"Yessir, you can count on that."

"Okay. You've got a sharp crew here. Stay that way."

"You offer odds on that, Mr. Lambretta."

Bolan punched the guy lightly on the shoulder and went below to the main deck.

The Ventura Boulevard bridge was just ahead.

In a few minutes they would be in open sea.

Where to from there?

It was a wild-ass play he was making. He knew that. So ... why change the name of the game now? His entire life had become a wild-ass play.

He walked toward the stern and reached into his armpit to activate the miniature shoulder phone, then turned his face to the side and shielded his mouth with a hand as he spoke into the sensitive microphone. "Gadgets."

"Yo."

"Anything?"

"Plenty. Are you clear?"

"For the moment. What do you have?"

"Our young lady called a lot of people and said a lot of screwy things. The one you'll be most interested in is a guy she called Max. You tie that?"

Bolan replied, "I tie. Our VIP. That's a fast bingo."

"Yeah. Faster than you'll follow until you've screened this stuff. It's too much for a quick report. Where are you?"

"Aboard Danger's Folly, heading for open sea."

"God! What's the tie?"

"I decided to make that buy for Tony."

"God! Hope you know what you're doing."

"Me too, Gadgets. Off. Don't beep me. I'll check in soon as I'm back on dry land."

"Do that. I'll be monitoring."

Bolan repeated, "Off," and deactivated the radio. He lit a cigarette and strolled casually toward the bow.

He noticed the two crewmen perched tensely at the rail on the starboard side, each displaying the butt of a revolver in the waistband of their bell-bottoms, watching him as though he were a prize exhibit at some zoo.

He went on to the bow and leaned out to watch the water swirling past.

Yeah.

He hoped he knew what he was doing.

In all truth, though, he had not the faintest idea of where he was going or what he would do when he got there.

Danger's Folly, hell!

It was very possibly going to prove Bolan's folly... and that was the brutal truth of that.

They'd been underway for nearly an hour and — to Bolan's best calculation — on a due-west heading. There'd been no conversation between Bolan and the crew. He had not encouraged any, but spent the early time prowling the boat to get the feel of it.

The main cabin — marked "Salon" with a brass plaque above the doorway — was done up for solid creature comforts. It was not overly large, but a lot of entertaining could be done in there. Couches and chairs, he noted, converted to sleeping arrangements for eight.

The engine room was crammed full of the most impressive-looking power plant Bolan had ever seen. It was quietly and smoothly propelling the big boat through the heavy swells of the open sea at a very respectable cruising speed.

The crews' quarters were housed in a small cabin behind the engine room. Four bunks, adequate headroom, small galley and lounge area — all of it clean and neatly shipshape.

The familiarization completed, Bolan sprawled into a deck chair on the fantail and watched the churning wake billow out beneath him.

They must have been twenty-five miles or so out when Bolan spotted the other boat. It was a classy speedster, deep draft, done up for sports fishing and flying a line of pennants from the mast.

He left his chair immediately and headed casually toward the bridge. Tarantini was inspecting the other boat through binoculars. He lowered the glasses as Bolan walked up and handed them to him.

"That's her," Tarantini announced. "And ready to deal."

They were still about a mile away.

Bolan growled, "How do you know?"

"Those pennants. It's a signal meaning everything's okay. If the Coast Guard or anything else suspicious had been in the area recently, she'd be flying a warning signal."

Bolan nodded. He said, "Okay, let's go."

They were running on the other boat's beam, passing to the rear now.

"We're going," Tarantini assured his passenger. "We don't just run right up to them, y'know. But you can relax. I don't see no signs of trouble."

"You won't until we get there," Bolan warned. "Tell your boys to stay alert. And you run with my play. Understand?"

The Turtle smiled soberly. "You expecting some kind of double-cross?"

"Maybe something like that," the Executioner replied, and turned his full attention to a binocular surveillance of his target.

Five minutes later Danger's Folly was coming alongside the other boat, sliding in from the starboard quarter. She was marked Pepe and, beneath the name, Ensenada. A Mexican registry.

Undoubtedly the rendezvous was taking place in international waters.

Bolan had to give Tarantini due credit. He knew his boat handling. It was a delicate maneuver; boats in open sea did not handle like rolling objects on a stable surface. They slid, wallowed, lunged and leaped. Both boats were maintaining sufficient headway for maneuverability, moving along at a speed of about ten knots. Horizontal separation was only about twenty feet, but both were maintaining station beautifully.

Bolan counted four Mexican crewmen, including the guy at the wheel. Standing beside the Mexican skipper was a beefy, red-faced man wearing slacks and a gaudy sports shirt, no hat, partially bald. American ... or European.

The sailors were throwing lines across and setting up a transfer operation, the usual nautical bit of pulleys and control lines.

Tarantini's full attention was being absorbed by the demanding job at the wheel. Without looking at Bolan, he told him, "Okay, we're on station. You can do your thing now."

Bolan had already noticed that his counterpart aboard the Pepe was moving toward the main deck. He took his cue from that and descended the ladder, dropping beside the two crewmen near the transfer lines. One of them silently handed him a battery-powered megaphone.

Bolan growled, "Watch those bastards." The crewman nodded understandingly and stepped aside.

The guy on the Pepe's dealing deck had a bullhorn also. He called across, in a strong French accent, "Where is M'sieur Danger?"

"Couldn't make it," Bolan horned back. "You got the stuff?"

"My arrangement was with M'sieur Danger." "Then go deal with him," Bolan replied. He raised the attache case. "But what counts is right here."

"You have one hundred American?" "That was the deal, wasn't it," Bolan called back.

"And five for the Pepe."

"Yeah, sure. I gotta check the stuff first, though."

The Frenchman dug into a rubberized bag and produced a small packet which he passed to a seaman beside htm. The sample went into a transfer basket and moved smoothly across the twenty intervening feet of Pacific.

Bolan removed it from the basket and opened the small plastic bag. He touched his tongue to the white powder in there. It was pure heroin, or damned close to pure. A hundred-thousand worth of the stuff would produce a million-buck's worth of street junk.

He raised the bullhorn and demanded, "Let's see the rest of it."

"I would see the color of your American first."

Bolan obligingly opened the attache case and pulled out a packet of bills. He dropped them in the basket and gave the signal to the sailors. As it was making the transit, he called over, "That's the five for the Pepe. The rest is just like it." The guy was already inspecting the money. He was smiling as he announced, "Okay. We have the deal. Send over the hundred." "You send over the stuff first." The smile evaporated as the Frenchman, visibly upset, called back, "This is not the way. M'sieur Tony Danger has never done business this way. You pay, I deliver. This is the way." Bolan replied, "So I'll pay." He reached into the attache case again, but this time his fist came out filled with a big silver pistol, the .44 AutoMag, and it spoke instantly in a big rolling boom as the magnum missile dissolved the distance between the Executioner and his target. The Frenchman received his payment at the rail and his head exploded in receipt.