Havana Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The girl nodded.

“How many?” he asked.

“What?”

“How many policemen?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need a lift, sailor?” Encizo asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-oh,” Encizo cut in.

Grimaldi looked sharply at him. “What?”

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

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

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

“What the fu—?” Crosse began.

“That violates the fire code!” Stein sputtered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SEVEN

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

“Any suggestions?” Encizo asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is insane,” Crosse muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Stein replied.

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

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

“How the hell should we—?”

“Dead,” Stein said. “We killed him.”

“Shut up, Dominic!” Crosse snapped.

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

“Shut up, Dominic,” Crosse repeated.

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

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

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