Читать книгу Havana Five - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

The acrid smell of burned fiber filled the cramped bathroom of the run-down motel, the result of a smoldering cigarette butt between Leslie Crosse’s fingers.

Crosse could barely stand this wretched humidity. It sure was a hell of a lot hotter here than in Washington, and for a moment, he wished he were back there now. This hadn’t turned out as they’d planned. He and Stein had gotten to Cuba as planned, but that’s when it all went very wrong. Andres advised them that Inez Fuego didn’t want to see them—something about their being sloppy and careless—and next thing he knew, he and Stein were running for their lives.

Stein believed Andres to be at the heart of the betrayal, but Crosse didn’t agree. This went well beyond him; Andres was nothing more than a lackey. Fuego had either come to this decision on her own or someone made it for her. There couldn’t be another explanation. At least, that’s what Crosse kept telling himself. It didn’t matter much either way, since they could now write off any hope of finding the ELN terrorist training camp.

“¡Andele!” a deep voice boomed just outside the door, followed by a mad thumping on it.

Crosse jumped, woken from his daydreaming. He rose from the toilet seat, took another drag off the cigarette, screwed his face with the taste, then tossed it in the bowl and flushed. He hadn’t even bothered to take a dump, since he’d been so preoccupied with their present situation. Well, he was experiencing constipation anyway by refusing to drink tap water, and the cops wouldn’t buy them any bottled, goddammit. He and Stein managed to come up with about seventeen hundred in cash between them; not enough for a get out of jail free card, but damn sure enough to bribe the local yokels into letting them wait out a few days in a hotel.

Crosse opened the door and found himself face-to-chest with the biggest of their trio of guards. The guy’s shirt was about two sizes too small for him in the sleeves and his muscular arms threatened to rip the seams. He had unkempt, rather long hair, and his teeth were dark and stained from too much booze and cigarettes and not enough brushing. Not that Crosse intended to point that out.

The man gave him a studious look, his face hard and unyielding, and then his eyes softened a bit and he jerked his head in the direction of the couch. Basically, they had made their prisoners eat, sleep and sit on that damn couch while the three guards spelled each other for trips to the single bedroom with a queen-size mattress. Craftsmen had obviously made that couch from splintered wood and old springs, and then covered it in the roughest fabric known to man.

“What gives with Gorilla Face?” Stein asked Crosse, using the nickname they’d dubbed for the big cop.

The fact none of the guards seemed to speak English made it simpler for them to communicate freely. They agreed not to make mention of very specific things, but general conversation didn’t seem of much consequence to the guards, and they usually reserved any more secretive talks until night fell and the guards all went to sleep—even the ones who were supposed to be out watching in the front room during their shift. Stein had quipped how the lack of discipline really disappointed him, how he’d expected more from Cuba’s finest.

“Aw, I don’t know. He’s got a stick up his ass or something,” Crosse replied.

“When do you think we’re going to get out of here?”

Crosse shrugged dejectedly. “How the fuck should I know? I look like some kind of Oracle to you or something?”

Stein shrugged. “Just wondered if maybe you had an idea.”

“I don’t.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Crosse let the silence lapse between them awhile. He really admired Stein in a lot of ways, but sometimes—as a partner quite often does—Stein irritated the living shit out of him. He felt bad taking his foul mood out on the guy, the one guy who had stuck with him for the past ten years. No matter what happened, no matter what kind of shit went down, Stein had been there. Stein backed him when the ethics committee questioned him during a shooting board inquiry, and again one other time when his superiors questioned him about missing drug evidence. In both cases, Crosse had actually been clean. In fact, Crosse had never accepted graft, never brutalized a suspect—at least not that any cop would have considered justifiable. And while he’d bent a few rules, he couldn’t ever remember having abused his authority.

But now he couldn’t help the uncertainty and irritation of knowing he’d crossed the line; not once but three times in the past twenty-four hours. They had made a deal with a known criminal in a foreign country, killed an American military officer and stolen top-secret documents belonging to the government. Now, to rub salt in the wound, they had to remain cooped up in this stinking hell-hole with these goat farmers.

“Sorry,” he muttered after a time. “I’m a little bent about this shit.”

“Forget it,” Stein said. “You know, I’ve been letting this run through my mind since we hooked up with Andres out there. It just doesn’t add up, Les. None of it adds up.”

“It seems pretty simple to me. We stepped on our dicks. We got sloppy and someone decided to renege on our deal with Fuego.”

“You mean Fuego reneged.”

“No,” Crosse countered, “I mean someone reneged. I don’t think she had anything to do with it. I think somebody else made the decision. Maybe she decided to go along with it, but it wasn’t her idea.”

“What makes you think so?”

“You read the same case files I did on the criminal elements down here. You don’t get very far in a business like hers if you go around screwing everybody you meet. She’s always had a good reputation as an honest businesswoman, just like her old man.”

“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.

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.”