Brognola grunted. “That’s no tall order. I can have that in five minutes, if need be.”
“I have a better idea,” Bolan said.
“I’m listening.”
“I was thinking maybe I could use a little help on this one,” Bolan said.
“Sounds like a plan. Hold on while I get Barb on the line.”
There was a long pause and then suddenly Barbara Price’s voice broke through. “Hey, Striker. What’s up?”
“I was just saying that some help would be nice on this. What do you have going on with Jack and Rafael right now?”
“Nada,” she said. “In fact, Phoenix Force just got back from a mission, and the guys have been in downtime for the past three days. I think they’re all starting to go a bit stir-crazy.”
“Why not let me take a couple of them off your hands?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Hal told me what’s happened down there so I can fill them in.”
“Do it,” Bolan said. “I’d suggest you don’t send them through official channels. Is Hal still on with us?”
“I’m here,” the head Fed replied.
“Don’t worry about getting me those orders,” Bolan said. “It’s best I make tracks under my own steam. If we start waving too many official documents under the noses of the brass down here, we’re likely to create a whole lot of suspicion.”
“Understood.”
“By the way, Bear’s here with some information on Havana Five that might shed some light on the present situation there.”
That didn’t surprise Bolan in the least. What a single bullet had taken away from Aaron Kurtzman, the man had conquered with intelligence coupled by an indomitable spirit. Bolan had never met anyone better with computers and cybernetic intelligence than the Bear. Kurtzman’s body might have been confined to a wheelchair, but his mind knew practically limitless bounds. The man kept things running in the information field for Stony Man and he’d served tirelessly, feeding the intelligence to the field teams whenever they needed it.
“I think you’ll find this interesting, Striker,” Kurtzman said in his customary booming voice. “Havana Five has quite a history in Cuba, as I’m sure you know. But about seven years ago they had quite a shake-up. One of their alleged members, one Natalio Fuego, was killed by Cuban authorities when he attempted to flee the country illegally. The story was that they caught him dealing in drugs, but nobody could actually prove that charge.”
“Any survivors who might have an ax to grind?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact. His widow, Inez Fuego.”
“I talked to one of our CIA contacts in Havana, Striker,” Price cut in. “It seems Fuego left his missus quite well to do. On the surface, she’s a respected socialite and entrepreneur but under all that beauty and charm she’s apparently a shrewd and ruthless businesswoman.”
“But she didn’t take her husband’s place on Havana Five,” Kurtzman continued. “In fact, there are rumors that she’s actually on the outs with them.”
“But she’s still making money off her late husband’s operations?”
“Yeah,” Brognola said. “Apparently, Havana Five has a share-and-share-alike philosophy. All profits are supposedly split equally. But make no mistake about it. They’re still the largest single crime syndicate ever known to operate in a country that size.”
“Given the fact Melendez made it a point to mention Havana Five to you before he died,” Kurtzman said, “we thought this little fact might be of interest.”
“It is at that. I’ll be sure to follow up on it. Now I’d better run. I have an escape to plan.”
“We’ll get Jack and Rafael airborne as soon as possible,” Price said. “We’ll probably have to fly them into Havana. Will you meet them there?”
“No,” Bolan said. “I have a very specific place I want to start looking. Melendez mentioned it. I think he ran into your missing DIA guys there. Tell them to pick up some wheels and meet me in Matanzas. We have a jail to find.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mack Bolan studied the northwestern perimeter of Guantánamo Bay Naval Station from the cover of a hedge.
The mugginess of the evening air caused him to sweat profusely, but the inner lining of his blacksuit slicked the moisture from his skin. Bolan considered his options. Cyclone barbed wire topped the fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence. The Navy had posted motion sensors every five feet, and Bolan knew from past experience that invisible beams of light ran parallel to the fence. Any break in those beams would cause alarms to sound at the main guard facility and bring down a wave of security forces before Bolan could make egress.
The Executioner knew his escape wouldn’t be easy, but he felt his call to get off the base unofficially would raise less questions than calling down an official inquiry from Stony Man or, worse yet, the Oval Office. Bolan operated in an unofficial capacity for his government, and Brognola couldn’t afford to let the President get taken to task for authorizing covert missions on a military installation.
No, he’d have to go it alone on this one—as usual.
Bolan studied the fence another minute and considered his options. Even if he decided to risk breaking the barrier, he still had no guarantee of getting past the perimeter obstacles before the MPs managed to capture him. And he sure as hell wouldn’t fight them if he did. Long before Bolan had operated against terrorism, he’d gone solo against the Mafia, holding them personally responsible for their part in the death of his father, mother and sister. Even then he’d sworn never to drop the hammer on a law-enforcement officer—he considered them on the same side—and he wasn’t about to compromise that policy now.
However, getting off the base without being captured didn’t concern him; it’s what awaited him on the other side. In the 1980s and 1990s, the DMZ between the U.S. and Cuba had existed as one of the largest minefields in the world. An Executive Order had eventually called for the removal of the mines, but Bolan had to wonder if they got them all; that didn’t even address whether the Cuban government had ever disarmed the land they mined. Insofar as Bolan knew, escape via the DMZ posed too great a risk to life and limb. He’d have to find more conventional means.
The hedge line he’d used for cover ran along the perimeter road of the installation. The road terminated at three separate exits, two of them leading to the airfield and a third into Cuba, used only for official diplomatic purposes. That left one avenue of escape for Bolan, and he planned to fully exploit it. Several cays comprised the whole of the Guantánamo Bay region as well as the Guantánamo River, which ran north from its western feed at the mouth of the bay. Patrols ran at regular intervals along the river both day and night. The Executioner planned to use one of those boats as his outbound ticket.
Bolan made it to the boat ramp unmolested. He crawled the remainder of the fifty yards or so to the mouth of the river and quietly settled into the brackish water. Bolan moved through the river as silent and deadly as a crocodile. He reached one of the two patrol boats, slipped aboard on the blind side of the patrol station and found cover beneath a rear tarp tossed over a pair of equipment crates. Intelligence from Stony Man revealed patrols took off every thirty minutes with another thirty-minute rotation that kept two boats in port at all times. Bolan inspected the luminous dials of his watch. He’d have only seven minutes to wait.
And by the time the base personnel discovered he was missing, the Executioner would be deep in the heart of Cuba.
FOLLOWING A HURRIED DEPARTURE from the U.S., Jack Grimaldi and Rafael Encizo touched down in José Martí International Airport and submitted to inspection. Cuban customs officials subjected neither