The Hostaged Island by Don Pendleton, Dick Stivers Read Free Book Online Page B

while.
    He noticed some small rocks in a circle, scorched by campfire, and a discarded sandal, and some beer cans. Spray-painted across one large rock were the words: "Surfers Rule."
    Here he was shaking, and teenagers did it for thrills.
    Gadgets went to work. He glanced every few seconds to the hillsides above him as he stripped the plastic bag from his Uzi, snapped in a magazine, and chambered a round.
    He examined the kayak and realized it would not float again. Long rips had broken open the fiberglass bottom. Near the nose, a snapped flap of fiberglass exposed the plywood frame. He unloaded his equipment and other weapons and pushed the kayak back into the water. The wash pulled it out to the shore break, and the first wave sank it.
    He assembled his electronics. First, the scanner/auto-recorder. The LAPD file on the Outlaws had noted the theft of a case of high-quality walkie-talkies. If the Outlaws were using those radios, Gadgets' scanner could monitor and record the conversation automatically.
    Then he extended the antenna of his hand-radio and keyed a click-code. Two beeps for onshore and safe, three beeps to identify himself. His scanner/auto-recorder picked up the beeps, recorded the signal on the cassette.
    Voices came on. "This is Chief, this is Chief."
    "Horse here. What?"
    "We cleaned up Little Harbor. Had to kill a Park Ranger. We're sending back a couple of families we found at the campground. Couple of good-looking women in the crowd. We took turns on one, saved the other one for you if you're interested."
    "Don't waste your time on that, you're on patrol."
    "Sorry, it just sorta happened."
    "You watching the ocean? Any ships, boats?"
    "Use the radar. There's too much fog here."
    "Okay, but keep patrolling the beaches the best you can. Over and out."
    Gadgets hurried through the assembly of the rest of his equipment: the long-range directional microphone, the radio-triggered detonators. After what he had heard, he understood that every minute of delay meant death and degradation for the people of the island. As he shouldered his backpack, another voice came from the scanner, on a different frequency: "Horse, this is your friend. Answer."
    "Yes, sir! This is Horse. Is there anything you need?"
    "No, everything's fine. I'm quite comfortable. Brief me. Is the seizure of the island complete?"
    "Oh, yeah. No problems. Some shooting. Had to kill some heroes."
    "What about the conversations with the Governor?"
    "Nothing else with the Governor. They said they'd be sending the submarine. They put a negotiator on the line, but I just hung up."
    "Good. Follow the plan. Soon we will be very wealthy men."
    "Yessir! That's what I want." Then there was static.
    Who was that man? He called himself a "friend" of these biker sadists? The man with the calm, educated voice was a co-conspirator with Horse. Who was he?
    Gadgets' thoughts were interrupted by clicks on the radio. Two clicks, then two more. Blancanales.
    Another set of clicks answered. Two clicks, then one. Lyons. Gadgets keyed his hand-radio as he went up the hillside toward the rendezvous.
    On shore and ready, Able Team were moving into action.
    * * *
    Striding through the sagebrush, Blancanales listened for voices or motorcycles. He had heard large-caliber rifle fire only seconds after reaching shore, but Lyons' and Gadgets' click-code replies calmed his fears. The rifle fire had not been aimed at them. Now his concern was to avoid it being aimed at him.
    He glanced at his compass and the plastic-covered topographical map, then surveyed what terrain he could see for landmarks. Light fog still shrouded the hillsides. Continuing due south, he followed a cattle trail through the low brush, inspecting it for foot or tire tracks.
    Below him he heard surf. Then when a canyon's breeze carried away the fog for a moment, he saw the rocky shoreline. Above him the sun rose from behind the unseen peaks; it became a gray disk. Soon the sun would burn away the fog. He hurried