Havana Five

In his periphery, Bolan saw his allies join him. Encizo fired from a standing position above the roof of the car and took out his man with a head shot over the roof of the enemy’s sedan. The remaining gunner tried to move away from the vehicle and make a beeline for cover, but Bolan and Encizo caught him simultaneously with unerring accuracy. The man danced under the onslaught as slugs drilled through his stomach and chest. Encizo finished it with a round to the neck. Hot blood and tissue erupted from the wound and left a gaping hole where the throat had been. The man toppled to the ground.

Grimaldi focused his attention on the driver. The windshield splintered under the first two rounds, a large part broke away on number three, and two more succeeded in finishing the job. A geyser of blood and brain matter splattered the dash and side window as the driver’s head exploded. The echo of gunfire died and in the near distance the wail of sirens signaled the approach of the Cuban police.

“Looks like the commandant got to a phone,” Encizo told Bolan as he reached inside the vehicle from the passenger side and popped the trunk.

“I’ll fret later,” Bolan replied. He jerked his thumb at the car. “Better not to take this. It’ll draw too much attention.”

“Or this,” he said, holding up the satchel filled with C-4 plastique with all the trimmings. “We should be able to lose them on foot.”

Once they made some distance, Bolan asked, “You get a location on Stein and Crosse?”

“Yeah,” Encizo said with a nod. “They’re holed up in a motel not too far from here.”

“They’re under guard, I assume.”

“Of course.”

Grimaldi shook his head and groaned. “Our luck just keeps getting better.”

“I suppose you realize that commandant will call in reinforcements to ambush us at the motel,” Encizo said.

A ghost of a smile crossed Bolan’s face. “I’m counting on it.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Hal Brognola sat in his office and tried to maintain his cool.

It wasn’t often the President of the United States decided to call a personal meet, and particularly not on Stony Man’s home turf. The Farmhouse and Annex remained top secret, their locations known by a select few, and the Man rarely opted to pay them a personal visit. With the press and staff constantly nipping at his heels, such a request could compromise the Farm’s security.

On this occasion, however, the President had informed Brognola he’d be traveling incognito and even the Secret Service wouldn’t accompany him. This didn’t worry the head Fed any, since he knew the President came under escort of three of the most capable warriors ever fashioned by hellfire: together they formed the urban Able Team. The President’s unconventional request worried Brognola simply because he knew him to be a pragmatist. If he was requesting a personal meeting, then that meant it was damned important.

Brognola left his office and climbed the old secret stairwell that led to the first floor of the farmhouse. Maybe a brisk walk around the grounds would take his mind off the upcoming meet. Beside the fact, more pressing matters on Striker’s mission—a mission he was sure had prompted the Man’s request for a personal meeting—demanded his immediate attention.

So far, they didn’t have much to go on. The fact someone had tried to terminate the Executioner within hours of his arrival at Guantánamo Bay perplexed the Stony Man chief most of all. Nobody outside of immediate personnel knew Brognola had contacted Bolan about the potential troubles brewing in Cuba, let alone they would have gathered enough details to pick up Bolan’s scent, track him to a secured U.S. naval installation and then kill him. That left only one possible answer: somebody on the inside of the military prison at Gitmo knew Bolan had questioned Melendez and decided to make sure the Executioner took that information to the grave.

But who and why? Those were two questions for which Brognola didn’t have answers. Even Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman had been left at a loss for suggestions. Well, they sure as hell needed to find out. And as Bolan had pointed out, the fact somebody was willing to risk an open killing meant there was probably merit to what Melendez had told them before his untimely demise.

Brognola walked the perimeter of the wood line and considered their decision to send Grimaldi and Encizo; he wouldn’t second-guess Bolan’s request. The Stony Man chief had learned long ago not to question the men in the field. They were hardened and experienced warriors who knew what was what. They were there under the direst of circumstances, not Brognola or Price, hence his reason for a hands-off policy when it came to making operational decisions at the field level. Brognola never armchair quarter-backed an operation before and he didn’t plan to start now.

Unfortunately they had minimal intelligence up to this point. Operations inside Cuba were always difficult, at best, since they couldn’t operate as freely as in other countries. Moreover, the political waves created by the waning health of Cuba’s leader caused increasing unrest in the country’s citizens. There were social underpinnings to consider, as well, and the talk in certain circles of its bleak socioeconomic and political future wouldn’t make things easier for Bolan and his crew. Fortunately, money could still do quite a bit of talking down there, and in context they had an almost limitless supply of cash in the coffers if the need arose for it.

Movement on Brognola’s right penetrated his train of thought as effectively as a lithe form penetrated the tree line.

“You startled me,” Brognola declared.

Barbara Price half smiled. “Maybe you’re losing your edge.”

“Maybe I was only kidding and I just wanted you to think you took me off guard.”

“Whatever gets you through the day,” she said.

They didn’t often trade in this type of playful banter, but Brognola guessed Price had indulged in the same recent edginess he experienced at hearing of the President’s imminent arrival.

“Out trying to clear the old noggin some?” he asked.

She nodded. “I suppose. You headed back to the farmhouse?”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I walk with you, cool down?”

“Not at all.”

Price did a little deep breathing before saying, “This deal with Striker’s recent discoveries in Cuba had me racking my brain most of the morning. I thought maybe a jog through the woods might shake loose a prophetic moment.”

“Yeah,” Brognola said. “I decided to take a walk in hope of finding an epiphany of my own. I assume you finished your dissemination on Havana Five?”

“Yes. And before you ask, I didn’t find much, not of consequence anyway.”

“Maybe what we gave Striker will be enough,” Brognola said. “Between him and Rafael, they’ll figure out the rest.”

“Sounds like he’s still convinced the two Americans Melendez overheard are our missing DIA agents.”

“Right. What I can’t figure is why they would have killed Colonel Waterston.”

“Doesn’t seem to fit the profile of either of them,” Price said. “I took a thorough look into their dossiers. Stein and Crosse were both decorated veterans of Desert Storm, ranked high in their respective classes at the federal law enforcement training center and Quantico, and outside of obviously trumped-up charges a couple of times in Crosse’s career, neither of them has been in any type of trouble. I even talked to a former supervisor at the DIA. He says they were top of the line.”

“Sounds like a couple of regular poster boys for the DIA,” Brognola replied with a grunt.

“Indeed.”

“Okay, so we can assume one of two things. Either what Striker got from Melendez was flawed in some way or Stein and Crosse really did kill Waterston. If we say the latter scenario’s the most likely right now given the fact Waterston’s MIA, then that would indicate an act of desperation.”

“Or an accident,” Price pointed out.

“I hadn’t considered that possibility,” Brognola admitted. “That’s good. Now maybe we’re getting somewhere. But even if we’re correct, and right now it’s all just conjecture, that still doesn’t explain how Havana Five figures into all of this.”

“Well, Melendez definitely tied those things together when Striker interrogated them,” Price said. “Melendez was betting his life on it, which means there has to be a connection.”

“Right,” Brognola said. “And it’s our job to find out what that is. Striker’s operating on thin intelligence. We need to come up with something solid, and quickly.”

“Well, there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to figure out what’s going on even if they find Stein and Crosse,” Price said. “All we can do is our best to find the answers Striker needs. I won’t rest until we do that.”

“I know.” Brognola looked in the direction of the farmhouse with absence. “We’d better get inside and cleaned up. The Man will be here within the hour.”

PER BROGNOLA’S INSTRUCTIONS, Able Team escorted the President to the War Room as soon as they arrived.

Brognola and Price awaited him there, and Able Team made a quick exit to nearby posts that were out of the room but still provided them access to the Man in less than ten seconds. Not that they were overly concerned. Nobody knew of the President’s visit and he planned to be here for less than a half hour.