Diplomacy Directive

“You think one of his people will make contact,” Grimaldi said.

“Yeah.”

“Can we trust Veda?”

Bolan shook his head. “No. But then again, who can we trust? The fact someone in Hernandez’s office might be involved in this supports one of two theories. Either the local government here is planning a coup or Veda’s lying to throw me off his trail.”

“What’s your gut tell you?”

“That theory two’s the most plausible,” Bolan replied. “But then my run-in with two of Fonseca’s goons gave me pause to wonder. Now I have to at least consider the possibility Veda’s on the level and there’s an internal conspiracy at work here.”

“Well, Veda does seem pretty well-informed, Sarge. He managed to know you were involved from practically the moment we arrived here.”

“A guy like Veda has far-reaching contacts. His information could have come from anywhere.”

“Yeah, except for the fact that only a few people outside of Stony Man even knew about your mission here, and all of them were inside Hernandez’s office.”

Bolan nodded. “Yeah, I thought about that, too. That’s why what Veda told me makes so much sense.”

“You think La Costa will be okay?”

“If Fonseca gets my message and backs off her, she’ll probably be better off than we will.”

They rode the remainder of the trip in silence. When they reached the town, the two men could see why the dinky airport didn’t have much business. Las Mareas couldn’t have been comprised of more than five or ten streets. As a barrio in Guayama—a municipality of less than fifty thousand—only one of those streets even sported a commercial section. Bolan almost drove past the half-lit sign that boasted “—OTEL” and swung precariously in the damp breeze. He slowed and gently pulled over, careful to pump the brakes so he didn’t skid the vehicle into the high curb. The sharp, jagged edges that protruded from years of disrepair would have torn those cheap, economy tires to shreds like cat claws through tissue paper.

Grimaldi gave the place a once-over, peered at the sidewalk and then grinned at Bolan. “Think I’ll wait here.”

Bolan nodded and left the car. The rain had stopped, but the mock flagstone steps leading up to the narrow house were still slick with water. Bolan ascended them carefully and rapped on a screen door that had metal bars mounted to it. He didn’t get any response, then noticed a thick piece of twine dangling to his right he hadn’t seen before in the gloom. He gave it a yank and somewhere inside a bell jangled. Two minutes passed before Bolan signaled again and just about that time the inner door opened and a heavyset, middle-aged Hispanic woman stepped onto the porch.

“I’m coming. What you want?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Bolan said, not even sure he knew why he was doing this. Something just told him it was right.

“You no want room?”

“No.”

“Then go on, I don’t want know your business.”

As she started to turn and go inside, Bolan called, “Miguel Veda sent me.”

The woman froze in her tracks. So, he’d been right about Veda—the guy had connections everywhere. She’d obviously been told to expect him; either that or he had a name the poor and disheartened of the country knew all too well. Whatever the case, she turned and cocked her head. She had an entirely different expression, a smile, and in one sense it almost creeped Bolan out.

At least she hadn’t slammed the door in his face. “You come inside. It’s wet out there.” As she opened the door to admit Bolan, she nodded at Grimaldi, who she obviously noticed still sat in the car. “What about you friend? He come inside, no?”

As he followed the woman inside, Bolan shook his head. “He’s kind of shy.”

The woman led Bolan through a cramped hall littered with tables of knickknacks and other cheap junk. It took some flexibility and catlike grace to avoid knocking over something on at least one of the tables. After negotiating the obstacle course they made it into an equally cramped kitchen, where Bolan discovered a young, fair-skinned male sitting at a two-seat table in the corner. The man didn’t even look at Bolan, but was satisfied to grunt and wave Bolan to the unoccupied chair.

As he sat, Bolan glanced at the woman, who didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she turned her attention to whatever she was cooking on the stove. The young guy looked like a first-rate hood, between the tattoos adorning both arms from the knuckles to the shoulders, and the gold tooth that glinted through slightly parted lips. A two-inch-wide line of hair ran Mohawk-style from front to back on an otherwise bald head. He wore baggy jeans and a white muscle shirt that was yellowed and tattered with age.

“You Stone?” he asked.

Bolan nodded.

“Okay, like, I got told that if you managed to find your way here that I was to tell you what you wanted to know.”

The soldier considered that for a moment and then replied, “You work for Miguel Veda?”

The guy half laughed and half belched and then took a deep pull from the sweating, long-neck bottle. “Why do you care?”

Bolan tried an easy smile. “I like to know where my information’s coming from.”

The young man tried to look puffed up, his wiry frame all but puny against Bolan’s combat-honed mass of sinew and muscle. He might have intimidated lesser men, but the Executioner didn’t see him as a threat. The possibility existed, of course, the guy had ten or fifteen guns waiting in the next room, but Bolan knew if he gave even the slightest impression of weakness he would lose all respect. And maybe get his throat cut, too. He thought about an additional rejoinder, but he decided a steady look would suffice.

When the guy sensed Bolan wasn’t a pushover, he said, “Yeah, okay, so who doesn’t work for Miguel?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“Yeah, okay. I work for Miguel. Whatever gets you through the day. Okay, man?”

The guy made some kind of gang sign, but Bolan let it pass. “You were going to tell me something.”

“Yeah, sure,” the guy said, taking another drink as if trying to build up courage. “You want to know who did the deed the other night in San Juan, no?”

“Yeah.”

“It was them dudes down here. Guys over on the north side of town.”

“What guys?”

“I don’t know, man,” the young man said irritability. “They some guys from the States, man. Guys from your home turf, man.”

“Americans?”

“No, these no Americans. These guys aren’t even white, man. These dudes are like al Qaeda or something.”

The hairs stood on the back of Bolan’s neck. “You’re saying these men are terrorists?”

“I guess so, if that’s what you say.”

“It’s not what I said, it’s what you just said.”

Bolan found this guy more frustrating by the moment. Right now, he didn’t have time for games. He couldn’t understand why Miguel Veda would have sent him on a wild-goose chase to Las Mareas if he didn’t have anything to hide. Unless Veda was stalling, in which case that would’ve clinched the party leader’s guilt. For now Bolan knew he’d have to find a way to work with this guy. Yet something deep in the Executioner’s gut told him he could be walking into a trap.

Bolan shook his head. “Look, if you have information for me then spill. Otherwise, I’m out of here.”

“Look, man, all I do is what Mr. Veda says. I tell you only what I see, which is all I can tell you, ’cause I don’t know nothing else.”