Havana Five. Don Pendleton
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in protest.
“We might actually lose them if we don’t throw a rod first,” Encizo noted.
“Not a chance,” Grimaldi countered. “This puppy has four barrels riding in a 307 V8. Classic!”
“This is insane,” Crosse muttered.
“Quit your bellyaching,” Stein said. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”
“Why don’t you both keep still,” Bolan said. He leaned forward in the seat and peered out the front windshield. He pointed to a bright blue sign. “There’s an exit for the bay. Take that.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Encizo quipped. The Cuban waited until the last second, then pumped the brakes and swerved onto the exit. As they dropped toward the underpass, the flashing blue lights of Cuban police vehicles disappeared from view. By some miracle, it appeared they were slowly outdistancing the cops. Not surprising given the small police vehicles were no match for the Ninety-Eight’s engine. As Grimaldi had pointed out, this was one powerful ride.
Encizo blew the red light at the bottom of the heel but executed a perfect power slide into the intersection and didn’t hit a single vehicle. He accelerated smoothly toward the bay amidst an angry blare of horns and swearing drivers. Bolan could feel the floorboards vibrate as the Ninety-Eight effortlessly powered its five passengers toward freedom.
“The guys we ran into back there,” Bolan said to Stein and Crosse. “Any idea who they were?”
“No,” Stein replied.
“Why are you asking us?” Crosse said with a snort of disbelief. “Don’t you know?”
Bolan’s face took on a hard edge. “We’ll get into that later, Crosse. Right now, you two have some explaining to do. Where’s Colonel Waterston?”
“How the hell should we—?”
“Dead,” Stein said. “We killed him.”
“Shut up, Dominic!” Crosse snapped.
“Why? What the hell difference does it make now?” he asked his partner. “They obviously know what’s up, or they wouldn’t have sent someone to risk their necks pulling us out of this.”
“Shut up, Dominic,” Crosse repeated.
“Enough,” Bolan said, making the threat implicit in his tone. “Neither of you is up for a medal.”
“End of the road, Striker,” Encizo said.
Ahead, the road terminated at a small, deserted parking area bordering Bahia de Matanzas. Encizo started to slow, but Bolan placed a hand on his shoulder. The Cuban locked eyes with him in the rearview mirror and knew immediately what the Executioner had in mind. He gunned the accelerator and jumped the curb. The wheels bit into the sand and spun, but a repeated jerking of the steering wheel gave them traction.
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