скачать книгу бесплатно
Encizo shook his head. “I know it may come as a surprise, but the crime rate in Cuba really isn’t that high. In fact, a crime is only classified as an act they call socialimente peligrosa, dangerous or harmful to society. Felonies are basically the same here as they are in the States. Armed robbery, rape, felonious assault and murder. What’s always staggered me is there are approximately sixty robberies for every hundred thousand citizens per capita. Their biggest problems are drugs, which usually stems from the sex trade.”
Prostitution was the oldest profession on Earth. It had continued to be a mainstay of the criminal underworld across the board. Sex for money also led to other things like strong-arm robbery, drugs, black market sales and extortion. Cuba wasn’t immune to it any more than any other country, although the heavy-handedness of Cuba’s police officials and stiff penalties imposed by its courts acted effectively as an unspoken policy of no tolerance.
“My point in that little lesson on Cuba’s judicial system,” Encizo continued, “was that Cuban citizens like Melendez getting arrested and tossed in the clink for a few days wouldn’t exactly have been headline news. But two Americans getting locked up, yeah, that would’ve announced like the premier of Russia making a State visit.”
“That’s what I thought,” Bolan replied. “I wonder why they kept it quiet.”
“Maybe they didn’t,” Grimaldi interjected. “Maybe someone kept it quiet for them?”
“Like who?” Encizo asked.
“I’m betting Havana Five,” Bolan said. “There has to be some reason Melendez brought it up. He didn’t pull their name out of a hat.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Encizo replied. “Why would they want to keep the arrest of two Americans secret?”
“I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred times, and I keep getting the same answer. Melendez said the two Americans talked about killing Waterston. I’m pretty confident those two men are Stein and Crosse.”
“The missing DIA agents,” Grimaldi added.
“Right,” Bolan said. “Seeing as Waterston was charged with finding this alleged ELN training camp, I’m betting someone in Havana Five cut a deal with Stein and Crosse, then backed out at the last minute.”
“But why kill Colonel Waterston?” Encizo asked.
“I think Stein and Crosse panicked. I think they killed Waterston to keep him from disclosing their deal with a Cuban criminal organization, one that would clearly violate half a dozen laws if it went public, and they killed him to prevent that from happening.”
“I see where you’re going,” Encizo said. “Then Havana Five scrubs the deal and now Stein and Crosse are running for their lives. So, if we find our two DIA boys, they should lead us to the head of the operation.”
Bolan nodded. “Right.”
“Pretty sharp, Sarge,” Grimaldi said.
Encizo turned down an unpaved, nondescript street and pulled up in front of a single-story, adobe-style building. Roof support poles of rough, unfinished wood protruded from the front of the building. Visible cracks cut spiderweb patterns through the front facade, which was painted brown and olive drab. The faded outline of a shield filled with blue, red and yellow markings—the symbol of the Cuban police—covered the windowless front of the building.
Bolan looked at Encizo. “Police station?”
“Substation, actually,” Encizo said. “I spotted a sign on the main road back there and decided to take my chances. There aren’t that many fully equipped jails in the area. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Better we should wait out here?” Grimaldi asked.
“Yeah. It’ll look much less suspicious if I’m alone.”
As Encizo started to get out of the car, Bolan said, “Watch your back, Rafe.”
He nodded, asked for five minutes, then got out. The Cuban straightened his clothes and ran his fingers through his freshly greased hair as he climbed the three steps. He looked back at Bolan and Grimaldi with a wink before he pushed through the flimsy screen door. Bolan watched as he entered and then turned his attention to keeping vigil on the street, with instructions to Grimaldi to do the same.
If trouble came knocking, they would be ready.
CHAPTER FOUR
The acrid smell of burned fiber filled the cramped bathroom of the run-down motel, the result of a smoldering cigarette butt between Leslie Crosse’s fingers.
Crosse could barely stand this wretched humidity. It sure was a hell of a lot hotter here than in Washington, and for a moment, he wished he were back there now. This hadn’t turned out as they’d planned. He and Stein had gotten to Cuba as planned, but that’s when it all went very wrong. Andres advised them that Inez Fuego didn’t want to see them—something about their being sloppy and careless—and next thing he knew, he and Stein were running for their lives.
Stein believed Andres to be at the heart of the betrayal, but Crosse didn’t agree. This went well beyond him; Andres was nothing more than a lackey. Fuego had either come to this decision on her own or someone made it for her. There couldn’t be another explanation. At least, that’s what Crosse kept telling himself. It didn’t matter much either way, since they could now write off any hope of finding the ELN terrorist training camp.
“¡Andele!” a deep voice boomed just outside the door, followed by a mad thumping on it.
Crosse jumped, woken from his daydreaming. He rose from the toilet seat, took another drag off the cigarette, screwed his face with the taste, then tossed it in the bowl and flushed. He hadn’t even bothered to take a dump, since he’d been so preoccupied with their present situation. Well, he was experiencing constipation anyway by refusing to drink tap water, and the cops wouldn’t buy them any bottled, goddammit. He and Stein managed to come up with about seventeen hundred in cash between them; not enough for a get out of jail free card, but damn sure enough to bribe the local yokels into letting them wait out a few days in a hotel.
Crosse opened the door and found himself face-to-chest with the biggest of their trio of guards. The guy’s shirt was about two sizes too small for him in the sleeves and his muscular arms threatened to rip the seams. He had unkempt, rather long hair, and his teeth were dark and stained from too much booze and cigarettes and not enough brushing. Not that Crosse intended to point that out.
The man gave him a studious look, his face hard and unyielding, and then his eyes softened a bit and he jerked his head in the direction of the couch. Basically, they had made their prisoners eat, sleep and sit on that damn couch while the three guards spelled each other for trips to the single bedroom with a queen-size mattress. Craftsmen had obviously made that couch from splintered wood and old springs, and then covered it in the roughest fabric known to man.
“What gives with Gorilla Face?” Stein asked Crosse, using the nickname they’d dubbed for the big cop.
The fact none of the guards seemed to speak English made it simpler for them to communicate freely. They agreed not to make mention of very specific things, but general conversation didn’t seem of much consequence to the guards, and they usually reserved any more secretive talks until night fell and the guards all went to sleep—even the ones who were supposed to be out watching in the front room during their shift. Stein had quipped how the lack of discipline really disappointed him, how he’d expected more from Cuba’s finest.
“Aw, I don’t know. He’s got a stick up his ass or something,” Crosse replied.
“When do you think we’re going to get out of here?”
Crosse shrugged dejectedly. “How the fuck should I know? I look like some kind of Oracle to you or something?”
Stein shrugged. “Just wondered if maybe you had an idea.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
Crosse let the silence lapse between them awhile. He really admired Stein in a lot of ways, but sometimes—as a partner quite often does—Stein irritated the living shit out of him. He felt bad taking his foul mood out on the guy, the one guy who had stuck with him for the past ten years. No matter what happened, no matter what kind of shit went down, Stein had been there. Stein backed him when the ethics committee questioned him during a shooting board inquiry, and again one other time when his superiors questioned him about missing drug evidence. In both cases, Crosse had actually been clean. In fact, Crosse had never accepted graft, never brutalized a suspect—at least not that any cop would have considered justifiable. And while he’d bent a few rules, he couldn’t ever remember having abused his authority.
But now he couldn’t help the uncertainty and irritation of knowing he’d crossed the line; not once but three times in the past twenty-four hours. They had made a deal with a known criminal in a foreign country, killed an American military officer and stolen top-secret documents belonging to the government. Now, to rub salt in the wound, they had to remain cooped up in this stinking hell-hole with these goat farmers.
“Sorry,” he muttered after a time. “I’m a little bent about this shit.”
“Forget it,” Stein said. “You know, I’ve been letting this run through my mind since we hooked up with Andres out there. It just doesn’t add up, Les. None of it adds up.”
“It seems pretty simple to me. We stepped on our dicks. We got sloppy and someone decided to renege on our deal with Fuego.”
“You mean Fuego reneged.”
“No,” Crosse countered, “I mean someone reneged. I don’t think she had anything to do with it. I think somebody else made the decision. Maybe she decided to go along with it, but it wasn’t her idea.”
“What makes you think so?”
“You read the same case files I did on the criminal elements down here. You don’t get very far in a business like hers if you go around screwing everybody you meet. She’s always had a good reputation as an honest businesswoman, just like her old man.”
“Yeah, sure,” Stein said. “Look where that got him.”
Crosse waved at a big fly with irritation as he replied, “Whatever. My point is if she decided to stick it to us then she did it under the advice of someone else. Not only is going back on your word in her business considered dishonorable, it’s a surefire way to gain some very unwanted publicity.”
“Just the kind she can’t afford,” Stein interjected.
“Right.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“I say we sit back and wait a little while longer. They’ll give up looking for us pretty fast, I think. Once they do, and assuming we can get out from under the thumbs of these Neanderthals, we ought to be able to find someone who can smuggle us back to the country.”
“We’ll have a lot of explaining to do,” Stein said.
“I’d rather have to explain in front of an inquiry board than a Cuban magistrate. How about you?”
Stein merely nodded his agreement.
“Anyway, it won’t be too much longer.” Crosse experienced a suddenly dry and violent cough. He’d have to get some water soon or he might start pissing blood.
Not too much longer, he thought.
THE FOUR MEN LOITERING in a late-model sedan half a block down on the opposite side of the street tripped Mack Bolan’s senses into high alert.
“See that car?” Bolan asked Grimaldi.
The pilot leaned forward in the seat, scrutinized the occupants, then nodded. “They weren’t there before.”
“I saw it park there ten minutes ago with only the driver. Now I count four inside.”
“I smell trouble,” Grimaldi replied.
“Yeah.” Bolan kept one eye on the vehicle as he looked in the direction of the police station. “Blast it, Rafael. What’s taking so long?”
CONVINCING THE SUBSTATION commander at the Cuban jail that he was nothing more than a consulate-appointed attorney for the America prisoners proved a harder task than Rafael Encizo thought it would be.
In talking with first the cops and then their commandant, Encizo learned to take anything they said at face value. He could tell almost from the beginning that they weren’t forthcoming and didn’t plan to be any time soon. The Cuban warrior had a careful balance to maintain; he needed to keep them talking while acting subservient. Attorneys didn’t command the same respect in Cuba as the U.S. Well, maybe it wasn’t the attorneys as much as the “civil rights” of prisoners. The majority of the populace looked upon criminals as the lowest form of life, and they weren’t afforded more than accommodations.
“What has happened to my clients?” Encizo asked as respectfully as he could manage.
“They have been moved to a different location for their…safety.”
The commandant was a small, thin man with curly hair cut close and streaked with gray.
“You believe they’re in danger?”
“What American who is arrested in Cuba isn’t in danger?” That caused him to laugh at what he had to have considered to be a pretty good joke. “Anyway, for now we have them secured and they aren’t going anywhere.”
“Well, I must speak with them. The American government has insisted they receive proper counsel.”
“And why would the Americans be so concerned about these two men?”
Encizo had to think furiously for an answer. He’d probably let the cat out of the bag a little too soon. Encizo hoped for a faster turnaround but forthrightness didn’t seem like a familiar concept to the commandant. He dealt with thugs and rapists and other such elements every day. He would therefore be suspicious and untrusting of everyone, despite how honorable their intentions might seem.
“It’s not the Americans the magistrate worries about,” Encizo said. “He’s concerned this will draw attention from the press and other undesirables. He wants to make sure no disinformation is sown, particularly back to the American government.”
“And what of it?” the commandant replied. “I have no interest in what the Americans think, particularly the government. They have no jurisdiction here, and their political concerns are no concerns of mine.”
“Maybe not,” Encizo said. “But they are to the magistrate and I may report back to him that you were fully cooperative?”
Something dangerous glinted in the commandant’s eyes, only for a moment, but Encizo pretended not to notice. He realized the risks of such a veiled threat, but it hadn’t escaped the notice of either of them this wasn’t exactly the Mecca of assignments. Most people of influence and power considered Guijarro the armpit of Matanzas—not that it had any greater or lesser qualities than many of the poverty-ridden suburbs around it—but a magistrate’s wishes would always win out over those of a policeman.
“You may thank the magistrate,” the commandant finally replied. “And tell him I will be most cooperative. However, I’m afraid I cannot disclose the location of the prisoners at present. Their safety is my responsibility. I will need a signed writ from the magistrate before I can give you that information.”
Encizo realized an end had come to more diplomatic methods. Somewhere in the conversation, he heard the two officers who’d been in the station leave on a disturbance of some type. That left them alone in the office, and Encizo decided the time had come to implement more effective means of soliciting cooperation. In an instant he launched from his chair and came across the commandant’s desk. Encizo produced his Glock and grabbed a fistful of the commandant’s shirt in one, smooth motion. Encizo hauled him out of his chair and stretched him belly-first across the desk to unbalance him.
“I’ve been nice about this long enough,” Encizo told the commandant. “Tact is over and now you’re going to tell me exactly where you’re holding those two Americans.”
“Wha—!” the commandant began and then he emitted a squeal of outrage. “You are not an attorney!”
Encizo grinned. “You think? Now I’m giving you a chance to make this easy on yourself. I won’t kill you, but I’ll definitely leave you hurting if I don’t start getting answers.”
Oddly enough, the smug and indifferent expression the commandant wore a moment earlier had disappeared. “Okay, okay!”
“Well?”
“They are being held by my men in a room we rent for such things,” the man replied so quickly Encizo almost couldn’t understand him. “They are under heavy guard, though. They will not allow you to get by with my authorization.”
“I’ll manage,” Encizo said. “Where?”
The commandant gave him the name and address of an apartment complex. Encizo didn’t know the place, but the name of the street rang familiar enough that he knew he could find it easily. Encizo looked eye to eye with the commandant, searching for signs of deception, but saw only fear and doubt. The guy figured Encizo wouldn’t keep his word. Of course, Encizo wouldn’t have killed the man—just as he promised—and to hurt him now wouldn’t be of much benefit. He knew the commandant couldn’t tell him anything more of use.
“Looks like your lucky day,” Encizo said.
Before either could say another word, a commotion outside the commandant’s office drew their attention. Grimaldi burst through the rickety doorway, pistol in hand and face flushed. “We got company.”
Encizo nodded and released the commandant. He backed out of the room and kept the muzzle of his pistol in the commandant’s direction. Encizo wouldn’t have put it past the guy to shoot him in the back if the opportunity presented itself.
The pair reached the door, and Encizo peered out in time to see the Executioner go EVA a millisecond before the windshield of their vehicle imploded under a hail of autofire. The Cuban turned his attention to the source of the firing and saw a car screech from the curb and head directly for the jail.
“Looks like we might have a slight delay,” Encizo announced.
THE EVER SO PERCEPTIBLE PUFF of smoke from the tailpipe of the sedan stood as the only clue to Bolan the crew planned to make a move. In that brief lull between the decision and action of their enemy, Bolan instructed Grimaldi to go inside and alert Encizo. The sedan suddenly lurched from the curb just as the soldier had expected. Sunlight glinted on the muzzles of automatic weapons protruding from the passenger windows.
Bolan had set the door ajar a minute earlier, anticipating that kind of move, and his forethought prevented the aggressors from perforating him with a hail of bullets. He rolled out of the vehicle and went prone on the sidewalk, rolling onto his back long enough to slide both Beretta 93-Rs from beneath the folds of the thin, tattered poncho he’d purchased that morning.
Slugs whizzed overhead and ricocheted off the buildings, while others audibly slapped the driver’s side of Encizo’s borrowed jalopy with metallic plinks. Bolan waited until he heard the squeal of tires and opening of doors before he dropped to one knee behind the solid, metal body of the old clunker. Bolan braced his forearms over the trunk of the car, took aim at the gunners as they went EVA, and squeezed the triggers simultaneously.
The Berettas were both set to 3-shot mode, which in the hands of the Executioner were as effective as the submachine guns being toted by his enemies. A trio of 9 mm Parabellum rounds took the first unlucky gunner in the chest, punching red holes in his sternum, exiting out his back, leaving a crimson spray on the door. The impact sent him spinning and dumped him face-first on the rough pavement. The other burst of rounds shattered the back window and sent the others racing for cover to avoid the deadly glass shards.
