Diplomacy Directive

Bolan considered his next move, deciding if a closer look on foot would be worth it, but he didn’t get the chance to act on that thought. A flash of light reflecting off metal winked in his side mirror and drew his attention. He spotted a quartet of motorcycles with black-clad riders as they rode up on his vehicle with the muzzles of wicked-looking machine pistols leveled in his direction. Bolan went horizontal in the seat in time to avoid a maelstrom of autofire. High-velocity rounds shattered the front and rear side windows and left shards of glass to rain down on Bolan in their wake. The soldier folded up the center console, slid over to the passenger door and went EVA.

By the time he’d rolled to the relative safety of cover behind the SUV and gained his feet, the four motorcycles were making their turn for a second pass. Bolan reached into the glove box and came away with his Desert Eagle. The massive, stainless-steel pistol had become a faithful ally in moments such as these. Since Bolan didn’t have easy access or time to get to the heavier weaponry, the .44 Magnum hand-cannon would fill the void.

Bolan took up position just forward of the A-frame post, leveled the weapon in a two-handed Weaver grip and sighted on the closest rider. He squeezed the trigger and the weapon thundered as a Cor-Bon 305-grain full-metal-jacket round left the barrel at 1,600 feet per second. The round struck the motorcyclist in the chest as he was triggering his own weapon. The motorcycle seemed to shimmy a moment beneath the rider before the impact drove him from the saddle. The motorcycle continued on an erratic path for another twenty yards or so before crashing to the pavement about the same time as did its rider.

Bolan had already tracked on another rider and triggered his second round. The big weapon boomed again in the noonday air with equally satisfying results. The man’s head exploded inside his helmet, and a crimson spray washed over the face shield. The handlebars appeared to become wrenched from the rider’s grasp, and the bike made a sudden and awkward turn to the right before sliding against the pavement and dragging the deceased rider along with it for a fair distance.

The remaining two motorcyclists were now even with the Executioner and opened up simultaneously. Bolan ducked behind the SUV, which protected him from the volley of fresh rounds. He heard them slap into the metal and fiberglass body of the SUV, absorbing the impact with a noisy chatter of protest as round after round chewed through the thin skin of the vehicle and lodged deep in its frame or pebbled the safety glass of the windshield.

Bolan waited until they passed, then climbed inside the cab and cranked the engine. He whipped the steering wheel into a hard left as he gunned the engine. The vehicle left its spot at the curb, tires smoking as Bolan powered into an intercept course. Or at least that’s what he’d planned. But the riders no longer appeared interested in sticking around. With their numbers halved they seemed more concerned with escaping their enemy’s fury. Bolan meant to see to it they didn’t get off so easy with their hit-and-git; the Executioner wouldn’t be anybody’s target for a sucker play like that.

The soldier put his foot to the floor and kept one eye on the motorcyclists, who were rapidly widening the gap between them. If they decided to split up, the entire pursuit might turn out to be for nothing, but he couldn’t worry about such petty details. As long as he could keep at least one of them in sight, he’d be in good shape. At the moment he wished he could get Grimaldi into the air. With air observation he could follow their course without having to keep them physically in sight at ground level.

To his surprise, the riders slowed down—whether forced by the thickening traffic on San Juan’s busier streets or by simple design—which allowed him to keep them in sight. Bolan figured they probably planned to lead him into a trap. They could have killed him back there if they’d exercised a bit more caution in their approach, but instead they had chosen to come at him like gangbusters. Maybe their intent had been to lead him away from that neighborhood all the time, which meant either he’d come closer than they liked or they had been prepared for his arrival.

A leak inside Fonseca’s office? Possible, but highly unlikely. Fonseca had told him when he first gave up the address it might not lead Bolan to much. Their intelligence on the Independents was sketchy, at best, and was practically nonexistent on the enemies of the political guerrillas and sworn enemies of the group. So if Bolan had barked up the wrong tree and wasn’t really presenting any sort of threat, why not simply let him go about his business until they had reason to interfere? No, Bolan’s arrival in Puerto Rico had obviously shaken up someone and the warrior meant to find out just who it was.

The pursuit continued along the narrow backstreets, and as traffic increased it became a more perilous journey. Within ten minutes they were back in the heaviest urban sections and the chase hadn’t lost any intensity. It seemed almost surreal as other drivers who passed him looked at his bullet-riddled vehicle with expressions that ranged from mild curiosity to utter shock. A few more minutes elapsed and the motorcycles suddenly turned onto a side street that led south out of the city. Bolan continued following at a distance, now curious more than intent on catching the motorcyclists and dispensing some good old-fashioned street justice. Obviously they wanted him to tail them, and they were doing a good job of keeping far enough ahead so he could follow them, but not so close as to arouse his suspicions.

More trouble seemed to appear out of nowhere as Bolan realized he’d picked up a tail. He wondered for a moment if they had put a car on him in the rear position, but then he dismissed it. This driver was no professional. If the enemy bothered to set up a way to box him in, they wouldn’t send anyone so sloppy. His pursuer had little to no experience in the fine art of inconspicuously tailing a vehicle. An amateur all the way, and that meant someone who could get in harm’s way.

Bolan’s eyes alternated between the motorcyclists and the tail. Eventually they got off the highway exit and proceeded along a dusty road. The Executioner figured if he was headed into an ambush, this would be the perfect spot, and this time he meant to be prepared. He waited until the dust obscured his vehicle at both front and rear, then steered off the road and maneuvered into a thick stand of brush. Bolan bailed from the driver’s seat and scrambled over the rear seat to the storage area. He saw the trail of the vehicle that had been following him continue past without slowing—the driver hadn’t even spotted him.

Yeah, definitely an amateur.

Bolan retrieved several 30-round detachable box magazines loaded with 5.56 mm NATO rounds. They fit the next item he withdrew from the weapons bag, a carbine version of the Fabrique Nationale FNC. The weapon packed the versatility of a full-auto assault rifle in a virtual submachine gun profile. In fact, the FNC was often mistaken for the HK33 at first glance, but the two were quite different in a number of ways. Bolan had come to prefer this assault weapon above almost all others because of its reliability in close-quarters combat.

The Executioner performed a final check on the weapon before locking and loading. Then he placed it on the seat, backed from cover and onto the road, and proceeded in the direction he’d been heading. Now he had both the enemy and the unknown tail in front of him; they would either be surprised to encounter each other or realize both of them had been duped. In any respect, they had made the mistake of putting the ball in play.

And the Executioner was a veteran of this particular game.

THE RED-CLAY ROAD, pockmarked with ruts and divots, terminated at a copse of tall pinnate palms that formed a natural canopy over it. From this point it appeared to end, but through the windshield Bolan observed the fresh tire tracks that seemed to pass into the dark, variegated brush beyond that point. The soldier put the SUV in Reverse, traveled roughly fifty feet, then downshifted to Drive and gunned the engine.

The tires churned rocks and dust in their wake as the SUV lurched into motion and crashed through the brush into a natural, jungle darkness beyond. As Bolan had suspected, there was a man-made road beyond the concealed entrance and through the gloom ahead he could see a wood-and-barbed-wire gate positioned between thick, makeshift posts. The soldier poured on the speed and would have crashed through the gate, but was stopped short by the sudden appearance of the vehicle that had tailed him.

Bolan swung the wheel to the right to avoid crashing into the side of the car, but the move put him on a collision course with a massive tree trunk. He leaned on the brakes, but the tires found no purchase on the slick, mossy ground and the front end of the SUV slammed into the tree hard enough to deploy the air bags. Bolan snatched the FNC off the seat and exited the vehicle at the same time as the other driver bailed. He turned the weapon in the driver’s direction.

The Executioner took in the entire scene within a heartbeat and his combat senses negated the petite, dark-haired woman as a threat. The half-dozen armed men approaching from the opposite side of the gate, however, were another matter entirely. Bolan managed to reach the young beauty just in time to drag her down behind the cover of her sedan. The air around them came alive with a metal storm of rounds that whizzed overhead like a horde of angry bees.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

Bolan grimaced. “Later. Now get in.”

She tensed at first, standing her ground, but let Bolan haul her into the front seat. The woman got her legs in under her own power before Bolan slid behind the wheel and whipped the nose of the sedan into a collision course with the gate. As he picked up speed, Bolan stuck the FNC out the driver’s window and triggered it one-handed to keep the gunners’ heads down. The sedan, while small, did a fair job of smashing into the makeshift gate and ripping the pine frame from the uprights, which were obviously dry-rotted from the elements.

Bolan rammed into one of the gunmen who didn’t get out of his path quite fast enough. The guy’s head connected hard with the windshield at an awkward angle and produced an audible crack. Bolan swung the muzzle of the FNC into acquisition on two more targets and snapped off a few short bursts. Brass shells ejected from the weapon and tinkled against the metal body of the sedan, followed by screams of agony as the pair fell under the Executioner’s marksmanship.

The soldier ordered the woman to keep her head down as he rolled out of the seat and away from the vehicle. He landed on his feet, pivoted in the direction of the remaining trio of shooters and swept them with a sustained volley. One man took three rounds to the pelvis and another took two rounds to the abdomen. The remainder of the 5.56 mm slugs cut through the chest, neck and head of the last target, and a gory, crimson mess exploded through midair as the man’s corpse folded to the jungle floor.

Shouts and the sounds of booted feet approaching signaled it was time for the Executioner to make his exit. Under normal circumstances he would have stayed to fight, but he now had a bystander to consider, one who obviously had no idea upon what sort of mess she’d stumbled, and he couldn’t risk getting her killed. There would be another place and time, another battleground on his terms. Bolan entered the SUV, grabbed the weapons bag and sprinted for the sedan.

The woman had taken her place behind the wheel now, and Bolan managed to leap through the open window of the passenger door just as she jammed the stick shift into Reverse and hauled out of there. His head ended up in her lap, but she seemed oblivious, apparently more intent on getting out of there as fast as the four-cylinder engine could take them. By the time Bolan had righted himself in the seat, the woman had cleared the tree line and picked up speed as she struggled to keep the wheels on the slick, dusty surface of the road. Twice she almost lost it, and Bolan finally looked over his shoulder to verify they weren’t being followed before he spoke to her.

“You can ease off. We’re in the clear.”

“You want to tell me who you are now?” she demanded. “And what the hell all that was about?”

“It depends,” Bolan replied easily. “You want to tell me why you were following me?”

“I didn’t know I was following you,” she snapped. Then she looked at him, noticed his easy smile and added, “I mean…at least until I realized you were following the guys on the motorcycles.”

“What’s your business with them?” Bolan asked.

“Uh-uh,” she countered. “I’ve given you something, now you tell me what you’re doing here and what your beef is with those men.”

“I’m afraid that’s classified.”

“So you’re with the American government.” She smacked the steering wheel. “Hot damn! I knew I was onto a scoop!”

“You’re a reporter?”

She nodded. “Guadalupe La Costa, AP out of Miami. I’m here on temporary assignment for a couple of years.”

“Let me guess. You were at the rally the other night.”

“You’re damn skippy we were,” she said.

“We?”

“My cameraman and I. We were right smack-dab in the middle of that shooting gallery. Hell, my producer even added a few gray hairs being down there. Oh, Julio’s going to pass a rainbow-colored Twinkie when he finds out I went on this excursion without him.” She patted a digital camera on the seat next to her. “Boy, did I get some good shots.”

Bolan reached down, popped open the camera’s flash drive compartment and removed the memory card.

“Hey!”

“The name’s Stone,” he said.

“What the fu—?”

“And I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to have my mug splattered all over the front page. You can have whatever’s left back once I’ve removed any images of me. I promise.”

“Ever hear of freedom of the press?”

Bolan’s voice took an edge. “Not when it interferes with my op, La Costa. And this is too important to let you screw it up so early in the game.”

“How about giving me the scoop?”

“If there’s one to give, I’ll see what I can do,” Bolan said. “Why not tell me what you know about our friends back there? Are they part of the Independents?”

La Costa expressed suspicion. “What makes you think those animals were part of Los Independientes?”

“That’s a question, not an answer. Try again.”

“Look, I’m not sure who they are, but I’m positive they’re not with the Independents.”

“My intelligence contacts say otherwise,” Bolan replied.

La Costa shrugged. “You asked my opinion, I’m giving it to you. Those guys are bad, no doubt, but they aren’t part of the Independents. I’ve been following up on a whole lot of leads since the other night, and everything I can come up with says they’re not part of any political party in the country, official or unofficial.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” La Costa replied. “I was trying to find out when you got in the middle of investigation.”

“There is no investigation,” Bolan said flatly. “Not anymore. It ends now. Whoever’s behind this attack has created a political and social firestorm, one that could turn ugly for everyone in Puerto Rico. The situation is too hot for me to allow you or anyone else to get in the way.”

“How do you propose to stop me?”

“Tie you up, if necessary.”

“Sounds kinky,” La Costa replied. “But it’ll have to wait.”

“Fine with me. But you still haven’t explained where you came up with the idea someone on the outside is behind this.”

“Because neither of the radical politicos in this region operates this way,” she said. “They’ve protested, even turned riotous and been squelched by local police, but an outright act of violence is totally out of character. Plus the fact, I know the head of the Independents personally. He would never do anything like this.”

“Maybe his people planned it without his knowledge?”

La Costa shook her head with a snort. “Not likely. Believe me, Stone, I’ve been here for over a year reporting the news. I know everyone who’s anyone. This isn’t his style.”

“Then maybe you can help me after all.”

“How?”

Bolan grinned. “By making an introduction. Maybe if I hear it from this guy myself I can help clear him and his people.”

“I’m not sure he’d meet with you.”

“Never know until you try,” Bolan replied. “Besides, it’s better than being tied up in some strange hotel room until I can clear this up by more indirect methods.”

La Costa laughed. “Says who?”

CHAPTER THREE

Despite Guadalupe La Costa’s reservations, Mack Bolan eventually convinced her to take him to the leader of the Independents.

Something made him admire this young, spirited reporter. She didn’t take any sass and gave out plenty, and she seemed genuinely concerned about reporting the truth no matter how brutal it might seem. Bolan could admire that kind of gutsy determination and devotion to duty; he understood those traits because they were so much a part of what made up his own identity. He related to La Costa and in large part that contributed to her attractiveness.

“The Independents are led by a man named Miguel Veda,” La Costa told him as Bolan drove them to the man’s seaside home northwest of San Juan.

It seemed Veda lived off the coast. Although he had other business interests to the degree that his political interests seemed more entrepreneurial—or those of a raving lunatic who really cared little about the future of Puerto Rico—La Costa’s description of Veda’s estate left Bolan with the impression business was good. When they finally arrived at the place, about a thirty-minute drive from the hotel, the big American’s assessment was confirmed.

Two uniformed security men checked their credentials and La Costa’s vehicle, including looking in the trunk and running a mirror the length of the undercarriage, before an escort team in a golf cart led them up the driveway. More armed security ushered them into the house. They were shown to a spacious office and library. Most of the furniture looked early twentieth century, although some peculiar-looking pieces were interspersed among the predominant decor. Everything here looked as if it had been chosen with regard to functionality, with very little gaudiness apparent. Everything had to serve some practical purpose; Veda obviously didn’t buy anything for its artistic value.

“You’re damned right he doesn’t,” La Costa replied in agreement when Bolan verbalized the sentiment. “Miguel’s the kind of man who doesn’t feel he should squander his hard-earned money on overpriced trinkets while his people are starving.”

“Miguel,” Bolan echoed. “You’re on a first-name basis?”

La Costa looked abashed. “Have been. He gave me my first big break down here. It’s not easy being both a woman and a minority in the press, even today. Especially working in Puerto Rico, where the male ego is fragile enough that machismo is still a mainstay of the culture.”

“I’d think something like that would prove a real turnoff for someone as strong-willed as you.”

La Costa smiled and winked. “You have no idea.”

A set of double doors on the far side of the office, opposite from where they had been shown in, swung open and cut short their dialogue. The man who stepped into the room walked slowly with a visible limp. From what little La Costa had told him about Veda’s activities, Bolan didn’t figure that the man could have been a day over fifty, but this man looked twice that age. Unkempt white hair grew in tufts along the sides of his head and yet curled oddly into neatly trimmed sideburns that ended midear level. Liver spots were visible on his exposed arms and the once-dark skin had taken on an odd, yellowish tint when the light hit it a certain way. His face possessed a gaunt quality, but still had more health and glow than the rest of his body appeared to have, which was a bit of a surprise to Bolan.

Two muscular men wearing pistols in shoulder holsters followed Veda and took up positions where they could react quickly should any threat present itself.

“Lupe,” Veda cried, shuffling over to her and bending to accept a kiss on the cheek.

Veda turned to Bolan, then extended his hand.

Bolan felt as if he were shaking the limb of a skeleton. “I’m—”

“Colonel Stone, U.S. Army,” Veda finished. “Yes, Colonel, I knew of your arrival practically from the moment you stepped foot in Puerto Rico.”

Bolan held an impassive expression. “You seem well-informed.”

Veda chuckled as he sat behind his desk. “It’s a job requirement in my business.”

“Which is?”

“Come now, Colonel, there’s no need to be coy,” Veda said pleasantly. “I know who you are, so it stands to reason I would know why you’re here.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because of the incident the other night at the rally.”

Bolan nodded in way of prompting him to go on.

“I’m sure that Governor Hernandez’s advisors are telling him that either the Independents or our contenders are to blame,” Veda continued, “but I can assure you that such allegations are entirely false.”

“Really,” Bolan interjected. “Why?”

“Because despite whatever rumors you might have heard to the contrary, we are not violent militants. In fact, I do not believe in violence as means to an end, whether for political purposes or otherwise. I believe in peaceful resolution to conflict.”

“You can’t ever hope your views will be recognized through standard political channels while your group is sanctioned.”

“On the contrary, it is because we are under sanctions that is at the very heart of these matters. You see, Colonel, supporters for the idea of statehood for Puerto Rico have dwindled over recent years for a good number of reasons, the instability of the economy and devaluation of the U.S. dollar not the least of them. This has caused significant increased support for our cause. The current party in power knows that, just as they know that their own influence falters.”

“So if you know that they’re touting propaganda about your efforts and the Independents, why not set the record straight through peaceful means?”

Veda laughed outright this time. “We do, Colonel Stone, we do! And that’s why I can promise you that we had nothing to do with this. Someone is out to destabilize Puerto Rico because it is a commonwealth and protectorate of the United States.”

“And?”

“What sense does it make for a group like ours to conduct violent acts against the established government, when by their nature those same acts would topple our wish to be independent and promulgate further interference by the United States? In fact, I surmise such acts would force the president to invoke emergency powers by military means. Your presence here is proof enough of that. Is it not?”

Veda gave pause there, probably so Bolan had some time to absorb it.

The soldier locked gazes with Veda. He’d learned long ago how to spot deception in people. What he saw now made him wonder if Veda was one of the biggest liars alive or if he actually spoke the truth. Bolan decided to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, play a card and see what happened.

“I never really bought the whole political motive from the start,” Bolan ventured.

“And well you shouldn’t, Colonel.”

Bolan didn’t miss a beat. “But what I haven’t heard you do is offer any hard evidence your people aren’t behind the attack.”

“From where I stand, I can offer no such proof,” Veda conceded. “Only my word. And assurances that those you encountered earlier today are not members of the Independents.”

“How did you know about that?” La Costa asked.

Veda’s expression softened and he offered La Costa an ingratiating smile. “My dear, you know I have eyes and ears everywhere in Puerto Rico. Why should this surprise you?”