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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?”
