# Bolivian Heat2

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

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The pretty. overworked receptionist frowned.

"The

"Parza .

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Dominick Parza. "

NICK CARTER

The receptionist consulted the current patient file. "Mr.

Parza is in the intensive care wing—

"Yeah, I know. He's bad, huh?"

"Room nine-twelve, but visiting hours are over, I'm

afraid."

"Yeah, I know, but I think my aunt and my brother are

still up there." She made a vague gesture with the bouquet.

"I'll only be a minute."

*Ihe receptionist started to object some more, but an insis-

tent phone drew her attention.

The short blonde scooted to the bank of elevators. She had

the elevator to herself. At this hour all the visitor traffic

was going down. Getting out on the ninth she looked

to her right. Nurses, attendants, and interns were moving

in and out of doorways, getting ward patients ready for

sleep. She turned left, pushing through a pair of swinging

doors into the section reserved for patients with private

rooms.

On the other side of the swinging doors, the floor lights

had already been dimmed for the night. There was only one

person in sight down the corridor: a uniformed policeman

sitting in a straight-backed chair beside the closed door of

a private room. He was half asleep reading a paperback book.

The blonde allowed herself a brief smile. The tip-off was

a joke.

The policeman in front of Benito Coronado's room looked

up automatically when the swinging doors opened. He

looked sleepily bored as he watched the dumpy blonde turn

toward the counter separating the corridor from the nurses'

cubicle. There was only one nurse in the cubicle.

"Excuse me," the blonde asked, "where can I find room

nine-twelve?"

The nurse looked up with a frown. The name tag pinned


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on her uniform read A. Bolt. She said, "Around the comer

at the end. But I'm afraid visiting hours are over."

The blonde made a vague gesture with her bouquet and

gave the nurse a polite smile. "I know. I'll only be a minute.

I promise."

The nurse sighed distractedly and returned her attention

to the charts on her desk. The blonde strolled away down

tyr corridor with her bouquet. She gave the cop in the chair

the curious glance that would be exrcted, went past him

to the corner at the end, then disappared around it. The

cop went back to reading his book.

She went past nine-twelve, into a small solarium.

There was a public phone booth in the corner. She slid into

it, dropped a coin in the slot, and dialed the number of the

hospital. She asked the switchboard for Nurse Bolt on the

ninth floor, was put through, and asked, "Is this Nurse Bolt?"

Yes

•enlis is Clearwater in O.R. Could you run up here for a

"What for? I'm--

"Honey. you know those first-year interns. Some paper

work foul-up,"

"Okay," Nurse Bolt sighed, "I'll be right there."

The blonde hung up and looked at her watch. When the

second hand crept halfway around the dial, she got out of

the booth. Leaving the solarium, she went back around the

comer and down past the cop to the nurses' station.

It was empty.

The cop put the book on his lap and shrugged. He nodded

toward the swinging dcx»rs, "She went out there a couple

of seconds ago."

She stuck the flowers in his face. "Smell," she said with

a smile.

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NICK CARTER

It vas a natural reaction. He smelled just as she triggered

the Weblor. One whiff was enough. He took three and

staggered against the wall.

The blonde caught the chair with her free hand to keep

it from clattering over as the cop toppled off it sideways

and settled on the floor, out cold.

In practically one movement, she orrned the door and

shoved the chair inside the room. She kicked the book in

behind it, and, grabbing the cop by his feet, dragged him

beyond the door just enough to clear it. nis done, she

closed and I(Xked the door and moved to the bed.

Coronado was in a deep, drugged sleep. Half his face

was swathed in bandages, his big belly bulging under the

sheet, his right arm extended in a cast and sling.

Moving swiftly but with practiced movements. she with-

drew a hypodermic syringe from the big bag and broke the

cap.

Just as she inserted the needle in Coronado's left arm,

the body stirred. She looked up. His eyes were open, glazed,

but beginning to focus. He made groggy sounds and then

-words.

"Felicia . you

"Yes, Benito .

She pushed the plunger.

"No, you . .

Coronado's eyes told his mind and suddenly they filled

with fear. He opened his mouth to scream. She kept pushing

the plunger with her left thumb while she chopped down

across his windpipe with the side of her gloved right hand.

It took only a few seconds.

She left the needle in her victim's arm, retrieved the

Weblor from the flowers. and left the room.

The nurses' alcove was still empty. She went through the

swinging and strode past the elevators to the end of

BOLIVIAN HEAT

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the ward section, She took the elevator there down to the

ground floor, left the hospital by the side ambulance en-

trance, and walked two blocks to the trash dumpsters at the

edge of the parking lot.

In the darkness between two of the dumpsters, she re-

moved the dress and the shoes. They, along with the scarf

akd the glasses, went into the dumpster. From the bag she

got a pair of sneakers and the Weblor.

Now she was dressed in a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and

the sneakers. When the wig was off, it and the bag went

into the dumpster along with the dark gloves.

By the time she reached the car, the pins were out of her

dark hair and it fell into natural curls around her shoulders,

She drove back to Manhattan. A couple of blocks before

she reached her East Side apartment, she pulled over to a

phone booth. Since it was near the U.N. building, where

patrol cars constantly cruised, it was probably one of the

few public booths in Manhattan that contained a phone that

still worked.

The exterior of the house perched above La Paz was

modest. The interior was elegant, particularly the large main

room where the three men sat conversing quietly. The room

had been done in black and soft shades of brown that ranged

from creamed coffee to cinnamon to dark amber. The ceiling

was painted a light tan and the walls were covered with a

faint brown material that was patterned in raised, dark brown

fleurs-de-lis. Two black leather couches of an indeterminate

but comfortable design flanked the fireplace whose ornate

mantel had been carved out of brown marble. One entire

wall of the room was tinted glass, giving a view

of the lights of La Paz spread out for miles below.

Two of the men sat in leather armchairs sipping wine.

The third sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. He was

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NICK CARTER

a huge man. well over three hundred pounds, who wheezed

slightly as he spoke.

At the moment he was emptying an enormous can of


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wall of the room was tinted glass, giving a view

of the lights of La Paz spread out for miles below.

Two of the men sat in leather armchairs sipping wine.

The third sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. He was

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NICK CARTER

a huge man. well over three hundred pounds, who wheezed

slightly as he spoke.

At the moment he was emptying an enormous can of

peach halves in heavy syrup into a large bowl. Over the

peaches he poured an eight-ounce can of chcw•olate syrup.

He topped all of this with some vanilla ice cream as a tiny

bit of drool escaped from the comer of his lip.

"Delicious, gentlemen, u•uly delicious." he wheezed.

"Sure you won't join me?"

"No, Senor Rosero," the taller of the two men, a dark

Cuban with a heavy mustache, replied. s 'the wine is fine. "

The second man, narrow-shouldered with a pinched face

and half-inch-thick glasses. also declined. His Spanish was

heavily accented, and he averted his eyes as the corpulent

giant trhind the desk greedily spooned the chocolate-

drenched and ice cream into his mouth.

Rodolfo Rosero had been bom fifty-nine years earlier in

the tiny village of Puicabo in the southem mountains of

Bolivia. He was the son of Pablo Rosero, who had lived

his whole life under the hot sun picking coffee beans and

dying at the age of thirty-seven, leaving six children and a

worn-out wife who would survive him by only two years.

Rodolfo was ten when his father died. and he was deter-

mined not to live and die in poverty. The first step on his

way to riches was coca. The peasants relied on it, needed

to chew so many leaves a day in order to get through the

long, grueling hours of labor in the sun.

For ten years he profited and invested his money well.

His older and younger brothers had worked for Rodolfo all

this time. They, t(X). had prospered, but in their own minds

not enough. They decided to stage a coup and take over the

business themselves. It was to take place in the evening

during a party for Rodolfo'_s twenty-first birthday.


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during a party for Rodolfo'_s twenty-first birthday.

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The takeover had failed because the two brothers didn't

understand Rodolfo's organizational ability and the age-old

balance of power wielded with favors. It was simple, The

men the two brothers had recruited for their coup owed

more favors to Rodolfo than they did to the brothers.

Rodolfo himself shot his two brothers in the head, and

their bodies were never found. From that day on, Rodolfo

Rosero was a man to be feared and respected.

At first he only dabbled in politics. a little money here.

a little money there. But then cocaine became big business.

and Rosero got richer than his wildest dreams. He started

thinking that there was nothing that could stop him from

going to the very top. He wanted to run the country, literally

own it.

But the ruling conservative party and the smaller, almost

nonexistent liberal party would have nothing to do with him.

So Rosero began to plan. He organized the peasants, and

called strikes when he needed them to embarrass the govern•

ment and force the men in power to meet at least some of

his demands.

He also organized the growers in the mountains, and

made a pact with the bandit-turned-Marxist guerrilla, Em-

manuel Mercado, to protect them.

At last Rosero was the power in everything but name.

And then he learned of the Charcas.

The Charcas were a group of nationalists made up mostly

of wealthy landowners and merchants in the larger cities of

Bolivia. They were named after the Chaco area of upper

Chile and lower Peru, which Bolivia once owned. The Chaco

had once given Bolivia access to the sea, Bolivia fought

and lost wars from 1825 clear up to 1929 trying to keep

this land. When they finally lost it. Bolivia became land-

locked.

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NICK CARTER


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NICK CARTER

In the minds of many Bolivians, this lack of a seaport

put them at a disadvantage and made of them a second-rate

country.

For years. little attention had been paid to the Charcas,

mainly their goals seemed utterly ludicrous. They

did little more than make noisy waves.

But then they were embraced by Rodolfo Rosero, and

slowly but surely they had teeth. Many of the older members

were against Rosero. One by one. however, through death

or intimidation, these memt*rs disappeared from the scene.

Terrorism. assassination, and a steamrolling propaganda

machine now elevated the Charcas to a political and

economic force to be reckoned with. And the mover and

shaker behind that force was Rodolfo Rosero.

And Rosero was a man who always looked ahead. He

knew that even if he reached the pinnacle of power, the

United States would never let him sit on the throne. That

is, unless they thought that he and he alone was a bulwark

against Communism. And what better way to prove that

than to court the Communists, and then, when the time

came, dump them?

Rosero had made quiet overtures to Cuba. Cuba. of

course, informed Moscow. Now the big man had Havana's

and Moscow's sympathy. and with it the sympathy of all

the poor that their party line controlled in South America.

Only one man had seen through Rosero's Machiavellian

cunning and deviousness: Benito Coronado.

Now, as Rosero brought the huge bowl to his lips and

drank the last of the chocolate-flavored peach syrup, he had

every reason to believe that Coronado would soon out

of his way.

"What about Mercado?" said the visitor from Moscow.

S 'What about him?" Rosero replied, opening the mammoth

BOLIVIAN HEAT

refrigerator behind his desk and survevinp its

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refrigerator behind his desk and surveying its well-st(Xked

trays.

"We have reason to trlieve that he is only biding his

time, that when the revolution comes, it is he who will try

to become president."

Rosero chose a platter of chicken, closed the refrigerator

d80r, and continued dining. '€1 have heard that, and I have

made arrangements."

A weary-faced woman in a drab black dress entered the

room and stood docilely by the door until Rosero looked

up. Her name was Dulciana. and she was Rodolfo's sister.

All his sisters worked for him. They ran his house.

"Rodolfo, the private line."

No change of expression flickered over Rosero's florid

face. He rose slowly and by sections from his chair. '*Excuse

me for a moment, gentlemen. Refresh your drinks." He

lumbered from the room.

In his private study, he picked up the phone from the

desk and said a single word into it. "St. "

The woman's familiar voice came over the line, coldly

polite and totally devoid of emotion. "They missed."

"What? Damn—

"Don't worry, I have taken care of it." In quick detail

she explained what had been accomplished at Suffolk Gen-

eral Hospital.

"Good, excellent." Rosero was smiling.

"Don't be too hard on them when they get back to La Paz. "

"Felicia. my dear, how long will you cover his mistakes?"

She chuckled, "Until I tire of it, I suppose. Should I

retum to La Paz?"

"No. After a proper time of mourning for your employer.

will work something out for you in Washington. Take care

of yourself. my little viper."

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"l always do."

NICK CARTER

Rosero hung up and waddled back to his larger office.

He was smiling.


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"No. After a proper time of mourning for your employer.

will work something out for you in Washington. Take care

of yourself. my little viper."

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"l always do."

NICK CARTER

Rosero hung up and waddled back to his larger office.

He was smiling.

After tonight's shipment, they would need only one more.

'This time it would be big stuff ... tanks, armored personnel

carriers, even a few planes. But then, the two gen-

tlemen in the next room would supply those. And if they

did require some monetary payment, the growers in the

mountains would provide that.


FIVE

Carter felt a tremendous pain around his neck, as if it

were circled with fire. And the burning sensation was even

stronger in his throat. But at least he was getting air into

his lungs. That meant he was still alive, and that was what

mattered.

Slowly the burning subsided and the clamor eased off in

his head. Finally he cracked his eyes and let the light seep

through until he could open them and look around.

Big Felipe had been joined by Number Three, a Shon,

stocky man with a squarish head and a stupid expression

on his face. His black hair hung in strings down his head,

even over his eyes.

The two of them were drinking coffee from a thermos

and talking in low tones. Pando had been pulled to one side

of the shack and lay propped against the wall by the door.

He looked like a man who had become very tired and had

just decided to sit down and rest.

Caner closed his eyes again and listened to the mumbled

conversation. He could only catch words and bits of frag-

ments. The "Charcas Man" and "Mercado" were mentioned

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several times, as well as '*revolution." He learned that the

third man's name was Emilio, and that if he didn't stop

chewing so many leaves, he wasn't going to be much help

getting the hard stuff back down the mountain to Guyon.

The Killmaster made mental notes of all of it, and went

back to work on the ropes binding his wrists.

Finally, Felipe checked his watch and stood. "Five min-

utes. Let's get the sleds over to the helicopter pad."

"What about him?"

"You heard •em. He goes back in the chopper. The Char-

cas Man wants him himself. Doesn't make any difference

to me. He dies here or in La Paz. Let's go."

They left.

Carter felt for the sharp brad and went to work on the

rope with a vengeance, A minute later he had his bloody

hands in front of him, rubbing the circulation back into

them. It didn't take long to remove the noose from his neck,

but it seemed to take forever to untangle the series of knots

that bound his ankles. His fingers were stiff, and slippery

with blood, but finally the last knot was undone and he was

able to test his legs. His ankles felt as if they had turned to

stone, and it was another few moments before he could trust

his full weight to them.

At the same time, he kept his ears cocked to the sounds

of his captors as they worked outside.

Then, far in the distance, he heard the sound of a chopper

droning over the mountains. Carter rushed to the crack in

the door. Felipe and Emilio were standing by the helicopter

pad. Even as he watched, Felipe was gesturing toward the

shack and Emilio was nodding.

Then Emilio drew a revolver from his belt and moved

Carter's way. There was little doubt why: he was coming

to take the Killmaster out to the pad.

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Quickly, Caner bent over Pando's body and searched for

some kind of weapon. Felipe had taken no chances. The

body was stripped clean.

Carter didn't hesitate. In seconds he stripped the fleece-

lined jacket and blue shirt from the corpse. When his own

shirt was on Pando, he dragged the body across to the

workbench and arranged it with the arms back behind the

legs. Emilio would spot the switch halfway across the shack,

but by then, hopefully, it would be tcx» late.

Carter took Pando's position on the floor by the door and

waited.

The gun was a 9mm Beretta, Emilio held it in his right

hand as he came through the door. Carter was on his left.

Halfway to Pando's body in Carter's shirt, Emilio stopped,

perplexed.

Realization hit him and he was tuming when Carter caught

him between the shoulder blades with both clenched fists.

He fell forward across the workbench, and Carter grabbed

the gun arm, Viciously, he slammed it against the bench

and the Beretta skittered across the floor.

Emilio cursed and slammed Carter in the side of the head

with his left fist. It landed hard and Carter staggered. releas-

ing his hold on the right arm. Emilio dived for the gun.

Carter beat him by a hair, clamped his ten fingers around

a wrist, and spun him into the wall.

Carter had thirty pounds on the smaller man, but Emilio

was street wise, a gutter fighter. He faked a roundhouse

right and went for Carter's crotch with his knee. The

Killmmster used it. He sidestepped, hooked his arm under

the knee as it came up, and kept it coming. At the same

time. he grabbed the back of Emilio's head with his other

hand and yanked down, hard.

Emilio's own knee mashed his nose into his face, but

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fear overcame pain. He got a headlock on Carter and tried

to bash his face. A hard right to the gut that, and


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NICK CARTER

fear overcame pain. He got a headlock on Carter and tried

to bash his face. A hard right to the gut that, and

Carter was free.

He kept working on the gut, four quick punches. Emilio

staggered to the center of the shack and fell.

He rolled up, bringing his head from side to side and

clutching his t*lly as Carter moved in. He tried to lunge,

throwing a punch. Carter took the shot and fired back with

both hands. The short, punishing blows hamrnered Emilio

backward.

So far it was working out perfectly. If his luck held, he

could keep Emilio alive. The beating he was taking would

mess him up, but he would live to be the talking prisoner

they needed.

He followed, digging a left to the bodys bringing the

same fist up to jolt the head, banging away with a long right

as Emilio ran clumsily backward and sat down. There was

blood running like a gusher from his nose and his mouth,

and he was out cold.

Outside, Carter heard running footsteps. He dived for the

Beretta. rolled to his belly, and aimed at the doorway. Felipe

charged through, both hands on the Uzi.

"Drop it," Carter growled, "or 1411 kill you where you

stand."

Felipe was no dummy. He could bring the muzzle of the

Uzi up, but he knew that before he could fire, Carter would

put three 9mm slugs in his-chest.

Slowly, the Uzi slipped until he held it only by the sling.

"Drop it . . . and step back."

He did. cursing under his breath. The Killmaster got the

Uzi. slung it over his shoulder, and motioned with the Be-

retta.

'*Belly down, arms straight out, spread. Legs the same

Carter stepped over Emilio's sprawled body. He kept the

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Beretta centered on Felipe's back, ready to shoot if the man

twitched a finger.

Carter put one foot on the back of Felipe's neck and bent

down to go through his pockets.


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retta.

'*Belly down, arms straight out, spread. Legs the same

Carter stepped over Emilio's sprawled body. He kept the

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Beretta centered on Felipe's back, ready to shoot if the man

twitched a finger.

Carter put one foot on the back of Felipe's neck and bent

down to go through his pockets.

'Ihe search produced another gun, a short-barreled .357

Magnum, slung in a trick holster on his belt.

Most of the remaining items were the commonplace trivia

one expects to find on a man; a brown plastic comb, half

a pack of cigarettes, three books of matches advertising a

brand of coffee—two with matches tom out—and a clean

white monogrammed handkerchief. He also carried a cheap

ballpoint pen, slightly over two hundred dollars in cash

folded in a money clip with a US. silver dollar soldered to

it, and a small leather case containing a dozen cartridges

for the Magnum.

No identification. It figured, Carter thought, getting to

his feet.

Suddenly he felt a jarring blow in the center of his back.

It threw him forward. Out of the comer of his eye he saw

Emilio. The man had come around and planted a boot in

Carter's back. At the same time, Felipe was coming off the

floor.

Carter stumbled. Felipe's hands came up, the fingers curl-

ing around the barrels of the two guns Carter held. Emilio

was lunging at him again from the rear.

Carter had no choice.

He fired both the Beretta and the Magnum. The slugs

tore into Felipe's body. Carter released the guns, crouched,

and whirled.

Emilio went for Carter's eyes. The Killmaster avoided

the gouging fingers and used the heel of his hand. It lifted

Emilio's head and snapped his teeth together hard. When

the head went back, Carter used the vee of thumb and


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orefinger to knife into the exposed throat.

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NICK CARTER

"Shit," Carter hissed.

The second the blow landed. he knew he had misjudged.

Emilio gagged once and fell at Carter's feet, dead, his

windpipe crushed.

Outside, Carter could hear the helicopter landing.

Norm Best had told Gordo he couldn't even help with

the transfer of the arms. His stomach was on fire. He had

gone to the hangar office and sprawled on a cot.

Gordo had shrugged, but Best sensed that something

wasn't right. It was in the way the man had refused to look

at him. Also, during the transfer, one of the workers had

broken off three times and passed the office, glancing in,

checking on him.

When the helicopter took off, Best rolled from the cot

and padded to the window. The Baron had t:æen rolled

around and towed to the open hangar doors.

Gordo stood near it, talking to the other two men who

had shifted the arrns.

One was a thin man about six feet one, with a hooked

nose that jutted out from his face like a knife blade. He had

a bald head and a scar that ran outside his left eye to his

chin. The second man was inches shorter but almost twice

as wide. He had a build like a gorilla, complete with arms

that hung almost to mid-thigh. The arms ended in hands

like catchers' mitts. In one of them he held a long crescent

wrench, idly hitting it into the palm of the other hand.

He kept nodding and glancing toward the office as Gordo

talked. When the gorilla broke off and headed toward the

office, Best somehow knew.

They've been tipped. They know.

Frantically, Best went through the desk. He found a foot-

long hunk of raw steel someone had commandeered for a

paperweight, and ran back to the cot.

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Seconds •later, through slitted eyes, he saw the gorilla

tppear in the doorway.

The powerful man just stood there staring. If Best hadn't

guessed they were on to him before, he knew it now, He

had never seen so much pure hatred in a man's face. It

wasn't violent rage, just pure cold hate.

'Then he was moving. Best the hunk of steel,

tensing his whole body. When the big man was two steps

from the cot and raising the wrench, Best uncoiled.

The steel caught him just at the point where his neck

sloped out to join his shoulder. It was a sure blow, and Best

could feel the impact jar through his own arm.

The wrench flew from the man's hand and he toppled

like a felled steer. Best made sure with a second blow to

the back of the neck as he went down.

Best ran to the window to check on Gordo and the thin

one. They had moved to a car about a hundred yards from

the hangar. Sitting on the hood, they smoked and stared at

the night sky, probably waiting for the gorilla to come out

to tell them that Best's head was bashed in.

Best ran low as fast as he could and climbed up into the

Baron on the far side of the two men.

Quickly, he checked everything and prepared to roll the

starboard engine. He would hit the port while moving.

The prop spun, the engine sputtered, and when it caught,

Best rammed the throttle forward.

Gordo and the thin man were running toward the plane,

tugging automatics from their belts. Best tapped the rudder

with his right foot and the whirling prop swung their way,

As one, they dived clear. and the Baron was free of the

hangar.

He fired up the port engine and increased his speed. He

turned onto the taxiway and continued to accelerate.

To his left he saw a single-engine Cherokee heading out

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toward the runway. They were on a collision course and


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NICK CARTER

toward the runway. They were on a collision course and

the Cherokee wouldn't be intimidated. Behind him, Best

could see Gordo and the thin man piling into the car.

Suddenly Cherokee simply stopped on the concrete

in front of him. Best was forced to swerve across the grass

between taxiway and runway. The airplane on the

uneven turf. He frantically moved the controls to miss the

foot-high light standards that lined the edge of the cement.

He concentrated on other obstacles and the business of get-

ting the airplane into the air.

With a bump, the Baron was off the grass and angling

laterally across the runway. Best looked at his airspeed

indicator and didn't try to slow the plane to tum it down

the runway. Instead, just before it would have hit the grass

on the other side, he dropped his flaps eighty degrees. He

had deliberately delayed moving his flaps from neutral dur-

ing his wild takeoff roll to keep his acceleration rate as high

as

As the flaps dropped into places the needle on the airspeed

indicator told him the airplane was just ready to fly. He

pulled gently backward on the control column and almost

simultaneously retracted his landing gear.

The gear began to fold as the plane left the ground. The

angle of his frantic dash across the field had taken him

diagonally over the runway and directly toward more parked

aircraft. Buildings were also in his path, but he knew the

high flap setting and relatively low forward speed would

permit the plane to balloon upward and over them. At least,

that's what he hoped.

As the landing gear folded into place and his speed in-

creased, Best banked the Baron over the last obstacle and

back into the line of traffic. He brought his flaps back to

neutral, trimmed the plane for level flight, and adjusted the

engines for a speed that put his instruments slightly in the

BOLIVIAN HEAT

47

red. He would stay as close to the ground as possible at

maximum speed, trying for the delicate line between strain-

ing the engines and abusing them.


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creased, Best banked the Baron over the last obstacle and

back into the line of traffic. He brought his flaps back to

neutral, trimmed the plane for level flight, and adjusted the

engines for a speed that put his instruments slightly in the

BOLIVIAN HEAT

47

red. He would stay as close to the ground as possible at

maximum speed, trying for the delicate line between strain-

ing the engines and abusing them.

He darted like a fleeing chipmunk through gorges and

ravines until it was safe to climb.

I He didn't breathe until he was over the peaks and

engines were humming contentedly. Then he banked west

and headed for the ocean.

He had made it, but only because he had sensed something

wrong.

For a brief second he thought about the poor bastard up

in the mountains.

Whoever he was, he probably wouldn't know what hit

him.


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SIX

The noise of the helicopter was much louder now, directly

overhead. Carter had left the light on, the door open, and

Emilio's corpse propped up in the doorway.

Carter moved to the edge of the door. Cautiously, he

risked a look around the frame, and made out the shadowy

outline of the helicopter as it settled down on the pad. He

couldn't think of any way to get out of the lighted shack

without being seen, and figured they'd be suspicious if the

light went out. So he had already decided to wait inside the

shack and play the situation by ear.

He crouched beside the door just behind Emilio's slouch-

ing corpse. with the Beretta and the Magnum ready. Some-

where out there, his own gear was probably stashed, but

there had been no time to look for it.

This would be his last chance. He'd had his chance at

three, and had to kill all of them. Whoever was delivering

the guns in the chopper for the dope stacked now by the

landing pad would be his last chance for a prisoner.

He had two basic reasons for being there: kill the arms

50

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deal. and get a prisoner. So far, not a hell of a lot had been

accomplished.

The roar of the helicopter's engine suddenly quit and all

he could hear was the slowing chirp of the rotor. A minute

passed before he heard a voice call out. He couldn't make

out what was said, but it was a man's voice and it sounded

close. A second or two later he heard the man call out again.

He figured that whoever it was would expect an answer,

so he stood up and moved close to the door.

Pressing down on the bridge of his nose with thumb and

forefinger. he pitched his voice in what he hoped was a

reasonable approximation of Pando. ' 'Come in and give us

a hand!" Then he flattened himself against the wall and held

his breath.

He tensed when he heard the crunch of shoes on the

ground and a voice just outside the cabin door said, "Christ,

will you get a move on? We have to get back to—

The last words were never uttered because he stepped

through the door at that point and saw the bodies.

He paused for just a second, but it was all the time Carter

needed. He reached out and pulled him into the shack. The

man's head spun to see who had grabbed him, and he found

himself down the cavemous barrel of the big Mag-

num.

the t"

"Step right on inside, and don't do anything rash. Make

a noise and you're dead," the Killmaster hissed, making

sure his knuckle was already showing white on the trigger.

The man did exactly as he was told. Carter tucked the

muzzle of the gun under his chin and relieved him of the

flashlight he was carrying. Next, he ran his hands over him

but found no suspicious bulges that would indicate a handgun

or knife. He was a nondescript little guy in a brown suit.

He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a dirty brown complex-

BOLIVIAN HEAT

51

ion. Drop him into any crowd of three or more people and

he'd blend right in. He looked scared out of his wits.

"Answer me quickly," Carter snapped. "Who


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muzzle of the gun under his chin and relieved him of the

flashlight he was carrying. Next, he ran his hands over him

but found no suspicious bulges that would indicate a handgun

or knife. He was a nondescript little guy in a brown suit.

He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a dirty brown complex-

BOLIVIAN HEAT

51

ion. Drop him into any crowd of three or more people and

he'd blend right in. He looked scared out of his wits.

"Answer me quickly," Carter snapped. "Who else is out

there in the chopper?"

The little man's eyes darted, the sure sign of a lie on the

way.

Carter moved closer, the heavy Magnum held loosely in

his hand. He reached out and snapped the barrel down over

the man's collarbone. The little man gasped and went white,

his eyes closing in pain. The Killmaster gave him a few

seconds to get over the worst of it.

"Next time I break it. How many in the chopper?"

The man drew himself up defiantly. "See for yourself,

prick."

"I'll be damned, " Carter hissed. "A big brave hero."

He tapped the collarbone again, this time hard enough to

break it. The man cried out in pain. His eyes rolled back

and went glassy, and more sweat stood out on his face. It

was a good minute before he could and when he did

the voice was hoarse and froggy:

'*Just one."

"An Uzi," he croaked.

"What else?"

"That's it, I swear."

Carter shoved the barrel of the Magnum between the

man's teeth. He waited a few seconds to let him taste the

metal before he spoke.

"Now, you listen to me, you little scum, and you listen

real good. Entiende?"

The man's eyes grew round and he made little choking

sounds, but he managed to nod: he understood.

SAI killed these three already. Killing you would be like

swatting a fly. Got that?"


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oa:ne unuer»

"I killed these three already. Killing you would be like

swatting a fly. Got that?"

52

Another nod.

NICK CARTER

"But you're no good to me dead. Alive, you're just a

nuisance unless you do exactly what 1 say."

Carter gave him a few seconds to think about it. He was

shaking so badly by now that the Killmaster could hear his

teeth chattering against the gun barrel.

"We're going to turn out the light and walk slowly, to-

gether, to the chopper, just as if none of this happened.

You're going to talk to me, call me Emilio, and act like

we're long-lost brothers. Entiende; amigo?'

"I understand," he gasped as Carter pulled the gun from

his mouth.

"That's good. Because if you make one sign, one wrong

move, or say a word of warning, the first slug fired takes

off your head. Let's go,"

"You bastard."

Carter poked the muzzle of the Magnum into the man's

crotch. "You get a count of three before I blow your balls

off for a start. One . .

"Okay, okay!"

"Good. Now lees go." Carter gave him a push toward

the doors. He reached up and snapped out the light before

going through the door, all the time keeping the gun shoved

into the other man's back.

As they started toward the helicopter, Carter snapped on

the flashlight, directing the beam along the ground in front

of them. He figured that anybody would have difficulty

making out anything with the bright glow of the flashlight

shining in his direction.

A couple of times he thought the little guy was going to

collapse, and the second time he raised the gun to the back

of his head and thumbed back the hammer. The oily click

worked wonders for his posture. When they got about thirty


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feet from the machine, Carter could make out the other one

inside. Just a shadowy form, -lit by the soft green glow of

the instrument lights.

He raised the beam of the light until it was shining directly

on the helicopter's canopy and, he hoped, directly into the

eyes of the machine's lone occupant. The light reflected

back from the plastic bubble, rendering the man as difficult

to see as Carter hoped they were.

"Lower the goddamned light, will you?"

The voice sounded peculiar. but Carter had other things

on his mind. They were only a few feet from the chopper

now, and he could see the open door of the cockpit right

in front of them.

The voice again. "What the hell is going on? Are we

making the switch or not!"

Behind the little man, Carter brought the flashlight up in

his right hand. The Beretta in his left he shielded with his

thigh. In one movement he brought the heavy flash down

across the soft part behind the little man's ear and lifted the

Beretta.

"Put your hands on top of your head and get your ass out

of there, nice and easy," Carter hissed. "One move toward

that Uzi and you're dead."

He stepped back as the figure moved, one foot on the

step and then dropping to the ground into the light from the

flash.

"Christ," Carter growled.

She was tall, dressed all in black, and one of the most

beautiful women Carter had ever seen.

It turned out that the little man all in brown was Septi

Bollo. Carter had pried that out of him after he had regained

consciousness. The woman, like the rest of them, had no

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identification on her. In fact, she had nothing on her except

a .32 in the pocket of the black leather jacket.

When Carter had tried to prod something out of her, she

had spit in his face.

He was weary and it would be dawn The hell with

it, he thought; he'd let the interrogators get it out of her.

He had done enough. All he wanted now was to get it over

with, then have a drink. a bath. and some sleep.

He had the woman tie up Bollo, and then he had IRI-formed

the service on her. Then he had checked the goods in the

chopper, and found just what he had expected to find; the

ams were fancy and nothing but the latest designs. The

dope on the sleds and in the packs by the helicopter was

high-grade refined cocaine, bringing probably between three

and four million dollars on the street.

Nice trade, he thought. The hardware goes south to kill

people; the powder goes north and ends up doing the same

thing. And the world keeps going around and around.

His own gear, including the field phone with the range

booster and scrambler channel, was with the d01E,

Now he had the man and woman propped against the

shack far enough away from each other so they couldn't

talk unless they did it loud enough for him to hear.

Bollo was docile. He had already accepted the fact that

he had bought the farm.

The woman was another story, one that Carter couldn't

quite figure.

His earlier assessment of her had been reinforced

on closer insfrction. The hair was long, raven black, and

framed her face to the shoulders in smooth waves. Pure

white teeth gleamed in her dark face through a wild, wide

mouth with sensual lips. A thin, almost classical nose flared

below high cheekbones.

BOLIVIAN HEAT

55

But it was her wide-set, hard eyes glaring back at him

that set her apart. They were brown flecked with green


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framed her face to the shoulders in smooth waves. Pure

white teeth gleamed in her dark face through a wild, wide

mouth with sensual lips. A thin, almost classical nose flared

below high cheekbones.

BOLIVIAN HEAT

55

But it was her wide-set, hard eyes glaring back at him

that set her apart. They were brown flecked with green

around the irises. Carter stared into them and felt as if he

were staring at a hungry tiger about to attack,

"Who the hell are you?" she suddenly asked in a low

voice, surprising him.

"l asked you the same question."

"Whoever you are, you're going to regret this. You've

got an eI norte accent. American?"

"Citizen of the world," Carter growled, and walked to

the chopper where he had dumped his gear.

He snapped on the power from the battery pack, let it

boost. and when he got a signal, fine tuned the frequency.

This done, he put the phones on his head and the hand

microphone close to his lips.

"Lookout, this is Tiptop .. , Tiptop calling Lookout, are

you there? Over."

"This is Lookout, Tiptop, read you loud and clear. Will

copy. Over."

"I have base. Repeat, I have base. Hard stuff and soft

stuff all accounted for, Over."

"Sounds good, Tiptop. Have you acquired any personnel

in your travels?"

•me voice of Lookout was Cal Reader, a good man, an

agent Carter had worked with many times in the past .

enough times to recognize a tenseness in the tone that

shouldn't be there.

"Roger, Lookout, I have five personnel. Only two active.

Over."

Reader didn't come back. Carter waited for several sec-

onds, and when the phone stayed silent he spoke again.

S *Lookout, did you read? I have two active. Over."

"We read. Tiptop. Hang on . . . please."


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okout,

ave two active.

you rea

"We read. Tiptop. Hang on . . . please."

NICK CARTER

56

er.

"Will do." Carter barked, and wondered what was going

on. He lit a cigarette and waited, and waited. When it was

down to a butt; he flipped it away in disgust. "Lookout,

I'm in outer space up here. What the hell is going on? Over!"

"Tiptop, this is Lookout. Hang on to your ass, we'll get

back to you."

Carter blinked. Something was definitely wrong. Instead

of the last voice being Cal Reader, it was David Hawk

himself.

"Roger, Lookout," he said, lighting another cigarette and

counting stars.

It was a full five minutes until the radiophone came alive

again. It was still Hawk. and Carter could hear the tenseness

even in his voice.

"Tiptop, concerning your actives . . is one of them a

female? Over."

"Affirmative. Over."

"Very well. We want you to follow these instructions to

the letter. Do you read, Tiptop? Over."

"Loud and clear?' Carter said, not bothering to hide the

disgust in his voice. "Over."

"Do you still have all your gear? Over."

"That's affirmative. Over."

"Good, We want you to hypo the male active, repeat,

hypo the male active. When he is out, you are to release

the female. Over."

Carter punched the mike button and almost screamed,

but held himself in check for a full ten seconds before

coming back. "Release the female active? Over!"

'That is correct, Tiptop, and as fast as possible. Over,"

"What about the hard stuff?" Carter asked through

clenched teeth, "It's still in the machine. Does she breeze

off with that. too? Over."


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"She does, It is almost oh-five hundred. We are picking

up you, the goods, and the personnel at oh-six-five. Do you

read? Over."

"Affirmative, Lookout. Over."

"Lookout out, Tiptop."

"Shity" Carter cursed, and slammed the radio gear to the

ground.

Still cursing, he got one of the syringes from his pack

and moved toward the shack and Bollo,

"'Que pase, amigo? What the hell's going on here? What's

that thing for, man? What are you—

"Shut up, Bollo," Carter said, yanking the sleeve of the

man's jacket up and ramming the needle into his arm right

through his shirt. "Buenos noches. "

It took only a few seconds. The eyes drooped, the head

sagged, and he was out.

Carter, unlimbering the commando knife, crossed to the

woman and cut her free. "Get your ass out of here."

She stood, rubbing the circulation back into her wrists.

"What are you? Drug enforcement? Customs? CIA?"

"I'm an elf from the Black Forest. Move, while you still

can."

She shrugged, walked a few steps, and turned, the white

teeth gleaming in her face. It wasn't much of a smile, more

like a satisfied leer. "l said you'd be sorry."

Carter stared stonily at her until she tumed away, The

engine caught, the chopper lifted off, tilted, and headed

Carter could swear she wiggled the tail at him.

He dragged the bodies, living and dead, near the pad,

assembled his own gear, and sat brooding until the two big

cargo choppers droned in and landed. He waited until every-

thing was loaded, then he crawled into the lead chopper and

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settled into the right-hand seat. As soon as he was buckled

in, he rummaged in his pack for a flask.

fie pilot, a cocky youngster with a wide grin, gave him

the thumbs-up sign and shouted overthe noise, "Good show,

man! You did one hell of a job!"

"Yeah," Carter grunted, and tipped the flask to his lips.

Rodolfo . . . wake up, my brother . .

"Rodolfo ..

Rosero forced his piggish eyes to open and stare up at

his sister. "What time is it?"

"Nearly seven."

"Dammit, woman, I have been asleep for only two hours.

What—

"It is Sehor Mercado, Rodolfo. He says it is very impor-

tant, an emergency."

"Very well. get out." Rosero's stomach growled as he

used the special bars beside the bed to hoist himself to a

sitting position. After a struggle, he managed to edge his

obese bulk to the side and swing his feet to the floor.

He eyed the small refrigerator he kept well stocked by

his bed. and reached for the phone, "Yes. Emmanuel. what

the hell is it at this hour?"

"The shipment, amigo, " came the familiar, guttural

growl. "We have problems."

'*What about it?" Rosero was instantly alert and awake.

"Gordo just called from Apolo. The woman came up on

the emergency scrambler channel with a Mayday, It was

acknowledged, but her radio went dead."

"Damn! Did they get a fix?"

"No, and I have tried to get in touch with Felipe. There

has been no answer from the mountain. and my lookouts

haven't spotted them coming in with the arms. They are

overdue, amigo, much overdue."

BOLIVIAN HEAT

59

"Christ! What did the Americans have up there, an army?


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"Christ! What did the Americans have up there, an army?

You said they spotted one man jumping from an airplane.

Couldn't your brave warriors handle one man?"

"Yes, there was only one man, I am sure of it. If he took

out Felipe and the others, he is a one-man army."

I Rosero flung open the refrigerator door and grabbed a

turkey leg. He gnawed as he thought.

"How soon can you refine a new batch if we have lost

the shipment?"

"Six, mayt* five weeks." Mercado replied.

"That is too long, We need one more big shipment of

light arms to move, and we have to move fast."

"I have not talked to Pepe in Mexico City, but if he does

not get his powder or cash on this shipment. I don't think

he will send another on credit."

"Call him!" Rosero roared. '*Tell him that the Charcas

Man will guarantee payment on this shipment even if it is

lost

will try, amigo."

"And we should have a face-to-face meet, tonight."

'On the lake place, midnight."

"I will be there, Rodolfo," Mercado replied. ' enere is

one other thing. The turncoat pilot, Best. He escaped at the

airport."

Rosero's hands shook. His face became the color of his

florid, red pajamas, He could feel his heart erupting through

the mass of flesh that was his chest.

At last he managed to scream, "Mother of God, can't

your putas do anything right?'"

Rosero slammed the phone down. Dulciana appeared in

the doorway.

"You have troubles, my brother?"

60

NICK CARTER

"None of your business. you crone."

"Yes, my brother. Will you be getting up now?"

"Yes. Fix my breakfast, and be quick about it!"


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osero s amme

the doorway.

"You have troubles, my brother?"

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NICK CARTER

"None of your business. you crone."

"Yes, my brother. Will you be getting up now?"

"Yes. Fix my breakfast, and be quick about it!"

"Sit my brother."

The bent, forty-nine-year-old woman who lcx)ked sixty-

nine tumed and exited the room before the fat man on the

bed could see the smirking smile of satisfaction on her face.

Rosero threw the meatless bone on the grabbed

another turkey leg, and tried to think.


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SEVEN

The small villa seemed to be pasted to the side of the

I mountain. It overlooked a wide beach and the blue waters

of the Pacific rushing into Acapulco Bay. Thick, tropical

landscaping insured privacy, shade, and beauty to an area

that rarely knew a single hour of the year too cool for a

bathing suit.

Norm Best would miss it. He had bought the villa two

years before under a false name. Now it was sold. He had

nearly a half million in the Vancouver bank. That, and a

new identity to make a little on the side now and then, and

he would do fine up north.

It had been four days since the wild plane ride back from

Bolivia, and he had been holed up in the villa ever since.

Now he was impatient to get going. But he would have to

wait another week. He wanted the trail cold before he hit

an airport or any other means of transportation.

Best raised the glass to his lips, and for the third morning

in a row watched the woman come out of the water, She

was wearing a white bathing suit that caressed her body like

a second skin. Her high, full breasts, tiny waist. and slim

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yet generous hips seemed carved from dark marble.

He felt the weeks of abstinence tug at his groin as he

watched her slowly remove her bathing cap. Glossy black

hair tumbled over her shoulders. She stretched out on the

blanket and unfastened her bikini top.

Best swallowed. He knew what would happen next. She

did the same thing every morning. Arrive at nine, drop her

things on the beach, and swim for an hour. Then she would

sun for two hours, grab another short swim, gather her

things, get in her car. and drive away.

The top fell away and her breasts stayed. full. firm. the

nipples erect.

God. Best thought, another week holed up in here?

He smashed his glass into the fireplace, grabbed his

sunglasses, and headed for the beach.

"Hello."

She looked, then raised herself up on one elbow and.

oblivious to her bare breasts dancing in the sunlight, shielded

her eyes with one hand.

"Hello."

live up there," Best said with a smile, nodding toward

the villa, "I've been watching you every morning."

know." She smiled back.

"You're a beautiful woman."

The smile became electric. "I know that as well. So?"

"So, how about lunch?"

"I'm not at my best in the middle of the day."

have an appointment."

The smile egged him on. "Drinks. later?"

"All right." She stood, brushed the sand from her jutting

breasts, and put the top back on. "Ten?"

STen is fine/' Best replied, seeing in her eyes that the

evening was already a winner.

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Hundreds of miles south, near Punta Coles, Peru, Nick

Carter had also been holed up for four days.

After landing in the chopper, he had been checked out

by a doctor and taken to a room where he was debriefed.

Then Ginger Bateman had driven him to a small airport and

Lear jet,

"What the hell is going on?" he had demanded.

"I don't know . at least not all of it. All I know is we

have problems."

"Where am I going?"

"A safe house near Punta Coles."

"And just where is that?"

"Peru," she said, and that was it.

So for four days Carter had slept, ate, smoked, cursed,

and paced. Now they had come at last: David Hawk, Ginger

Bateman, Hawk's ever-present two bodyguards, and a man

Hawk briefly introduced as Carmine Calvos.

Calvos was in his late fifties, of medium height, rather

well filled out but not fat. Even though it was hot. he wore

a well-tailored dark blue suit and a striped tie with the knot

slightly off center. His face was dark, squarish but not

unpleasant, with black eyebrows and a heavy dark mustache.

Carter took one look at him and smelled cop. He gave

Carter a look of disgust.

The Killmaster was chomping at the bit for some answers,

but he held his tongue as the party moved out to the deck

and arranged themselves as if it were Sunday afternoon and

no one had a care in the world.

Hawk cleared his throat and spoke. "Nick. we screwed

up."

"Oh? How so?" Carter replied blandly, glancing once at

the dark man and figuring he could speak freely since Hawk

had started it off with the man there, '*We got our prisoner.

64

NICK CARTER

We got the dope, even though we gave the guns away."

"We didn't give the guns away. What was left of them

was salvaged from the wreck of the helicopter near Sorata,


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up.

"Oh? How so?" Carter replied blandly, glancing once at

the dark man and figuring he could speak freely since Hawk

had started it off with the man there, '*We got our prisoner.

64

NICK CARTER

We got the dope, even though we gave the guns away."

"We didn't give the guns away. What was left of them

was salvaged from the wreck of the helicopter near Sorata,

about twenty-five miles out of Apolo."

Carter leaned back and smiled. "So the bitch didn't make

it after all."

The three of them—Ginger, Hawk, and Calvos—ex-

changed wary glances. Hawk coughed. Calvos squeezed his

fingers into white knuckles, and Ginger picked up the ex-

planation.

"As you know. Nick, we kept this operation quiet and to

ourselves. That's very risky, since we were on

foreign soil."

"So?" Carter shrugged. "We had Benito Coronado behind

us. Hell, it was his tip and he gave it to us because his own

people wouldn't move off their butts."

Again Hawk coughed. 'Ihis time it sounded like a warn-

ing. "Nick, Benito Coronado is dead. He and his chauffeur

were machine-gunned in their car on Long Island. Coronado

lived. but he was assassinated a few hours later in his hospital

room."

Caner paled a little and hid it with his cigarette. "So they

did have it nailed."

Hawk nodded. "Coronado probably slipped up some-

where along the line and tipped them. Either that, or the

pilot doubled and tipped them himself. It could have been

that. The Baron he used got back to Mexico and he's disap-

peared. We're trying to find him now. We may have a

couple of leads."

"What about the chopper pilot, the woman I let go?"

Hawk tumed to the dark man who was staring intently

at Carter. "That's where we screwed up, Nick. Senor Calvos

here is head of Bolivia's antidrug division. It seems they


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here is head of Bolivia's antidrug division. It seems they

BOLIVIAN HEAT

65

had an operation going for quite a while on this outfit.

The man dropped his hands but didn't avert his eyes.

"The woman you let go, Mr. Carter, is Miguela Obertez.

She is. and has been, one of my best undercover agents for

the last five years."

Carter covered his eyes with one hand and rubbed his

emples.

"We have waited for months to get her into precisely the

position she was in the other evening."

"And now she's blown," Carter groaned.

"Thankfully, no,'" Calvos said, leaning forward and slap-

ping his hands on the table. ' 'Thanks to our discovery that

you had a man in, and your prompt cooperation on the

mountain, we think Miguela has covered herself. Not only

covered herself but perhaps dug herself in even

Carter shrugged, his arms wide, his palms up. '*We're

both lucky. She couldn't know and neither could I."

"Precisely," Calvos said, his hard stare warming a little.

"She side-skidded the chopper, then riddled it with the Uzi

until the explosives went up. She took two days to get back

to her contact, a man named Gordo Martinez. Evidently he

believed her story that she barely got out alive and everyone

else was killed by you."

"And now," David Hawk said, "because we have

apologized to Seöor Calvos and agreed to cooperate in every

way, we may have someone on the inside ourselves."

"Mr. Carter," Calvos went on, "this may have turned out

well after all. Because of what you overheard on the moun-

tain. what Miguela has accumulated, and what we were able

to learn from your prisoner, a larger picture has emerged .

a picture. I would add, that is more destructive to my country

than the cocaine czars."


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Carter poured himself a stiff drink and listened very care-

fully to every word Carmine Calvos said.

He learned of the Charcas, their new organizations power,

and their wealth. He got the background on the bandit-

tumed-Marxist-guerrilla, Emmanuel Mercado. He was

given both facts and theory. One of the theories held that

the Charcas power structure had united with Mercado, and

both of them were either in league with Havana and Moscow,

or they soon would be.

"But as yet." Carter asked, "you have no idea as to the

identity of the one they call the Charcas Man?"

"He could be any one of a dozen influential Bolivian

businessmen or politicians. At one time or another, half the

wealthier class of Bolivia has been connected with the move-

ment."

"What do you think the objective of the guns is?" Carter

asked, already suspecting the answer.

"What else?" Calvos replied with a shrug. "A coup, a

revolution. With obvious wealth and power already—and

dope to give them more—and perhaps now the backing of

the Soviets for grass-roots propaganda and high-tech arms,

God knows how far they can go."

"So," Carter said, "what's the objective?"

Calvos folded his hands and a thin-lipped smile creased

his lips. "Your superior and I have agreed that the best

solution would be to eliminate the three sides of the triangle:

Mercado, of course, their Mexican connection—who may

or may not be this Pepe the Butcher character—and the

Charcas Man himself."

Carter did a little more temple-rubbing and finished his

drink. "Any ideas how we start doing that?"

think," Ginger Bateman said, her arm extended toward

the sea and the sky , "that our ideas are just about to arrive."

The four of them stood and moved to the rail. A small,

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single-engine seaplane was coming in about a mile to the

north and above five hundred yards offshore.

The sun was hot in a clear sky, but a wind had begun to

blow from the southwest, and the force of it across the open

sea piled waves up on the beach. It also raised a little hell

Nith the small plane as the pilot maneuvered lower and

!ower.

At last he hit, skipped twice, and settled just as the hatch

opened and a figure in a dark swimsuit dived into the water.

(he head had scarcely cleared the foam with the arms starting

Into a lazy crawl, when the plane's engine revved and it

was taking off again.

The villa's tiny patch of private sand was covered with

water almost to the walkway: As Carter watched, one of

Hawk's men jogged down the wooden steps.

He just hit the bottom when a woman. long-limbed and

very full figured in a black one-piece suit, stepped out of

the water. She accepted a towel and wrapped it around her

mane of ebony hair as he draped a terry-cloth robe over her

shoulders.

Carter met her at the top of the walkway. "Miguela Ober-

tez. I presume?"

"Ah, El Norte, we meet again," Her eyes weren't stony

now; they seemed full of mischief as they scanned Carter's

tanned, powerful body in his swim trunks. "But I'm afraid

you still have the advantage."

"Carter, Nick Carter. What would you like to drink?"

"Beer. "

Carter smiled. He liked her better already.

Norm Best heard the car and moved quickly to the door.

She was just coming up from the lower level walk when he

opened it.

"Beautiful," he said.

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NICK CARTER

And she was. His mouth watered at the almost impercep-

tible sway of her hips, the sensuous movement of her unfet-

tered breasts under her dress, which was of white lace and


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Norm Best heard the car and moved quickly to the door.

She was just coming up from the lower level walk when he

opened it.

"Beautiful," he said.

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NICK CARTER

And she was. His mouth watered at the almost impercep-

tible sway of her hips, the sensuous movement of her unfet-

tered breasts under her dress, which was of white lace and

strapless. A white mantilla, caught up in her raven hair,

cascaded across her lovely, deeply tanned shoulders. Her

features were delicate, piquant. A narrow straight nose,

large dark eyes, thin, arched brows. Her cheekbones were

just a trifle prominent, her mouth sweet, warm .

"Please come in."

"Thank you," she said. passing him and stepping down

into the large, tile-floored living room.

Best checked himself in the hall mirror. He was wearing

white shoes, white socks, white slacks, and a white silk

open-necked shirt that exposed his broad, bronzed chest,

Liking what he saw, he followed her.

"You know I don't even know your name."

"Nor I yours."

He gave her the alias he had used to buy the house.

"Juanita Chavez," she replied with a straight face. It

wasn't a complete lie. Once, long ago in another life, she

had been Juanita Chavez.

"A little drink, perhaps?"

"A large drink perhaps." she said with a smile, removing

the mantilla. "Like a gin and tonic in a tall glass with a lot

of ice."

"Fine. Let me take those," He reached for her purse and

the mantilla.

"No, CII just put them here."

"Of course."

She went to an overstuffed easy chair. sank into it. and

crossed her legs, keeping the purse on her lap. He looked

at her legs, smacked his lips, then went behind a long marble-

topped bar. She opened her purse, took out a cigarette, lit

it with a little lipstick-shaped butane lighter, and dropped


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topped bar. She opened her purse, took out a cigarette, lit

it with a little lipstick-shaped butane lighter, and dropped

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the lighter back but did not shut the purse, She smoked and

tooked around the beautiful room.

It was a beautiful room, expensively done by an expensive

'Jecorator. This room, the living room, had pale yellow

walls, a tile floor the color of caramel, and comfortable

fuyniture upholstered in a striking gold and white design.

Pre-Colombian ceramic figures sat in niches in the wall

highlighted by pinspots from track lighting.

Best came out from behind the bar with two glasses, each

a tall gin and tonic. He gave one to her, bowed, and took

his to a matching easy chair. He sat facing her.

She tapped out her cigarette and sipped the drink. "Ah,

"Okay," Best said, "let's get the ball rolling here."

She looked up, all innocence. "What ball do we have to

. lots

like chat. get to know each other better .

better." His eyes fell to her breasts and stayed there,

"I'm twenty-eight years old."

"I'm forty-two. Do you mind?"

"Not particularly. Older men are more experienced .

in most things." She drank a lot of her drink and set it down.

"Do you have servants?"

His eyes dropped to her legs. "No."

"l might have a problem with my . , . ah, boyfriend. I

hope you didn't tell your neighbors that you were entertain-

ing the girl on the beach tonight."

Best ran his hand up and down his own thigh. "l don't

know my neighbors."

"Good," Her smile was dazzling.

"What do you do. Juanita?"

"Among other things, I kill people."

The Obregon .45 automatic she took from her purse was

without serial numbers. It had been stolen two months earlier


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NICK CARTER

in Mexico City. She raised it, steadied it with both hands,

and emptied the seven-shot magazine in one staccato burst.

Two of the bullets went wild, but the other five wove a

nice horizontal pattern across his broad chest. Blood spoiled

his white outfit. His eyes looked so innocently surprised

before they turned upward. Then the glass fell out of his

hand, and then he fell out of the chair and lay grotesquely

on the floor, little geysers of blood spurting out of him.

She sat, looking at him.

Then she stopped looking at him.

She put the gun in her purse and took out a pair of surgical

gloves and a handkerchief. Then she did the thing she had

yearned to do since his eyes had started undressing her. She

poured the remainder of her gin and tonic over his dead

face. Then she wiped her fingerprints from her glass, carried

it to the bathroom, and smashed it into the bathtub.

She pulled on the gloves and methodically ransacked the

villa, taking all the cash she could find and the Bolivian

passport, as well as the bankbooks on the bank in Vancouver.

The bankbooks also had transfer codes that could be used

to shift money by phone. She was not above gleaning an

extra dollar or two for the night's work.

"Ihen she left the villa. letting the door swing shut on its

snap-lock.

In the car, she drove the twenty-odd miles north to

Acapulco on the coast highway, and parked in the basement

garage of a high-rise condo complex that was no different

from a dozen others along the beach. The penthouse of this

particular building happened to belong to Altos, Ltd. , which

was a subsidiary of another, larger company. which was

yet another subsidiary. All of them. if they could be traced,

were owned by one Rodolfo Rosero.

Taking the elevator to the top floor, she let herself into

the lavish apartment and kicked off her shoes. She poured

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herself a brandy and put the Obregon .45 in a small wall safe.

A glance at the wall clock told her that there was plenty

of time.

In her bedroom, she slipped out of her dress. She wore

no underwear beneath it except pantyhose. These she peeled

pff as she admired her nude body in a mirror.

Must get back to my exercises, she thought, all this easy

life is starting to show.

In the bathroom she washed her teeth, rinsed and gargled,

went into the shower, and turned the water on hard.

With her body scrubbed clean and tingling, she closed

the faucets, stepped from the stall and toweled briskly. She

in fact, sexy, and in the bedroom touched

felt good

perfume to her body.

Only then did she pick up the phone to call La Paz.


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EIGHT

The phony crash had worked. Her contact, Gordo Mar-

tinez, had swallowed it all. The clincher had been Carmine

Calvos's leak to the press about the downed helicopter and

the mystery surrounding its missing occupant or occupants.

Miguela had been told to lose herself for several days but

stay in close touch. Evidently, Mercado and the Charcas

Man had studied the situation and were coming up with a

solution.

On AXE's end, little men were running all over Mexico

and South America, putting a pattern to the information

they did have.

David Hawk and Ginger Bateman had returned to

Washington. Carmine Calvos had gone back to La Paz.

Carter and Miguela had stayed on ice at the oceanside villa.

Carter didn't mind. If he had to stay cooped up until

something broke, at least it was better to be COOEkd up with

a beautiful woman.

Hawk, Bateman. and Calvos had left late the evening of

Miguela's arrival. It was now the next afternoon. and Carter

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and Miguela were lying side by side on the narrow strip of

beach.

So far, the only conversation between them had been

business, bouncing around ideas. and Carter was willing to

let it remain that way.

She wore the same black, figure-hugging bathing suit he

had first seen her in. and lay sunning herself on the sand

with a straw beach hat over her face to shield her face from

the sun. When he spoke to her, she removed the hat long

enough to answers then put it back so that it hid her face

again. It was not a gesture of rudeness; she was pleasant

enough, and the hot sun made her use of the hat understand-

able. But she withdrew behind its wide brim as effectively

as if it had been a door closed between them.

"When are you due to check in again?"

"This evening at seven."

"What's your guess?" Carter asked. He had been trying

to get her to make an opinion on just what part she would

have in the organization's scheme. To Carter, this was im-

portant. If she wasn't taking Best's place, or another job

deeper in. Caner would have to stan digging alone. So far

she had been noncommittal.

Probably, he thought, because she was thinking the same

way.

The hat kept him from seeing her expression. She took

so long to answer that he thought she was ignoring the

question again.

At last she spoke, "Gordo Martinez let it slip that time

is a problem. They can't wait the weeks it will take to refine

another shiprnent of powder to deal for arms. Correct?"

Carter nodded. S That's what you've already said."

The hat came off. "I think they'll try to sniffout somebody

else's shipment and hijack it."

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Carter mulled this over. "If that is the case, you'll be the

one to fly it in."

She smiled brightly. "You're one smart man, amigo. "

"And maybe I could manufacture the hijack."

She frowned, then nodded. "That would make things a

simpler."

Carter brushed her cheek with his lips. "We'll think on

It." He lay back and shielded his eyes from the sun. In

fifteen minutes he knew what he was going to do.

"Where are you going?"

"House. I'm making a phone call."

"I've had enough sun too," Miguela said, gathering the

towels and trotting by his side.

He chuckled. "You just want to listen in."

"You're right," she admitted, sliding her arm through his.

No doubt about it, Caner thought, the ice was melting

between them.

"So at least it's one theory, Ginger. Have the DEA boys

nail me down the bank who's handling Mexico City. If this

Pepe's as big as we think, they'll know who is handling his

payoffs and investments. It doesn't matter where the bank

is—Miami, Dallas, San Diego, New York—just get me a

name. I'll do the rest."

Ginger agreed to get right on it and get back to him.

Carter hung up and turned to Miguela.

"It's a long shot," she said, frowning.

"Yeahs but if it works it will make you very popular with

them."

She shrugged. "Sounds good. 19m going to take a shower."

She headed for her bedroom.

"Me, too."

Carter built a drink and headed for his own shower.

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Twenty minutes later he walked back into the room with a


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NICK CARTER

Twenty minutes later he walked back into the room with a

towel draped around his middle.

"Your body is in great sharr, but so many scars .

She was sitting up in Carter's bed, sipping a drink. Her

shoulders were framed in a frothy blue-gray negligee, part

of the wardrobe Calvos had brought for her in two large

bags. Her hair, still wet, was curling around her face.

"Is this visit business or pleasure?"

She set aside the glass and slid from the bed. She came

to him in a single movement, fitting her body to his with a

raw and panting urgency. The damp raven hair was against

his cheek. highs full breasts cushioned to his bare chest.

Her mouth, when he kissed her, was hot. Her lips and

tongue were searing and drew back only for a breath after

her teeth had met his tongue demandingly.

"Does that answer your question, El Norte?" she mur-

mured.

Carter pulled the tie between her breasts and gentiy pushed

the gown down her body until it lay in a cloudlike pile at

her feet. He reached for her.

."Wait . . ."

She stepped back to let him see her. She knew what the

sight of her body did to men, and she loved it, especially

when the man was one she wanted to impress. She wanted

him unclothed, too, but that could wait. First she wanted

to show herself to him. She knew from experience that the

sight would thrill him, and she took nearly as much pleasure

from seeing the delight in his face as he did from looking

at her.

Carter stared. He had known what to expect from the

way she filled her bathing suit, but the incredible symmetry

of her nude body was even more provocative than he had

imagined it. Her full, rounded breasts and light brown skin,

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smooth and perfectly unblemished, were an unbelievable

ombination of feminine beauty.

She pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side as a


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way she filled her bathing suit, but the incredible symmetry

of her nude body was even more provocative than he had

imagined it. Her full, rounded breasts and light brown skin,

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smooth and perfectly unblemished, were an unbelievable

ombination of feminine beauty.

She pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side as a

ray of sunlight from the window buried bits of gold in the

.jark wealth of her hair. "Now you," she said huskily.

He dropped the towel. and her eyes their time devour-

ing his body before they came back to meet his.

"Now," she whispered.

He lifted her and moved to the bed. As they settled, she

clung to him. He kissed her once, and then again, very

Oghtly. Her head came up, her eyes closed, tiny sounds

bubbling in her throat.

He kissed the line of her jaw, her cheek, then touched

her lips with his own, rimming her mouth gently. She was

silk. Her fingers slid down his neck and traced little lines

on his face. Trembling, she returned his kisses.

He was seized with desire. Their breathing quickened.

He rubbed his hands against her neck. She brought his hand

to her mouth, kissed it, and bit it gently.

The room had gone still except for their rapid breathing.

Slowly. they began caressing each other. Her body was

exquisite: the breasts full and rising, the legs long, the thighs

smooth, the arms curling, the hair fragrant. When he put

his hand between her thighs it basked in heat. She touched

him, moaned when he entered her, and then they were

caught in each other's passion.

They rose and fell in unison, she uttering little sounds,

her back arching slowly, higher with each thrust.

Then she was on top of him, pushing him down on his

back. She was all over him, biting softly, kissing. He tasted

her as they rolled over. She brought her pelvis up to meet

him, her large, luminous eyes staring up at him, her mouth

pressed shut for a moment, then opening as she gasped for


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NICK CARTER

breath. For a long time they rocked back and forth, in and

out. Then she began to twist under him.

ney were on their sides for a while and then she mounted

him and brought her knees up until they pressed against his

forearms. She shifted the tempo, slowing it. Her eyelids

started to flutter. Her movements became slow, deliberate.

She began to contract around him like a great velvet clamp.

They burst together and rolled to their sides, still caressing

one another with their hands. Slowly, they drifted off to a

satiated sleep.

Carter lay in the bed and stared at her hair splayed around

her head on the pillow. Her arms were bared, but in her

sleep she had pulled the sheet up prudishly, incongruously,

over her breasts. She slept easily, her expression almost

childlike, her intensity gone, the urges stilled and the fires

banked.

Gently he shook her shoulder and one eye opened.

"Nice," she mumbled.

Carter smiled. s 'It's almost seven."

Without a word. Miguela rolled from the bed and reached

for the phone. Carter headed for the bathroom and the

shower.

"Aren't you interested?" she asked, dialing.

"Of course, but you'll tell me."

He turned on the water, tempered it until it held just a

touch of warmth, and began soaping himself.

A few minutes later the shower dcx»r slid aside and

Miguela stepped in beside him.

"l guessed right. They are looking for a shipment. I told

them I might have a contact up north."

"And .

"And they want me to pursue it."


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They both smiled, and Carter turned the nozzle up to

catch her in its spray.

When they were both wet, he drew her out of the spray

Sind lathered her from neck to toe. His hands were slow and

gentle. The lather was white and fragrant and she abandoned

herself to his fingers.

"Now. Do me," he said, and gave her the soap.

She lathered him slowly, feeling how hard his body was,

trying to cover him with white bubbles. He was chuckling,

and she was laughing.

When she would have stepped under the spray to rinse,

he caught her in his arrns again and carried her. This time,

with both of them covered with frothy lather, she kept slip-

ping and he had to toss her up and catch her again to keep

from dropping her.

They fell on the bed togethers Carter on top. He slid into

her. They struggled to engage, laughing at their failures,

trying agaim At last it was only their bodies that slid as

they moved, and it was even better than before. Now they

had to work for delight, but they moved and slid, slid and

moved until they both cried out in ecstasy.

While he was shaving, Miguela stirred in the other room,

and in a few minutes he smelled coffee and bacon. Orange

juice was waiting in a nest of crushed ice, and he sipped it

while she busied herself in the kitchen. It had rained some-

time during the night or early morning, and small diamonds

still beaded flowers outside the open window.

He opened one of the doors to the balcony and sniffed

the clean air. It was kind of a pity, he thought. It would

have been a nice holiday if they had not known how it

would end.

"Pensive?" she said softly behind him, her hand lightly

on his arm, her fingers only hinting at a caress.

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He opened one of the doors to the balcony and sniffed

the clean air. It was kind of a pity, he thought. It would

have been a nice holiday if they had not known how it

would end.

"Pensive?" she said softly behind him, her hand lightly

on his arm, her fingers only hinting at a caress.

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NICK CARTER

"Yeah. it's morning."

g 'Me, too. I can•t stand people who are all bubbly with

happiness in the morning."

He kissed her nose. "Even after last night?"

"Breakfast is ready," she announced.

He followed her into the kitchen and sat across from her,

conscious of the female curves under the pastel green robe

that clung to her body.

They were through eating and were on their second cups

of coffee when the call came from Washington, Carter took

it on the kitchen phone. Most of his side of the conversation

consisted of mumbles and a few grunts. In three minutes

he had hung up and was back at the table.

'*It's a go. I have a name in Miami. According to the

DEA people in Washington, he's the most likely one to be

Pepe's bank."

"And from him you can get the distributors?"

Carter nodded. "Ten to one I can. I'll leave right away

and contact you when it's moving."

Miguela glanced out the window, and the comers of her

mouth curled down. "It's going to be boring around here

without you."

"Maybe not," Caner replied, suddenly serious. "Watch

yourself. Whoever this Charcas character is, his intelligence

is good and his arrn is long."

"What do you mean?"

"The Mexican police found Norm Best this morning in

a villa south of Acapulco with five slugs in him. They are

calling it robbery. I think we know better."


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