Havana Five

And for the next half hour, Basilio Melendez talked of two men—Americans being held in a Cuban jail—who spoke of killing Waterston and how they were betrayed by someone inside Havana Five. He also told how they talked to each other in English because the cops weren’t present and he was the only other one in the jail, and how he’d pretended not to speak a word of it. And they talked and talked, and they revealed how they had made a deal with someone to let them in on the location of the training camp, and instead they were betrayed and barely escaped with their necks intact. And finally they had traveled to a remote suburb of Matanzas and purposely got arrested in the hope of evading their unnamed pursuers. It was a wild story.

And Mack Bolan believed every word.

“But you never heard where this training camp was at?” Bolan asked after Melendez finished his narrative.

The Cuban shook his head. “I do not think they knew.”

Bolan rose then. “I’m going to look into this, Melendez. In the meantime, I’ll see about getting you moved off the base and back to the U.S. I think you’ll be safer there.”

“Please, Stone,” Melendez said with pleading eyes. “I care nothing for myself. Like I said, I’m a dead man. But my little sister…she has been good. Please, you must protect her. I will do anything.”

Bolan would only promise he’d look into it and then left the detention facility. He needed to run this new intelligence by Brognola to see what came of it before he’d know the best way to proceed. Stony Man maintained a technological resources network more advanced than anything available to Bolan in the field, and Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman—a cybernetics wizard extraordinaire and intelligence sponge—could run through the scenarios and come back with more sound leads in one-tenth the time it would take Bolan to run down the old fashioned way.

Northrop waited outside, just as he’d promised. “Ready to go, sir?”

“Yeah, let’s head to my billet,” Bolan said as he got into the Hummer.

The trip across the base to the VIP billet area took less than ten minutes. Bolan climbed from the vehicle and retrieved his bag. Northrop disembarked and perfunctorily led him to the private quarters due the rank of a colonel. Northrop engaged him in another minute or so of idle chitchat, showed him where to find the basic amenities, but then obviously sensed Bolan’s wish to be alone and left him to his own devices.

Bolan waited until he heard the Hummer pull away and then went to the phone on a nightstand. He picked up the receiver and froze. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck and his combat sense screamed at him to…

Duck!

The world around him became a whirlwind storm of broken glass and wood shards as the window above the nightstand exploded. Bolan catapulted his body across the bed, snatching his canvas travel bag as he landed on the opposite side and behind relative cover. He reached inside and retrieved the .44 Magnum.

Bolan crossed to a window at the corner of his billet and peered around the light gray curtain. Two men toting machine pistols made a beeline for him. Bolan pushed out the flimsy aluminum frame of the metal screen, tracked on the closer of the pair and squeezed the trigger. A 380-grain boattail slug punched through the man’s chest and blew a hole out his back. He spun under the impact while still in forward motion, and his finger jerked against the trigger of the SMG. A battery of rounds hammered the dirt before man and weapon struck the ground and went silent.

The second gunner realized they had acted hastily and rushed for the cover of a large external air recirculation unit protruding from the ground. He triggered a few volleys of 9 mm rounds in Bolan’s direction. The warrior ducked back to avoid perforation and the rounds either slapped the exterior wall or buzzed angrily past his head. He spun and headed out the front door, sprinting from the billet at an angle, intent on flanking his enemy.

It worked. Bolan managed to clear his line of fire and acquire his opposition in the sights of the Desert Eagle before the man could bring his own weapon to bear. Bolan triggered the weapon twice. The first round of his double-tap caught the gunner in the gut, tearing away a good part of his intestine and stopping the man in his tracks. The second .44 Magnum round hit the man at a point just above the bridge of the nose and continued until it blew out the back of his head in a gory spray of blood, bone and gray matter. The gunman toppled to the ground.

Bolan tracked a 360 with the muzzle of his weapon before relaxing somewhat. He’d been in-country less than two hours and somebody had tried to kill him. He’d have a tough one explaining that to the base Provost Marshal, let alone trying to determine how someone could have compromised his cover so quickly.

Before the Executioner could consider his next option, the sound of the phone ringing inside his billet demanded attention. Bolan sprinted back to the building and snatched the receiver from the cradle midway through the fifth ring.

“Yeah, Stone, here.”

“Colonel Stone, this is Lieutenant Trundle, I’m officer of the day here at the base detention center. You were here a while ago questioning one of our prisoners.”

“Right, Basilio Melendez.”

“I’m sorry to report this, sir, but Melendez was just involved in an altercation with another prisoner. He was stabbed. We’ve transported him to the base infirmary, but he isn’t expected to make it.”

CHAPTER TWO

Calm settled on Inez Fuego as she stood on the rooftop terrace of her mansion and looked upon Havana Bay.

Whitecaps crested the waves that gently rolled in to splash against the beaches and ships in port. The breeze that blew steadily from the bay warmed her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. How she loved her country, especially this time of year, and she thought of Natalio and how he’d loved it, too. She missed him. She missed the hours they spent up here, watching the sea as it seemed to dance across the Havana Bay horizon, seeming to twinkle under the blanket of stars. They would drink and laugh, and then make love as the sun rose at their backs. Then they would lie naked beneath a blanket and talk of their plans.

Havana Five had taken that away from her. After they sent their representatives to inform her of Natalio’s death—the remaining four not even having the courage and respect to pay their respects in person—Fuego swore she would hold them responsible. For years she had remained a silent partner, pretending to concur with their decisions while she actually plotted to remove them forever. It was their incompetence that had brought about the death of her beloved Natalio, not his own, as they had tried to convince her and everyone else, and Fuego intended to make sure they didn’t get away with desecrating the cherished memories of her husband.

The money and good living she had enjoyed at the hands of Havana Five made it only worse. They had ensured she receive the one-sixth payment, Natalio’s legacy as a member of the five. Each of them received an equal portion, in turn, and the remaining sixth was kept in trust, reserved so that Havana Five could always remain self-sufficient even in the event one of them fell.

Natalio had been the youngest of the group; ripped from her arms at the prime age of thirty-nine. Nearly seven years had passed since his death and Fuego’s soul still groaned for his presence. She had never known a stronger man. They were married when she turned sixteen, an arrangement of convenience at first. It quickly turned to something more, and their love grew and matured. Fuego had known from the beginning the nature of Natalio’s business but had chosen to make their marriage work, realizing as time passed that the nature of his business did not necessarily define the nature of him. She’d found Natalio to be a loving and generous man—lending time and money to most anyone in need—and not slothful like his business partners.

Now thirty years old, she remained one of the most eligible widows in all Cuba. She had money, beauty and power; she influenced politicians and business owners; a good many Cuban bachelors longed to possess her body and affections. At nearly five-eleven—a significant height and the gift of lineage in her case—Fuego maintained a figure that looked as if it had been sculpted by Greek artisans. Her tanned, supple skin shown starkly against the cream-colored bathing suit she wore that plunged to a V at the front and exposed her entire back from waist to neck. Dark, wavy hair bounced from her head to her shoulders in a never-ending swirl of cocoa-brown with natural, reddish highlights. The angular line of her cheekbones and jaw gave her an almost Eurasian look while she retained the strong, slender nose of her Spanish roots.

Inez Fuego turned from the rail that ran the length of the parapet wall around the roof. She went to the table where she’d been engrossed in a novel by one of Cuba’s most popular writers. She slid into a thigh-length robe made of silk and sat on a padded cedar lounge chair. She tucked her shapely legs beneath her bottom and poured herself a fresh margarita.

Two men emerged from the stairway ascending to the roof from an entertainment room that occupied nearly half of the third floor of the house. They were dressed in subdued silk shirts and casual slacks. Natalio had never let his house guard come off as loud and brash. He expected them to remain quiet and unobtrusive, convinced that the less conspicuous they were, the more effectively they could do their job. After his death, Fuego had decided to maintain his policy and would not let them adopt the dress like those who worked for the other four heads of Havana Five.

One of the men, Lazaro San Lujan, served as Fuego’s chief enforcer. He moved with the ease and confidence of a professional, the gait of his tall and muscular body practiced. Fuego watched him approach with admiration tempered with amusement. She had always found him handsome and dashing in a sense, and she could tell that although he’d never made an amorous move toward her—before or after the death of Natalio to whom he’d always remained loyal—he wanted her. She could see it in the way he looked at her. He didn’t leer like most men; San Lujan always had too much class for that. No, secretly she felt he harbored a deeper longing for her but he always kept it to himself.

Fuego noticed the disturbed look on his face. “What is it?”

“We have a problem,” he replied.

“How many times have I told you that we never have a problem,” she said, waving casually at a chair.

San Lujan took a seat but Jeronimo Bustos—his second in command and constant companion—remained on his feet and shadowed his boss.

“I forgot,” San Lujan replied. He lit a cigarette before continuing. “Word has it our North American friends were spotted at a jail in Guijarro, just outside of Matanzas. I’ve sent men to check it out but so far they’ve come up empty-handed. The Americans apparently bribed some of the local police to move them to another location.”

“So, they’re willing to go as far as getting arrested to avoid us,” Fuego said, mild amusement in her tone. “That’s not a problem, Lazaro. That’s good, in fact.”

“How is that good, ma’am?” San Lujan asked.

“You still don’t understand.” Fuego shook her head and smiled, then pushed the sunglasses to her head so she could look him square in the eyes. She leaned forward a bit in a conspiratorial fashion. “It means they’re afraid. And that is exactly what I wish them to be. As long as they think I’m after them, they’ll keep their heads down and stay out of my way.”

“I beg to disagree,” San Lujan replied.

“Why?” Fuego looked for any sign of nervousness but she didn’t detect it. Good. San Lujan had always felt open to speak his mind to her husband, and Fuego wanted him to feel the same way now. Without that honesty, Fuego knew she couldn’t trust him and that would spell certain doom to her; San Lujan’s advice had saved her husband’s life and business many times.

San Lujan took a drag from his smoke and said, “These men…they know too much. We cannot risk them falling into the hands of people willing to listen to what they have to say.”

“What they have to say is of no interest to anyone. At least no one inside the country.”

“The Americans have spies here.”

“True, but they’re not aware we’re sponsoring the ELN, and they certainly know nothing of the camp on Juventud. Not even those bastards of Havana Five know of this plan. Besides, we only need keep this quiet a little longer. And once Havana Five is eliminated and I have my revenge, then I shall give you charge of the largest business enterprise ever established in Cuba. And you will like that, eh, Lazaro?”

San Lujan didn’t try to hide his pleasure at the thought. There weren’t too many things that seemed to appeal to him, but the idea of nearly limitless power seemed to be one of them. He, too, had felt the story the men told of Natalio’s death seemed like something less than the truth, and he’d always harbored some guilt for not being there to protect his master.

“Your plans will suffice for now,” San Lujan replied. “But I still worry that your need to avenge Natalio’s death will blind you to other threats. I worry that you’ll fail to see what may very well be right in front of your nose.”

“And you feel it’s your job to protect me from those things. Yes?”

San Lujan nodded.