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Crisis Nation
Don Pendleton
When American military personnel are found beheaded in the swamps of Puerto Rico, Mack Bolan boards a plane and lands in a political revolution. As the streets of San Juan turn bloody, he suspects someone outside the country is running the show and the gangs behind the military slaughter are simple pawns in a much more complex game.After Bolan almost loses his own head in a midnight ax attack, an ambush sends some of his team to hospital. He decides it's time to take the war to the enemy–even if it means bringing down his own version of the apocalypse. Because when it comes to settling scores, the Executioner is the one wielding the ax.
“Everybody down!” the Executioner shouted
The machine gun outside slammed into life like doomsday. The wooden walls of the museum were no defense against the cigar-sized bullets that passed through them like they were paper. Glass display cases shattered in explosions of shrapnel shards. Juanita was the only one to have disobeyed Bolan, and she paid for it as a burst from the crew outside sacrificed her to the revolution. The machine gun outside slammed into life like doomsday. The wooden walls of the museum were no defense against the cigar-sized bullets that passed through them like they were paper. Glass display cases shattered in explosions of shrapnel shards. Juanita was the only one to have disobeyed Bolan, and she paid for it as a burst from the crew outside sacrificed her to the revolution.
Bolan glanced at the Beretta in his hand. They were definitely outgunned.
The weapon outside suddenly fell silent as it burned up its one-hundred-round belt. The crackle and pop of small-arms fire filled the gap as the machine-gun crew reloaded. Bolan rose to a crouch. It was time to move. “Everyone behind me!” he shouted.
The Executioner threw himself down again as he heard an unmistakable sound and the real hell-storm began.
Six-foot streaks of fire geysered through the hundred machine-gun holes perforating the museum walls. Somebody had brought along a flamethrower. They were upping the ante.
Crisis Nation
The Executioner
Don Pendleton
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
When you are occupying a position which the enemy threatens to surround, collect all your force immediately, and menace him with an offensive movement.
—Napoleon I
1769–1821
Maxims of War
When my enemy thinks I am surrounded and have no way out, I will take the opportunity to make my own attack.
—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
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
1
Laguna San José, Puerto Rico
Bolan stared at the three stripped bodies as they bobbed in the shallow water. They had bloated up from being in the salt marsh overnight. Bruises encircling the wrists and ankles showed that the two policemen and one policewoman had been bound. Brutal contusions on other parts of the policewoman’s body showed that she had endured other abuses before she had been decapitated with her fellow officers. San Juan CSI had marked off the area with stakes in the silt wrapped with crime-scene tape. It was impossible to get a car down there in the mud, so a harbor patrol fan boat was making its way through the reeds. Bolan glanced up as a passenger jet roared out of Luis Muñoz Marin International Airport across the lagoon. Heat shimmered off the causeway loaded with morning traffic crossing the shallow waters. At nine o’clock in the morning, it was already ninety degrees. He glanced back at the bodies. It was getting to the point that the police no longer waited to be called. Every morning harbor patrol sent out small boats to the lagoon and more often than not they came back with bodies.
“This is bad, Señor Cooper,” Inspector Noah Constante said, using Mack Bolan’s cover name for this mission. He was a lanky man in a television-blue guayabera shirt and a white Kangol driving cap. He had a coppery complexion, a hooked nose and slightly almond-shaped eyes that spoke of indigenous Taino Indian blood. A pencil-thin mustache completed his look. With the Colt .45 pistol automatic tucked into the front of his tropical white silk pants, he looked like the world’s most dangerous golf caddy. He lit another cigarette and tossed the old butt into the water. “Very bad.”
Bolan nodded. Beheading was a favorite of method of “warning murder” with the Mexican drug gangs, and it was quickly becoming popular throughout Central and South America. To Bolan’s knowledge this was the first time it had been used by political revolutionaries in the Caribbean, much less in a commonwealth of the United States.
Much less against United States military police personnel.
Puerto Rico’s political status was unusual to say the least. It was currently considered an “enhanced commonwealth” of the United States and its politics were split fairly evenly along three diverging lines. There were those who wanted to maintain the status quo, and they had won referendums to keep it that way in six decades of votes on the subject. There were those who wanted Puerto Rico to become the fifty-first state of the United States and join the republic.
And there had always been a Puerto Rican independence movement.
Since the 1800s there had been those who had wanted to kick out the Spanish colonizers. When the United States had invaded the island during the Spanish-American War, there had been those who had wanted to kick out the Yanquis. That had been mollified a great deal when Harry S Truman gave all Puerto Ricans American citizenship. Still, there had always been those who sought, and sometimes fought, to gain nation-status for the Caribbean island. The Nationalistas were the smallest of the three political affiliations, but they had always been the most vocal.
They had also been the one to turn to violence.
Until recently it had always been small-scale, and most of even the most ardent of those who dreamed of Puerto Rican independence shunned violence as a means to achieve it. Now, times seemed to be changing. It had begun with rumors that the U.S. military was storing nuclear weapons on the island. Political activists had begun protesting outside U.S. military bases and Puerto Rican police stations. The actions by military policemen to round them up and take them away from the bases had made news worldwide. When a protestor had been shot trying to break into Fort Buchanan, the protests had broken out into street-rioting in the capital. Tear gas and rubber bullets had been used and the rioting and looting had gotten worse.
Then people had started to die in earnest.
Anyone who opposed the closing of the bases or independence for Puerto Rico was branded a traitor. There had been a number of high-profile kidnappings, and street violence disguised as political statement had become endemic in the capital and was spilling out into the countryside. Police had become a popular target, and it was common knowledge that many Puerto Rican police were sympathetic and were not prosecuting or investigating to the best of their abilities. The United States was loath to send in armed troops or hordes of federal police. The Puerto Rican governor had called out the National Guard, and many of them were very reluctant to take action against rioters or demonstrators. Many had thrown down their weapons and joined them.
There were many in the U.S. congress and senate who believed that the U.S. should wash its hands and let the island commonwealth go. The FBI had very strong leads that Puerto Rican organized crime had a very strong hand in everything going on, but when a car bomb had gone off outside their San Juan office and two of their agents had been killed, they had been forced to admit there wasn’t much they could do about it without massive reinforcement.
Puerto Rico was turning into a powder keg, and it was almost to the point of being a “retake the island or let it go” situation. The President was willing to consider Puerto Rican independence, but had stated categorically to his cabinet he would not allow the U.S. and Puerto Rico’s long association to be severed by the sword of domestic terrorism rather than the ballot box.
He was unwilling to send in the 101st Airborne Division. Instead he fell back on the services of a patriotic American.
Mack Bolan had boarded a plane.
He turned and sized up the man beside him. Puerto Rico might be a commonwealth of the United States, but it was also a Caribbean island with an overwhelmingly Latin culture. Corruption among the police was endemic. Inspector Noah Constante had a reputation as an ass-kicker. He had a lot of arrests, a lot of convictions and a sleepy aura of relaxed violence about him. Bolan suspected that if Constante had been a cop on the mainland he would probably have been brought up on police brutality charges dozens of times. He was a man who got things done and specialized in homicide. That told Bolan that if Constante was corrupt, the inspector was much more likely to receive favors and bribes from local businessmen and politicians rather than criminals. That was one reason why Bolan had requested him.
“Beheadings say gangsters. I think gangsters did this,” Bolan said.
“Well,” Constante said, giving a very Latin shrug, “there is no reason why a man cannot be a gangster and a patriot.”
Bolan tilted his head at the bodies. “You consider whoever did that a patriot?”
“Whoever did that is murdering, rapist scum.” Constante’s black eyes stared long and hard at the dead military policewoman’s corpse. “I happened to have known Miss Corporal Carson. She was a good cop. I am afraid I cannot let this stand.”
“So tell me, who’s the most powerful gang in Puerto Rico?” Bolan knew the answer, but he wanted to gauge Constante.
“That’s easy.” The inspector shrugged again. “That would be La Neta, which means the truth. They formed in Río Piedras Prison in 1970, supposedly to stop violence between inmates and promote solidarity between the Puerto Rican gangs, but they have since, how would you say…evolved, beyond their original charter.”
“What else can you tell me about them?” Bolan asked.
“They often promote themselves as a cultural group. Since their inception they have always promoted independence for the island. Like all successful prison gangs, they spread out beyond the prison walls. They have taken over many of the street gangs and established ties with others. They have always had a reputation of silencio.”
Bolan raised an eyebrow. “Silence?”
Constante frowned. “Not exactly.” The inspector sought for a translation. “It is not the word they would use, but you would understand their reputation much more as tranquilidad.”
“Quiet,” Bolan said.
“Yes, quiet. Make no mistake, La Neta is a violent street gang. Disrespect or action taken against one of their members or affiliates is seen as an attack on all members, and they will violently defend their turf. However, they have established the unusual tactic of not drawing attention to themselves, and when they do, it is as a patriotic organization—Puerto Rico for Puerto Ricans. Often they put money into their local barrios, in community projects. They will provide beer and food at fiestas and march in parades wrapped in the Puerto Rican flags. They let other gangs draw attention to themselves as gangsters, they let others establish reputations for violence and killings, for being bad men, and when the inevitable crackdown comes? La Neta is waiting, in silencio, to move in and take over their turf or swallow up their organization.”
Bolan eyed the inspector shrewdly. “What about ties to political groups?”
“As I have said, señor, La Neta is strongly patriotic. They have long associated themselves with the Los Macheteros revolutionary group.”
Bolan had read a dossier on “The Machete Men.” For years they had been on the violent, extremist end of the independence movement. Bolan surveyed the headless corpses. “That look like machete work to you?”
“Indeed.” Constante sighed. “However, I must say that is a tenuous, indeed, metaphoric lead at best.”
The inspector had a bit of the poet about him. Bolan found himself liking the man but not immediately trusting him. “Like I said, this looks like gangster work, parading as politics, and that’s where I’m going to start my way up the food chain.”
“You know much about gangsters, then?”
Bolan played a card and posed a question of his own. “Tell me, Inspector, did you ever see the movie The Untouchables?”
“‘They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue.’” Constante quoted. His teeth were neither particularly even nor straight, but they flashed blindingly white out of his face.
“And there endeth the lesson,” Bolan concluded. “You in?”
“Oh, well, how may I be of assistance to…” He gazed at Bolan in open, smiling suspicion. “The United States Department of Justice?”
Bolan and Constante understood each other. The soldier had been sent under the umbrella of the United States Department of Justice as Agent Matthew Cooper, a DOJ “observer” of the current political crisis. However, if that were true he would be spending his time with diplomats, politicians and lawyers rather than standing ankle-deep in the silt of the Laguna San José with a lowly homicide inspector. The title and the job description were phony and both men knew it. All Constante knew was that the Man had come to his island, and apparently the inspector thought it was about time.
“Give me a name,” Bolan said.
“What kind of name, señor?” The inspector asked innocently.
“Why, the name of the worst son of a bitch in San Juan.”
“Oh!” Constante brightened. “That is easy. The name you want is Yotuel d’Nico.”
“I think I’ll go have a talk with this Yotuel.”
Constante grinned happily. “I will light a candle for you.”
2
“So who’s this Yotuel, anyway?” Bolan asked.
The bar stools around Bolan emptied as if he were radioactive. The bartender was short, fat, potbellied, bald and missing his front teeth. He also had a cursive letter N for La Neta tattooed on the back of his hand between his right thumb and forefinger. He looked Bolan up and down and leaned in close. “Hey, gringo, why don’t you finish your beer and fuck off?”
Bolan finished his beer and ignored the invitation. “I mean, is he some kind of tough son of a bitch or something?”
The bartender elaborately washed his hands in the sink and muttered, “You dig your own grave” under his breath in Spanish.
“All the way to China, baby,” agreed Bolan. He pushed his empty mug forward for another.
