Havana Five

Two men wrestled the body from beneath the top deck of the small yacht anchored forty nautical miles north of the Cuban coast.

“This wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan,” Dominic Stein said.

Stein groaned under the deadweight of his load as if to emphasize the point, but his partner took no interest in the conversation. Not surprising, since Leslie Crosse did everything he could to avoid talk of grisly topics. The guy wouldn’t even go to a slasher film, although it hadn’t seemed to bother him when he’d shot their burden through the head with a silenced .380-caliber pistol.

“At least I bought us some time,” Crosse replied.

Stein had to concede that particular point. They certainly hadn’t planned on Mackenzie Waterston returning to his Pentagon office minutes after Stein and Crosse picked the lock, broke into Waterston’s files, and pilfered every document and data CD they could find on Operation Gridlock. Nobody outside of the Oval Office should have even known about the President’s initiative. The U.S. State Department’s Plan Colombia had included covert military actions by specialized units based out of Guantánamo Bay designed to neutralize training camps for the National Liberation Army, aka the ELN. Such operations were particularly lucrative for certain individuals in the array of criminal trades across Cuba and the better part of South America. Drugs were only the tip the iceberg. Precious stones, counterfeit bills and import contraband of every kind were also profitable for a group of fabled crime lords known as Havana Five.

“Okay, so we had to do it,” Stein said. “But that sure as hell doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Quit bitching and keep moving,” Crosse muttered. The flash in his eyes served as a warning he’d about had his fill.

Stein wouldn’t have taken that kind of mouth off just anyone; Crosse wasn’t just anyone, however, he was Stein’s best friend. They had served side by side in the DIA for more than a decade. As luck would have it, their long-term partnership had somehow slipped through the cracks of the DIA bureaucrats—there were rules about the length of time personnel could serve together—and the pair had simply decided to keep their mouths shut about that fact. It turned out fortuitously when an irresistible offer practically dropped into their laps.

“Fine, fine,” Stein said. “I just hope to high hell this’ll be worth it.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

They finally managed to get Waterston’s body to the top deck and dragged it over to the polished wood banister before Stein dropped his end. The sudden change in weight distribution nearly caused his partner to fall onto the corpse, but Crosse managed to regain his balance. He cursed under his breath but said nothing directly to Stein.

Crosse nodded in the direction of the long metal crate in the aft of the boat as his chest heaved with exertion. Stein took the cue and moved to retrieve the crate. He dragged it over to where his friend waited with the corpse and opened the lid. Several rows of silver-dollar-size holes ran along the sides and end of the crate, and after closer inspection Stein realized it was a crab cage. On a three-count, the men hauled the corpse into the cage, closed the lid and then swung the cargo winch into place.

Crosse sat back on a nearby fishing seat while Stein attached a chained hook through a large alloy hole in the top of the crate and winched it up. Stein looked at Crosse who lit a cigarette, dragged deeply on it, then nodded through the cloud of exhaled smoke. Stein swung the winch over the water and engaged the release. The crate hit the water with a splash and immediately sank.

“That should keep his body from ever floating to the surface. Huh?” Stein inquired.

Crosse nodded. “And by the time anybody does find it, we’ll have long passed from this hell into the next one, partner.”

Stein shrugged and looked uncomfortably at the deck. “Yeah, I’m sorry it went down this way for ya, Les.”

“Forget it.”

Stein thought about that for a time and then pulled a flask from the back pocket of his slacks. He took a long drink and then passed it to Crosse, who snatched it without hesitation and partook of a couple of long pulls himself. He wiped his mouth, popped in the cigarette and then handed the uncapped flask to his partner. Stein took another swig before capping the flask and pocketing it.

“What now?”

“Now we wait.”

They didn’t wait long, maybe fifteen minutes, before they heard the sound of an outboard motor buzz in the distance. At first the men didn’t see anything and both drew their government-issue Glock 21 pistols. As the seconds ticked by and the drone of the motor grew closer, Stein wondered if this part of their plan had been such a good idea, after all. He voiced his concerns.

“What are you squawking about now?” Crosse asked. “I swear to God, Dom, there’s times I think you’re paranoid or something.”

“Listen, I don’t much like these Cubans. I don’t trust them.”

“Then you should have thought about that before taking this deal. Beside, we’re doing what’s best for our country. You think those peckerless suits back in Washington would have the guts to do something like this? Now just keep quiet and everything will be fine. Let me do the talking. Okay?”

Stein wanted to protest but thought better of it and clammed up with a nod.

The source of the outboard motor became visible. Right at that moment Stein became more alert to all the sights and sounds around him. The salty smell of the Gulf waters seemed stronger and the cloak of humidity more intense than it had before now. At first he thought maybe the bourbon had started to work on him, but the sudden rise of bile, the churning in his stomach, the hammering of his heart in his chest and ears told him the many sensations were the culmination of one. Fear.

Stein shook it off and tried to regain his composure as the tiny motor launch came alongside the yacht. Crosse put his pistol away and walked forward starboard. He engaged the ship-side release and kicked out the narrow, steep stairwell that came to rest a mere couple of feet above the water line. Two large Cubans dressed in black fatigues with slung machine pistols boarded first. A man in tailored slacks and flower-print shirt followed them a moment later.

Stein got closer and nodded at the man, who studied the pair a moment with his black eyes—no sign of recognition or friendliness on his face—but then a grin split his features. He had a toothy smile so white it looked stark against his dark complexion and hair.

“Andres,” Crosse said, extending his hand.

The man shook it. “Permission to come aboard, gentlemen?”

“Granted.” Crosse looked at Stein with a knowing smile. “We were just enjoying a drink and a cigarette. May I offer you something?”

“I would love to, but alas, we’re short on time. I trust everything on board is in order?”

“Your men won’t have any trouble getting the boat into Havana’s port,” Stein cut in. “She’s totally clean.”

The man they knew only as Andres nodded and then something at Stein’s feet caught his eye. Everyone else turned their attention there, also, and Stein looked down to see the small trickle of blood run a jagged path between his shoes.

“Oh, yes,” Andres replied. “I can see she is very clean. Was there a problem?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned about,” Crosse replied. “Just a little side business we had to take care of.”

Andres’s smile lacked warmth now. “And I trust it’s taken care of for good?”

“Yeah.” Crosse and Stein held impassive expressions.

“That’s fine, I will take you at your word. My men can attend to any last-minute details on their way. So if you gentlemen would come with me, Señora Fuego waits for us.”

The men followed Andres into the small launch. The Cuban powered up the outboard motor and within a few minutes they were away from the yacht, its lights barely visible as they faded into the blanket of fog that seemed to settle on them with a swiftness Stein had never before experienced. Despite the fact their rendezvous had gone off without a hitch, Stein couldn’t help the burning in his gut. Something told him they had just made a terrible mistake.

CHAPTER ONE

Mack Bolan studied the landscape spread out before him as the Military Airlift Command flight circled for its final approach into Guantánamo Bay Naval Base. He had an almost unobstructed view from his seat in the forward compartment of the huge Boeing 757 cargo carrier, courtesy of one of his oldest friends and allies, Hal Brognola. As director of America’s most covert antiterrorist organzation, Stony Man, Brognola had requested Bolan’s attention for this mission under the behest of the President of the United States. As a friend, Brognola had asked Bolan to accept the mission. And as one friend would do for another under those circumstances, the Executioner accepted.

Bolan had come to Cuba seeking one thing: information.

“It’s very simple,” Brognola had told him a few hours earlier in an abandoned hangar at Andrews AFB. “We need you to fly into Guantánamo Bay, question a prisoner named Basilio Melendez regarding the disappearance of Colonel Mackenzie Waterston and then act based on the information provided.”

“And when you say you want me to act, you mean…”

“In whatever manner you deem the best interests of this country,” Brognola replied. “Colonel Waterston was in charge of military operations related to Plan Colombia. You have some idea of that initiative?”

Bolan nodded. “The President’s Executive Order 1-1-7-3-Alpha to the Secretary of State. The State Department is charged with conducting all operations, diplomatic or otherwise, necessary to eliminate the drug and arms-running activities designed to support the FARC, AUC and ELN, and to neutralize such operations deemed a terrorist threat to the U.S.”

“I see you keep up with the times,” Brognola said with a grin.

The Executioner shrugged. “I have my sources.”

“Yeah, and it’s not as though this information would be necessarily difficult to come by. Anyway, the Chief of Staff appointed Colonel Waterston to the Pentagon with instructions to monitor the activities of a number of special ops units operating out of Guantánamo Bay. Our boys down there got particularly interested when intelligence reports pointed to the possibility there was an ELN training camp operating full-time in Cuba. Up to this point, we’d never been able to confirm it.”