Havana Five

“Yeah, sure,” Stein said. “Look where that got him.”

Crosse waved at a big fly with irritation as he replied, “Whatever. My point is if she decided to stick it to us then she did it under the advice of someone else. Not only is going back on your word in her business considered dishonorable, it’s a surefire way to gain some very unwanted publicity.”

“Just the kind she can’t afford,” Stein interjected.

“Right.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“I say we sit back and wait a little while longer. They’ll give up looking for us pretty fast, I think. Once they do, and assuming we can get out from under the thumbs of these Neanderthals, we ought to be able to find someone who can smuggle us back to the country.”

“We’ll have a lot of explaining to do,” Stein said.

“I’d rather have to explain in front of an inquiry board than a Cuban magistrate. How about you?”

Stein merely nodded his agreement.

“Anyway, it won’t be too much longer.” Crosse experienced a suddenly dry and violent cough. He’d have to get some water soon or he might start pissing blood.

Not too much longer, he thought.

THE FOUR MEN LOITERING in a late-model sedan half a block down on the opposite side of the street tripped Mack Bolan’s senses into high alert.

“See that car?” Bolan asked Grimaldi.

The pilot leaned forward in the seat, scrutinized the occupants, then nodded. “They weren’t there before.”

“I saw it park there ten minutes ago with only the driver. Now I count four inside.”

“I smell trouble,” Grimaldi replied.

“Yeah.” Bolan kept one eye on the vehicle as he looked in the direction of the police station. “Blast it, Rafael. What’s taking so long?”

CONVINCING THE SUBSTATION commander at the Cuban jail that he was nothing more than a consulate-appointed attorney for the America prisoners proved a harder task than Rafael Encizo thought it would be.

In talking with first the cops and then their commandant, Encizo learned to take anything they said at face value. He could tell almost from the beginning that they weren’t forthcoming and didn’t plan to be any time soon. The Cuban warrior had a careful balance to maintain; he needed to keep them talking while acting subservient. Attorneys didn’t command the same respect in Cuba as the U.S. Well, maybe it wasn’t the attorneys as much as the “civil rights” of prisoners. The majority of the populace looked upon criminals as the lowest form of life, and they weren’t afforded more than accommodations.

“What has happened to my clients?” Encizo asked as respectfully as he could manage.

“They have been moved to a different location for their…safety.”

The commandant was a small, thin man with curly hair cut close and streaked with gray.

“You believe they’re in danger?”

“What American who is arrested in Cuba isn’t in danger?” That caused him to laugh at what he had to have considered to be a pretty good joke. “Anyway, for now we have them secured and they aren’t going anywhere.”

“Well, I must speak with them. The American government has insisted they receive proper counsel.”

“And why would the Americans be so concerned about these two men?”

Encizo had to think furiously for an answer. He’d probably let the cat out of the bag a little too soon. Encizo hoped for a faster turnaround but forthrightness didn’t seem like a familiar concept to the commandant. He dealt with thugs and rapists and other such elements every day. He would therefore be suspicious and untrusting of everyone, despite how honorable their intentions might seem.

“It’s not the Americans the magistrate worries about,” Encizo said. “He’s concerned this will draw attention from the press and other undesirables. He wants to make sure no disinformation is sown, particularly back to the American government.”

“And what of it?” the commandant replied. “I have no interest in what the Americans think, particularly the government. They have no jurisdiction here, and their political concerns are no concerns of mine.”

“Maybe not,” Encizo said. “But they are to the magistrate and I may report back to him that you were fully cooperative?”

Something dangerous glinted in the commandant’s eyes, only for a moment, but Encizo pretended not to notice. He realized the risks of such a veiled threat, but it hadn’t escaped the notice of either of them this wasn’t exactly the Mecca of assignments. Most people of influence and power considered Guijarro the armpit of Matanzas—not that it had any greater or lesser qualities than many of the poverty-ridden suburbs around it—but a magistrate’s wishes would always win out over those of a policeman.

“You may thank the magistrate,” the commandant finally replied. “And tell him I will be most cooperative. However, I’m afraid I cannot disclose the location of the prisoners at present. Their safety is my responsibility. I will need a signed writ from the magistrate before I can give you that information.”

Encizo realized an end had come to more diplomatic methods. Somewhere in the conversation, he heard the two officers who’d been in the station leave on a disturbance of some type. That left them alone in the office, and Encizo decided the time had come to implement more effective means of soliciting cooperation. In an instant he launched from his chair and came across the commandant’s desk. Encizo produced his Glock and grabbed a fistful of the commandant’s shirt in one, smooth motion. Encizo hauled him out of his chair and stretched him belly-first across the desk to unbalance him.

“I’ve been nice about this long enough,” Encizo told the commandant. “Tact is over and now you’re going to tell me exactly where you’re holding those two Americans.”

“Wha—!” the commandant began and then he emitted a squeal of outrage. “You are not an attorney!”

Encizo grinned. “You think? Now I’m giving you a chance to make this easy on yourself. I won’t kill you, but I’ll definitely leave you hurting if I don’t start getting answers.”

Oddly enough, the smug and indifferent expression the commandant wore a moment earlier had disappeared. “Okay, okay!”

“Well?”

“They are being held by my men in a room we rent for such things,” the man replied so quickly Encizo almost couldn’t understand him. “They are under heavy guard, though. They will not allow you to get by with my authorization.”

“I’ll manage,” Encizo said. “Where?”

The commandant gave him the name and address of an apartment complex. Encizo didn’t know the place, but the name of the street rang familiar enough that he knew he could find it easily. Encizo looked eye to eye with the commandant, searching for signs of deception, but saw only fear and doubt. The guy figured Encizo wouldn’t keep his word. Of course, Encizo wouldn’t have killed the man—just as he promised—and to hurt him now wouldn’t be of much benefit. He knew the commandant couldn’t tell him anything more of use.

“Looks like your lucky day,” Encizo said.

Before either could say another word, a commotion outside the commandant’s office drew their attention. Grimaldi burst through the rickety doorway, pistol in hand and face flushed. “We got company.”

Encizo nodded and released the commandant. He backed out of the room and kept the muzzle of his pistol in the commandant’s direction. Encizo wouldn’t have put it past the guy to shoot him in the back if the opportunity presented itself.

The pair reached the door, and Encizo peered out in time to see the Executioner go EVA a millisecond before the windshield of their vehicle imploded under a hail of autofire. The Cuban turned his attention to the source of the firing and saw a car screech from the curb and head directly for the jail.

“Looks like we might have a slight delay,” Encizo announced.

THE EVER SO PERCEPTIBLE PUFF of smoke from the tailpipe of the sedan stood as the only clue to Bolan the crew planned to make a move. In that brief lull between the decision and action of their enemy, Bolan instructed Grimaldi to go inside and alert Encizo. The sedan suddenly lurched from the curb just as the soldier had expected. Sunlight glinted on the muzzles of automatic weapons protruding from the passenger windows.

Bolan had set the door ajar a minute earlier, anticipating that kind of move, and his forethought prevented the aggressors from perforating him with a hail of bullets. He rolled out of the vehicle and went prone on the sidewalk, rolling onto his back long enough to slide both Beretta 93-Rs from beneath the folds of the thin, tattered poncho he’d purchased that morning.

Slugs whizzed overhead and ricocheted off the buildings, while others audibly slapped the driver’s side of Encizo’s borrowed jalopy with metallic plinks. Bolan waited until he heard the squeal of tires and opening of doors before he dropped to one knee behind the solid, metal body of the old clunker. Bolan braced his forearms over the trunk of the car, took aim at the gunners as they went EVA, and squeezed the triggers simultaneously.

The Berettas were both set to 3-shot mode, which in the hands of the Executioner were as effective as the submachine guns being toted by his enemies. A trio of 9 mm Parabellum rounds took the first unlucky gunner in the chest, punching red holes in his sternum, exiting out his back, leaving a crimson spray on the door. The impact sent him spinning and dumped him face-first on the rough pavement. The other burst of rounds shattered the back window and sent the others racing for cover to avoid the deadly glass shards.