Havana Five

“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.