This is how the other half lives, but they all die the same

The Executioner pushed the thought from his mind.

Santos followed Bolan closely, turning frequently to check the corridor behind them for approaching enemies. He caught her movements from the corner of his eye and reckoned she was doing all that could be done. The hotel was a warren built as if with ambushes in mind and there was no way he could protect them from all sides.

No way at all.

That was the price of hunting lethal predators. Sometimes—more times than he could count, in fact—the hunter was transformed into the prey.

Like now? he wondered.

He wasn’t sure, but Bolan knew one thing beyond a shadow of doubt—he wasn’t giving up. If he could swap his own life for a thousand hostages, he’d reckon it was a decent trade.

Final Resort

The Executioner®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Michael Newton for his contribution to this work.

War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it.

—General William T. Sherman,

1820–1891

No honest soldier has anything good to say about war—but we fight where we can, where we must.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Prologue

Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

The first explosion stunned Lance Corporal Kenneth Pyle. Patrol duty at Gitmo was strictly routine, no surprises encouraged, since Camp X-Ray had been established to contain leading terrorists, insurgents, or whatever the hell they were labeled this week.

The enemy, Pyle thought, and let it go at that.

So, no surprises in the guise of training measures for Marines who drew guard duty at the camp, in case somebody had an itchy trigger finger and he greased a drill instructor.

But what in hell was this about?

The first blast sounded like a half-pound charge of C-4 or the equivalent. It echoed from the east side of the camp, meaning that Pyle could not investigate despite his shock and sudden, urgent curiosity. The first rule of guard duty in the Corps was to stay alert and man the post assigned, no matter what distractions surfaced in the course of any given shift. Pyle couldn’t leave his beat along the camp’s northern perimeter unless directly ordered by the Sergeant of the Guard or someone who outranked him.

Pyle was thinking accident when two more high-explosive detonations rocked the base, one on the southern side, and one—unless Pyle missed his guess—not far from the command post.

And it wasn’t any goddamned accident.

He knew that, now.

Pyle jacked a round into the chamber of his M-16 and watched the wire, remembering the orders that had been drilled into him from day one of his posting to Guantanamo. The base and all that it contained was U.S. property, an island in a hostile sea of red, surrounded by the enemy.

That rule had been in place since 1959, around the time Pyle’s father was born, and there had never been an assault on the base.

Until now.

Three blasts, plastic explosives, and if Pyle had any lasting doubts, the sounds of automatic weapons fire confirmed what he already knew: this wasn’t any exercise designed to test the camp’s security procedures.

This was happening. The shit was coming down, and—

Pyle saw movement, fifty yards or so beyond the razor-wire perimeter he’d been assigned to guard. Raising his M-16, he sighted on the spot and saw a man rise from the undergrowth out there, with something balanced on his shoulder.

By the time Pyle recognized the object as a rocket launcher, triggering a short reflexive burst of 5.56 mm rounds in vain, the nose-heavy projectile was already hurtling toward him. All that he could do was hit the deck.

And pray.

1

Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia

Mack Bolan listened as the all-news station playing on the Ford Explorer’s radio kept coming back to it. Grim bulletins from Cuba, where a band of gunmen loosely dubbed insurgents had apparently stormed Camp X-Ray—the controversial, semisecret facility where U.S. Marines and CIA agents had penned alleged terrorist suspects since America’s invasion of Afghanistan, in the wake of the 9/11 skyjacking raids. Civil libertarians called the military prison an illegal concentration camp and torture center, whose inmates were held without charges or counsel, some still publicly unnamed after all those years.

Administrators airily dismissed the charges, citing precedent from both world wars to justify their actions, and the controversy showed no signs of winding down while Camp X-Ray survived.

But now, it seemed, someone had tried another angle of attack to bring it down.

The early news was spotty, as expected. Getting any word out of Guantanamo was difficult enough, much less when the Marines and comrades from the Company were agitated by embarrassment. Bolan guessed that Hal Brognola would have the whole story—or most of it, at any rate—when he arrived at Stony Man Farm.

“YOU MADE GOOD TIME,” Brognola said, shaking hands with Bolan on the farmhouse porch.

“It sounded urgent,” Bolan said. “And I was in the neighborhood.”

Almost, considering that Baltimore was more or less in Washington’s backyard, both cities reasonably close to where the two men stood in summer sunshine, scanning cultivated fields to the north and west.

Brognola hadn’t come to meet him on the porch alone. Beside the man from Justice stood the Farm’s mission controller, Barbara Price. She had a private smile for Bolan, gripped his hand a heartbeat longer than was strictly necessary, then stepped back. No comment necessary.

“Bear’s waiting for us in the War Room,” Brognola said. “Do you want something to eat or drink, before we start? A chance to freshen up?”

“I’m fresh enough,” Bolan replied. “Let’s do it.”

“Right.”

They stepped inside the building and headed to the War Room, where Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer wizard, was waiting. A spinal gunshot, suffered in a raid that nearly doomed the Farm, had left him confined to a wheelchair for life, though it failed to snuff out his gregarious spirit. If Price was Stony Man’s soul, then Kurtzman—“the Bear,” to his friends—was its spark and its wry sense of humor.

Even so, he spared them any jokes that afternoon, greeting Bolan with a solemn face and a handshake strengthened by years of propelling himself on four wheels. Kurtzman shunned all the motorized scooters and chairs, determined to maintain the muscles that remained within his personal control.

Bolan sat at one end of a conference table that could seat a dozen comfortably, fifteen in a pinch. Brognola sat to his left, with Price directly opposite. Kurtzman assumed his place at the computer console, lowering a wide screen from its ceiling slot, at the table’s far end.

“Is this about Guantanamo?” Bolan asked.

“Yes, and no,” Brognola said. “It’s too late for prevention, and that isn’t our department, anyway. We’ll leave that to the Corps and hope they get the bugs ironed out. No matter what, the raid’s a fact of life—or history, by now, I guess you’d say.”

“But it’s not over,” Bolan said.

“Unfortunately, no,” Brognola answered, though it hadn’t really been a question. “That’s where we come in.”

“Okay,” the Executioner replied. “I’m listening. Why don’t you give it to me from the top.”

“What have you heard about Gitmo?” Brognola asked.

“The basics,” Bolan replied. “Some kind of raid on Camp X-Ray, guerrillas by the sound of it. Some people are calling on the White House to invade and take Havana. No one seems to know if they were Cubans.”

“I can answer that,” Brognola said. “They weren’t.”

A nod to Kurtzman brought the first picture onto the screen. It was a mug shot, full face and profile, depicting a swarthy man with black hair and a mustache to match.

“We’ve had no luck getting the actual closed-circuit tapes,” the big Fed explained, “but the Company claims it’s identified both men in charge of the raiders. This is Sohrab Caspari, Iranian, a Shiite extremist linked to bombings and assassinations ranging from Baghdad to Singapore. He’s thirty-six years old, a military veteran. You’ll find the other details in his file.”

“Ringleader?” Bolan asked.

“More like a partner,” Brognola replied. “The raiders were divided into two distinct and separate teams.”

Another nod produced a second face on-screen. This one was captured in a candid shot, a street scene somewhere in the Middle East, with shrouded women in the background, a street vendor off to one side. A hat shaded the man’s face, and he was half-smiling to someone off camera, seemingly unaware of being caught on film.

“Asim Ben Muhunnad,” Brognola said. “Age thirty-one, a Palestinian whose father, so I’m told, was in Fatah or Black September, maybe both at different times. So, Muhunnad got his fanaticism the old-fashioned way—he inherited it. Mossad’s been tracking him since 1999. They’ve had a couple of near-misses, but he always slips away.”

“Cuba’s a long way from the Holy Land,” Bolan observed.

“You’d think so, anyway,” Brognola said. “Of course, we’ve seen the tendency of Muslim terrorists to strike worldwide against their enemies—in Europe, Indonesia, Africa, the States.”

“Point taken. And Guantanamo was on the list because of the detainees?” Bolan asked.

“You’re half right,” Brognola agreed. “Except, this wasn’t a punitive raid. It was a rescue mission,” he explained. “A good, old-fashioned jailbreak.”

“From Camp X-Ray?” Bolan said, sounding incredulous. “Inside a fortified Marine Corps base.”

Brognola shrugged. “Sounds crazy, I’m the first one to admit. But who can argue with success? I mean, they pulled it off—up to a point, at least.”

“The news I heard had nothing on a breakout,” Bolan said. “Of course, it wouldn’t, right?”

“They’ve kept that aspect under wraps, so far. How long the Corps and Washington can hold the lid in place is anybody’s guess. Odds are, somebody in the Cuban press already knows the truth, or some of it, but anything they say or publish can be panned as Commie propaganda…for a while,” Price said.

“Unless the runners surface publicly,” Bolan suggested.

“Making statements,” Brognola said. “Sending the media their videos. Or picking up where they left off, with new attacks.”

“Sounds like a major PR problem,” Bolan granted, “but the Cubans will most likely give them sanctuary under guard, the way they used to do with skyjackers.”

“Maybe,” Brognola said. “If they could find them.”

“But…they haven’t,” Bolan said reluctantly.

“Not yet, according to our eyes there.”

“Well, it’s an island,” Bolan said. “Where can they go?”

“With outside help,” Brognola said, “the world’s their oyster.”

Bolan glowered at the screen, then asked, “Whose on the runner’s list?”

“The raiders hit with thirty men, well-armed and well prepared with layouts for the base and Camp X-Ray,” Brognola said. “They lost approximately two-thirds of their men, while taking out some thirty-five or forty U.S. personnel and wreaking havoc everywhere they went. That’s part one of the hideous embarrassment.

“Part two is that the handful of survivors got away with nine inmates from Camp X-Ray. They probably went in hoping for more, but those they lifted are enough bad news to keep the Pentagon and White House sweating.”

Kurtzman didn’t need Brognola’s nod this time. He keyed another picture, sending a third mug shot up on the screen. The latest subject had a thin, dark face, with jet-black curly hair and a prodigious, bristling uni-brow.

“I’ll take them alphabetically,” Brognola said. “This is Yasir Al Khalidha, Palestinian. Records say he’s twenty-six years old, and a suspected member of al Qaeda. Emphasis on the suspected part, since he’s resisted all interrogation methods used on him so far. The Company had no luck cracking him, and now they’ve lost their chance.”

“Where was he captured?” Bolan asked.

“Afghanistan, 2002,” Brognola answered. “He was fighting for the Taliban. No charges filed, so far—which, incidentally, is the case for all of those who made it out.

“All mug shots now, from X-Ray,” Brognola added, as a fourth face filled the screen. This one was younger than its predecessors, but with a malicious cast.

“Farid Azima,” Brognola announced. “Another Palestinian. Mossad connects him to Hamas. They want him for a dozen fatal bombings, all with multiple victims. We bagged him in Iraq, by chance.”

“And didn’t lock him up in Abu Ghraib?” Bolan asked.

“That’s mostly for Iraqi nationals or tourists passing through. Despite his age—he just turned twenty-one—Azima is rated as a hard-case superstar. There was some talk of handing him to the Israelis, but I take it that the Company was interested in grilling him—for all the good it did them. Next.”

An older face this time, bearded, showing a white scar at an angle through the left eyebrow. Another scar interrupted what was otherwise a flourishing mustache.

“Daywa Gul-Bashra,” Brognola declared, by way of introduction. “From Afghanistan. At forty-four, he is the oldest of the fugitives, and also spent more time at X-Ray than the others. Special Forces nabbed him in the last week of December 2001. Tentative ID as an al Qaeda associate.”

A forty-something face replaced Gul-Bashra’s, glaring from the screen at those assembled in the War Room. Dark hair spilled across the pockmarked forehead, over narrow, angry eyes.

“Here’s Emre Mandirali,” Brognola said. “He’s a Turkish national, age forty-two, arrested with a load of weapons in Afghanistan, nine months ago. As far as I can tell, he made it to Camp X-Ray based on his affiliation with the Turkish People’s Liberation Army. Someone may have thought he’d spill the beans about an international connection. They were wrong. Next rabbit?”

Kurtzman put a seventh face on-screen. The first smile they had seen, so far, lit up a heart-shaped face framed by shoulder-length hair. A pointed goatee gave the smile a hint of mockery.

“Cirrus Mehrzad,” Brognola said. “A twenty-nine-year-old Iranian, picked up in Baghdad eighteen months ago. Arresting officers found evidence that he was building IEDs—that’s improvised explosive devices, Pentagon-speak for homemade bombs—and someone suggested he might be a link between Teheran and Iraqi insurgents.”

“Seems cheerful enough,” Bolan said.

“He’s a talker, I’m told, but it comes down to nothing,” Brognola replied. “Tries to ingratiate himself with his interrogators, blabbing up a storm about his family and what-not, but they come out on the other side of it with bupkus. Four to go.”

On cue, another face took its place on-screen. Brognola gave his audience a moment to survey the deadpan countenance, marred by a crescent scar at the left corner of the mouth.

“Bahram Parwana,” he declared, at last. “He and the next fellow you’ll meet are both Afghanis, lifted from their homeland. This one got himself arrested in 2004, for sniping at a U.S. convoy.”

“I’m surprised he made it,” Bolan said.

“He nearly didn’t,” the big Fed acknowledged. “When our boys returned fire, this one took a shrapnel hit that knocked him out. The medics stitched him up and shipped him out. He’s thirty-one, according to the records. Hasn’t said a word to any of his jailers since they locked him up.”

“The wound?” Bolan suggested.

“Nothing medical. He’s just a stubborn son of a bitch,” Brognola said. “Next slide.”

The ninth fugitive looked younger than Bahram Parwana, if only by a year or two. His lean face was unmarked, except by worry lines around the eyes.

“Mahmood Tamwar,” Hal said. “Age thirty, if you trust his file. Picked up in Kabul, in 2003, supposedly associated with al Qaeda and the Taliban. Also a heroin connection, which is nothing very special in Afghanistan, these days. Aaron?”

The next face had a youthful look, despite the salt-and-pepper beard. Wire-rimmed glasses with a cracked left lens magnified hazel eyes under glowering brows. The mouth was a bloodless slash beneath a meaty nose.

“Ishaq Uthman,” Hal said. “Egyptian, thirty-six years old, ex-military and associated with a remnant of the gang that killed Sadat. What he was doing in Iraq is anybody’s guess. Lord knows he hasn’t dropped a hint to any of the X-Ray experts.”

“No al Qaeda ties?” Bolan asked.

“Nothing on the record,” Brognola replied. “For what that’s worth. Last one.”

The final face was solemn but serene, the scalp clean-shaved over thin brows, with a close-trimmed beard. The upper lip was scarred by childhood surgery to correct a cleft palate.

“Last but not least, we have Ghulam Yazid,” Brognola declared. “He’s a thirty-year-old Pakistani, busted in Afghanistan last year, after a border crossing. Guns and ammunition were recovered, plus a message from Osama’s minions to the Taliban. That bought Yazid a ticket overseas, but he has not been, shall we say, forthcoming during his interrogations.”

“There’s a shocker,” Price remarked.

“Indeed. And that’s the lot. Long story short, we need to round them up or bury them before they mount new operations on their own, or as a group.”

“But no one knows exactly where they are,” Bolan said, stating it as fact and not a question.

“Hey,” Brognola answered him, “if it was easy, we’d all be retired.”

“Terrific,” Bolan said. “Where should I start?”

THE DOSSIER CONTAINED sparse information on the fugitives, a bit more on their liberators and two pages on the contact who’d be waiting for the Executioner when he got to Cuba. The short bio told him that Maria Santos was a thirty-three-year-old contract employee of the CIA, whose day job as a tourist guide allowed her contact with outsiders visiting Cuba.

Her photographs showed Bolan that Santos was a Latina looker, with long dark hair, surprising blue eyes and a body reminiscent of Raquel Welch in her prime.

Bolan would travel as Matt Cooper of Toronto, on a Canadian passport. Stony Man’s forgeries were impeccable, and he had no worries about clearing Customs. The hassle would come afterward, when he and Santos began seeking their quarry on an island with over eleven million residents.

That was, assuming the nine fugitives and their surviving liberators were still on the island. If not, as Brognola had stated, the world was their oyster.

And none of them would be afraid to crack it open, given half a chance.

2

Straits of Florida

“Full speed ahead,” Captain Arnold Bateman said, peering through his binoculars at open sea before the Tropic Princess. From the giant cruise ship’s bridge, he had the vantage of a man standing atop a twelve-story hotel, with no clouds overhead and nothing to obstruct his view to eastward.

In fact, the Tropic Princess looked like a hotel that had been set adrift somehow, as if by magic, floating on the sea when it should logically be squatting on a corner of Park Avenue or the Las Vegas Strip. The ship measured 960 feet from bow to stern and weighed 115,000 tons. Beneath the captain’s feet, three thousand passengers were anxiously awaiting the vacation of a lifetime, while twelve hundred crew members and entertainers worked around the clock to meet the needs of paying customers—and to keep the behemoth afloat.

During a classic two-week cruise, the British captain’s passengers were treated to a taste of Cuba, the Bahamas, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Trinidad-Tobago, Venezuela and Jamaica. Shore excursions granted them the opportunity to browse and carouse in each port.

It was not all island-hopping, though. For those who truly loved to cruise, the ship was self-contained, permitting them to pass the full two weeks in luxury without ever setting foot on dry land. The ship featured seven restaurants, three swimming pools and seven spas, a dinner theater and cabaret, a discotheque, a first-run cinema, three gymnasiums, a fully staffed infirmary and a casino.

Most days, the captain liked his job. Granted, some passengers were no better than spoiled children, posing as adults, but Bateman managed to avoid them for the most part, choosing only a select few for the honored nightly ritual of dining at the captain’s table. Minors were excluded, and his steward had an eye for younger women, well endowed, whose husbands or companions didn’t mind the captain peering at their cleavage over cocktails and filet mignon.

On balance, Bateman worried more about his crew than any of his passengers. Despite the smiling photos the cruise line printed in its various brochures, some of the employees were a surly lot, uneducated, and the screening process left a lot to be desired. Substance abuse and petty theft were more or less routine. Some members of the crew engaged in smuggling; others moonlighted as prostitutes or gigolos.

So far, the present cruise had been smooth sailing, both in terms of weather and the human element. There’d been no quarrels among the passengers or crew, no incidents ashore demanding Bateman’s intervention. If his luck held, they could all relax and—

Bateman lowered his binoculars and turned, facing two new arrivals on the bridge. He sometimes welcomed passengers topside, by invitation only, but the swarthy men who stood before him now were strangers, neither members of his crew nor anyone whom Bateman would’ve chosen to observe the inner workings of the ship.

Wearing a corporate smile, he asked, “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

The guns seemed to appear from nowhere, one of them pointed at Bateman’s face.

“If you cooperate with us,” its owner said, “perhaps no one aboard this ship will die today.”

SOHRAB CASPARI THOUGHT, It almost seems too easy. After all the planning, all the risk, the bloody skirmish at Guantanamo, the capture of the Tropic Princess struck him almost as an anticlimax, disappointing in its stark simplicity.

But it was done.

Beside him, Osman Zarghona, his Afghani second in command, covered the bridge crew with his AKSU assault rifle, while Caspari kept his Uzi submachine gun leveled at the gray-haired captain. In addition to their main automatic weapons, both hijackers also carried pistols, hand grenades and knives.

“Is this some kind of joke?” the captain asked.

“Perhaps I should kill one of your men, to see if we are joking. Yes?” Caspari answered.

“No. That won’t be necessary,” the captain said. “What, exactly, do you want?”

“Before we speak of that,” Caspari said, “know that we aren’t alone. I have more men aboard your ship, with weapons and enough explosives to destroy it.”

“I see.” The captain frowned and said, “How many gunmen—”

“Freedom fighters!” Zarghona snapped.

“Yes, of course. How many freedom fighters are there, may I ask?”

“Enough to do the job,” Caspari told him. Fishing in his left-hand pocket for a cell phone, he explained, “I keep in touch through this. The marvels of technology. You only see them—hear them—if and when I say. Follow instructions, and your passengers may suffer no disturbance.”

“As to these instructions,” Captain Bateman said, “what might they be?”

“We have demands,” Caspari answered, “which you will broadcast over your radio. Freedom for comrades wrongfully imprisoned. Reparation payments. Other things. If the Americans defy us, then we will be forced to execute your passengers and crew.”

“Don’t take offense, old chap,” the captain said, “but you’ve been misinformed. This ship is not American. Its owners are Italians, Greeks—one Saudi, I believe. It’s registered in Panama. I doubt that Washington will care what happens to the Tropic Princess. Certainly, they won’t negotiate with…freedom fighters, like yourselves.”

“You think me foolish, yes?” Caspari said, sneering. “That is a serious mistake. We know that half your passengers are from the U.S.A. They cannot visit Cuba from America, so rich pigs fly to Mexico and board your ship. All this is public knowledge. Glory to the Internet.”

“I grant you that we have Americans aboard,” Bateman replied. “I’m simply saying that—”

“You say too much!” Caspari snapped. “Is time for you to listen, now. You will broadcast our very fair and just demands, or face the consequences of defiance. Must I demonstrate by executing someone here and now? That one, perhaps?”

Caspari swung his Uzi toward a young man standing frozen, several paces to the captain’s left. The target blanched and trembled in his crisp white uniform.

“No, please!” the captain blurted. “I’m simply trying to prepare you for the disappointment you will face in bargaining with the Americans.”

“I fear no disappointment,” Caspari said. “I and all my men are quite prepared to die. Your passengers and crew, I think, value their lives and comfort more than principle.”

The captain’s shoulders slumped. “You have a list, for my communications officer?”

“His services are not required,” Caspari said. “Prepare the radio and stand aside, while I address the world.”

“Of course,” Bateman said. “As you wish. About your other men…”

Caspari checked his wristwatch. “I must speak to them in nineteen minutes, and at each half hour after that.” He nodded toward Zarghona and explained, “Should either of us fail to make contact on schedule, it means the destruction of your ship.”

“I understand,” Bateman replied. “We pose no threat to you. Which one of you will follow me to the communications room?”

Washington, D.C.

NABI ULMALHAMA HELD A wooden match precisely one inch below the square-cut tip of his Cuban cigar. He spent a moment savoring the taste of rum-soaked tobacco leaves, then reached out for his glass of twenty-year-old scotch.

Strict Muslim teachings barred the use of alcoholic beverages, but Ulmalhama reckoned that God granted dispensation for selected, special servants of His cause.

Listening to early-evening traffic rumble past his posh Georgetown apartment, Ulmalhama nearly missed the deferential knocking on his study door.

“Enter,” he said.

His houseman crossed the thick carpet silently, half-bowed to Ulmalhama as he said, “Sir, if you care to watch the news?”

“Of course.”

Waiting until the houseman left him, Ulmalhama picked up the remote control and switched on his giant flat-screen television, flicking through the channels until he found CNN. A blond reporter stood before a cruise ship, speaking urgently into a handheld microphone. The dateline banner covering her breasts told Ulmalhama she was in Miami. He pressed another button to increase the volume.

“The ship is much like the one behind me, only somewhat larger. Now, we understand the Tropic Princess is the flagship of the Argos Cruise Line, launched in June 2006. It can accommodate three thousand passengers. And I’m told the ship is booked to full capacity this evening, after taking on new passengers in Cuba. With the crew, we make it four thousand two hundred people presently aboard the Tropic Princess, hijacked in the Straits of Florida.”

The station cut away to a grim-looking anchorman. The newsman said, “We now have audio from the hijackers on the Argos cruise ship, broadcasting a list of their demands over an open frequency. This signal was recorded ten minutes ago, from the Tropic Princess in international waters. We air it now, for the first time.”

Ulmalhama sat and listened, with his eyes closed, to the gruff, familiar voice.

“I am Sohrab Caspari. Yesterday, with comrades from Allah’s Warriors, I was privileged to liberate a number of political prisoners from the American death camp at Cuba’s Guantanamo Bay. Some of those hostages are now with me, aboard the Tropic Princess, a decadent pleasure craft symbolizing all that is wrong with corrupt Western society. We have more than four thousand prisoners on board, whom we will gladly execute unless the following demands are met.

“First, we demand the immediate liberation of all remaining prisoners held at Guantanamo Bay, at Abu Ghraib prison in Baghdad, and throughout the state of Israel. A list of names shall be provided to the White House, but since many of the prisoners are held illegally and incommunicado, we can only estimate their total number. To avoid useless debate, after the prisoners identified by name are freed, we expect the liberation of one martyr for each man, woman and child aboard the Tropic Princess.”

Ulmalhama smiled at that. It was a nice touch, which would get them nowhere.

As intended.

“Second, we demand a ransom of one million dollars for each hostage presently aboard the ship. To spare ourselves the effort of precisely counting them, we shall accept four billion dollars as the total ransom. Payments of one billion dollars each shall be wired to four separate bank accounts, one each in Switzerland, Liechtenstein, the Cayman Islands and in Costa Rica. Relevant transfer information shall be provided upon acceptance of our terms by Washington.”

Another hopeless cause, Ulmalhama thought. It was perfect.

“Finally, we want a helicopter capable of seating fourteen passengers, in addition to the crew. This aircraft shall be used for our evacuation of the Tropic Princess, with one hostage for each member of my team. The helicopter shall be capable of traveling five hundred miles without refueling.

“If the President of the United States does not agree to meet our terms within four hours of the present time—that is, by 9:00 p.m.—we shall begin to execute the hostages in groups of ten, at thirty-minute intervals. Execution of the final hostages shall thus occur eight days and eighteen hours from the present time. Any attempt at rescue shall, of course, result in the immediate destruction of the ship and all on board. Good day.”

Nabi Ulmalhama switched off his TV set before the long-faced anchor could express his shock and outrage. So far, phase two of his plan was proceeding on schedule.

Well satisfied, the Saudi rose and poured another glass of whiskey to accompany his fine cigar.

MACK BOLAN HAD ALMOST finished packing when the news came over CNN. He’d sat with Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman, listening to the recorded voice of terror, emanating from a man he’d just been asked to track down and eliminate.

Fourteen seats aboard the exit chopper, with one hostage for each hijacker, told Bolan that a seven-man crew had seized the Tropic Princess. Their small number was the good news and the bad.

Six targets made the hunting relatively simple, until Bolan realized that they would be dispersed among four thousand innocents, no doubt prepared to kill at random in the face of any challenge. Furthermore, he had to think about Sohrab Caspari’s final threat, immediate destruction of the ship and all on board, in the event of an attempted rescue.

“How much C-4 would they need to sink a ship that size?” he asked Kurtzman. “And how long would it take?”

“I’ll crunch some numbers.”

Brognola’s call came through, and Price put it on the speakerphone. “We’re all here, Hal,” she said.

“Okay. You’ve heard the news, about the Tropic Princess?”

“Watching it right now,” Price said.

“You won’t be shocked to hear the Man is standing firm. We don’t negotiate with terrorists, full stop. In fact, we couldn’t meet their terms in any case. Suppose we cut loose everyone at Camp X-Ray and Abu Ghraib, gave them the cash and chopper. The Israelis still won’t budge on prisoners. The hijackers had to know that, going in.”

“So, what’s the play?” Bolan asked.

“Change of plans,” Brognola said. “You won’t be flying into Cuba after all. We’re putting you on board a submarine. We’ll chopper you to Norfolk Naval Base and let the swabbies carry on from there. Take anything you think you might need, as long as you can carry it and pass the odd police inspection.”

“Well, that trims my shopping list,” Bolan replied.

“Your contact should be current on the local hardware outlets,” Brognola said.

“And where’s the rendezvous?” Bolan asked.

“Ask the Navy,” Brognola replied. “Somewhere mid-Atlantic, I expect. Questions?”

“None from me,” Bolan responded.

“Great. I’ll try to keep you updated en route. After you go ashore, we’ve got the sat phones, but use them sparingly. Try not to tangle with the Cuban army or security police, but if you have to, don’t let them take you.”

“Or you’ll disavow all knowledge,” Bolan finished for him. “Got it.” He broke the link to Washington.

“A submarine?” Price said. “Instead of flying?”

“It’s a rush job,” Bolan said. “The other way, I have to fly to Mexico, then wait for a connecting flight into Havana. This ought to cut the time by half, at least.”

“For just a second there, I thought he wanted them to help you board the Tropic Princess.”

Bolan frowned and shook his head. “Too late for that. They’d see me coming, and I’d never get the shooters sorted out among four thousand passengers and crew before they did their worst.”

“Who do you think will handle it?” Kurtzman asked.

Bolan shrugged, already on his feet and moving toward the exit. “Navy SEALs or Delta Force could try it, but you’ve got a Panamanian ship in international waters.”

“I’ll get the chopper ready,” Price said. “Need any help collecting gear?”

“I’m good,” Bolan said. “See you on the deck in fifteen, tops.”

EMRE MANDIRALI UNDERSTOOD his mission, but he found it difficult to keep a low profile, moving among his fellow passengers as if he was another drone on holiday, smiling and nodding foolishly at strangers, when he longed to let them see the mini-Uzi he carried in his gym bag, or the pistol tucked beneath his baggy, floral-patterned shirt.

To let them hear his weapons, better yet.

How sweet it would have been to rake the decks with automatic fire, watching his targets twitch and fall. Or tossing hand grenades into the restaurants where they lined up to gorge themselves like pigs at the trough.

But Mandirali had his orders, and despite his grueling months in prison, his abiding rage against those who’d caged him, he had discipline enough to do as he was told in combat situations. He could wait, knowing that it would soon be time to kill.

Barring disaster, Mandirali knew his leader, who had liberated him from vile captivity, had to now control the Tropic Princess. He would issue the demands they had agreed upon, and Washington would solemnly announce its policy against rewarding terrorists. Sohrab Caspari’s deadline would elapse, and then the killing could begin in earnest.

Mandirali harbored no illusions where his future was concerned. While in prison, he had prayed to Allah for a chance to strike out once more at his enemies and be avenged, before he claimed his place in Paradise.

He knew there would be no release of prisoners, no ransom payment, certainly no helicopter sent to carry them away. While Mandirali couldn’t guess precisely how he’d die, he guessed that members of some military hostage-rescue team would storm the ship, sparking a chain reaction of events that would be seen as tragic in the Western world, while warriors of the one true faith proclaimed another stunning victory.

With any luck, he thought, the final body count might well exceed the famous 9/11 raids.

Mandirali himself would achieve no such triumph, but he was a part of the team. By now, his comrades should have C-4 charges planted at strategic points below the waterline, where they would detonate in sequence, gut the Princess when her would-be saviors came aboard.

Ideally the event would be broadcast on live television.

As soon as any would-be rescuers appeared, his orders were to fire at will, inflict as many casualties as he could manage in his brief remaining time on Earth.

The plastic explosives would do the worst damage, trapping hundreds belowdecks as seawater flooded the vessel, starting fires that would ignite the ship’s fuel stores, turning the whole vast hulk into a sunken tomb and smorgasbord for scavengers.

It was enough to make him smile in earnest as he passed among the sheep, nodding in mock friendship and wishing they were already in hell.

3

Under other circumstances, Bolan might have appreciated the scenery passing below the Bell JetRanger, but part of his mind was on board the Tropic Princess with her passengers and crew, the rest trying to work out where the other team of terrorists would strike.

Nine prisoners had broken out of Camp X-Ray, with an estimated six surviving raiders. Sohrab Caspari, speaking for the Tropic Princess hijackers, had demanded a chopper with seating for seven gunmen and an equal number of human shields. That left eight targets unaccounted for.

Where would they surface?

Were they still in Cuba? And if so, what worthwhile targets were available?

Brognola would be puzzling over that in Washington, together with the Pentagon, the CIA, the State Department—anyone, in fact, who could provide a hint of insight on the problem and anticipate the next move by their enemies.

He was too late to help the Tropic Princess, and it preyed on Bolan’s mind, but maybe he would be in time to stop the other team from acting out whatever bloody drama that its leaders planned.

The bad news was that Caspari’s team had already escaped from Cuba. If Asim Ben Muhunnad’s strike team had also fled the island, they might turn up anywhere. Each passing hour gave them greater range.

And if they surfaced somewhere outside Cuba, Bolan’s visit to the island would be a colossal waste of time. He would be sidelined once again, waiting for transport to the battle zone or relegated to a spectator’s position, while the action went ahead without him.

Eyes sweeping the horizon, he resigned himself to wait and see what happened next. He couldn’t force the confrontation, couldn’t read his adversary’s mind and force Muhunnad into some act ahead of schedule.

Bolan preferred proactive strategy, whenever possible, but in the present situation he could only bide his time, reacting to the moves made by his enemies. The best that he could do, in terms of preparation, was to stand in readiness and hope Muhunnad’s fugitive guerrillas chose a target close enough for Bolan to respond in a timely fashion, without placing any innocents in needless jeopardy.

“Another twenty minutes, sir,” his pilot said.

Bolan responded with a nod and focused on the journey still ahead.

Cuba

ASIM BEN MUHUNNAD WAS NOT accustomed to a life of luxury. But nothing in his wildest dreams had prepared him for Bahia Matanzas.

The five-star resort was located on the island’s northwest coast, an oasis of luxury in a country known for its rural poverty and urban decay.

The resort was a landmark on the road to restoration of Cuba’s crippled tourist industry. It offered Canadians, Britons and others a taste of tropic luxury not seen in Cuba since Batista’s time. The posh resort possessed a golf course and all the other amenities required to steal jet-setters from Aruba, Nassau, Martinique, Barbados, Montserrat, or Guadalupe.

The facility was close to full capacity. Its owners didn’t know that eight of the vacationers in residence were using stolen cash and credit cards, but meant to pay their final tab in blood.

Bahia Matanzas.

It pleased Muhunnad that the name, translated from Spanish to English, meant Massacre Bay.

CASPARI LITERALLY SAW the CH-60 Seahawk helicopter coming from a mile away. It showed up first on radar, gaining on the Tropic Princess from the northwest, presumably from a naval base in Florida. Caspari knew the aircraft had to be filled with television news reporters or a strike force of commandos sent to kill him.

When he saw its U.S. Navy markings with his own eyes, all doubt vanished.

By that time, he had issued orders via cell phone to his soldiers circulating through the ship. Farid Azima had not answered, a disturbing problem Caspari could not deal with at the moment, but the rest were at their stations, standing by to act upon his order.

When the Navy helicopter made its first pass overhead, Caspari had six passengers already standing on the cruise ship’s Sun Deck, situated below and in front of the bridge with its broad tinted windows. Daywa Gul-Bashra had collected them with offers of special tour, then showed his weapon to them when they reached the open deck. They were lined up near the railing, hands clasped atop their heads, some of them weeping as they faced the open sea nine stories down, Gul-Bashra just behind them with his submachine gun leveled at their backs.

Two women and four men. Caspari didn’t know them, didn’t care who any of them were or where they came from. They’d been picked at random, as examples for the infidels who had defied him.

“Reach out to the helicopter with your radio,” Caspari ordered. “Make contact at once.”

It took a moment, but a man’s voice issued from the speakers mounted around the bridge. “We hear you, people. Captain Ernest Ryan, here. Who am I talking to?”

“The man in charge,” Caspari answered. “Since you’ve been sent to intercept us, I assume that you’re aware of our demands.”

“I read the list,” Ryan replied.

“And you are now in violation of the ultimatum. Naturally there are penalties for your arrogance.”

“Hold on, now!” Ryan shouted.

“Can you see the people on the Sun Deck?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “I see them.”

“Watch and learn.”

Caspari keyed the cell phone, just a single ring, the arranged signal. Fifty feet beyond the bridge and twenty feet below it, Gul-Bashra sprayed his six targets with automatic fire, stitching them from left to right and back again before they fell. Four collapsed onto the deck, while two others pitched over the rail and fell toward the ocean far below.

Gul-Bashra wasted no time scuttling back to cover, while the helicopter hovered, angry faces pressed against its windows.

Captain Ryan raged, “Goddamn you, listen—”

“No! You listen,” Caspari snapped. “Six passengers are dead because you came here to attack us. Sixty more will die at once, if you attempt to board the ship. If one of you survives to set foot on the deck, I will sink the Tropic Princess. Are we clear?”

There was silence from the circling helicopter.

“Are we clear?” Caspari bellowed.

“We’re clear,” Ryan replied. “We’re backing off now.”

“Any tricks,” Caspari said, “and four thousand deaths are on your head.”

Washington, D.C.

“PERFECT,” NABI ULMALHAMA whispered to the empty room. The events unfolding on the television screen pleased him no end.

The only disappointment, so far, was a simple case of network censorship. Apparently there’d been at least one camera aboard the helicopter that had carried men and guns to liberate the Tropic Princess. It had captured the events on deck, and the resultant tape had found its way to CNN headquarters, but the editors in charge of on-air content had deleted footage of the sacrificial lambs as bullets ripped into their twitching bodies and the fell.

Never mind, Ulmalhama thought. In a few more hours, it would all be on the Internet for everyone to see worldwide.

Now that the first knee-jerk reflex had passed, now that the Pentagon had flexed its muscles and discovered it was powerless, he could begin to watch the clock again.

Two hours and fifteen minutes were left until the next round of bloodletting should begin. It would be dark over the ocean, or nearly so, but cruise ships were like giant office buildings, lighted day and night. He wondered whether any more helicopters would approach the Tropic Princess as the deadline neared.

He hoped so, hoped it would be broadcast live this time, with nothing spared. It would be educational for enemies of Allah to behold His work firsthand.

The telephone purred at his elbow. Ulmalhama muted the TV and lifted the receiver midway through its second ring. At once, he recognized the voice of his immediate superior at the Saudi consulate.

“Of course, sir,” Ulmalhama said. “I’m watching the reports now, as we speak…It’s terrible, I certainly agree…Sohrab Caspari? No, sir. He’s Iranian, my sources guarantee it…. Yes, by all means, he should tell the President that we are not involved in any way.”

His smile returned as he replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle. Even now, Saudi Arabia’s ambassador would have his telephone in hand, prepared to call the White House and insist, with all due deference, that no official of the Saudi government had any knowledge of the raid against Guantanamo or the hijacking of the Tropic Princess.

It was almost true.

Except for Ulmalhama, no one in Riyadh or any of the desert nation’s scattered consulates was privy to the plan.

Norfolk, Virginia

BOLAN WAS BARELY OFF the chopper, ducking underneath the swirl of rotor blades, when a lieutenant dressed in navy blue approached, holding his cap in place with one hand, and declared, “I’ve got bad news.”

“Let’s hear it,” Bolan said.

The story was a short one, quickly told. A squad of SEALs had planned to board the Tropic Princess, and the terrorists had executed half a dozen hostages. Now, with the deadline drawing closer, everyone was bracing for a bloodbath.

“We’ve got your transportation standing by,” the man said.

His second chopper of the evening was a big Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King, complete with two-man crew and seating for a maximum of thirty passengers. Bolan strapped in close to the cockpit, slipped on his earphones and wedged his single bag between his feet.

Liftoff pressed Bolan back into his seat. He had his second airborne view of the Norfolk Naval Complex within fifteen minutes, as the Sea King rose and circled, found its heading and proceeded out to sea.

The grim news from the Tropic Princess left him all the more determined to do everything within his power to corral the second band of terrorists at large and stop whatever mad scheme they were planning to pursue.

He knew the pilots would inform him when they found the submarine and made arrangements for the transfer. In the meantime, Bolan wasn’t flying tourist class. He was a warrior bound for battle with an enemy who could be anywhere, preparing to do anything.

And all he could do was wait.

4

Cuba

“Is everyone in place?” Asim Ben Muhunnad inquired.

“Yes, sir,” said his second in command, Sarsour Ibn Tabari. “I positioned them myself, with strict instructions.”

“Cell phones on?”

“Of course.”

“We’re ready, then.”

“Ready,” his number two agreed.

Muhunnad carried a map of the resort folded in his pocket, but he had already memorized the winding paths, the layout of the various beach cottages and hotel towers, swimming pools and spas. He could find his way around the resort blindfolded. He knew where each one of his six gunmen should be right now, as they prepared to seize control.

And anyone who failed him was a dead man.

Muhunnad and his warriors had concealed their weapons and explosives in their luggage, on arrival at Bahia Matanzas, but the Cuban climate made it impractical for them to wear trench coats or other garments convenient for hiding military hardware. He had suggested beach robes and towels or blankets, soft-drink coolers, baggy shirts and trousers, shopping bags from any of the several boutiques and shops at the resort.

Once their intentions were revealed, discretion wouldn’t matter anymore.

Muhunnad himself had picked a more sophisticated getup for himself and for Tabari. Over the past half hour, they had lured two resort employees to their bungalow, forcing both men to shed their uniforms at gunpoint, then killed both and left them in the bathtub.

Muhunnad and Tabari, dressed in the stolen uniforms—white peasant shirts, with matching shorts—walked side-by-side along one of the concrete paths that made the beach resort a kind of maze, while guaranteeing privacy for guests who spent big money on the beachfront cottages. Tabari pushed a large housekeeping cart, their folding-stock Kalashnikov assault rifles concealed inside a drooping sack filled to the brim with crumpled sheets. Grenades rested beneath an old towel, in the mop bucket. Pistols were warm against their belly skin, under the baggy shirts.

Thus rendered more or less invisible to paying guests, as well as other personnel at the resort, Muhunnad and Tabari skirted swimming pools where women bared their bodies in obscene bikinis, slurping alcohol and teasing men who lusted after them. They passed an outdoor restaurant, where fat white people gorged themselves on delicacies common folk could not afford. At last, they found the service entrance to the main hotel block, used a key card taken from one of the men they’d killed and passed inside.

The plan became a trifle dicey after that, since ordinary personnel were rarely admitted to the executive offices at Bahia Matanzas. Those who made that walk were generally bound for termination, over some offense against the rules prescribed by management.

Muhunnad and Tabari were about to break that rule.

They took the service elevator down one level, to the basement office block. Still trundling the cleaning cart, they moved along a spotless corridor until they reached the door they sought.

Muhunnad turned the doorknob, shoved the door open and held it while Tabari pushed his cart inside. A pretty secretary paused in the act of shutting down her personal computer for the day and frowned at them.

“What’s this?” she asked. “You’re not supposed to be here yet.”

Muhunnad and Tabari whipped their automatic rifles from the linen bag and aimed them at the woman. “If you make a sound, you die,” Muhunnad said.

She made a little squeak, but the Palestinian forgave her, in consideration of the circumstances.

“Now,” Muhunnad said. “We wish to speak with your employer, Mr. Quentin Avery.”

She led them past her desk, down a short hallway, to the manager’s office. It had not surprised Muhunnad in the least to learn that the man in overall charge of Bahia Matanzas was a white Canadian.

What else could one expect, these days?

The secretary rapped on Avery’s door, then opened it without waiting for his summons. Muhunnad and Tabari entered, one rifle covering each of their two hostages.

Avery, a pink-faced, balding man, gaped at the strangers and their guns, then found his voice. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“It means,” Muhunnad answered, “that your property is now under new management. If you agree to our demands, you may survive.”

Canal de Yucatán

“TEN MINUTES, SIR,” the Sea King’s pilot said, “before we rendezvous with the Poseidon.”

“Copy,” Bolan answered, just to let the flyboy know that he was still awake.

The officers and crew of the Poseidon had to put Bolan ashore on Cuba without tipping off local authorities to his arrival. As to how or when he’d leave the island, if and when it came to that, details were still up in the air.

The copilot came back to deal with Bolan’s transfer to the submarine. The gear he carried resembled a parachute harness, minus the pack and chute. Bolan stood and slipped it on, cinched up its several buckles, then stood easy while the copilot made sure he’d done the job correctly.

“Quick releases here, here and here,” the flyboy said, tapping each safety catch in turn. “Don’t use them, though, unless you wind up in the water. Shouldn’t happen, but it does, sometimes.”

“Noted,” Bolan replied.

“Another strap here, for your bag,” the copilot said. “Leaves your hands free for the cable.”

Bolan double-strapped the smallish bag to his left hip, then accepted gloves and goggles from the navy airman. Putting on the goggles meant removing his headphones. The copilot replaced them with a set of earmuffs lacking any common link.

“Expect some spray,” the airman told him, now required to shout. “It’s unavoidable. They’ll have dry clothes for you on board.”

“I hear you.”

“Ready?”

Bolan nodded.

“Right. Stand in the door.”

A sea monster had risen underneath them while they hovered in the air, discussing spray and buckles. It was more than five hundred feet long, with water still sluicing from its flanks and conning tower, swirls of foam still visible on deck. As Bolan stood and watched, a hatch opened some thirty feet in front of the Poseidon’s conning tower.

Bolan felt the light tap on his shoulder, used both hands to grip the cable fastened to his harness overhead and stepped out into space. The chopper lowered him serenely, like a hand-cranked bucket going down into a well.

The salt spray started whipping at him when he was approximately halfway down. The helicopter’s downdraft set him slowly spinning, but it didn’t spoil his view of sailors scrambling through the open hatch below, to stand on the Poseidon’s forward deck. Bolan supposed that two of them were there to help him from his harness and get him belowdecks, while the third was sent to supervise.

It was the military way.

He touched down on the deck without a spill into the sea, and seconds later Bolan was without his rigging, saw it hoisting back into the air. An ensign welcomed him aboard without much warmth and led the way below, Bolan’s two escorts steering and supporting him until he found his sea legs.

Poseidon’s skipper met him with a handshake, introduced himself as Captain Walter Gossage, and led Bolan to the conning tower, aft. Some of the seamen watched them pass, but most attended to their duties and ignored the Executioner.

“I don’t know what you heard while you were airborne,” Gossage said, when they were standing underneath the conning tower, “but I’ve got bad news.”

“I’m getting used to it,” Bolan replied.

“Okay. Seems that the people you’ve been looking for have taken over a resort in Cuba. Bahia Matanzas. Ever heard of it?”

The warrior shook his head.

“I hadn’t either,” Gossage told him, “but I’ve got coordinates. We’re on our way.”

Washington, D.C.

BROGNOLA HAD BEEN WAITING for the call. He answered on the first ring of his secure line and recognized Mack Bolan’s voice at once.

“How many hostages?” Bolan asked.

“Based on what we have from corporate headquarters, in Toronto, there should be about eleven hundred. Two or three hundred employees, all depending on the day and time.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bolan said.

“Stay in touch, if possible.”

“Will do.”

The line went dead without a sign-off, something Brognola had gotten used to over time. Bolan was information-oriented, sometimes short on the amenities, which suited him just fine.

They had a bloody job of work to do, and pleasantries were strictly out of place.

He thought about the murdered hostages aboard the Tropic Princess. He had seen the uncut tape, shot by a member of the SEAL team, and while he had seen much worse over the course of his career, the casual brutality still left him angry and unsettled.

Brognola tried to follow Bolan in his mind, tracked the Poseidon on its run to Bahia Matanzas, where he would meet his contact on the island.

Brognola knew nothing of Maria Santos, beyond what he’d read in her slim CIA dossier. He hoped she wouldn’t clash with Bolan, wouldn’t slow him too much or screw things up somehow by getting squeamish in the crunch. If she knew what was coming, understood how much it meant to all concerned, maybe she’d be all right.

Maybe—and maybe not.

Cuba

MARIA SANTOS LIT a cigarette, cursing her lack of willpower even as she inhaled and felt the first sweet kick of nicotine. She had quit smoking two weeks earlier, but now resumed the habit almost without conscious thought, while waiting in the darkness for a stranger who could change—or end—her life.

That life was tense enough without the latest complication. In fact, Santos led two lives: one as a dutiful and conscientious secretary for the Cuban Ministry of Agriculture in Havana, and another as a contract agent for the CIA. One was an exercise in tedium that paid her bills; the other added spice—and danger—to an otherwise mundane existence bounded by her daytime job, a small circle of uninspiring friends, and dates with men who came expecting sex as payback for a cheap meal in a dreary restaurant.

She could have chosen to decline the job—she had considered it, in fact; but she finally agreed, feeling a sense of obligation that confused her even now. She’d been relieved when half of the escapees turned up on the Tropic Princess, sailing off into the sunset with their mostly Anglo hostages, taking the problem far away from her.

Now, this.

The terrorists at Bahia Matanzas couldn’t sail away. They couldn’t fly—or, rather, most of them could not—because the resort’s helicopter seated only four passengers, in addition to the pilot. They couldn’t even drive or walk away, now that the Cuban army and security police had thrown a ring of men and guns around the great resort’s eight hundred acres.

They were trapped, in fact, together with their hostages.

So, how, in God’s name, did the CIA expect her to transport a stranger—an American—past all the watchers, snipers and patrols, to penetrate Bahia Matanzas? The thought had distressed her, at first.

And then she had an idea.

Santos only hoped the stranger who was on his way to meet her, Matt Cooper, was able to perform the trick she had in mind.

The plan she had devised for Bahia Matanzas put her life at risk, not just her job and liberty. If caught, she might be executed on the spot, without even the semblance of a trial. But if she didn’t try, Santos knew that she would always feel as if the blood of murdered hostages was on her hands.

That was ridiculous, she realized, but logic held no sway over emotion.

Stubbing out her cigarette, she reached for another, then drew back her hand. She would make herself wait a while longer. Ten minutes, or maybe fifteen. An exercise in discipline, to occupy her mind while she waited for the stranger from America.

The man who, if he wasn’t skilled and very careful, just might get her killed.

THE EXECUTIONER double-checked the minimal gear that he’d brought with him from the Farm. He had his shoulder rig for the Beretta 93-R, two spare magazines—making it sixty rounds, in all—and a commando dagger honed to razor-sharpness, in a lightweight nylon sheath.

That hardware wouldn’t see him through what lay ahead, but Bolan had to wait and see what was available once he arrived in Cuba and made contact with Maria Santos. Given Cuban history over the past half century, Bolan expected Russian weapons to predominate, along with knockoffs from the former Eastern Bloc and certain lethal toys produced in South America. In terms of weaponry, Bolan could handle anything that came his way. He only hoped that it would be reliable and accurate, with ammunition plentiful enough to see him through the bloody work ahead.

And he had no illusions as to what was waiting for him, if and when he made his way inside Bahia Matanzas. The eight hostage takers were desperate men, religious fanatics with nothing to lose but their lives—and those lives, Bolan guessed, were already written off as lost in their own minds. The whole bizarre event, from Gitmo to the latest series of impossible demands, smelled like a kamikaze mission from the start.

That understanding altered Bolan’s mission from a hostage rescue to search-and-destroy. Taking for granted that the terrorists were bent on killing their roughly twelve hundred prisoners, once they had managed to insult America as much as possible on international TV, he had to find a way inside and neutralize the enemy before they carried out their plan.

For some at Bahia Matanzas, Bolan guessed, he might already be too late. They had a deadline coming up, and Bolan might not be there to distract the terrorists from making good on their specific threats. If they were operating on the same half-hour deadlines as the group aboard the Tropic Princess, then hostages would die before he reached the scene. More yet, if the police and soldiers ringing Bahia Matanzas slowed him down.

But he would find a way inside. And those he couldn’t save, he would avenge.

Bolan made that a solemn promise to himself.

After fieldstripping and reassembling the Beretta, Bolan relaxed on the short bunk as best he could. Combat experience had taught him to sleep virtually anywhere, if someone wasn’t shooting at him, and the tiny cabin of a submarine felt like the Ritz compared to some of Bolan’s other bivouacs. Running submerged, it had no pitch and roll like surface ships, only a steady thrumming from the mighty engines that propelled it through the depths.

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