Havana Five

Northrop waited outside, just as he’d promised. “Ready to go, sir?”

“Yeah, let’s head to my billet,” Bolan said as he got into the Hummer.

The trip across the base to the VIP billet area took less than ten minutes. Bolan climbed from the vehicle and retrieved his bag. Northrop disembarked and perfunctorily led him to the private quarters due the rank of a colonel. Northrop engaged him in another minute or so of idle chitchat, showed him where to find the basic amenities, but then obviously sensed Bolan’s wish to be alone and left him to his own devices.

Bolan waited until he heard the Hummer pull away and then went to the phone on a nightstand. He picked up the receiver and froze. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck and his combat sense screamed at him to…

Duck!

The world around him became a whirlwind storm of broken glass and wood shards as the window above the nightstand exploded. Bolan catapulted his body across the bed, snatching his canvas travel bag as he landed on the opposite side and behind relative cover. He reached inside and retrieved the .44 Magnum.

Bolan crossed to a window at the corner of his billet and peered around the light gray curtain. Two men toting machine pistols made a beeline for him. Bolan pushed out the flimsy aluminum frame of the metal screen, tracked on the closer of the pair and squeezed the trigger. A 380-grain boattail slug punched through the man’s chest and blew a hole out his back. He spun under the impact while still in forward motion, and his finger jerked against the trigger of the SMG. A battery of rounds hammered the dirt before man and weapon struck the ground and went silent.

The second gunner realized they had acted hastily and rushed for the cover of a large external air recirculation unit protruding from the ground. He triggered a few volleys of 9 mm rounds in Bolan’s direction. The warrior ducked back to avoid perforation and the rounds either slapped the exterior wall or buzzed angrily past his head. He spun and headed out the front door, sprinting from the billet at an angle, intent on flanking his enemy.

It worked. Bolan managed to clear his line of fire and acquire his opposition in the sights of the Desert Eagle before the man could bring his own weapon to bear. Bolan triggered the weapon twice. The first round of his double-tap caught the gunner in the gut, tearing away a good part of his intestine and stopping the man in his tracks. The second .44 Magnum round hit the man at a point just above the bridge of the nose and continued until it blew out the back of his head in a gory spray of blood, bone and gray matter. The gunman toppled to the ground.

Bolan tracked a 360 with the muzzle of his weapon before relaxing somewhat. He’d been in-country less than two hours and somebody had tried to kill him. He’d have a tough one explaining that to the base Provost Marshal, let alone trying to determine how someone could have compromised his cover so quickly.

Before the Executioner could consider his next option, the sound of the phone ringing inside his billet demanded attention. Bolan sprinted back to the building and snatched the receiver from the cradle midway through the fifth ring.

“Yeah, Stone, here.”

“Colonel Stone, this is Lieutenant Trundle, I’m officer of the day here at the base detention center. You were here a while ago questioning one of our prisoners.”

“Right, Basilio Melendez.”

“I’m sorry to report this, sir, but Melendez was just involved in an altercation with another prisoner. He was stabbed. We’ve transported him to the base infirmary, but he isn’t expected to make it.”

CHAPTER TWO

Calm settled on Inez Fuego as she stood on the rooftop terrace of her mansion and looked upon Havana Bay.

Whitecaps crested the waves that gently rolled in to splash against the beaches and ships in port. The breeze that blew steadily from the bay warmed her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. How she loved her country, especially this time of year, and she thought of Natalio and how he’d loved it, too. She missed him. She missed the hours they spent up here, watching the sea as it seemed to dance across the Havana Bay horizon, seeming to twinkle under the blanket of stars. They would drink and laugh, and then make love as the sun rose at their backs. Then they would lie naked beneath a blanket and talk of their plans.

Havana Five had taken that away from her. After they sent their representatives to inform her of Natalio’s death—the remaining four not even having the courage and respect to pay their respects in person—Fuego swore she would hold them responsible. For years she had remained a silent partner, pretending to concur with their decisions while she actually plotted to remove them forever. It was their incompetence that had brought about the death of her beloved Natalio, not his own, as they had tried to convince her and everyone else, and Fuego intended to make sure they didn’t get away with desecrating the cherished memories of her husband.

The money and good living she had enjoyed at the hands of Havana Five made it only worse. They had ensured she receive the one-sixth payment, Natalio’s legacy as a member of the five. Each of them received an equal portion, in turn, and the remaining sixth was kept in trust, reserved so that Havana Five could always remain self-sufficient even in the event one of them fell.

Natalio had been the youngest of the group; ripped from her arms at the prime age of thirty-nine. Nearly seven years had passed since his death and Fuego’s soul still groaned for his presence. She had never known a stronger man. They were married when she turned sixteen, an arrangement of convenience at first. It quickly turned to something more, and their love grew and matured. Fuego had known from the beginning the nature of Natalio’s business but had chosen to make their marriage work, realizing as time passed that the nature of his business did not necessarily define the nature of him. She’d found Natalio to be a loving and generous man—lending time and money to most anyone in need—and not slothful like his business partners.

Now thirty years old, she remained one of the most eligible widows in all Cuba. She had money, beauty and power; she influenced politicians and business owners; a good many Cuban bachelors longed to possess her body and affections. At nearly five-eleven—a significant height and the gift of lineage in her case—Fuego maintained a figure that looked as if it had been sculpted by Greek artisans. Her tanned, supple skin shown starkly against the cream-colored bathing suit she wore that plunged to a V at the front and exposed her entire back from waist to neck. Dark, wavy hair bounced from her head to her shoulders in a never-ending swirl of cocoa-brown with natural, reddish highlights. The angular line of her cheekbones and jaw gave her an almost Eurasian look while she retained the strong, slender nose of her Spanish roots.

Inez Fuego turned from the rail that ran the length of the parapet wall around the roof. She went to the table where she’d been engrossed in a novel by one of Cuba’s most popular writers. She slid into a thigh-length robe made of silk and sat on a padded cedar lounge chair. She tucked her shapely legs beneath her bottom and poured herself a fresh margarita.

Two men emerged from the stairway ascending to the roof from an entertainment room that occupied nearly half of the third floor of the house. They were dressed in subdued silk shirts and casual slacks. Natalio had never let his house guard come off as loud and brash. He expected them to remain quiet and unobtrusive, convinced that the less conspicuous they were, the more effectively they could do their job. After his death, Fuego had decided to maintain his policy and would not let them adopt the dress like those who worked for the other four heads of Havana Five.

One of the men, Lazaro San Lujan, served as Fuego’s chief enforcer. He moved with the ease and confidence of a professional, the gait of his tall and muscular body practiced. Fuego watched him approach with admiration tempered with amusement. She had always found him handsome and dashing in a sense, and she could tell that although he’d never made an amorous move toward her—before or after the death of Natalio to whom he’d always remained loyal—he wanted her. She could see it in the way he looked at her. He didn’t leer like most men; San Lujan always had too much class for that. No, secretly she felt he harbored a deeper longing for her but he always kept it to himself.

Fuego noticed the disturbed look on his face. “What is it?”

“We have a problem,” he replied.

“How many times have I told you that we never have a problem,” she said, waving casually at a chair.

San Lujan took a seat but Jeronimo Bustos—his second in command and constant companion—remained on his feet and shadowed his boss.

“I forgot,” San Lujan replied. He lit a cigarette before continuing. “Word has it our North American friends were spotted at a jail in Guijarro, just outside of Matanzas. I’ve sent men to check it out but so far they’ve come up empty-handed. The Americans apparently bribed some of the local police to move them to another location.”

“So, they’re willing to go as far as getting arrested to avoid us,” Fuego said, mild amusement in her tone. “That’s not a problem, Lazaro. That’s good, in fact.”

“How is that good, ma’am?” San Lujan asked.

“You still don’t understand.” Fuego shook her head and smiled, then pushed the sunglasses to her head so she could look him square in the eyes. She leaned forward a bit in a conspiratorial fashion. “It means they’re afraid. And that is exactly what I wish them to be. As long as they think I’m after them, they’ll keep their heads down and stay out of my way.”

“I beg to disagree,” San Lujan replied.

“Why?” Fuego looked for any sign of nervousness but she didn’t detect it. Good. San Lujan had always felt open to speak his mind to her husband, and Fuego wanted him to feel the same way now. Without that honesty, Fuego knew she couldn’t trust him and that would spell certain doom to her; San Lujan’s advice had saved her husband’s life and business many times.

San Lujan took a drag from his smoke and said, “These men…they know too much. We cannot risk them falling into the hands of people willing to listen to what they have to say.”

“What they have to say is of no interest to anyone. At least no one inside the country.”

“The Americans have spies here.”

“True, but they’re not aware we’re sponsoring the ELN, and they certainly know nothing of the camp on Juventud. Not even those bastards of Havana Five know of this plan. Besides, we only need keep this quiet a little longer. And once Havana Five is eliminated and I have my revenge, then I shall give you charge of the largest business enterprise ever established in Cuba. And you will like that, eh, Lazaro?”

San Lujan didn’t try to hide his pleasure at the thought. There weren’t too many things that seemed to appeal to him, but the idea of nearly limitless power seemed to be one of them. He, too, had felt the story the men told of Natalio’s death seemed like something less than the truth, and he’d always harbored some guilt for not being there to protect his master.

“Your plans will suffice for now,” San Lujan replied. “But I still worry that your need to avenge Natalio’s death will blind you to other threats. I worry that you’ll fail to see what may very well be right in front of your nose.”

“And you feel it’s your job to protect me from those things. Yes?”

San Lujan nodded.

Fuego reached forward and patted his knee. “You’re a good and loyal man, Lazaro. I hope you never lose those qualities. They are what made you more than just an employee to my husband. They are why you were so valuable to him and why you are valuable to me now.”

“Thank you.”

“If you feel the Americans pose a threat, then I trust you’ll find them and dispose of them properly. I don’t want to know about it. It distracts me from more important matters.”

“Understood.”

“Is that all?”

“For now.” San Lujan rose and signaled Bustos to follow.

When the two men were gone, Fuego gestured for a servant to bring her the satellite phone. She had paid a pretty penny to make sure any conversations were totally secured. While she didn’t feel much of a threat from officials within the Cuban government, there were other ears belonging to the less discreet. Some of them were foreign ears working for espionage agencies in places like Mexico, Colombia and particularly the U.S. Fuego dialed a twenty-five digit number into the phone and there were several clicks and bursts of static as the communications system kicked in to encrypt the carrier wave. Fuego knew exactly where that signal led: to a similar phone of the National Liberation Army commander who oversaw the training force on Juventud Island.

He answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“Hello, Ignacio. How are things proceeding with the new clothing line?” Despite her confidence in the secure satellite communications, Fuego had advised the leader of her private army that they would maintain ambiguous communications. They had even developed their own private language style so that each phrase had particular meaning. To anyone listening, and particularly if the communications had to go through a translator, it would sound as if they were conducting simple daily business.

“Well, thank you, ma’am. I believe we shall be ready to deliver your goods within a few weeks.”

“And you will meet the quota specified in our supplier’s contract?”

“I think so,” he replied. “In fact, I believe we shall probably exceed it.”

“That’s excellent news, thank you. I will inform the board of directors at our next meeting. Please don’t hesitate to call me should you need additional resources.”

“I understand.”

“Good day, Ignacio.”

“Good day, ma’am.”

Fuego hung up the phone and could barely suppress a shudder of excitement. They would be ready to commence operations against Havana Five within three days, the “few weeks” Colonel Hurtado had actually referenced during their conversation. He also wouldn’t need any additional men. His confirmation of delivering the “goods” had actually meant that the weapons and other explosives she arranged to deliver to him were in place and had passed inspection to Hurtado’s satisfaction. With the last of the pieces in place, Fuego realized she would have her revenge soon.

Yes, she would make them pay for the death of her beloved Natalio at long last.

“WE’VE BEEN COMPROMISED,” Mack Bolan told Brognola.

“Lay it out for me,” the big Fed replied, and Bolan did.

When he’d finished listening, Brognola said, “How’s the pressure from the brass at Guantánamo Bay?”

“They’re concerned,” Bolan replied. “But without hard evidence to tie Melendez’s death to the attempt on me, the Provost Marshal doesn’t have much to go on. The base commander did take the PM’s recommendation that I not be allowed off base without official orders from the Pentagon.”

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 of them to more than a cursory inspection with paperwork and appearances impeccable, practically above reproach, but well-worn enough to satisfy their cover story. Once in-country, they quickly acquired transportation and headed toward their final destination in accordance with Bolan’s instructions. Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man’s ace pilot, had been a part of the Executioner’s War Everlasting from nearly the beginning.

The intense-looking man accompanying Grimaldi on the mission had quite a different history to tell. Quite a while had passed since Rafael Encizo last walked on the soil of his birth country. While Encizo had always taken pride in his Cuban heritage, he owed his life and career to Stony Man. A member of Phoenix Force, one of America’s elite antiterrorist teams, Encizo possessed deadly skills as a knife-fighter, demolitions expert and tactician in jungle warfare.

Encizo had passed on the rental car in favor of borrowing a loaner from a local contact. He told Grimaldi, “Rental plates will draw attention. Something we definitely don’t want.”

Grimaldi nodded. “It’s your show, Rafe.”

The men also retrieved the provisions left in the trunk by a Stony Man contact, which included a SIG P-239 for Grimaldi, a Glock Model 21 as favored by Encizo and a pair of MP-5 SD-6 submachine guns. They also had a second Beretta 93-R and an FN FNC carbine assault rifle for delivery to the Executioner upon their rendezvous. Stony Man had even included a satchel filled with enough C-4 to level a small house. The men donned their respective sidearms and concealed them in shoulder holsters before embarking on their journey to Matanzas.