Havana Five. Don Pendleton
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can wait,” the soldier replied flatly. “Now, you want to play twenty questions and die or would you like to get out of here alive?”
They stared at him dumbfounded, and Bolan continued down the hallway. The stairwell had been on the front end of motel, which meant there had to be some type of back entrance. Whoever was coming up those steps in force—and Bolan had every reason to think it was the cops springing their trap—might have all sides covered. That was okay, though, because Mack Bolan had a couple surprises of his own.
LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES after Rafael Encizo observed three heavies and their boss enter the motel, trouble erupted.
Encizo hadn’t been real big on Bolan’s plan, but he didn’t try to argue. This was Bolan’s show and they were under strict orders to do exactly as he said. Not that Encizo would have it any other way. Bolan had been at this game longer than just about all of them, and he trusted the man implicitly.
So Encizo waited and watched as the four men disappeared inside the motel. He didn’t have long to wait as Cuban police showed up a few minutes later. The commandant had taken the bait and sprung a trap—just as the Executioner predicted—but the earlier arrival of the as yet unidentified parties might introduce a complication into Bolan’s plan. Either way it didn’t much matter. He had his orders to follow as soon as the Cuban police made entry.
Encizo yanked a big cigar from the seat next to him, lit it, then cranked the radio full-blast and put the Oldsmobile in gear. He swung out onto the otherwise deserted lane and cruised slowly past the line of police vehicles parked in front of the motel. A pair of Cuban cops left to watch the front entrance swung their attention toward him as he passed. Encizo tossed them a salute—just another man out in his slum-mobile looking for a distraction—but the cops didn’t acknowledge him. By the time they passed into view of his side mirror, Encizo could see they had returned their attention to the motel.
He rounded the corner at the end of the block and stopped as soon as he was out of sight. Grimaldi slapped some coins on the table of the café, then vaulted a velvet rope cordoning the café from the sidewalk, dashed across the road and jumped into the passenger seat.
“Need a lift, sailor?” Encizo asked.
“Yeah, but just become I’m easy doesn’t mean I’m cheap,” Grimaldi joked.
Encizo smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
The Cuban took off with a squeal of tires and headed to the narrow alley at the back of the motel. This wouldn’t be quite the subtle exit they’d hoped for but neither of these men was a stranger to the quick getaway. If all went as planned, the Executioner would have two DIA agents in tow, bringing them one step closer to the goal.
Encizo cranked hard on the wheel and swerved into the alley. The vehicle fishtailed a bit on the gravel but Encizo maintained total control. He brought the vehicle to a skidding halt at the back door of the motel, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake that threatened to choke them both out.
“Come on, Sarge,” Grimaldi muttered. “We’re running out of time….”
“Uh-oh,” Encizo cut in.
Grimaldi looked sharply at him. “What?”
Encizo didn’t reply, instead pointing directly ahead of them. Through the haze of dust Grimaldi saw a number of police cruisers turn into the alleyway from an entrance at the other end.
BOLAN IGNORED THE PROTESTS of Stein and Crosse who continued to demand answers where he had no time to give them. The Executioner gritted his teeth. He had conducted many a rescue mission, and he couldn’t remember playing nursemaid to a bigger pair of whiners than these two.
Locating the stairwell, he descended three at a time and stopped once to check the progress of his charges. Bolan watched with mild amusement as the pair stumble-bummed their way down the steps like a comedy team duo. When they caught up to him, Bolan continued the remainder of the way and stopped short at the rear exit. A heavy chain with a padlock secured the door.
“What the fu—?” Crosse began.
“That violates the fire code!” Stein sputtered.
Bolan looked at the pair disbelievingly. “Well, maybe we should stop at the front desk and complain.”
The sound of the second-floor door opening could barely be heard above the rush of footfalls coming toward the rear hallway running the length of the building. A quartet of Cuban officers raced around the corner at the far end. Bolan fired several warning shots above their heads, causing them to scatter for cover, then drove the butt of the pistol against the padlock several times to break it. Bolan disengaged the chain and pushed open the door, then waved the DIA agents through.
As Stein and Crosse passed, Bolan looked back to see the sentry he’d knocked out staggering down the steps, a machine pistol in his grip. The Executioner didn’t know where the guy had managed to get such a weapon on short notice, but he didn’t have to guess how he planned to use it from his expression. Even as the Cuban police fired on him, Bolan thumbed the Beretta to 3-shot mode and squeezed the trigger. A trio of 9 mm Parabellum slugs punched through the submachine gunner’s chest and lifted him off his feet. His back struck the wall and he left a bloody streak against it before he tumbled down the steps. Bolan was out the door before the man’s corpse hit the floor.
The Executioner, less than two steps behind Stein and Crosse, looked up the alleyway and saw more troubles headed toward the waiting Oldsmobile. Bless Encizo and Grimaldi for sticking to the plan. One of the cops had to have leaned out the window and triggered a blast of autofire because the rear-door window shattered as Crosse opened it and leaped inside. One of the rounds ricocheted and struck Stein in the meaty part of the shoulder.
The agent yipped like a dog. Bolan shoved him inside the relative safety of the vehicle and then followed. “Go!”
Encizo, the gearshift already in Reverse, tromped the accelerator before Bolan could close his door. A retaining wall smashed into the door and nearly knocked it from its hinges. Thankfully, the solid metal body held under the torsion and it only managed to rip away a good part of the vinyl interior panel. Bolan got a viselike grip on the door, ignoring the shards of broken glass that bit into his callused hand, and yanked it close.
“Sorry…” Encizo said, head over shoulder, eyes glued to the rear window.
“Let’s try shooting out their tires!” Grimaldi suggested.
Bolan shook his head. “No. We might hit one of them.”
“Who the hell are you guys?” Crosse finally demanded.
“Later,” Bolan said as he pulled a thick gauze pad from one of the slit pockets of his blacksuit and slapped it on Stein’s bloody shoulder wound. He instructed Crosse to apply pressure, then pulled out a second one and wrapped his own hand.
“Well, if anyone’s got an idea, now would be the time to speak up,” Encizo said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“We need a diversion,” Bolan said. “Get something between us so we buy enough time to lose them.”
“Any suggestions?” Encizo asked.
“I have an idea,” Bolan said. “Get onto the highway and head for the coast.”
Encizo nodded and whipped a hard right at the next intersection. Not many major highways ran through Cuba, but a good number of them led to water. Bolan figured the Cuban police would expect them to stick to dry ground, but the Executioner had other ideas.
“You think we can get into open waters, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked.
“No,” Bolan said. “But I’m betting we can make them think we are.”
Encizo steered them onto Highway CC, then immediately flipped onto the interchange for Highway CN as it ran along Bahia de Matanzas. The traffic had become heavier, and the breeze blowing