“I don’t normally poke my nose into field operations.”

The President went on, “And I appreciate your candor. But under the circumstances, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to provide me with as many details as possible as soon as you get them, confirmed or unconfirmed.”

“Of course, sir,” Brognola replied. “Would it be terribly out of line if I asked why?”

The President appeared to consider Brognola’s request a moment and then replied, “I suppose that’s a fair question. You must understand that under no circumstances will I permit the outbreak of a full civil war in Cuba without taking significant action. And when I say action, I mean the full-scale military kind. If such hostilities were to ensue and we had exhausted every political remedy to abate them, I would be forced to order the U.S. Marines at Guantanamo to do whatever it took to protect the U.S. and its boundaries.”

“War?” Brognola asked. “With Cuba?”

“If necessary, yes.”

Havana Five

Mack Bolan®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.

In revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.

—Friedrich Nietzsche, 1844–1900

When revenge steers a person toward murder and deceit, I’ll be there to strike a blow for justice.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Gulf of Mexico

Two men wrestled the body from beneath the top deck of the small yacht anchored forty nautical miles north of the Cuban coast.

“This wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan,” Dominic Stein said.

Stein groaned under the deadweight of his load as if to emphasize the point, but his partner took no interest in the conversation. Not surprising, since Leslie Crosse did everything he could to avoid talk of grisly topics. The guy wouldn’t even go to a slasher film, although it hadn’t seemed to bother him when he’d shot their burden through the head with a silenced .380-caliber pistol.

“At least I bought us some time,” Crosse replied.

Stein had to concede that particular point. They certainly hadn’t planned on Mackenzie Waterston returning to his Pentagon office minutes after Stein and Crosse picked the lock, broke into Waterston’s files, and pilfered every document and data CD they could find on Operation Gridlock. Nobody outside of the Oval Office should have even known about the President’s initiative. The U.S. State Department’s Plan Colombia had included covert military actions by specialized units based out of Guantánamo Bay designed to neutralize training camps for the National Liberation Army, aka the ELN. Such operations were particularly lucrative for certain individuals in the array of criminal trades across Cuba and the better part of South America. Drugs were only the tip the iceberg. Precious stones, counterfeit bills and import contraband of every kind were also profitable for a group of fabled crime lords known as Havana Five.

“Okay, so we had to do it,” Stein said. “But that sure as hell doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Quit bitching and keep moving,” Crosse muttered. The flash in his eyes served as a warning he’d about had his fill.

Stein wouldn’t have taken that kind of mouth off just anyone; Crosse wasn’t just anyone, however, he was Stein’s best friend. They had served side by side in the DIA for more than a decade. As luck would have it, their long-term partnership had somehow slipped through the cracks of the DIA bureaucrats—there were rules about the length of time personnel could serve together—and the pair had simply decided to keep their mouths shut about that fact. It turned out fortuitously when an irresistible offer practically dropped into their laps.

“Fine, fine,” Stein said. “I just hope to high hell this’ll be worth it.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

They finally managed to get Waterston’s body to the top deck and dragged it over to the polished wood banister before Stein dropped his end. The sudden change in weight distribution nearly caused his partner to fall onto the corpse, but Crosse managed to regain his balance. He cursed under his breath but said nothing directly to Stein.

Crosse nodded in the direction of the long metal crate in the aft of the boat as his chest heaved with exertion. Stein took the cue and moved to retrieve the crate. He dragged it over to where his friend waited with the corpse and opened the lid. Several rows of silver-dollar-size holes ran along the sides and end of the crate, and after closer inspection Stein realized it was a crab cage. On a three-count, the men hauled the corpse into the cage, closed the lid and then swung the cargo winch into place.

Crosse sat back on a nearby fishing seat while Stein attached a chained hook through a large alloy hole in the top of the crate and winched it up. Stein looked at Crosse who lit a cigarette, dragged deeply on it, then nodded through the cloud of exhaled smoke. Stein swung the winch over the water and engaged the release. The crate hit the water with a splash and immediately sank.

“That should keep his body from ever floating to the surface. Huh?” Stein inquired.

Crosse nodded. “And by the time anybody does find it, we’ll have long passed from this hell into the next one, partner.”

Stein shrugged and looked uncomfortably at the deck. “Yeah, I’m sorry it went down this way for ya, Les.”

“Forget it.”

Stein thought about that for a time and then pulled a flask from the back pocket of his slacks. He took a long drink and then passed it to Crosse, who snatched it without hesitation and partook of a couple of long pulls himself. He wiped his mouth, popped in the cigarette and then handed the uncapped flask to his partner. Stein took another swig before capping the flask and pocketing it.

“What now?”

“Now we wait.”

They didn’t wait long, maybe fifteen minutes, before they heard the sound of an outboard motor buzz in the distance. At first the men didn’t see anything and both drew their government-issue Glock 21 pistols. As the seconds ticked by and the drone of the motor grew closer, Stein wondered if this part of their plan had been such a good idea, after all. He voiced his concerns.

“What are you squawking about now?” Crosse asked. “I swear to God, Dom, there’s times I think you’re paranoid or something.”

“Listen, I don’t much like these Cubans. I don’t trust them.”

“Then you should have thought about that before taking this deal. Beside, we’re doing what’s best for our country. You think those peckerless suits back in Washington would have the guts to do something like this? Now just keep quiet and everything will be fine. Let me do the talking. Okay?”

Stein wanted to protest but thought better of it and clammed up with a nod.

The source of the outboard motor became visible. Right at that moment Stein became more alert to all the sights and sounds around him. The salty smell of the Gulf waters seemed stronger and the cloak of humidity more intense than it had before now. At first he thought maybe the bourbon had started to work on him, but the sudden rise of bile, the churning in his stomach, the hammering of his heart in his chest and ears told him the many sensations were the culmination of one. Fear.

Stein shook it off and tried to regain his composure as the tiny motor launch came alongside the yacht. Crosse put his pistol away and walked forward starboard. He engaged the ship-side release and kicked out the narrow, steep stairwell that came to rest a mere couple of feet above the water line. Two large Cubans dressed in black fatigues with slung machine pistols boarded first. A man in tailored slacks and flower-print shirt followed them a moment later.

Stein got closer and nodded at the man, who studied the pair a moment with his black eyes—no sign of recognition or friendliness on his face—but then a grin split his features. He had a toothy smile so white it looked stark against his dark complexion and hair.

“Andres,” Crosse said, extending his hand.

The man shook it. “Permission to come aboard, gentlemen?”

“Granted.” Crosse looked at Stein with a knowing smile. “We were just enjoying a drink and a cigarette. May I offer you something?”

“I would love to, but alas, we’re short on time. I trust everything on board is in order?”

“Your men won’t have any trouble getting the boat into Havana’s port,” Stein cut in. “She’s totally clean.”

The man they knew only as Andres nodded and then something at Stein’s feet caught his eye. Everyone else turned their attention there, also, and Stein looked down to see the small trickle of blood run a jagged path between his shoes.

“Oh, yes,” Andres replied. “I can see she is very clean. Was there a problem?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned about,” Crosse replied. “Just a little side business we had to take care of.”

Andres’s smile lacked warmth now. “And I trust it’s taken care of for good?”

“Yeah.” Crosse and Stein held impassive expressions.

“That’s fine, I will take you at your word. My men can attend to any last-minute details on their way. So if you gentlemen would come with me, Señora Fuego waits for us.”

The men followed Andres into the small launch. The Cuban powered up the outboard motor and within a few minutes they were away from the yacht, its lights barely visible as they faded into the blanket of fog that seemed to settle on them with a swiftness Stein had never before experienced. Despite the fact their rendezvous had gone off without a hitch, Stein couldn’t help the burning in his gut. Something told him they had just made a terrible mistake.

CHAPTER ONE

Mack Bolan studied the landscape spread out before him as the Military Airlift Command flight circled for its final approach into Guantánamo Bay Naval Base. He had an almost unobstructed view from his seat in the forward compartment of the huge Boeing 757 cargo carrier, courtesy of one of his oldest friends and allies, Hal Brognola. As director of America’s most covert antiterrorist organzation, Stony Man, Brognola had requested Bolan’s attention for this mission under the behest of the President of the United States. As a friend, Brognola had asked Bolan to accept the mission. And as one friend would do for another under those circumstances, the Executioner accepted.

Bolan had come to Cuba seeking one thing: information.

“It’s very simple,” Brognola had told him a few hours earlier in an abandoned hangar at Andrews AFB. “We need you to fly into Guantánamo Bay, question a prisoner named Basilio Melendez regarding the disappearance of Colonel Mackenzie Waterston and then act based on the information provided.”

“And when you say you want me to act, you mean…”

“In whatever manner you deem the best interests of this country,” Brognola replied. “Colonel Waterston was in charge of military operations related to Plan Colombia. You have some idea of that initiative?”

Bolan nodded. “The President’s Executive Order 1-1-7-3-Alpha to the Secretary of State. The State Department is charged with conducting all operations, diplomatic or otherwise, necessary to eliminate the drug and arms-running activities designed to support the FARC, AUC and ELN, and to neutralize such operations deemed a terrorist threat to the U.S.”

“I see you keep up with the times,” Brognola said with a grin.

The Executioner shrugged. “I have my sources.”

“Yeah, and it’s not as though this information would be necessarily difficult to come by. Anyway, the Chief of Staff appointed Colonel Waterston to the Pentagon with instructions to monitor the activities of a number of special ops units operating out of Guantánamo Bay. Our boys down there got particularly interested when intelligence reports pointed to the possibility there was an ELN training camp operating full-time in Cuba. Up to this point, we’d never been able to confirm it.”

“And this is where Melendez comes in?”

“Right.” Brognola pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth, studied it a moment, then stuck it into the other side of his mouth and continued. “All Cuban prisoners were returned to their country back in the mid-nineties when we stopped detaining nationals at Gitmo. Under normal pretenses, any Cuban citizen caught there in a crime is automatically extradited to Cuban authorities.”

“Why’s Melendez special?”

“Just for the reasons you might have guessed. He had information on Waterston before we even asked. And it’s not the first time we’ve encountered him. You see, Melendez has been picked up many times before. It’s how we’ve managed to make contact with him. Normally, we turn him loose to the Cubans and they just chalk him up as a troublemaker.”

“They probably break out the party hats every time he shows up on MP blotter,” Bolan concluded.

“Precisely,” Brognola said with a frown. “But when we heard what he had to say this last time around, we thought it was probably better to keep him detained for a while.”

“Why?”

“Because Waterston’s missing and his disappearance fits what Melendez told us. So far, anyway.”

“How does this tie to the ELN and their training camp?”

“Don’t know yet,” Brognola replied. “That’s what we need you to find out. Striker, the Man is getting damned nervous about this, and I can’t really say I blame him. Waterston isn’t the only one to disappear. Two other agents with the Defense Intelligence Agency have been MIA over a week. We have reason to believe they’re connected with Waterston’s disappearance. We need you at Gitmo as soon as possible. You’ll use the Brandon Stone cover, a special investigator with the Criminal Investigation Division.”

Now dressed in full Army greens, Bolan considered the mission ahead. He didn’t have the first idea what Melendez might know, but the Cuban was his only lead to finding Mackenzie Waterston. How the DIA fit into all of it was another mystery—one he’d probably solve once he located Waterston or at least found out what happened to the missing Pentagon official—as well as the alleged ELN training camp. Brognola didn’t have to tell Bolan what to do if he actually discovered the ELN operating inside Cuba. Bolan already knew what to do.

Identify. Isolate. Destroy.

“WELCOME TO GUANTÁNAMO BAY, sir,” the Marine corporal said with a salute.

Bolan eyed the young Marine’s name tag. “Relax, Northrop, before you strain something.”

The Marine eased up and flashed a sheepish smile. “Aye, sir.”

Bolan tossed his OD canvas bag in the back of the open-top M998 Hummer—making sure it remained in easy reach—and then climbed in the front. The bag had been loaded aboard the flight and carried two tools of the Executioner’s trade: a Beretta 93-R pistol and the flagship pride and joy of Israeli Military Industries, a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. Spare magazines and holsters accompanied the arms.

“This your first time in Gitmo, sir?” the Marine asked when they were under way.

“No,” Bolan said. “But it’s been a while.”

“It’s damn hot down here,” the Marine said. Bolan looked at him with disbelief at first but then noticed the broad smile on the soldier’s face. “Just kidding, sir. I knew you’d already figured that out.”

Bolan nodded, acknowledged the quip with a half smile and then decided to take his own advice to lighten up. They made small talk the remainder of their five-minute drive from the airstrip to the main detention facility. The Marine indicated he’d wait until Bolan finished.

“Might be a while,” the Executioner said.

“No problem, sir. I’m your escort while you’re on the base. Once we’ve finished here, I’ll show you to the VIP billets.”

Bolan nodded and moved inside. He passed through two metal detectors—requiring the removal of all his brass and medals and submission to a hand wand before they cleared him—and then signed in. Once the basics were complete, a Marine cadre escorted the Executioner to a six-by-six room occupied by a bare, gunmetal gray table bolted to the floor and two plastic folding chairs. He waited nearly ten minutes before a door with a wire-mesh window opened and a short man in neon-orange coveralls stepped into the room under heavy guard.

Bolan stood against the wall, arms folded, and gestured to the unoccupied chairs. “Sit down.”

He studied Basilio Melendez as he sat. The man had black hair and a matching beard. His brown eyes possessed a beady curiosity. A pair of faint scars ran down the right side of his neck. His arms were grimy and soiled, and his fingers were stained yellow from years of continuous tobacco use.

“You’re Melendez,” Bolan said.

The man said nothing as he obviously perceived Bolan hadn’t meant it as a question. That demonstrated he wasn’t obtuse, and the Executioner knew he’d have to tread cautiously on this one. Bolan wouldn’t get far being coy with Melendez; the Cuban was obviously intelligent. Besides, he’d met guys like Melendez before and he’d found he could never quite trust them. They were always studying the angles—looking for the best possible way to get ahead—and they had a knack for manipulating even the most unfavorable circumstances to their advantage given the time and opening.

“My name’s Stone,” Bolan began. “I’m with the Criminal Investigation Division of the United States Army. I’m told you have information that’s of great interest to the U.S. government.”

Melendez didn’t say anything for a minute. He just sighed deeply a couple of times and peered at Bolan from under hooded eyelids. It looked as though he’d been through hell. Bolan wanted to offer him something to drink, maybe get him some cigarettes because he knew prisoners weren’t permitted to smoke; anything that might help establish a rapport with him. That was assuming Melendez wanted to cooperate.

Abruptly, and in flawless English, Melendez said, “What do you wish to know?”

“That’s a start,” Bolan said, and he took a seat across from Melendez. “Tell me how you know about Colonel Waterston.”

“I spend lots of time in Cuban jails,” he said. “I overhear things.”

“Okay, fine, but why would Waterston’s name come up in a Cuban jail?”

“It seems you know very little about my country, Stone,” Melendez replied. “You have heard of Havana Five?”

Bolan shook his head, although he knew plenty about them. The crime lords of the Cuban underworld controlled nearly all the illicit trades throughout the country from their power base in Havana, and had done so for the past three decades. Beginning in the early seventies, Havana Five overwhelmed the Cuban community with drugs, guns, sex and every other profitable vice imaginable. Five men, each with a specific piece of the Cuban island, pooled their resources and built the single most powerful crime cartel in history.

“Many believe they do not exist,” Melendez said. “That they have never existed. But I, you see…I know better. I know these men are real. I know they exist and I know what they’re capable of doing. And I know exactly what they did to your friend, Waterston.”

“And what’s that?”

“They killed him,” Melendez said. “I hear they shot him through the head and they dumped his body.”

“Where?”

“How should I know this? The men I heard talking did not say. Perhaps he was buried, perhaps he sleeps with the fishes. The point is that I hear he’s dead and I believe it. And if I say more, then I’m dead.”

Bolan shook his head. “You’re under our protection now, Melendez. We’re not going to throw you back into circulation again.”

“You? You think you can protect me here?” Melendez scowled and emitted a scoffing laugh. “Don’t be naive. Nobody is safe from Havana Five. My days are numbered, of this I’m sure.”

Bolan leaned forward. “Then why come to us if you don’t think we can protect you? Why not take your chances out there on the streets of your own country?”

“Because maybe in here I have a small chance. Out there, I am dead for certain.”

“Why? What makes you think they even know you have this information?”

“Because the people I know, they know other people. And those people are connected to Havana Five. There is much money to be made in their business, American. And they do not like when others interfere with their profit. They will go to great lengths to keep making money, to keep their society secret.”

“To the point they think they can hide an ELN terrorist training camp inside Cuba without us finding out?” Bolan asked.

Something changed in Melendez’s expression, but the Cuban quickly recovered. Not before Bolan struck a nerve, however. For a long time they shared only silence. Bolan didn’t plan to say anything else. It seemed the better tactic would be to wait for Melendez to speak first, to betray something he thought Bolan didn’t know about. Melendez would hold on to every ace he could in the hope of swinging a better deal down the line if things went sour or the scanty information he provided didn’t pan out.

“How do you know about this?”

Bolan decided to show his own cards. “Come on, Melendez. It’s what Waterston was working on. We both know it. Just like I know it’s pretty unlikely you would overhear talk of Waterston’s murder without mention of why he was killed. So quit pretending and talk.”

And for the next half hour, Basilio Melendez talked of two men—Americans being held in a Cuban jail—who spoke of killing Waterston and how they were betrayed by someone inside Havana Five. He also told how they talked to each other in English because the cops weren’t present and he was the only other one in the jail, and how he’d pretended not to speak a word of it. And they talked and talked, and they revealed how they had made a deal with someone to let them in on the location of the training camp, and instead they were betrayed and barely escaped with their necks intact. And finally they had traveled to a remote suburb of Matanzas and purposely got arrested in the hope of evading their unnamed pursuers. It was a wild story.

And Mack Bolan believed every word.

“But you never heard where this training camp was at?” Bolan asked after Melendez finished his narrative.

The Cuban shook his head. “I do not think they knew.”

Bolan rose then. “I’m going to look into this, Melendez. In the meantime, I’ll see about getting you moved off the base and back to the U.S. I think you’ll be safer there.”

“Please, Stone,” Melendez said with pleading eyes. “I care nothing for myself. Like I said, I’m a dead man. But my little sister…she has been good. Please, you must protect her. I will do anything.”

Bolan would only promise he’d look into it and then left the detention facility. He needed to run this new intelligence by Brognola to see what came of it before he’d know the best way to proceed. Stony Man maintained a technological resources network more advanced than anything available to Bolan in the field, and Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman—a cybernetics wizard extraordinaire and intelligence sponge—could run through the scenarios and come back with more sound leads in one-tenth the time it would take Bolan to run down the old fashioned way.

Northrop waited outside, just as he’d promised. “Ready to go, sir?”

“Yeah, let’s head to my billet,” Bolan said as he got into the Hummer.

The trip across the base to the VIP billet area took less than ten minutes. Bolan climbed from the vehicle and retrieved his bag. Northrop disembarked and perfunctorily led him to the private quarters due the rank of a colonel. Northrop engaged him in another minute or so of idle chitchat, showed him where to find the basic amenities, but then obviously sensed Bolan’s wish to be alone and left him to his own devices.

Bolan waited until he heard the Hummer pull away and then went to the phone on a nightstand. He picked up the receiver and froze. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck and his combat sense screamed at him to…

Duck!

The world around him became a whirlwind storm of broken glass and wood shards as the window above the nightstand exploded. Bolan catapulted his body across the bed, snatching his canvas travel bag as he landed on the opposite side and behind relative cover. He reached inside and retrieved the .44 Magnum.

Bolan crossed to a window at the corner of his billet and peered around the light gray curtain. Two men toting machine pistols made a beeline for him. Bolan pushed out the flimsy aluminum frame of the metal screen, tracked on the closer of the pair and squeezed the trigger. A 380-grain boattail slug punched through the man’s chest and blew a hole out his back. He spun under the impact while still in forward motion, and his finger jerked against the trigger of the SMG. A battery of rounds hammered the dirt before man and weapon struck the ground and went silent.

The second gunner realized they had acted hastily and rushed for the cover of a large external air recirculation unit protruding from the ground. He triggered a few volleys of 9 mm rounds in Bolan’s direction. The warrior ducked back to avoid perforation and the rounds either slapped the exterior wall or buzzed angrily past his head. He spun and headed out the front door, sprinting from the billet at an angle, intent on flanking his enemy.

It worked. Bolan managed to clear his line of fire and acquire his opposition in the sights of the Desert Eagle before the man could bring his own weapon to bear. Bolan triggered the weapon twice. The first round of his double-tap caught the gunner in the gut, tearing away a good part of his intestine and stopping the man in his tracks. The second .44 Magnum round hit the man at a point just above the bridge of the nose and continued until it blew out the back of his head in a gory spray of blood, bone and gray matter. The gunman toppled to the ground.

Bolan tracked a 360 with the muzzle of his weapon before relaxing somewhat. He’d been in-country less than two hours and somebody had tried to kill him. He’d have a tough one explaining that to the base Provost Marshal, let alone trying to determine how someone could have compromised his cover so quickly.

Before the Executioner could consider his next option, the sound of the phone ringing inside his billet demanded attention. Bolan sprinted back to the building and snatched the receiver from the cradle midway through the fifth ring.

“Yeah, Stone, here.”

“Colonel Stone, this is Lieutenant Trundle, I’m officer of the day here at the base detention center. You were here a while ago questioning one of our prisoners.”

“Right, Basilio Melendez.”

“I’m sorry to report this, sir, but Melendez was just involved in an altercation with another prisoner. He was stabbed. We’ve transported him to the base infirmary, but he isn’t expected to make it.”

CHAPTER TWO

Calm settled on Inez Fuego as she stood on the rooftop terrace of her mansion and looked upon Havana Bay.

Whitecaps crested the waves that gently rolled in to splash against the beaches and ships in port. The breeze that blew steadily from the bay warmed her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. How she loved her country, especially this time of year, and she thought of Natalio and how he’d loved it, too. She missed him. She missed the hours they spent up here, watching the sea as it seemed to dance across the Havana Bay horizon, seeming to twinkle under the blanket of stars. They would drink and laugh, and then make love as the sun rose at their backs. Then they would lie naked beneath a blanket and talk of their plans.

Havana Five had taken that away from her. After they sent their representatives to inform her of Natalio’s death—the remaining four not even having the courage and respect to pay their respects in person—Fuego swore she would hold them responsible. For years she had remained a silent partner, pretending to concur with their decisions while she actually plotted to remove them forever. It was their incompetence that had brought about the death of her beloved Natalio, not his own, as they had tried to convince her and everyone else, and Fuego intended to make sure they didn’t get away with desecrating the cherished memories of her husband.

The money and good living she had enjoyed at the hands of Havana Five made it only worse. They had ensured she receive the one-sixth payment, Natalio’s legacy as a member of the five. Each of them received an equal portion, in turn, and the remaining sixth was kept in trust, reserved so that Havana Five could always remain self-sufficient even in the event one of them fell.

Natalio had been the youngest of the group; ripped from her arms at the prime age of thirty-nine. Nearly seven years had passed since his death and Fuego’s soul still groaned for his presence. She had never known a stronger man. They were married when she turned sixteen, an arrangement of convenience at first. It quickly turned to something more, and their love grew and matured. Fuego had known from the beginning the nature of Natalio’s business but had chosen to make their marriage work, realizing as time passed that the nature of his business did not necessarily define the nature of him. She’d found Natalio to be a loving and generous man—lending time and money to most anyone in need—and not slothful like his business partners.

Now thirty years old, she remained one of the most eligible widows in all Cuba. She had money, beauty and power; she influenced politicians and business owners; a good many Cuban bachelors longed to possess her body and affections. At nearly five-eleven—a significant height and the gift of lineage in her case—Fuego maintained a figure that looked as if it had been sculpted by Greek artisans. Her tanned, supple skin shown starkly against the cream-colored bathing suit she wore that plunged to a V at the front and exposed her entire back from waist to neck. Dark, wavy hair bounced from her head to her shoulders in a never-ending swirl of cocoa-brown with natural, reddish highlights. The angular line of her cheekbones and jaw gave her an almost Eurasian look while she retained the strong, slender nose of her Spanish roots.

Inez Fuego turned from the rail that ran the length of the parapet wall around the roof. She went to the table where she’d been engrossed in a novel by one of Cuba’s most popular writers. She slid into a thigh-length robe made of silk and sat on a padded cedar lounge chair. She tucked her shapely legs beneath her bottom and poured herself a fresh margarita.

Two men emerged from the stairway ascending to the roof from an entertainment room that occupied nearly half of the third floor of the house. They were dressed in subdued silk shirts and casual slacks. Natalio had never let his house guard come off as loud and brash. He expected them to remain quiet and unobtrusive, convinced that the less conspicuous they were, the more effectively they could do their job. After his death, Fuego had decided to maintain his policy and would not let them adopt the dress like those who worked for the other four heads of Havana Five.

One of the men, Lazaro San Lujan, served as Fuego’s chief enforcer. He moved with the ease and confidence of a professional, the gait of his tall and muscular body practiced. Fuego watched him approach with admiration tempered with amusement. She had always found him handsome and dashing in a sense, and she could tell that although he’d never made an amorous move toward her—before or after the death of Natalio to whom he’d always remained loyal—he wanted her. She could see it in the way he looked at her. He didn’t leer like most men; San Lujan always had too much class for that. No, secretly she felt he harbored a deeper longing for her but he always kept it to himself.

Fuego noticed the disturbed look on his face. “What is it?”

“We have a problem,” he replied.

“How many times have I told you that we never have a problem,” she said, waving casually at a chair.

San Lujan took a seat but Jeronimo Bustos—his second in command and constant companion—remained on his feet and shadowed his boss.

“I forgot,” San Lujan replied. He lit a cigarette before continuing. “Word has it our North American friends were spotted at a jail in Guijarro, just outside of Matanzas. I’ve sent men to check it out but so far they’ve come up empty-handed. The Americans apparently bribed some of the local police to move them to another location.”

“So, they’re willing to go as far as getting arrested to avoid us,” Fuego said, mild amusement in her tone. “That’s not a problem, Lazaro. That’s good, in fact.”

“How is that good, ma’am?” San Lujan asked.

“You still don’t understand.” Fuego shook her head and smiled, then pushed the sunglasses to her head so she could look him square in the eyes. She leaned forward a bit in a conspiratorial fashion. “It means they’re afraid. And that is exactly what I wish them to be. As long as they think I’m after them, they’ll keep their heads down and stay out of my way.”

“I beg to disagree,” San Lujan replied.

“Why?” Fuego looked for any sign of nervousness but she didn’t detect it. Good. San Lujan had always felt open to speak his mind to her husband, and Fuego wanted him to feel the same way now. Without that honesty, Fuego knew she couldn’t trust him and that would spell certain doom to her; San Lujan’s advice had saved her husband’s life and business many times.

San Lujan took a drag from his smoke and said, “These men…they know too much. We cannot risk them falling into the hands of people willing to listen to what they have to say.”

“What they have to say is of no interest to anyone. At least no one inside the country.”

“The Americans have spies here.”

“True, but they’re not aware we’re sponsoring the ELN, and they certainly know nothing of the camp on Juventud. Not even those bastards of Havana Five know of this plan. Besides, we only need keep this quiet a little longer. And once Havana Five is eliminated and I have my revenge, then I shall give you charge of the largest business enterprise ever established in Cuba. And you will like that, eh, Lazaro?”

San Lujan didn’t try to hide his pleasure at the thought. There weren’t too many things that seemed to appeal to him, but the idea of nearly limitless power seemed to be one of them. He, too, had felt the story the men told of Natalio’s death seemed like something less than the truth, and he’d always harbored some guilt for not being there to protect his master.

“Your plans will suffice for now,” San Lujan replied. “But I still worry that your need to avenge Natalio’s death will blind you to other threats. I worry that you’ll fail to see what may very well be right in front of your nose.”

“And you feel it’s your job to protect me from those things. Yes?”

San Lujan nodded.

Fuego reached forward and patted his knee. “You’re a good and loyal man, Lazaro. I hope you never lose those qualities. They are what made you more than just an employee to my husband. They are why you were so valuable to him and why you are valuable to me now.”

“Thank you.”

“If you feel the Americans pose a threat, then I trust you’ll find them and dispose of them properly. I don’t want to know about it. It distracts me from more important matters.”

“Understood.”

“Is that all?”

“For now.” San Lujan rose and signaled Bustos to follow.

When the two men were gone, Fuego gestured for a servant to bring her the satellite phone. She had paid a pretty penny to make sure any conversations were totally secured. While she didn’t feel much of a threat from officials within the Cuban government, there were other ears belonging to the less discreet. Some of them were foreign ears working for espionage agencies in places like Mexico, Colombia and particularly the U.S. Fuego dialed a twenty-five digit number into the phone and there were several clicks and bursts of static as the communications system kicked in to encrypt the carrier wave. Fuego knew exactly where that signal led: to a similar phone of the National Liberation Army commander who oversaw the training force on Juventud Island.

He answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“Hello, Ignacio. How are things proceeding with the new clothing line?” Despite her confidence in the secure satellite communications, Fuego had advised the leader of her private army that they would maintain ambiguous communications. They had even developed their own private language style so that each phrase had particular meaning. To anyone listening, and particularly if the communications had to go through a translator, it would sound as if they were conducting simple daily business.

“Well, thank you, ma’am. I believe we shall be ready to deliver your goods within a few weeks.”

“And you will meet the quota specified in our supplier’s contract?”

“I think so,” he replied. “In fact, I believe we shall probably exceed it.”

“That’s excellent news, thank you. I will inform the board of directors at our next meeting. Please don’t hesitate to call me should you need additional resources.”

“I understand.”

“Good day, Ignacio.”

“Good day, ma’am.”

Fuego hung up the phone and could barely suppress a shudder of excitement. They would be ready to commence operations against Havana Five within three days, the “few weeks” Colonel Hurtado had actually referenced during their conversation. He also wouldn’t need any additional men. His confirmation of delivering the “goods” had actually meant that the weapons and other explosives she arranged to deliver to him were in place and had passed inspection to Hurtado’s satisfaction. With the last of the pieces in place, Fuego realized she would have her revenge soon.

Yes, she would make them pay for the death of her beloved Natalio at long last.

“WE’VE BEEN COMPROMISED,” Mack Bolan told Brognola.

“Lay it out for me,” the big Fed replied, and Bolan did.

When he’d finished listening, Brognola said, “How’s the pressure from the brass at Guantánamo Bay?”

“They’re concerned,” Bolan replied. “But without hard evidence to tie Melendez’s death to the attempt on me, the Provost Marshal doesn’t have much to go on. The base commander did take the PM’s recommendation that I not be allowed off base without official orders from the Pentagon.”

Brognola grunted. “That’s no tall order. I can have that in five minutes, if need be.”

“I have a better idea,” Bolan said.

“I’m listening.”

“I was thinking maybe I could use a little help on this one,” Bolan said.

“Sounds like a plan. Hold on while I get Barb on the line.”

There was a long pause and then suddenly Barbara Price’s voice broke through. “Hey, Striker. What’s up?”

“I was just saying that some help would be nice on this. What do you have going on with Jack and Rafael right now?”

“Nada,” she said. “In fact, Phoenix Force just got back from a mission, and the guys have been in downtime for the past three days. I think they’re all starting to go a bit stir-crazy.”

“Why not let me take a couple of them off your hands?”

“Sure,” she replied. “Hal told me what’s happened down there so I can fill them in.”

“Do it,” Bolan said. “I’d suggest you don’t send them through official channels. Is Hal still on with us?”

“I’m here,” the head Fed replied.

“Don’t worry about getting me those orders,” Bolan said. “It’s best I make tracks under my own steam. If we start waving too many official documents under the noses of the brass down here, we’re likely to create a whole lot of suspicion.”

“Understood.”

“By the way, Bear’s here with some information on Havana Five that might shed some light on the present situation there.”

That didn’t surprise Bolan in the least. What a single bullet had taken away from Aaron Kurtzman, the man had conquered with intelligence coupled by an indomitable spirit. Bolan had never met anyone better with computers and cybernetic intelligence than the Bear. Kurtzman’s body might have been confined to a wheelchair, but his mind knew practically limitless bounds. The man kept things running in the information field for Stony Man and he’d served tirelessly, feeding the intelligence to the field teams whenever they needed it.

“I think you’ll find this interesting, Striker,” Kurtzman said in his customary booming voice. “Havana Five has quite a history in Cuba, as I’m sure you know. But about seven years ago they had quite a shake-up. One of their alleged members, one Natalio Fuego, was killed by Cuban authorities when he attempted to flee the country illegally. The story was that they caught him dealing in drugs, but nobody could actually prove that charge.”

“Any survivors who might have an ax to grind?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. His widow, Inez Fuego.”

“I talked to one of our CIA contacts in Havana, Striker,” Price cut in. “It seems Fuego left his missus quite well to do. On the surface, she’s a respected socialite and entrepreneur but under all that beauty and charm she’s apparently a shrewd and ruthless businesswoman.”

“But she didn’t take her husband’s place on Havana Five,” Kurtzman continued. “In fact, there are rumors that she’s actually on the outs with them.”

“But she’s still making money off her late husband’s operations?”

“Yeah,” Brognola said. “Apparently, Havana Five has a share-and-share-alike philosophy. All profits are supposedly split equally. But make no mistake about it. They’re still the largest single crime syndicate ever known to operate in a country that size.”

“Given the fact Melendez made it a point to mention Havana Five to you before he died,” Kurtzman said, “we thought this little fact might be of interest.”

“It is at that. I’ll be sure to follow up on it. Now I’d better run. I have an escape to plan.”

“We’ll get Jack and Rafael airborne as soon as possible,” Price said. “We’ll probably have to fly them into Havana. Will you meet them there?”

“No,” Bolan said. “I have a very specific place I want to start looking. Melendez mentioned it. I think he ran into your missing DIA guys there. Tell them to pick up some wheels and meet me in Matanzas. We have a jail to find.”

CHAPTER THREE

Mack Bolan studied the northwestern perimeter of Guantánamo Bay Naval Station from the cover of a hedge.

The mugginess of the evening air caused him to sweat profusely, but the inner lining of his blacksuit slicked the moisture from his skin. Bolan considered his options. Cyclone barbed wire topped the fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence. The Navy had posted motion sensors every five feet, and Bolan knew from past experience that invisible beams of light ran parallel to the fence. Any break in those beams would cause alarms to sound at the main guard facility and bring down a wave of security forces before Bolan could make egress.

The Executioner knew his escape wouldn’t be easy, but he felt his call to get off the base unofficially would raise less questions than calling down an official inquiry from Stony Man or, worse yet, the Oval Office. Bolan operated in an unofficial capacity for his government, and Brognola couldn’t afford to let the President get taken to task for authorizing covert missions on a military installation.

No, he’d have to go it alone on this one—as usual.

Bolan studied the fence another minute and considered his options. Even if he decided to risk breaking the barrier, he still had no guarantee of getting past the perimeter obstacles before the MPs managed to capture him. And he sure as hell wouldn’t fight them if he did. Long before Bolan had operated against terrorism, he’d gone solo against the Mafia, holding them personally responsible for their part in the death of his father, mother and sister. Even then he’d sworn never to drop the hammer on a law-enforcement officer—he considered them on the same side—and he wasn’t about to compromise that policy now.

However, getting off the base without being captured didn’t concern him; it’s what awaited him on the other side. In the 1980s and 1990s, the DMZ between the U.S. and Cuba had existed as one of the largest minefields in the world. An Executive Order had eventually called for the removal of the mines, but Bolan had to wonder if they got them all; that didn’t even address whether the Cuban government had ever disarmed the land they mined. Insofar as Bolan knew, escape via the DMZ posed too great a risk to life and limb. He’d have to find more conventional means.

The hedge line he’d used for cover ran along the perimeter road of the installation. The road terminated at three separate exits, two of them leading to the airfield and a third into Cuba, used only for official diplomatic purposes. That left one avenue of escape for Bolan, and he planned to fully exploit it. Several cays comprised the whole of the Guantánamo Bay region as well as the Guantánamo River, which ran north from its western feed at the mouth of the bay. Patrols ran at regular intervals along the river both day and night. The Executioner planned to use one of those boats as his outbound ticket.

Bolan made it to the boat ramp unmolested. He crawled the remainder of the fifty yards or so to the mouth of the river and quietly settled into the brackish water. Bolan moved through the river as silent and deadly as a crocodile. He reached one of the two patrol boats, slipped aboard on the blind side of the patrol station and found cover beneath a rear tarp tossed over a pair of equipment crates. Intelligence from Stony Man revealed patrols took off every thirty minutes with another thirty-minute rotation that kept two boats in port at all times. Bolan inspected the luminous dials of his watch. He’d have only seven minutes to wait.

And by the time the base personnel discovered he was missing, the Executioner would be deep in the heart of Cuba.

FOLLOWING A HURRIED DEPARTURE from the U.S., Jack Grimaldi and Rafael Encizo touched down in José Martí International Airport and submitted to inspection. Cuban customs officials subjected neither of them to more than a cursory inspection with paperwork and appearances impeccable, practically above reproach, but well-worn enough to satisfy their cover story. Once in-country, they quickly acquired transportation and headed toward their final destination in accordance with Bolan’s instructions. Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man’s ace pilot, had been a part of the Executioner’s War Everlasting from nearly the beginning.

The intense-looking man accompanying Grimaldi on the mission had quite a different history to tell. Quite a while had passed since Rafael Encizo last walked on the soil of his birth country. While Encizo had always taken pride in his Cuban heritage, he owed his life and career to Stony Man. A member of Phoenix Force, one of America’s elite antiterrorist teams, Encizo possessed deadly skills as a knife-fighter, demolitions expert and tactician in jungle warfare.

Encizo had passed on the rental car in favor of borrowing a loaner from a local contact. He told Grimaldi, “Rental plates will draw attention. Something we definitely don’t want.”

Grimaldi nodded. “It’s your show, Rafe.”

The men also retrieved the provisions left in the trunk by a Stony Man contact, which included a SIG P-239 for Grimaldi, a Glock Model 21 as favored by Encizo and a pair of MP-5 SD-6 submachine guns. They also had a second Beretta 93-R and an FN FNC carbine assault rifle for delivery to the Executioner upon their rendezvous. Stony Man had even included a satchel filled with enough C-4 to level a small house. The men donned their respective sidearms and concealed them in shoulder holsters before embarking on their journey to Matanzas.

Encizo took the wheel, given his familiarity with the country. Grimaldi settled into his role as shotgun and soon the two were out of Havana on a secondary road to Matanzas. Encizo gave Grimaldi a highlighted route on a comprehensive map supplied by Stony Man computers, and the pilot navigated for his comrade. Once they were away from Havana, Grimaldi rolled down the window and broke out a Cuban cigar he’d purchased at the airport. He lit the stogie, pulled it from his mouth with an admiring look and then gazed at Encizo.

“How long is it to Matanzas?”

Encizo shrugged, appeared to give it some thought, then said, “Well, I decided to take the back roads, so it’ll be about two-and-a-half to three hours.”

Grimaldi nodded. “I really got scant information from Hal and Barb on this mission,” he commented. “What’s the deal?”

The Cuban chuckled. “Join the club. From what little they said to me at the Farm, I don’t think they’ve got a whole lot to go on. Apparently they sent Striker to Gitmo to question some Cuban national about an ELN terrorist training camp somewhere inside Cuba, and then someone killed the informant and tried to punch Striker’s ticket, as well.”

Grimaldi let out a low whistle. “Sounds about like the kind of situation the Sarge would get himself into.”

“Yeah,” Encizo said with another easy laugh. “And us, too.”

“So do we know where we’re going to meet him?”

“Well, he told the Farm he’d manage on his own getting off the base. Apparently he didn’t want to raise eyebrows with official paperwork. His only lead is some jail on the outskirts of Matanzas. Since he wasn’t all that familiar with the area, he said he’d call once he got there and then the Farm would contact us.”

The beeps of a phone filled the interior of the small car, demanding attention.

“Speaking of which…” Grimaldi said. He reached to his belt and withdrew the phone.

Using a dedicated NSA satellite, Kurtzman’s team had arranged an effective communications system. Not only could they use it to track their team members—Price had arranged the installation of a microchip beneath the skin over the left shoulder blade of every member—but all voice and video communications took place through the bursting of encrypted digital data under a 448-bit cipher.

“Eagle, here,” Grimaldi said into the phone.

“How goes it?” Barbara Price replied.

“We’re in-country,” Grimaldi said. “Everything’s gone pretty smoothly so far. We’re on our way to the meeting place now.”

“Good. Striker called and we have a rendezvous point for you. It’s a place in the southern end of Matanzas called Las Cocinitas. It’s apparently a cantina or something. He said he’ll be waiting for you.”

Grimaldi repeated the name to Encizo, asked if he knew it, and the Cuban nodded with a comment that he knew the general area. “Okay, we’ll find it,” the pilot said. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Price said. “He also said to tell you guys to watch yourselves, since whoever’s onto him may very well be onto you, also.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ll keep our eyes open.”

“Good luck, guys.”

Grimaldi broke the connection and replaced the phone. He took another puff from the cigar and said, “Barb says the Sarge is concerned we could be compromised since he’s already had hostile contact.”

“It’s a strong possibility,” Encizo said. “I’ve learned Striker’s intuition on these things is almost uncanny. If he says we should stay vigilant, I’d listen to him.”

MACK BOLAN COULD HARDLY say he felt in his element.

The din of Cuban music blaring from the antiquated jukebox and shouts of drunken men ogling the dayshift of house girls had left him with a slight headache. He’d reached Matanzas very early in the morning and had the good fortune to find a local clothing shop along a deserted street. Bolan paid three times the asking price for a change of clothes—he and the shopkeeper both knowing part of the exorbitant sum would buy the man’s silence about seeing a North American inside Cuba—and then he changed in an alley.

Nobody in the cantina had spared him a second glance. Bolan used his limited knowledge of Spanish to order a meal of beans over a tortilla topped with red and green chilies and rice. He also purchased bottled water, not unusual in Cuba, even for the locals, and coffee.

Bolan left for a time and found a pay phone. He contacted Stony Man, gave them a cryptic message about the cantina Las Cocinitas, and then spent the remainder of the morning walking the streets before returning to the rendezvous point an hour or two later. The big American kept his head down and his body hunched to detract from his height. He was nursing his second bottle of beer when two men entered the cantina.

Bolan made a barely imperceptible gesture, but one the pair recognized; they walked casually to his table. The place seemed pretty crowded with very few seats, so Encizo asked politely to join him. Bolan nodded and they sat. A waitress came a few minutes later, took their drink and food orders without any apparent real interest in them, and was gone again in minutes.

Encizo leaned in so only Bolan and Grimaldi could hear and asked, “You okay?”

Bolan nodded. “I’m fine. Thanks for showing up.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Grimaldi replied with a grin.

“Where are things at?” Encizo asked.

“Not here,” Bolan said. “You brought wheels?”

Encizo and Grimaldi nodded. “Finish your lunch, then leave before me and pull around back. We shouldn’t leave together.”

The food and drinks came. Encizo and Grimaldi ate mechanically and didn’t say another word to Bolan. Within twenty minutes of their arrival, they paid their tab and left. The place had really filled up with the afternoon crowds who were obviously looking to escape the heat. Bolan even spotted some European tourists. Nobody paid attention to him, and he waited a full ten minutes before leaving. Grimaldi and Encizo waited in a two-door sedan that ran parallel to the alleyway. The pilot sat in back and Bolan took shotgun.

Encizo put the stick shift in gear and sped down the alleyway. He maneuvered the car onto the street, followed that road for two short blocks, then turned onto another street. For the next few minutes Encizo made a series of different turns, twice even pulling to the curb. All three men studied the mirrors and looked out windows to see if anyone appeared to be taking an unusual interest in them. After they were satisfied the coast was clear, Encizo headed toward the southernmost end of Matanzas.

Bolan filled them in on what he’d learned so far, then asked Encizo, “Any idea what jail this might have been?”

Encizo shook his head. “I know it may come as a surprise, but the crime rate in Cuba really isn’t that high. In fact, a crime is only classified as an act they call socialimente peligrosa, dangerous or harmful to society. Felonies are basically the same here as they are in the States. Armed robbery, rape, felonious assault and murder. What’s always staggered me is there are approximately sixty robberies for every hundred thousand citizens per capita. Their biggest problems are drugs, which usually stems from the sex trade.”

Prostitution was the oldest profession on Earth. It had continued to be a mainstay of the criminal underworld across the board. Sex for money also led to other things like strong-arm robbery, drugs, black market sales and extortion. Cuba wasn’t immune to it any more than any other country, although the heavy-handedness of Cuba’s police officials and stiff penalties imposed by its courts acted effectively as an unspoken policy of no tolerance.

“My point in that little lesson on Cuba’s judicial system,” Encizo continued, “was that Cuban citizens like Melendez getting arrested and tossed in the clink for a few days wouldn’t exactly have been headline news. But two Americans getting locked up, yeah, that would’ve announced like the premier of Russia making a State visit.”

“That’s what I thought,” Bolan replied. “I wonder why they kept it quiet.”

“Maybe they didn’t,” Grimaldi interjected. “Maybe someone kept it quiet for them?”

“Like who?” Encizo asked.

“I’m betting Havana Five,” Bolan said. “There has to be some reason Melendez brought it up. He didn’t pull their name out of a hat.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Encizo replied. “Why would they want to keep the arrest of two Americans secret?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred times, and I keep getting the same answer. Melendez said the two Americans talked about killing Waterston. I’m pretty confident those two men are Stein and Crosse.”

“The missing DIA agents,” Grimaldi added.

“Right,” Bolan said. “Seeing as Waterston was charged with finding this alleged ELN training camp, I’m betting someone in Havana Five cut a deal with Stein and Crosse, then backed out at the last minute.”

“But why kill Colonel Waterston?” Encizo asked.

“I think Stein and Crosse panicked. I think they killed Waterston to keep him from disclosing their deal with a Cuban criminal organization, one that would clearly violate half a dozen laws if it went public, and they killed him to prevent that from happening.”

“I see where you’re going,” Encizo said. “Then Havana Five scrubs the deal and now Stein and Crosse are running for their lives. So, if we find our two DIA boys, they should lead us to the head of the operation.”

Bolan nodded. “Right.”

“Pretty sharp, Sarge,” Grimaldi said.

Encizo turned down an unpaved, nondescript street and pulled up in front of a single-story, adobe-style building. Roof support poles of rough, unfinished wood protruded from the front of the building. Visible cracks cut spiderweb patterns through the front facade, which was painted brown and olive drab. The faded outline of a shield filled with blue, red and yellow markings—the symbol of the Cuban police—covered the windowless front of the building.

Bolan looked at Encizo. “Police station?”

“Substation, actually,” Encizo said. “I spotted a sign on the main road back there and decided to take my chances. There aren’t that many fully equipped jails in the area. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Better we should wait out here?” Grimaldi asked.

“Yeah. It’ll look much less suspicious if I’m alone.”

As Encizo started to get out of the car, Bolan said, “Watch your back, Rafe.”

He nodded, asked for five minutes, then got out. The Cuban straightened his clothes and ran his fingers through his freshly greased hair as he climbed the three steps. He looked back at Bolan and Grimaldi with a wink before he pushed through the flimsy screen door. Bolan watched as he entered and then turned his attention to keeping vigil on the street, with instructions to Grimaldi to do the same.

If trouble came knocking, they would be ready.

CHAPTER FOUR

The acrid smell of burned fiber filled the cramped bathroom of the run-down motel, the result of a smoldering cigarette butt between Leslie Crosse’s fingers.

Crosse could barely stand this wretched humidity. It sure was a hell of a lot hotter here than in Washington, and for a moment, he wished he were back there now. This hadn’t turned out as they’d planned. He and Stein had gotten to Cuba as planned, but that’s when it all went very wrong. Andres advised them that Inez Fuego didn’t want to see them—something about their being sloppy and careless—and next thing he knew, he and Stein were running for their lives.

Stein believed Andres to be at the heart of the betrayal, but Crosse didn’t agree. This went well beyond him; Andres was nothing more than a lackey. Fuego had either come to this decision on her own or someone made it for her. There couldn’t be another explanation. At least, that’s what Crosse kept telling himself. It didn’t matter much either way, since they could now write off any hope of finding the ELN terrorist training camp.

“¡Andele!” a deep voice boomed just outside the door, followed by a mad thumping on it.

Crosse jumped, woken from his daydreaming. He rose from the toilet seat, took another drag off the cigarette, screwed his face with the taste, then tossed it in the bowl and flushed. He hadn’t even bothered to take a dump, since he’d been so preoccupied with their present situation. Well, he was experiencing constipation anyway by refusing to drink tap water, and the cops wouldn’t buy them any bottled, goddammit. He and Stein managed to come up with about seventeen hundred in cash between them; not enough for a get out of jail free card, but damn sure enough to bribe the local yokels into letting them wait out a few days in a hotel.

Crosse opened the door and found himself face-to-chest with the biggest of their trio of guards. The guy’s shirt was about two sizes too small for him in the sleeves and his muscular arms threatened to rip the seams. He had unkempt, rather long hair, and his teeth were dark and stained from too much booze and cigarettes and not enough brushing. Not that Crosse intended to point that out.

The man gave him a studious look, his face hard and unyielding, and then his eyes softened a bit and he jerked his head in the direction of the couch. Basically, they had made their prisoners eat, sleep and sit on that damn couch while the three guards spelled each other for trips to the single bedroom with a queen-size mattress. Craftsmen had obviously made that couch from splintered wood and old springs, and then covered it in the roughest fabric known to man.

“What gives with Gorilla Face?” Stein asked Crosse, using the nickname they’d dubbed for the big cop.

The fact none of the guards seemed to speak English made it simpler for them to communicate freely. They agreed not to make mention of very specific things, but general conversation didn’t seem of much consequence to the guards, and they usually reserved any more secretive talks until night fell and the guards all went to sleep—even the ones who were supposed to be out watching in the front room during their shift. Stein had quipped how the lack of discipline really disappointed him, how he’d expected more from Cuba’s finest.

“Aw, I don’t know. He’s got a stick up his ass or something,” Crosse replied.

“When do you think we’re going to get out of here?”

Crosse shrugged dejectedly. “How the fuck should I know? I look like some kind of Oracle to you or something?”

Stein shrugged. “Just wondered if maybe you had an idea.”

“I don’t.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Crosse let the silence lapse between them awhile. He really admired Stein in a lot of ways, but sometimes—as a partner quite often does—Stein irritated the living shit out of him. He felt bad taking his foul mood out on the guy, the one guy who had stuck with him for the past ten years. No matter what happened, no matter what kind of shit went down, Stein had been there. Stein backed him when the ethics committee questioned him during a shooting board inquiry, and again one other time when his superiors questioned him about missing drug evidence. In both cases, Crosse had actually been clean. In fact, Crosse had never accepted graft, never brutalized a suspect—at least not that any cop would have considered justifiable. And while he’d bent a few rules, he couldn’t ever remember having abused his authority.

But now he couldn’t help the uncertainty and irritation of knowing he’d crossed the line; not once but three times in the past twenty-four hours. They had made a deal with a known criminal in a foreign country, killed an American military officer and stolen top-secret documents belonging to the government. Now, to rub salt in the wound, they had to remain cooped up in this stinking hell-hole with these goat farmers.

“Sorry,” he muttered after a time. “I’m a little bent about this shit.”

“Forget it,” Stein said. “You know, I’ve been letting this run through my mind since we hooked up with Andres out there. It just doesn’t add up, Les. None of it adds up.”

“It seems pretty simple to me. We stepped on our dicks. We got sloppy and someone decided to renege on our deal with Fuego.”

“You mean Fuego reneged.”

“No,” Crosse countered, “I mean someone reneged. I don’t think she had anything to do with it. I think somebody else made the decision. Maybe she decided to go along with it, but it wasn’t her idea.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You read the same case files I did on the criminal elements down here. You don’t get very far in a business like hers if you go around screwing everybody you meet. She’s always had a good reputation as an honest businesswoman, just like her old man.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stein said. “Look where that got him.”

Crosse waved at a big fly with irritation as he replied, “Whatever. My point is if she decided to stick it to us then she did it under the advice of someone else. Not only is going back on your word in her business considered dishonorable, it’s a surefire way to gain some very unwanted publicity.”

“Just the kind she can’t afford,” Stein interjected.

“Right.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“I say we sit back and wait a little while longer. They’ll give up looking for us pretty fast, I think. Once they do, and assuming we can get out from under the thumbs of these Neanderthals, we ought to be able to find someone who can smuggle us back to the country.”

“We’ll have a lot of explaining to do,” Stein said.

“I’d rather have to explain in front of an inquiry board than a Cuban magistrate. How about you?”

Stein merely nodded his agreement.

“Anyway, it won’t be too much longer.” Crosse experienced a suddenly dry and violent cough. He’d have to get some water soon or he might start pissing blood.

Not too much longer, he thought.

THE FOUR MEN LOITERING in a late-model sedan half a block down on the opposite side of the street tripped Mack Bolan’s senses into high alert.

“See that car?” Bolan asked Grimaldi.

The pilot leaned forward in the seat, scrutinized the occupants, then nodded. “They weren’t there before.”

“I saw it park there ten minutes ago with only the driver. Now I count four inside.”

“I smell trouble,” Grimaldi replied.

“Yeah.” Bolan kept one eye on the vehicle as he looked in the direction of the police station. “Blast it, Rafael. What’s taking so long?”

CONVINCING THE SUBSTATION commander at the Cuban jail that he was nothing more than a consulate-appointed attorney for the America prisoners proved a harder task than Rafael Encizo thought it would be.

In talking with first the cops and then their commandant, Encizo learned to take anything they said at face value. He could tell almost from the beginning that they weren’t forthcoming and didn’t plan to be any time soon. The Cuban warrior had a careful balance to maintain; he needed to keep them talking while acting subservient. Attorneys didn’t command the same respect in Cuba as the U.S. Well, maybe it wasn’t the attorneys as much as the “civil rights” of prisoners. The majority of the populace looked upon criminals as the lowest form of life, and they weren’t afforded more than accommodations.

“What has happened to my clients?” Encizo asked as respectfully as he could manage.

“They have been moved to a different location for their…safety.”

The commandant was a small, thin man with curly hair cut close and streaked with gray.

“You believe they’re in danger?”

“What American who is arrested in Cuba isn’t in danger?” That caused him to laugh at what he had to have considered to be a pretty good joke. “Anyway, for now we have them secured and they aren’t going anywhere.”

“Well, I must speak with them. The American government has insisted they receive proper counsel.”

“And why would the Americans be so concerned about these two men?”

Encizo had to think furiously for an answer. He’d probably let the cat out of the bag a little too soon. Encizo hoped for a faster turnaround but forthrightness didn’t seem like a familiar concept to the commandant. He dealt with thugs and rapists and other such elements every day. He would therefore be suspicious and untrusting of everyone, despite how honorable their intentions might seem.

“It’s not the Americans the magistrate worries about,” Encizo said. “He’s concerned this will draw attention from the press and other undesirables. He wants to make sure no disinformation is sown, particularly back to the American government.”

“And what of it?” the commandant replied. “I have no interest in what the Americans think, particularly the government. They have no jurisdiction here, and their political concerns are no concerns of mine.”

“Maybe not,” Encizo said. “But they are to the magistrate and I may report back to him that you were fully cooperative?”

Something dangerous glinted in the commandant’s eyes, only for a moment, but Encizo pretended not to notice. He realized the risks of such a veiled threat, but it hadn’t escaped the notice of either of them this wasn’t exactly the Mecca of assignments. Most people of influence and power considered Guijarro the armpit of Matanzas—not that it had any greater or lesser qualities than many of the poverty-ridden suburbs around it—but a magistrate’s wishes would always win out over those of a policeman.

“You may thank the magistrate,” the commandant finally replied. “And tell him I will be most cooperative. However, I’m afraid I cannot disclose the location of the prisoners at present. Their safety is my responsibility. I will need a signed writ from the magistrate before I can give you that information.”

Encizo realized an end had come to more diplomatic methods. Somewhere in the conversation, he heard the two officers who’d been in the station leave on a disturbance of some type. That left them alone in the office, and Encizo decided the time had come to implement more effective means of soliciting cooperation. In an instant he launched from his chair and came across the commandant’s desk. Encizo produced his Glock and grabbed a fistful of the commandant’s shirt in one, smooth motion. Encizo hauled him out of his chair and stretched him belly-first across the desk to unbalance him.

“I’ve been nice about this long enough,” Encizo told the commandant. “Tact is over and now you’re going to tell me exactly where you’re holding those two Americans.”

“Wha—!” the commandant began and then he emitted a squeal of outrage. “You are not an attorney!”

Encizo grinned. “You think? Now I’m giving you a chance to make this easy on yourself. I won’t kill you, but I’ll definitely leave you hurting if I don’t start getting answers.”

Oddly enough, the smug and indifferent expression the commandant wore a moment earlier had disappeared. “Okay, okay!”

“Well?”

“They are being held by my men in a room we rent for such things,” the man replied so quickly Encizo almost couldn’t understand him. “They are under heavy guard, though. They will not allow you to get by with my authorization.”

“I’ll manage,” Encizo said. “Where?”

The commandant gave him the name and address of an apartment complex. Encizo didn’t know the place, but the name of the street rang familiar enough that he knew he could find it easily. Encizo looked eye to eye with the commandant, searching for signs of deception, but saw only fear and doubt. The guy figured Encizo wouldn’t keep his word. Of course, Encizo wouldn’t have killed the man—just as he promised—and to hurt him now wouldn’t be of much benefit. He knew the commandant couldn’t tell him anything more of use.

“Looks like your lucky day,” Encizo said.

Before either could say another word, a commotion outside the commandant’s office drew their attention. Grimaldi burst through the rickety doorway, pistol in hand and face flushed. “We got company.”

Encizo nodded and released the commandant. He backed out of the room and kept the muzzle of his pistol in the commandant’s direction. Encizo wouldn’t have put it past the guy to shoot him in the back if the opportunity presented itself.

The pair reached the door, and Encizo peered out in time to see the Executioner go EVA a millisecond before the windshield of their vehicle imploded under a hail of autofire. The Cuban turned his attention to the source of the firing and saw a car screech from the curb and head directly for the jail.

“Looks like we might have a slight delay,” Encizo announced.

THE EVER SO PERCEPTIBLE PUFF of smoke from the tailpipe of the sedan stood as the only clue to Bolan the crew planned to make a move. In that brief lull between the decision and action of their enemy, Bolan instructed Grimaldi to go inside and alert Encizo. The sedan suddenly lurched from the curb just as the soldier had expected. Sunlight glinted on the muzzles of automatic weapons protruding from the passenger windows.

Bolan had set the door ajar a minute earlier, anticipating that kind of move, and his forethought prevented the aggressors from perforating him with a hail of bullets. He rolled out of the vehicle and went prone on the sidewalk, rolling onto his back long enough to slide both Beretta 93-Rs from beneath the folds of the thin, tattered poncho he’d purchased that morning.

Slugs whizzed overhead and ricocheted off the buildings, while others audibly slapped the driver’s side of Encizo’s borrowed jalopy with metallic plinks. Bolan waited until he heard the squeal of tires and opening of doors before he dropped to one knee behind the solid, metal body of the old clunker. Bolan braced his forearms over the trunk of the car, took aim at the gunners as they went EVA, and squeezed the triggers simultaneously.

The Berettas were both set to 3-shot mode, which in the hands of the Executioner were as effective as the submachine guns being toted by his enemies. A trio of 9 mm Parabellum rounds took the first unlucky gunner in the chest, punching red holes in his sternum, exiting out his back, leaving a crimson spray on the door. The impact sent him spinning and dumped him face-first on the rough pavement. The other burst of rounds shattered the back window and sent the others racing for cover to avoid the deadly glass shards.

In his periphery, Bolan saw his allies join him. Encizo fired from a standing position above the roof of the car and took out his man with a head shot over the roof of the enemy’s sedan. The remaining gunner tried to move away from the vehicle and make a beeline for cover, but Bolan and Encizo caught him simultaneously with unerring accuracy. The man danced under the onslaught as slugs drilled through his stomach and chest. Encizo finished it with a round to the neck. Hot blood and tissue erupted from the wound and left a gaping hole where the throat had been. The man toppled to the ground.

Grimaldi focused his attention on the driver. The windshield splintered under the first two rounds, a large part broke away on number three, and two more succeeded in finishing the job. A geyser of blood and brain matter splattered the dash and side window as the driver’s head exploded. The echo of gunfire died and in the near distance the wail of sirens signaled the approach of the Cuban police.

“Looks like the commandant got to a phone,” Encizo told Bolan as he reached inside the vehicle from the passenger side and popped the trunk.

“I’ll fret later,” Bolan replied. He jerked his thumb at the car. “Better not to take this. It’ll draw too much attention.”

“Or this,” he said, holding up the satchel filled with C-4 plastique with all the trimmings. “We should be able to lose them on foot.”

Once they made some distance, Bolan asked, “You get a location on Stein and Crosse?”

“Yeah,” Encizo said with a nod. “They’re holed up in a motel not too far from here.”

“They’re under guard, I assume.”

“Of course.”

Grimaldi shook his head and groaned. “Our luck just keeps getting better.”

“I suppose you realize that commandant will call in reinforcements to ambush us at the motel,” Encizo said.

A ghost of a smile crossed Bolan’s face. “I’m counting on it.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Hal Brognola sat in his office and tried to maintain his cool.

It wasn’t often the President of the United States decided to call a personal meet, and particularly not on Stony Man’s home turf. The Farmhouse and Annex remained top secret, their locations known by a select few, and the Man rarely opted to pay them a personal visit. With the press and staff constantly nipping at his heels, such a request could compromise the Farm’s security.

On this occasion, however, the President had informed Brognola he’d be traveling incognito and even the Secret Service wouldn’t accompany him. This didn’t worry the head Fed any, since he knew the President came under escort of three of the most capable warriors ever fashioned by hellfire: together they formed the urban Able Team. The President’s unconventional request worried Brognola simply because he knew him to be a pragmatist. If he was requesting a personal meeting, then that meant it was damned important.

Brognola left his office and climbed the old secret stairwell that led to the first floor of the farmhouse. Maybe a brisk walk around the grounds would take his mind off the upcoming meet. Beside the fact, more pressing matters on Striker’s mission—a mission he was sure had prompted the Man’s request for a personal meeting—demanded his immediate attention.

So far, they didn’t have much to go on. The fact someone had tried to terminate the Executioner within hours of his arrival at Guantánamo Bay perplexed the Stony Man chief most of all. Nobody outside of immediate personnel knew Brognola had contacted Bolan about the potential troubles brewing in Cuba, let alone they would have gathered enough details to pick up Bolan’s scent, track him to a secured U.S. naval installation and then kill him. That left only one possible answer: somebody on the inside of the military prison at Gitmo knew Bolan had questioned Melendez and decided to make sure the Executioner took that information to the grave.

But who and why? Those were two questions for which Brognola didn’t have answers. Even Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman had been left at a loss for suggestions. Well, they sure as hell needed to find out. And as Bolan had pointed out, the fact somebody was willing to risk an open killing meant there was probably merit to what Melendez had told them before his untimely demise.

Brognola walked the perimeter of the wood line and considered their decision to send Grimaldi and Encizo; he wouldn’t second-guess Bolan’s request. The Stony Man chief had learned long ago not to question the men in the field. They were hardened and experienced warriors who knew what was what. They were there under the direst of circumstances, not Brognola or Price, hence his reason for a hands-off policy when it came to making operational decisions at the field level. Brognola never armchair quarter-backed an operation before and he didn’t plan to start now.

Unfortunately they had minimal intelligence up to this point. Operations inside Cuba were always difficult, at best, since they couldn’t operate as freely as in other countries. Moreover, the political waves created by the waning health of Cuba’s leader caused increasing unrest in the country’s citizens. There were social underpinnings to consider, as well, and the talk in certain circles of its bleak socioeconomic and political future wouldn’t make things easier for Bolan and his crew. Fortunately, money could still do quite a bit of talking down there, and in context they had an almost limitless supply of cash in the coffers if the need arose for it.

Movement on Brognola’s right penetrated his train of thought as effectively as a lithe form penetrated the tree line.

“You startled me,” Brognola declared.

Barbara Price half smiled. “Maybe you’re losing your edge.”

“Maybe I was only kidding and I just wanted you to think you took me off guard.”

“Whatever gets you through the day,” she said.

They didn’t often trade in this type of playful banter, but Brognola guessed Price had indulged in the same recent edginess he experienced at hearing of the President’s imminent arrival.

“Out trying to clear the old noggin some?” he asked.

She nodded. “I suppose. You headed back to the farmhouse?”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I walk with you, cool down?”

“Not at all.”

Price did a little deep breathing before saying, “This deal with Striker’s recent discoveries in Cuba had me racking my brain most of the morning. I thought maybe a jog through the woods might shake loose a prophetic moment.”

“Yeah,” Brognola said. “I decided to take a walk in hope of finding an epiphany of my own. I assume you finished your dissemination on Havana Five?”

“Yes. And before you ask, I didn’t find much, not of consequence anyway.”

“Maybe what we gave Striker will be enough,” Brognola said. “Between him and Rafael, they’ll figure out the rest.”

“Sounds like he’s still convinced the two Americans Melendez overheard are our missing DIA agents.”

“Right. What I can’t figure is why they would have killed Colonel Waterston.”

“Doesn’t seem to fit the profile of either of them,” Price said. “I took a thorough look into their dossiers. Stein and Crosse were both decorated veterans of Desert Storm, ranked high in their respective classes at the federal law enforcement training center and Quantico, and outside of obviously trumped-up charges a couple of times in Crosse’s career, neither of them has been in any type of trouble. I even talked to a former supervisor at the DIA. He says they were top of the line.”

“Sounds like a couple of regular poster boys for the DIA,” Brognola replied with a grunt.

“Indeed.”

“Okay, so we can assume one of two things. Either what Striker got from Melendez was flawed in some way or Stein and Crosse really did kill Waterston. If we say the latter scenario’s the most likely right now given the fact Waterston’s MIA, then that would indicate an act of desperation.”

“Or an accident,” Price pointed out.

“I hadn’t considered that possibility,” Brognola admitted. “That’s good. Now maybe we’re getting somewhere. But even if we’re correct, and right now it’s all just conjecture, that still doesn’t explain how Havana Five figures into all of this.”

“Well, Melendez definitely tied those things together when Striker interrogated them,” Price said. “Melendez was betting his life on it, which means there has to be a connection.”

“Right,” Brognola said. “And it’s our job to find out what that is. Striker’s operating on thin intelligence. We need to come up with something solid, and quickly.”

“Well, there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to figure out what’s going on even if they find Stein and Crosse,” Price said. “All we can do is our best to find the answers Striker needs. I won’t rest until we do that.”

“I know.” Brognola looked in the direction of the farmhouse with absence. “We’d better get inside and cleaned up. The Man will be here within the hour.”

PER BROGNOLA’S INSTRUCTIONS, Able Team escorted the President to the War Room as soon as they arrived.

Brognola and Price awaited him there, and Able Team made a quick exit to nearby posts that were out of the room but still provided them access to the Man in less than ten seconds. Not that they were overly concerned. Nobody knew of the President’s visit and he planned to be here for less than a half hour.

“Hal, I know you’re all pretty busy,” the President began. “I appreciate your meeting me on such short notice.”

“Not at all, sir,” Brognola said. “It’s never a trouble. Although…” Brognola let his sentence trail off, thinking better of it.

“Although you’re surprised I’d call a meeting here,” the President replied. “Right?”

“It had crossed our minds, sir,” Price said coolly and professionally.

“I know it’s unorthodox, and normally I wouldn’t have risked the security nightmare I’m sure this creates,” the President said. “But I felt this was the best way.”

“The best way to do what exactly, Mr. President?” Brognola asked.

“To clarify the importance of this mission. You see, ever since the Cuban missile crisis, our relations have been less than stellar with Castro. I know that’s hardly a surprise, maybe not even worth mentioning. What you might not know is that one of the main purposes of Plan Colombia was to completely eradicate relations whereby Cuba permitted terrorist training of Colombian guerrillas inside their boundaries. And while it’s always been a big risk on Castro’s part given our military presence there, it’s been an even larger one in recent years.

“I believe Cuba might be on the verge of its very own civil war. It’s my hope if this occurs that the United States will be poised to suggest peace talks rather than permit the outbreak of armed conflict between Cuban citizens and their government so close to U.S. interests. If we’re successful in that, it could mean friendly political ties between two countries who have been bitter enemies for more than sixty years.”

“I see what you’re saying, Mr. President,” Brognola said. “This is much bigger than any of us.”

“It is,” the Man confirmed. “So you see, there’s more at stake here than I believe either of you might realize. I thought, especially under these most recent circumstances, I at least owed it to you to lay my cards on the table. The disappearance of Colonel Waterston is particularly critical. It’s a little known fact Waterston and I served together during Vietnam. He was poised to be our olive branch when and if the time came. There were, or rather are, some men in Castro’s regime who respect Waterston because he’s a military man. He speaks their lingo, you see, and frankly so do I. They like that. And being military men they’re beginning to see Castro as old and weak. They figure it’s time for a change in the country, and they figure if whoever succeeds Castro isn’t up to the challenge, it’ll be up to them to make a better way of life for everyone in their country.”

“And you think they see the United States as pivotal to making that happen, sir?” Price asked.

“More than that, Barbara,” the President replied. “Crucial would be the more apt word. You see, whatever happens here on out could very well determine the fate of our future relations with the Cubans. I’m not trying to add pressure to you, either personally or to your men in the field. I also know your man didn’t have to take this job, although I don’t mind saying I’m awfully glad he’s on our side.”

Brognola couldn’t resist a wry grin and a chuckle. “I’m sure he’d appreciate knowing that, sir.”

The President nodded. “This isn’t my way of tightening the thumb screws, you understand. All I’m trying to do is to impart the fact we’re at a very critical juncture. It’s important we recover our men if they’re in Cuba, particularly Waterston, and it’s even more important we do it as quickly and quietly as possible. What we can’t afford to do is to expose our supporters there. If Castro found it, there would be public hangings.”

“I’m sure,” Brognola said. “But, Mr. President, it’s very important you understand that right now we have it on pretty good authority that Colonel Waterston might be dead.”

The President blanched and his expression went flat. Brognola hadn’t meant for that little fact to come out quite so indelicately, but there weren’t many ways to give the most powerful man in the free world bad news.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the President finally replied after a very long and very uncomfortable minute.

“I don’t know what to say, sir,” Brognola replied.

The man shrugged. “What can you say? I can only hope this is one of those times where you’re absolutely wrong. Does your man in Cuba know?”

“He’s the one who gave that to us originally.”

“Mr. President,” Price interjected, “you can be assured we’re doing everything possible to confirm or deny the information. But Striker’s operating off scant intelligence as it is. He’s playing a lot of this by ear right now.”

“Well, I don’t normally make it my business to poke my nose into field operations,” the President replied. “And I appreciate your candor. But under the circumstances, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to provide me with as many details as possible as soon as you get them, confirmed or unconfirmed.”

“Of course, sir,” Brognola replied. “Would it be terribly out of line if I asked why?”

The President appeared to consider Brognola’s request a moment and then replied, “I suppose that’s a fair question. You must understand that under no circumstances will I permit the outbreak of a full civil war in Cuba without taking significant action. And when I say action, I mean the full-scale military kind. If such hostilities were to ensue and we had exhausted every political remedy to abate them, I would be forced to order the U.S. Marines at Guantánamo to do whatever they had to, to protect the U.S. and its boundaries.”

“War?” Brognola asked. “With Cuba?”

The President cleared his throat before replying, “If necessary, yes. A Cuban civil war would threaten an already uneasy balance of power in the Western hemisphere. We cannot afford that. Peace in this region is too important to the greater interests of this country and its populace. I don’t want another missile crisis, but I don’t want a repeat of 9//11, either.”

“I suppose to some degree I can understand this rather precarious position you’re in, Mr. President,” Brognola said. “But an all-out declaration of war against Cuba seems, well…”

“Don’t beat around the bush, Hal,” the Man said. “I’ve always held your opinions in high regard. Say what you have to say.”

“I was simply going to say that it seems pretty extreme,” Brognola replied.

“Extreme is the situation at hand,” the President. “And it may call for extreme measures.”

“But we’re not there yet,” Brognola said.

“Right.”

“And you’re willing to give us some more time to hammer this out.”

“Of course, Hal.” He rose. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to Camp David.”

Brognola and Price rose accordingly and walked the President, accompanied by Able Team, to the nondescript SUV that awaited him.

Once he departed, Brognola and Price returned to the War Room.

“Barb,” Brognola said, “we need to pull everything we have on the situation down there in Cuba. Names, faces, the whole kit and caboodle. I want to know what we’re up against as soon as possible.”

“Understood,” Price said with a nod.

“Also, get Able back here as quick as possible and put Phoenix Force on full alert.”

“You’re not going to give Striker and crew a chance to resolve this?”

“Certainly,” Brognola said. “But we both know if this thing goes south we need to have a backup plan. I don’t want to get caught asleep at the wheel on this.”

“What about Waterston?” she asked.

“I don’t think there’s much we can do to confirm his status. We’ll have to rely on Striker to get that information. We should focus our efforts on the political end of this. If we stick our finger in the dike, I want it to hold, not spring another leak somewhere else. Also, I want you to pull all the plugs with the NSA. I want to know everything we have on this Havana Five, past or present. Call in favors, go over heads, threaten jobs, but do whatever you must to get us some answers. I want to know who’s running the operation down there and what they’re into. Maybe we’ll shake something loose, get a line on this ELN training camp.”

“And if we don’t?”

“At least we’ll get close enough to start making people nervous. Maybe they’ll make a mistake and expose themselves in some way.”

“Then what?”

“Then we’ll send Striker their way to do what he does best.”

CHAPTER SIX

Mack Bolan studied the layout of the two-story motel through binoculars. An innocent inquiry by Encizo revealed the motel had no air conditioning, and these July days were sweltering in Cuba. Soon the sun would start to set and with the dissipation of heat would come drowsiness for the occupants.

Dusk or dawn was the best time to conduct a military assault against any type of stronghold under any type of guard. Such an assault wouldn’t be difficult under the circumstances if what the Cuban police official had told Encizo was true. The men were being guarded by three officers. But if his plan worked there would be a lot more men there in a short period of time, and a lot of cops with a motel filled to capacity would create just the kind of confusion he needed.

Still, Bolan didn’t intend to assume either way—he liked to deal with the facts.

He swung the binoculars from his view of the motel entrance to Encizo’s position approximately fifty meters down the street. The Phoenix Force veteran held position inside a primer-gray 1984 Olds Ninety-Eight they procured from a vendor’s used lot. The vehicle would have been a find to some car enthusiasts, but it had the worn and unobtrusive look required to divert attention. Encizo sat low behind the wheel, head canted back with sunglasses to hide his open eyes. To any other observer, he would appear as just another local copping a siesta.

Bolan grinned behind the field glasses and then swung them past the motel entrance in the opposite direction. He could barely make out the lines of Jack Grimaldi. The pilot sat at a table in a sidewalk café adorned in the ridiculous poncho and hat Bolan had purchased early that morning. Grimaldi would serve as eyes and ears, with Encizo providing backup. This was Bolan’s show and his alone, and when he’d pointed that out, neither man argued with him.

Bolan studied the street, which seemed totally devoid of movement. In the past twenty minutes of his reconnaissance, he’d noted a half dozen cars had driven by. It seemed like things should be busier—much as they had been at Las Cocinitas—but surprisingly there didn’t seem to be much activity in this part of town. Then he remembered it was Saturday and this was the calm before the storm. Very shortly, the place would be teeming with people and the entire area would turn into a hubbub of activity.

Bolan stowed the binoculars and then stepped from the darkness of the rickety building into the twilight, now fading into night. The Executioner dashed across the street and reached the motel entrance unseen. He took a quick look inside, taking in the layout of the lobby—just as Encizo had described it. A petite Cuban girl, no older than sixteen or seventeen, maintained the front counter. Encizo indicated he’d spied a larger person in an adjoining office, male, maybe mid-to late-forties. Bolan figured a father-daughter team, although such an age difference in a married couple wouldn’t have surprised him.

Bolan opened the door and moved silently indoors. He crossed the lobby in three steps and withdrew the Beretta 93-R from shoulder leather. The girl looked up just as he reached the counter. She sucked in a breath and her jaw dropped, but a finger to his lips while he kept the pistol in plain view extinguished any thoughts she might have to cry out. Bolan vaulted the counter and gently steered the girl into the office by the arm. A man scribbling furiously at the desk looked up and surprise mixed with panic registered on his face. At that proximity, Bolan could see he was older than the Executioner originally surmised. The man started to speak to Bolan in Spanish.

“Quiet,” Bolan ordered him. He softened his voice as he put the girl in a chair against a nearby wall.

“¡No lastimar por favor a mi tío,” she said. “He no speak English.”

So he was her uncle. “I won’t hurt him. Will you tell him that?”

She did, and then Bolan said, “There are two men upstairs, Americans, under police guard. Yes?”

The girl nodded.

“How many?” he asked.

“What?”

“How many policemen?”

She held up three fingers and replied, “Three.”

Bolan nodded. It looked like the commandant had told Encizo the truth. The three cops weren’t really the problem, though, as much as the fact he had no idea on the conditions of Stein and Crosse. If they were injured in some way, a quick and quiet escape was out of the question. Bolan would simply have to run the plays as planned and look for the best results.

The Executioner noted a phone on the old man’s desk. He unsheathed a Ka-Bar combat knife on his web belt and with a rapid slash cut the line. He told the girl to wait five minutes and not to come out of the office before then, and closed the door behind him. He took out the cord on the lobby extension and the pay phone against a dirty, brown wall. Bolan started toward the steps and then froze in his tracks when the clack of decorative shells hanging from the front door sounded.

He ducked into an alcove and watched with interest as four men entered the motel. From their mode of dress, Bolan could tell they weren’t here for a room. He instantly identified the leader of the pack by his cocky walk, short and stocky build, and ridiculously oversize mirrored sunglasses. The man shifted inside the linen sports coat he wore and Bolan saw a gun butt peak from beneath it. The other three men who accompanied him were bruisers who all carried themselves like men used to being armed carry themselves.

Bolan considered taking them then and there but decided to hold off. While the possibility seemed remote, their presence may have had little or nothing to do with his mission. The Executioner didn’t believe in coincidence, and if these men were members of either the Cuban police or Havana Five, then things were going as planned. In either case, they hadn’t stopped by for a little chat—at least not packing the kind of hardware they were.

For a minute or so they loitered in the lobby and waited, but when nobody showed to greet them a brief conversation between the trio and their leader led them to some decision, because they split into pairs with two headed to the elevator and the other pair by stairs. Bolan still couldn’t be sure who he was dealing with but he didn’t think these men were cops. Police officers, even in Cuba, would have bothered to investigate a desk with no clerk.

Bolan waited a full minute, then headed to the stairs and quietly opened the door. He stuck his head through the doorway and looked up the stairwell. In the dim lighting, a shadow was visible on the wall. Smart. They had left a lookout on the stairs. Bolan would have to deal with that first before he could get down to business. The soldier pushed inside the doorway, closed the door behind him and ascended the stairs.

He rounded the midfloor landing and crouched. The sentry had wedged his body between the half-open door so he could monitor the second-story hallway. That left him blind to anyone approaching from the stairs. Obviously, the guy hadn’t done this kind of thing before. The Executioner took the second flight of stairs as quiet as a mouse and grabbed the guy’s collar. He yanked down and back, which effectively took the sentry off balance. A hard blow behind the man’s right ear finished the job. Bolan wouldn’t take any lives at this point unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t think these men were policemen, but he wouldn’t risk killing a cop.

Bolan dragged the body to the corner of the landing and stuffed it into a janitor’s closet. The door had no lock, rather just a flimsy bolt on the outside to hold it closed. It wouldn’t prove much of a barrier, but it might provide enough time for Bolan to complete his mission here. The Executioner went to the door, looked onto an empty hallway, then reared back when he heard the ding of an elevator bell.

After checking his flank, Bolan opened the door a crack and tried to see as far down the hallway as he could. Two men, the pair he’d seen take the elevator downstairs, rounded the corner. The third man passed the door where Bolan stood guard, stopped a moment as if he were planning to get his partner, then seemed to change his mind when he spotted the other two. The threesome converged on a door near the end of the hallway. The leader of the group immediately pounded on the door and yelled in Spanish. His guns moved to either side as he pulled his pistol and kept it low and behind his right thigh.

Bolan heard the door open. The leader smiled, made some quiet comment, then leveled his pistol at whoever answered and squeezed the trigger. That one act of cold-blooded murder told Bolan all he needed to know about these men.

The Executioner un-leathered his Beretta 93-R as he burst into the hallway, snap-aimed the pistol at the leader while on the move and squeezed off a double tap. The subsonic cartridges emitted a report not much louder than a discreet cough. The first round drilled through the leader’s side and spun him to face Bolan’s direction; the second blew a hole in his forehead and knocked him off his feet.

The remaining gunmen turned with surprise on their faces. They hadn’t expected to cover their flanks, assuming any trouble from that direction would have been handled by their scout. It was a fatal assumption for both. While the gunners had their pistols drawn they were not accustomed to the skilled resistance Bolan offered. The Executioner sighted and triggered a single shot that took one man through the throat. A bloody spray washed the wall to the man’s right. The second tried to zigzag for some type of cover but to no avail in such narrow confines and under such keen marksmanship. Bolan caught the guy with two rounds to the chest. The slugs slammed the man’s corpse against the wall with enough force to damage the plaster.

Movement to his right caused Bolan to track on the front door and two men in rumpled slacks, filthy suit shirts and shoeless feet dashed from the room. Bolan knew them immediately by their dossier pictures.

“Stein! Crosse! Let’s move!” Bolan called.

He gestured for them to come along and the two men didn’t hesitate in rushing to follow him.

“How the hell did you find us?” Crosse asked as he sidled up next to Bolan and struggled to keep up with the Executioner’s purposeful strides.

Bolan didn’t reply, instead keeping focused on their next task, which was escape. He led them to the stairwell, but as he pushed through the door he heard the door below open and the slap of boots on the stairs. Bolan pushed back and closed the door—so much for taking the stairs. Stein and Crosse started to protest at the sudden change of direction, but Bolan didn’t bother to stop and argue with them.

“This can wait,” the soldier replied flatly. “Now, you want to play twenty questions and die or would you like to get out of here alive?”

They stared at him dumbfounded, and Bolan continued down the hallway. The stairwell had been on the front end of motel, which meant there had to be some type of back entrance. Whoever was coming up those steps in force—and Bolan had every reason to think it was the cops springing their trap—might have all sides covered. That was okay, though, because Mack Bolan had a couple surprises of his own.

LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES after Rafael Encizo observed three heavies and their boss enter the motel, trouble erupted.

Encizo hadn’t been real big on Bolan’s plan, but he didn’t try to argue. This was Bolan’s show and they were under strict orders to do exactly as he said. Not that Encizo would have it any other way. Bolan had been at this game longer than just about all of them, and he trusted the man implicitly.

So Encizo waited and watched as the four men disappeared inside the motel. He didn’t have long to wait as Cuban police showed up a few minutes later. The commandant had taken the bait and sprung a trap—just as the Executioner predicted—but the earlier arrival of the as yet unidentified parties might introduce a complication into Bolan’s plan. Either way it didn’t much matter. He had his orders to follow as soon as the Cuban police made entry.

Encizo yanked a big cigar from the seat next to him, lit it, then cranked the radio full-blast and put the Oldsmobile in gear. He swung out onto the otherwise deserted lane and cruised slowly past the line of police vehicles parked in front of the motel. A pair of Cuban cops left to watch the front entrance swung their attention toward him as he passed. Encizo tossed them a salute—just another man out in his slum-mobile looking for a distraction—but the cops didn’t acknowledge him. By the time they passed into view of his side mirror, Encizo could see they had returned their attention to the motel.

He rounded the corner at the end of the block and stopped as soon as he was out of sight. Grimaldi slapped some coins on the table of the café, then vaulted a velvet rope cordoning the café from the sidewalk, dashed across the road and jumped into the passenger seat.

“Need a lift, sailor?” Encizo asked.

“Yeah, but just become I’m easy doesn’t mean I’m cheap,” Grimaldi joked.

Encizo smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

The Cuban took off with a squeal of tires and headed to the narrow alley at the back of the motel. This wouldn’t be quite the subtle exit they’d hoped for but neither of these men was a stranger to the quick getaway. If all went as planned, the Executioner would have two DIA agents in tow, bringing them one step closer to the goal.

Encizo cranked hard on the wheel and swerved into the alley. The vehicle fishtailed a bit on the gravel but Encizo maintained total control. He brought the vehicle to a skidding halt at the back door of the motel, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake that threatened to choke them both out.

“Come on, Sarge,” Grimaldi muttered. “We’re running out of time….”

“Uh-oh,” Encizo cut in.

Grimaldi looked sharply at him. “What?”

Encizo didn’t reply, instead pointing directly ahead of them. Through the haze of dust Grimaldi saw a number of police cruisers turn into the alleyway from an entrance at the other end.

BOLAN IGNORED THE PROTESTS of Stein and Crosse who continued to demand answers where he had no time to give them. The Executioner gritted his teeth. He had conducted many a rescue mission, and he couldn’t remember playing nursemaid to a bigger pair of whiners than these two.

Locating the stairwell, he descended three at a time and stopped once to check the progress of his charges. Bolan watched with mild amusement as the pair stumble-bummed their way down the steps like a comedy team duo. When they caught up to him, Bolan continued the remainder of the way and stopped short at the rear exit. A heavy chain with a padlock secured the door.

“What the fu—?” Crosse began.

“That violates the fire code!” Stein sputtered.

Bolan looked at the pair disbelievingly. “Well, maybe we should stop at the front desk and complain.”

The sound of the second-floor door opening could barely be heard above the rush of footfalls coming toward the rear hallway running the length of the building. A quartet of Cuban officers raced around the corner at the far end. Bolan fired several warning shots above their heads, causing them to scatter for cover, then drove the butt of the pistol against the padlock several times to break it. Bolan disengaged the chain and pushed open the door, then waved the DIA agents through.

As Stein and Crosse passed, Bolan looked back to see the sentry he’d knocked out staggering down the steps, a machine pistol in his grip. The Executioner didn’t know where the guy had managed to get such a weapon on short notice, but he didn’t have to guess how he planned to use it from his expression. Even as the Cuban police fired on him, Bolan thumbed the Beretta to 3-shot mode and squeezed the trigger. A trio of 9 mm Parabellum slugs punched through the submachine gunner’s chest and lifted him off his feet. His back struck the wall and he left a bloody streak against it before he tumbled down the steps. Bolan was out the door before the man’s corpse hit the floor.

The Executioner, less than two steps behind Stein and Crosse, looked up the alleyway and saw more troubles headed toward the waiting Oldsmobile. Bless Encizo and Grimaldi for sticking to the plan. One of the cops had to have leaned out the window and triggered a blast of autofire because the rear-door window shattered as Crosse opened it and leaped inside. One of the rounds ricocheted and struck Stein in the meaty part of the shoulder.

The agent yipped like a dog. Bolan shoved him inside the relative safety of the vehicle and then followed. “Go!”

Encizo, the gearshift already in Reverse, tromped the accelerator before Bolan could close his door. A retaining wall smashed into the door and nearly knocked it from its hinges. Thankfully, the solid metal body held under the torsion and it only managed to rip away a good part of the vinyl interior panel. Bolan got a viselike grip on the door, ignoring the shards of broken glass that bit into his callused hand, and yanked it close.

“Sorry…” Encizo said, head over shoulder, eyes glued to the rear window.

“Let’s try shooting out their tires!” Grimaldi suggested.

Bolan shook his head. “No. We might hit one of them.”

“Who the hell are you guys?” Crosse finally demanded.

“Later,” Bolan said as he pulled a thick gauze pad from one of the slit pockets of his blacksuit and slapped it on Stein’s bloody shoulder wound. He instructed Crosse to apply pressure, then pulled out a second one and wrapped his own hand.

“Well, if anyone’s got an idea, now would be the time to speak up,” Encizo said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“We need a diversion,” Bolan said. “Get something between us so we buy enough time to lose them.”

“Any suggestions?” Encizo asked.

“I have an idea,” Bolan said. “Get onto the highway and head for the coast.”

Encizo nodded and whipped a hard right at the next intersection. Not many major highways ran through Cuba, but a good number of them led to water. Bolan figured the Cuban police would expect them to stick to dry ground, but the Executioner had other ideas.

“You think we can get into open waters, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked.

“No,” Bolan said. “But I’m betting we can make them think we are.”

Encizo steered them onto Highway CC, then immediately flipped onto the interchange for Highway CN as it ran along Bahia de Matanzas. The traffic had become heavier, and the breeze blowing through the back seat cooled the sweat on Bolan’s face despite the mugginess of night. Things would cool quickly now, considering they were so close to water. It would be difficult for the Cuban police to stay on their tail given the traffic and darkness. The Executioner’s plan would prevail.

Encizo poured on the speed, accelerator to the floor, and the Olds’ engine roared in protest.

“We might actually lose them if we don’t throw a rod first,” Encizo noted.

“Not a chance,” Grimaldi countered. “This puppy has four barrels riding in a 307 V8. Classic!”

“This is insane,” Crosse muttered.

“Quit your bellyaching,” Stein said. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

“Why don’t you both keep still,” Bolan said. He leaned forward in the seat and peered out the front windshield. He pointed to a bright blue sign. “There’s an exit for the bay. Take that.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Encizo quipped. The Cuban waited until the last second, then pumped the brakes and swerved onto the exit. As they dropped toward the underpass, the flashing blue lights of Cuban police vehicles disappeared from view. By some miracle, it appeared they were slowly outdistancing the cops. Not surprising given the small police vehicles were no match for the Ninety-Eight’s engine. As Grimaldi had pointed out, this was one powerful ride.

Encizo blew the red light at the bottom of the heel but executed a perfect power slide into the intersection and didn’t hit a single vehicle. He accelerated smoothly toward the bay amidst an angry blare of horns and swearing drivers. Bolan could feel the floorboards vibrate as the Ninety-Eight effortlessly powered its five passengers toward freedom.

“The guys we ran into back there,” Bolan said to Stein and Crosse. “Any idea who they were?”

“No,” Stein replied.

“Why are you asking us?” Crosse said with a snort of disbelief. “Don’t you know?”

Bolan’s face took on a hard edge. “We’ll get into that later, Crosse. Right now, you two have some explaining to do. Where’s Colonel Waterston?”

“How the hell should we—?”

“Dead,” Stein said. “We killed him.”

“Shut up, Dominic!” Crosse snapped.

“Why? What the hell difference does it make now?” he asked his partner. “They obviously know what’s up, or they wouldn’t have sent someone to risk their necks pulling us out of this.”

“Shut up, Dominic,” Crosse repeated.

“Enough,” Bolan said, making the threat implicit in his tone. “Neither of you is up for a medal.”

“End of the road, Striker,” Encizo said.

Ahead, the road terminated at a small, deserted parking area bordering Bahia de Matanzas. Encizo started to slow, but Bolan placed a hand on his shoulder. The Cuban locked eyes with him in the rearview mirror and knew immediately what the Executioner had in mind. He gunned the accelerator and jumped the curb. The wheels bit into the sand and spun, but a repeated jerking of the steering wheel gave them traction.