Diplomacy Directive

Bolan shook his head. “The office is only a few blocks from here. I’ll walk.”

After a few minutes of small talk, Bolan secured his Beretta 93-R in a standard military holster, donned his utility cap and headed outside. The streets were coming alive with morning commuters, but it was still early enough that Bolan didn’t encounter many passersby. It took him ten minutes to reach the government building, and a secretary immediately showed him to the office of the security adviser. Bolan had read the brief on his contact, a native-born Puerto Rican named Alvaro Fonseca, who’d served with the Central American desk of the CIA and as a Foreign Affairs adviser to the U.S. Senate before taking this assignment. Fonseca had a reputation as a no-nonsense type with a dubious background in foreign intelligence. Still, Bolan had every confidence the guy knew his stuff, which was affirmed upon meeting the man, who offered a strong handshake and polite smile.

Fonseca asked his assistant to bring coffee and then took a seat on a comfortable sofa across from one of a couple chairs he offered Bolan.

“I hate meeting with folks behind my desk,” he told the Executioner. “It’s too impersonal.”

“I understand. I know you’re busy so I won’t impose on too much of your time, sir,” Bolan said, easily shifting into his role as a military man accustomed to extending full diplomatic courtesies.

“Are you kidding, Colonel? Hell, you’re doing me a big favor by being here. I’m sure you can understand the governor wants this situation resolved as soon as possible. It’s resulted in a lot of political unrest.”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you,” Bolan replied. “What are your thoughts about this attack being politically motivated?”

“I’m not buying it. And frankly, by virtue of the fact you even bothered to ask that question I’m thinking you aren’t, either.”

“Not really.”

Fonseca settled into the sofa by crossing his legs and draping one arm over the backrest. “As I’ve already told the president, I believe this indicates a move by militant members of the Puerto Rican Independence Party calling themselves Los Independientes. The Independents.”

“That’s a serious charge,” Bolan observed. “Especially seeing they’re an officially recognized party of government.”

“True, but not all of their members necessarily speak for the PIP. Please bear in mind this particular faction does not have any official position or support by the party. In fact, the PIP leadership denounces any actions by the Independents, and has further implemented both political and legal sanctions against them. Moreover, the views of this group are diametrically opposed to the New Progressive Party.”

Bolan furrowed an eyebrow. “Afraid I’m not familiar.”

“The New Progressives also support independence for Puerto Rico, but by means of ratification into U.S. statehood rather than adoption of territorial autonomy. If I might be blunt, it surprises me that the Oval Office would choose to respond to this incident by sending a military man rather than a full ambassadorial party.”

Bolan thought fast. “My position is…unique.”

“Really? In what way?”

“My function is actually as military liaison to the Diplomatic Security Service. Because of my particular background, someone thought I’d be of more use than a politician or DSS agent alone.”

“I see,” Fonseca replied, poker-faced. “You are, um, attaché to some sort of special operations group.”

Bolan smiled. “If it allays your concerns as to my qualifications.”

“Fair enough. I won’t press with uncomfortable questions. I’m sure the president’s decision to send you was well thought out, and that’s good enough for me, Colonel. And I can assure you that you’ll have the full cooperation and authority of my office as well as that of the governor’s while you’re in Puerto Rico.”

“Thank you. What else can you tell me about the militant group you suspect was behind this?”

“Well, you’ll recall I mentioned the New Progressive Party, or PNP as they are often referred to. They have their own entourage of violent radicals, whose actions are also fully sanctioned. The PNP has had considerably more success disavowing this group than the PIP has of the Independents, since there’s never been any evidence that ties the PNP cell to any violent actions in Puerto Rico, political or otherwise. Or anywhere in the Western Hemisphere for that matter.”

“Peaceful political extremists?” Bolan frowned. “Doesn’t feel right.”

“It may not be after what happened the other night,” Fonseca replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“What do you mean?”

“Nobody’s claimed credit for the attack, yet, but if the Independents do come forward this might very well spurn their enemies into a counterresponse. A violent one. And that won’t be good for either the current political state of Puerto Rico or the upcoming elections.”

“You think the Independents might try to foment the PNPs folks into armed rebellion under some flag of solidarity.”

“The thought had merited my concerns for just such a possibility, and the governor agrees. In either case it’s a threat we cannot afford. We must stop the Independents, guilty or not, before there are any further acts like this.”

He paused for a time, probably to let the Executioner chew on that statement for a bit.

After a time, Fonseca continued, “There’s always been a level of political unrest here, Colonel. Most individuals in the general populace have very personal and impassioned views about what should be done to solidify Puerto Rico’s political sovereignty and economy. If such incidents continue to occur, warring between the Independents and their enemies could well become the least of our problems. It could cause Puerto Ricans to utterly lose faith in our system of government and, quite honestly, result in a full-scale civil war.”

“Thus destabilizing U.S. interests here.”

“Right. That would also give the more conservative elements in Washington ammunition to talk the president into adopting a military solution.”

That idea was unthinkable, although Bolan knew that a civil war in Puerto Rico would leave the Man no choice but to send military forces to restore law and order. The small National Guard presence here would never be enough to tamp down the fervor of an all-out armed conflict between civilians. The circumstances leading to the very founding of America had proven that. Democratic society only worked as long as the people had faith in the system of representative government. The moment they lost that faith, it wasn’t hard to believe they would take matters into their own hands by organizing an opposing force. Civil war in Puerto Rico? America having to intervene with its own protectorate by means of military force? The end results of such a thing would be tragic and horrific.

“I think I’ll start by sending a message to the Independents, letting them know if they are responsible this won’t go unchecked,” Bolan said.

“Fair enough. What do you need from me?”

“A place to deliver it,” the Executioner replied.

CHAPTER TWO

Bolan got a delivery address, and after returning to his hotel room and changing into civvies, he drove across San Juan to a poverty-stricken east side neighborhood. Grimaldi would pick up another rental vehicle and be on standby in case the Executioner needed backup. The houses were really shacks; gutters and sidewalks were in disrepair, and filth covered the streets and cluttered the curbs. Weeds or mud took up space where green lawns should have been. The cars parked in the yards or along the narrow streets were so old and rusted that most didn’t look like they could be moved, and if they were they might well fall apart before traveling even half a block.

Bolan had seen squalor like this before, and it left him understanding why elements within Puerto Rico were dissatisfied with the current state of affairs. Not that the Executioner believed an independent Puerto Rico could fair better. Sometimes there were political elements that chose to let things continue like this, to permit certain segments of the populace to live in these conditions, so they could justify some higher political gain.

Why would it seem out of place, then, for the Independents to set up shop in a neighborhood like this?

Bolan studied his target through the binoculars from his position a half block down. He didn’t take long to get the lay of the area. His vehicle stuck out like a sore thumb, and he knew if he stayed too long it would draw some unwanted attention, which he couldn’t afford. He would have to hit the place hard and fast.

Only one problem. Nothing moved around the house. No sign of sentries or a roving patrol. There were no vehicles parked in the narrow drive or in front of the property on the street. The house looked utterly rundown, almost as if it had been unoccupied, and something in Bolan’s gut told him it was empty and had been for some time. The only thing he’d learned from his recon so far spoke of abandonment and disuse.

Bolan considered his next move, deciding if a closer look on foot would be worth it, but he didn’t get the chance to act on that thought. A flash of light reflecting off metal winked in his side mirror and drew his attention. He spotted a quartet of motorcycles with black-clad riders as they rode up on his vehicle with the muzzles of wicked-looking machine pistols leveled in his direction. Bolan went horizontal in the seat in time to avoid a maelstrom of autofire. High-velocity rounds shattered the front and rear side windows and left shards of glass to rain down on Bolan in their wake. The soldier folded up the center console, slid over to the passenger door and went EVA.

By the time he’d rolled to the relative safety of cover behind the SUV and gained his feet, the four motorcycles were making their turn for a second pass. Bolan reached into the glove box and came away with his Desert Eagle. The massive, stainless-steel pistol had become a faithful ally in moments such as these. Since Bolan didn’t have easy access or time to get to the heavier weaponry, the .44 Magnum hand-cannon would fill the void.

Bolan took up position just forward of the A-frame post, leveled the weapon in a two-handed Weaver grip and sighted on the closest rider. He squeezed the trigger and the weapon thundered as a Cor-Bon 305-grain full-metal-jacket round left the barrel at 1,600 feet per second. The round struck the motorcyclist in the chest as he was triggering his own weapon. The motorcycle seemed to shimmy a moment beneath the rider before the impact drove him from the saddle. The motorcycle continued on an erratic path for another twenty yards or so before crashing to the pavement about the same time as did its rider.

Bolan had already tracked on another rider and triggered his second round. The big weapon boomed again in the noonday air with equally satisfying results. The man’s head exploded inside his helmet, and a crimson spray washed over the face shield. The handlebars appeared to become wrenched from the rider’s grasp, and the bike made a sudden and awkward turn to the right before sliding against the pavement and dragging the deceased rider along with it for a fair distance.

The remaining two motorcyclists were now even with the Executioner and opened up simultaneously. Bolan ducked behind the SUV, which protected him from the volley of fresh rounds. He heard them slap into the metal and fiberglass body of the SUV, absorbing the impact with a noisy chatter of protest as round after round chewed through the thin skin of the vehicle and lodged deep in its frame or pebbled the safety glass of the windshield.

Bolan waited until they passed, then climbed inside the cab and cranked the engine. He whipped the steering wheel into a hard left as he gunned the engine. The vehicle left its spot at the curb, tires smoking as Bolan powered into an intercept course. Or at least that’s what he’d planned. But the riders no longer appeared interested in sticking around. With their numbers halved they seemed more concerned with escaping their enemy’s fury. Bolan meant to see to it they didn’t get off so easy with their hit-and-git; the Executioner wouldn’t be anybody’s target for a sucker play like that.

The soldier put his foot to the floor and kept one eye on the motorcyclists, who were rapidly widening the gap between them. If they decided to split up, the entire pursuit might turn out to be for nothing, but he couldn’t worry about such petty details. As long as he could keep at least one of them in sight, he’d be in good shape. At the moment he wished he could get Grimaldi into the air. With air observation he could follow their course without having to keep them physically in sight at ground level.

To his surprise, the riders slowed down—whether forced by the thickening traffic on San Juan’s busier streets or by simple design—which allowed him to keep them in sight. Bolan figured they probably planned to lead him into a trap. They could have killed him back there if they’d exercised a bit more caution in their approach, but instead they had chosen to come at him like gangbusters. Maybe their intent had been to lead him away from that neighborhood all the time, which meant either he’d come closer than they liked or they had been prepared for his arrival.