And there's another reason. Remember Nels Pomroy?"
Carter's teeth came down hard on the filter tip of his cigarette. "Yeah, I know him, and about him."
"He's the man," Hawk said. "We want him… dead. We think he's brokering this deal for the Basque terrorists. It's probably some kind of a trade-off; we don't know. But the best way to stop it is to get Nels and the arms."
Carter mashed his cigarette. "When and where?"
"The goods are on the way now, a Libyan freighter, the Star of Tripoli. She ETAs sometime tomorrow night at Marianao, Cuba."
"Cuba?" Carter asked. "I thought you said they weren't Fidel-backed…"
"They're not. No aid there. It's strictly a deal between the Basques and the Latinos for Freedom. Fidel's probably just turning his head and letting a little import-export happen in his port."
"Like a way station," Carter added.
"Exactly. The hardware's end-use certificate states Nicaragua, for defense. We all know that's a crock. We think the goods will be trucked from Marianao overland to Cabo San Antonio. From there it's night-ferry time to the Yucatan. The landing spot is an inlet about twenty miles south of Punta Herrero. I've got the coordinates."
Carter closed his eyes and conjured up a map in his mind. His voice, when he spoke again, was a low monotone relaying what his eyes saw on the back of his lids.
"The Yucatan channel, at that point, is about a hundred and twenty-five miles wide from the tip of Cuba to the edge of Quintana Roo."
"Right," Hawk came back. "A piece of cake for a contrabandista who's good with a sail and a tiller."
"When?"
"We figure day after tomorrow. We're guessing ETA around midnight or a little before, so the movers can get back to Fidel-land before dawn."
"Any particulars besides making sure delivery doesn't go down?"
A worried frown crossed Hawk's forehead but quickly disappeared as a chuckle rolled from his thick throat.
"Stopping delivery and getting Pomroy is the main thrust, but I'd be a damned fool if I thought you wouldn't want to follow through on anything you find, N3."
"Like, what's the favor the Basques want done for the arms payment?"
"That would be a big help."
Carter became silent, scrutinizing everything Hawk had told him and his own thoughts. When it was all ID'd, catalogued, and filed, he opened his eyes and spoke again.
"I'll try for a prisoner."
"It would help," Hawk said, "but not enough for a risk, if you know what I mean. Top priority is the arms, Pomroy, and secrecy. I wouldn't want you left dead and the mess not cleaned up."
"Right. How do I go in?"
"Private flight to Merida. No problem with ordnance that way. A jeep will be waiting. Any questions asked, you're a sisal buyer from Hamilton Hemp Industries, Dallas. I've got papers."
"I'll want to be on the beach by dawn day after tomorrow, before they recon or come in."
"No problem. But all day in that jungle? It'll be hotter'n hell."
"I've been there before."
Then Carter smiled.
"Besides, comes the night, it will be even hotter."
Carter stretched without making a sound or moving a leaf of the damp-seeping green canopy shielding him.
It had been one hell of a wait since before dawn that morning to…
The chronometer on his left wrist read 2235 hours.
If Hawk's guess was right — and there was little doubt in the Killmaster's mind that it was — the arms boat would be sliding in soon.
Movement on his right flank about a hundred yards to the rear. It was quickly followed by the same sounds to his left.
He tensed momentarily and then, just as quickly, relaxed.
It was feeding time for the mules who had been brought to form a pack train.
Soon it was quiet again, only the sound of the lapping waves breaking the stillness.
He waited until 2300 hours.
And then it came, a blinker light from about a mile out.
Three longs, two shorts, and three more longs.
Movement and subdued shouts from the men on the beach. One of them angled a high-power flash toward the sea and repeated in kind.
Ten minutes later a sail materialized against the gray horizon. Even as Carter watched, the canvas was dropped and furled by scurrying men.
And then the steady chug, chug, chug of an inboard reached his ears. As the sound grew louder, the boat loomed larger.
It was a thirty-foot shrimper with cranes port, starboard, and aft. Normally those steel arms would be used to trail in nets and lift Neptune's nourishment aboard the craft.
But tonight they would be used to unload crates of death.
The skipper was good. He reversed the boat's screw at just the right time to let bow and keel nuzzle the beach. The boat had barely stopped yawing when both port and starboard cranes went into action.
Ready hands waited, and Carter could hear the grunts and gasps as they sloshed through the surf with the hardware.
Two of the eight men on the beach split off, moving back into the trees.
Carter guessed they had been dispatched to bring the mules. Minutes later the guess was confirmed when the two men reappeared. Each of them led a string of ten mules in his wake.
It was time to start the game.
Carter secured his mind, blocking out everything but the moment.
Like a dark shadow, Carter glided to his feet. He slung the Galil over his shoulder and adjusted the lanyard until its muzzle was just nudging his right hip.
Then, with the infrared-lensed goggles in place over his eyes, he moved out.
Like a formless, silent ghost, he slithered through the dense undergrowth.
The flanker to his right looked bored. He lounged against a tree listening to the action on the beach. An old Enfield was cradled in his arms like a sleeping babe.
With a whisper, Carter rescued Hugo, his pencil-thin stiletto, from its sheath on his right leg.
The sentry was a heartbeat away from hell when he sensed Carter's presence. His head was just turning when the vise of Carter's left arm encircled his throat.
The head came up and back as the needle of steel found flesh.
The only sound was a gurgling rasp.
One down, a limp bundle of white slipping to the jungle floor, the front of his blouse crimson.
The body had barely settled in death before Carter was moving again.
The forest was quiet, with little wind rustling the trees. Now and then an animal scurried away from the swiftly moving shadow.
But even the little jungle native, slithering in fear, made more noise than Killmaster N3.
Flanker number two was standing dead center in a wide clearing. His rifle was cradled carelessly in his left arm as his hands fumbled with the zipper on his fly.
He had just relieved himself… for the last time.
In one motion Carter sheathed the stiletto, dropped to a crouch at the edge of the clearing, and slid the silenced Beretta from under his left arm.
Without knowing death was waiting, the guy took three steps toward Carter.
Only two while he was still alive.
A 240-grain slug made bone chips out of his sternum, leaving a fist-sized hole in the middle of his chest. His mouth made an «O» and his eyes went wide with shock.
They were still open when he pitched face forward into the jungle steam.
First and second hits, Carter thought, but this was only the beginning.