see anything and both drew their government-issue Glock 21 pistols. As the seconds ticked by and the drone of the motor grew closer, Stein wondered if this part of their plan had been such a good idea, after all. He voiced his concerns.
“What are you squawking about now?” Crosse asked. “I swear to God, Dom, there’s times I think you’re paranoid or something.”
“Listen, I don’t much like these Cubans. I don’t trust them.”
“Then you should have thought about that before taking this deal. Beside, we’re doing what’s best for our country. You think those peckerless suits back in Washington would have the guts to do something like this? Now just keep quiet and everything will be fine. Let me do the talking. Okay?”
Stein wanted to protest but thought better of it and clammed up with a nod.
The source of the outboard motor became visible. Right at that moment Stein became more alert to all the sights and sounds around him. The salty smell of the Gulf waters seemed stronger and the cloak of humidity more intense than it had before now. At first he thought maybe the bourbon had started to work on him, but the sudden rise of bile, the churning in his stomach, the hammering of his heart in his chest and ears told him the many sensations were the culmination of one. Fear.
Stein shook it off and tried to regain his composure as the tiny motor launch came alongside the yacht. Crosse put his pistol away and walked forward starboard. He engaged the ship-side release and kicked out the narrow, steep stairwell that came to rest a mere couple of feet above the water line. Two large Cubans dressed in black fatigues with slung machine pistols boarded first. A man in tailored slacks and flower-print shirt followed them a moment later.
Stein got closer and nodded at the man, who studied the pair a moment with his black eyes—no sign of recognition or friendliness on his face—but then a grin split his features. He had a toothy smile so white it looked stark against his dark complexion and hair.
“Andres,” Crosse said, extending his hand.
The man shook it. “Permission to come aboard, gentlemen?”
“Granted.” Crosse looked at Stein with a knowing smile. “We were just enjoying a drink and a cigarette. May I offer you something?”
“I would love to, but alas, we’re short on time. I trust everything on board is in order?”
“Your men won’t have any trouble getting the boat into Havana’s port,” Stein cut in. “She’s totally clean.”
The man they knew only as Andres nodded and then something at Stein’s feet caught his eye. Everyone else turned their attention there, also, and Stein looked down to see the small trickle of blood run a jagged path between his shoes.
“Oh, yes,” Andres replied. “I can see she is very clean. Was there a problem?”
“Nothing you need to be concerned about,” Crosse replied. “Just a little side business we had to take care of.”
Andres’s smile lacked warmth now. “And I trust it’s taken care of for good?”
“Yeah.” Crosse and Stein held impassive expressions.
“That’s fine, I will take you at your word. My men can attend to any last-minute details on their way. So if you gentlemen would come with me, Señora Fuego waits for us.”
The men followed Andres into the small launch. The Cuban powered up the outboard motor and within a few minutes they were away from the yacht, its lights barely visible as they faded into the blanket of fog that seemed to settle on them with a swiftness Stein had never before experienced. Despite the fact their rendezvous had gone off without a hitch, Stein couldn’t help the burning in his gut. Something told him they had just made a terrible mistake.
CHAPTER ONE
Mack Bolan studied the landscape spread out before him as the Military Airlift Command flight circled for its final approach into Guantánamo Bay Naval Base. He had an almost unobstructed view from his seat in the forward compartment of the huge Boeing 757 cargo carrier, courtesy of one of his oldest friends and allies, Hal Brognola. As director of America’s most covert antiterrorist organzation, Stony Man, Brognola had requested Bolan’s attention for this mission under the behest of the President of the United States. As a friend, Brognola had asked Bolan to accept the mission. And as one friend would do for another under those circumstances, the Executioner accepted.
Bolan had come to Cuba seeking one thing: information.
“It’s very simple,” Brognola had told him a few hours earlier in an abandoned hangar at Andrews AFB. “We need you to fly into Guantánamo Bay, question a prisoner named Basilio Melendez regarding the disappearance of Colonel Mackenzie Waterston and then act based on the information provided.”
“And when you say you want me to act, you mean…”
“In whatever manner you deem the best interests of this country,” Brognola replied. “Colonel Waterston was in charge of military operations related to Plan Colombia. You have some idea of that initiative?”
Bolan nodded. “The President’s Executive Order 1-1-7-3-Alpha to the Secretary of State. The State Department is charged with conducting all operations, diplomatic or otherwise, necessary to eliminate the drug and arms-running activities designed to support the FARC, AUC and ELN, and to neutralize such operations deemed a terrorist threat to the U.S.”
“I see you keep up with the times,” Brognola said with a grin.
The Executioner shrugged. “I have my sources.”
“Yeah, and it’s not as though this information would be necessarily difficult to come by. Anyway, the Chief of Staff appointed Colonel Waterston to the Pentagon with instructions to monitor the activities of a number of special ops units operating out of Guantánamo Bay. Our boys down there got particularly interested when intelligence reports pointed to the possibility there was an ELN training camp operating full-time in Cuba. Up to this point, we’d never been able to confirm it.”
“And this is where Melendez comes in?”
“Right.” Brognola pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth, studied it a moment, then stuck it into the other side of his mouth and continued. “All Cuban prisoners were returned to their country back in the mid-nineties when we stopped detaining nationals at Gitmo. Under normal pretenses, any Cuban citizen caught there in a crime is automatically extradited to Cuban authorities.”
“Why’s Melendez special?”
“Just for the reasons you might have guessed. He had information on Waterston before we even asked. And it’s not the first time we’ve encountered him. You see, Melendez has been picked up many times before. It’s how we’ve managed to make contact with him. Normally, we turn him loose to the Cubans and they just chalk him up as a troublemaker.”
“They probably break out the party hats every time he shows up on MP blotter,” Bolan concluded.
“Precisely,” Brognola said with a frown. “But when we heard what he had to say this last time around, we thought it was probably better to keep him detained for a while.”
“Why?”
“Because Waterston’s missing and his disappearance fits what Melendez told us. So far, anyway.”
“How does this tie to the ELN and their training camp?”
“Don’t know yet,” Brognola replied. “That’s what we need you to find out. Striker, the Man is getting damned nervous about this, and I can’t really say I blame him. Waterston isn’t the only one to disappear. Two other agents with the Defense Intelligence Agency have been MIA over a week. We have reason to believe they’re connected with Waterston’s disappearance. We need you at Gitmo as soon as possible. You’ll use the Brandon Stone cover, a special investigator with the Criminal Investigation Division.”
Now dressed