Cutting Edge, page 13
part #139 of The Executioner Series
No, killing Valdez hadn't been Taylor's objective. It had been simply a means to some other end.
Taylor had been looking for an excuse to slip away from Bolan's watchful eye ever since they'd left the ranch. But to do what?
The plane lifted off the ground as several police cars screeched to a halt in front of the terminal. As Bolan dipped the wing and headed east toward Florida, he could make out the tiny form of the customs officer pointing through the air toward the Cessna.
* * *
Bolan kept the Cessna low over the desert, flying under the radar line until he neared the Sierra Madre Occidental.
He doubted that police in Mazatlán had gone to the extent of alerting the Mexican Air Force. If they were spotted, it would likely be entered into the logbooks as just another of the countless, unidentified aircraft that were common to the Mexican skies.
Probably. But there was no sense taking chances at this stage of the game.
The Cessna rose as they reached the sharp peaks, and Bolan guided the plane through passes and valleys to further confuse any electronic eyes that might be watching.
Bolan switched the Cessna to automatic pilot as they left the mountains and turned to Taylor. "Get Raul up here where I can talk to him," he ordered.
"Why?"
Bolan turned to face the merc, and Taylor rose from his seat, mumbling under his breath.
"We'll be landing in Florida," Bolan told the Cuban moments later. He saw a mask of fear come over the man's face.
"So. You wanted only to collect the reward yourself," he taunted. "It's you who will turn me over to the terrorists."
"It's an idea," Bolan said. "But no. You'll be going home. I'll be escorting you there in a trade arranged with your premier."
Castillo's eyes showed both surprise and relief. "And who is so important to you that you will trade me for him?" he asked.
"A friend of yours. Juan Montoya."
The Cuban smiled. "Yes, I see. But he's not a friend. Merely a business associate." He paused. "And he's a fool. You're getting the bad end of this trade, I think."
Bolan shrugged. "Depends on your point of view. Just don't convince me you're right." He glanced out the window. "It's a long way down."
"Where will we be landing once we reach Florida?" he asked.
"You know all you need to know," Bolan replied. "Taylor, take him back to his seat."
Bolan kept the plane on autopilot until they neared the peaks of the eastern Sierra Madres. Having seen no sign of pursuit so far, he ascended to a comfortable altitude over the mountains and returned the Cessna to automatic.
Taylor moved to the seat across from him. "Listen," he whispered. "We gotta talk."
Bolan was sick of the man. "There's nothing left to talk about."
"Yeah, there is. What happens to me when this is over?"
Bolan didn't bother to reply.
"That's what I thought," Taylor said. He looked briefly behind him at Raul. "Look, I got a plan."
"I'm not surprised."
"Well, this one you're gonna like," Taylor continued. "We…"
Bolan shook his head. "Forget it. I'm tired of your ideas. Keep your mouth shut for the rest of the flight."
Taylor slunk back to the seat across from the Cuban.
"Perhaps you should hear him out," Castillo remarked. "Perhaps his idea has some merit."
Bolan kept his eyes ahead, ignoring the man.
"Perhaps it's the same idea that I have." The Cuban minister waited for the response, which didn't come. "Fly me directly to Havana," he finally said. "You'll be welcomed with open arms and have riches beyond your wildest dreams."
"I've been through all this with Taylor, pal. Before you stepped onstage. I'm not interested."
The warrior turned back to the steering column, periodically glancing up at the mirror. Taylor and Raul continued whispering to each other at the back of the cabin.
They flew on across the mountains until the deep blue of the Gulf of Mexico appeared in the distance. Taylor finally made his way back to the cockpit and took the seat across from Bolan. "You were right," the merc said. "We've talked enough." His hand dropped to his combat boot and he pulled a single-action .22 Magnum minirevolver from inside his sock. "Compliments of Valdez." He leaned forward and pressed the tiny gun into Bolan's ear. "I'll take charge from here."
"How far do you think you'll get without a pilot?" the warrior asked.
"Oh, yeah," Taylor said. "I did tell you I couldn't fly, didn't I?" He snickered. "This'll surprise the hell out of you, Pollock, but I lied."
Castillo stood up at the back of the cockpit and shuffled forward, smiling. "It seems you have been outsmarted, seňor." He turned to Taylor and extended his hands. "And now, if you please, amigo."
"Not yet," Taylor said.
From the corner of his eye, Bolan saw the Cuban flush. "What do you mean?" he demanded.
Taylor turned to him, the gun still trained on Bolan. "Sit down," he ordered.
Castillo dropped to the seat behind Bolan.
"I gave you your chance, Pollock," Taylor spit. "You and your damned God-country-and-flag crap. Think you're better than everybody else, don't you?" He waited for an answer. "Don't you?" he taunted.
Bolan remained silent.
"What are you doing?" the Cuban asked.
"Sorting things out." Taylor laughed. "You're still in first place, greaseball. I suspect Fidel will be able to pay more than these Alpha sons of bitches. But I'm not selling myself short this time. I'll be taking bids for your ass, so to speak. Free enterprise, you know. It's the American way." Taylor broke into hysterical laughter once more.
Bolan turned slowly toward him. "You have any idea what will happen if one of those rounds hits the wrong part of this plane?" he asked.
"Oh, for chrissakes," Taylor said. "Give me a little credit, will you? I mean, I know I'm not the big shot expert on everything that you are, but I'm smart enough to know that the odds are way against that happening. Besides, professional hazards and all that."
Bolan watched the white-capped waves of the Gulf through the Cessna's window. The strategic planning mode of the Executioner's brain went into effect as he considered his options.
Taylor wasn't likely to shoot him where he sat. The Cessna was still on autopilot, but the commotion a dying man could create could knock the system askew in several different ways. The merc would then have a difficult time getting Bolan's body out of the way so he could get behind the steering column and take control before the Cessna went down. And if the first shot didn't kill, the fight that the cowardly merc had to know would take place could easily send the plane crashing into the Gulf.
All three of them would die. And if Bolan had learned anything at all about the treacherous parasite who sat next to him, it was that Buddy Taylor didn't want to die.
Bolan's hand moved slowly toward the controls on the instrument panel. If he could gain control of the plane he might have a chance of knocking Taylor off balance.
He'd been inching his hand toward the autopilot control when Castillo's bound feet flew up in the air and hit Taylor's extended arm at the wrist, forcing the cocked minigun past Bolan's head.
The .22 Magnum sounded as loud as the Desert Eagle in the small cockpit as the round sailed harmlessly through the roof of the Cessna. Bolan turned toward Taylor as the Cuban dived forward, his head butting the surprised merc in the chest and sending him sprawling over the steering column.
Taylor's elbow crashed into the automatic pilot button on the yoke.
All three men lurched forward against the instrument panel as the Cessna nose-dived toward the water below. Bolan pushed hard, fighting to put enough room between his chest and the steering column to maneuver the controls. Jerking his head against the downward pull, he thrust backward with every ounce of the strength in his shoulders and arms and pulled back on the grips.
The Cessna swooped ten feet from the waves and leveled out across the water.
As Taylor regained his balance, he swung the gun back toward Bolan. The Executioner wrapped his hand over Taylor's, trapping the minigun between both of their fingers.
The Executioner felt the heat and heard Taylor scream as the .22 Magnum barked again, the round sailing down into the seat by Bolan's thigh.
Blood streamed from the merc's fingers as he fought to pull his hand from the Executioner's grip.
Castillo dived forward again, raised an elbow and attempted to hook it over Taylor's neck in a headlock. The Cuban's hands, still bound close to his body, forced his arm to a halt across Taylor's eyes.
Blinded, Taylor screamed again, throwing himself and Castillo backward to the rear of the cockpit. The weight of the two men at the tail threw the Cessna's nose upward and forced Bolan back against the seat. The plane rocketed skyward, the engine coughing and threatening to stall.
The Executioner reached up and grasped the steering mechanism. He pushed forward as the Cuban and Taylor, still entwined, came pummeling to the front once more. The two men rebounded off the instrument panel and fell against the clamshell door on the passenger's side as the Cessna's wings rocked right and left. Someone's knee bumped the safety latch as both men went to the floor.
Bolan fought to keep the aircraft from going into a lateral spin as the combatants struggled near the door. He saw Castillo's bound feet kick out and down, and the bottom half of the clamshell door swung open in the slipstream.
The warrior bore down as the additional drag banked the Cessna down and to the left. Glancing sideways, he noticed that Castillo had disentangled his arm from the bleeding mercenary and was pushing him toward the opening.
Bolan righted the Cessna. The inertia from the sudden jerk as the plane resumed a horizontal position worked with the Cuban, pushing Taylor closer to the door.
With a loud groan, Castillo suddenly thrust both legs across the floor, catching Taylor squarely in the chest. The aging merc slid through the door and disappeared with a bloodcurdling scream.
The door slammed closed once more.
10
Bolan felt the wheels hit the runway and slowed the airplane to a halt. Two jeeps tore across the tarmac, and in the back of the lead vehicle sat a tall, broad-shouldered man whose U.S. Navy uniform displayed the rank of captain.
Bolan helped Raul Castillo out of the plane and cut the ropes from his hands and feet as the jeep came to a stop a few feet away.
The officer stepped down to the ground, glanced quickly at the Cuban without speaking and extended his right hand to Bolan. "Mr. Pollock?" he asked. "Welcome to NAF, Key West. I'm Captain George Hronopulos."
Bolan took the firm grip and felt the calluses. The base commander's face was deeply creased and tanned. Here was one officer who did more than shuffle papers. Bolan stared the big Greek in the eye and found that Hronopulos didn't flinch. With receding brown hair and a slight paunch starting just over his belt, George Hronopulos looked like an aging Hercules.
"We'll proceed directly to DESDIV headquarters for briefing," Hronopulos said. He shot Raul Castillo another glance and turned back to the jeep.
Bolan and the Cuban took seats in the second vehicle next to the driver and another man. The Executioner looked at their uniforms. The driver wore dungaree bell-bottoms and a blue chambray shirt. The two stripe «crow» on his left sleeve indicated his second-class Navy rate. The name tag sewed over his left breast pocket said, Addington. The khaki uniform and anchors on the shirt collar of the man in the back seat marked him as a chief petty officer.
For the most part, they looked no different than the many other sailors who were coming into view as they neared the long row of buildings in the distance. But little things gave them away and distinguished them from the others.
Bolan saw the butt of a Smith & Wesson Navy Model .22 extending from a custom-made cross-draw holster on the driver's belt. The holster was too long for the weapon — unless a silencer had been threaded onto the barrel.
The Executioner glanced over his shoulder to the chief petty officer. Pressed between his knees was a Stoner M63A1 machine gun — a weapon used exclusively by Naval SOF teams.
Both men had discarded standard Navy headgear. The driver had tied a camouflage sweatband over his brows while the man in the khakis wore a floppy jungle hat.
"SEAL Team 6?" Bolan asked the driver, knowing the answer before he got it.
Addington looked up in surprise and nodded. He jerked his head forward, indicating the captain's jeep that had already parked in front of one of the buildings. "Down this morning from Norfolk. The skipper hasn't briefed us yet, either."
Bolan smiled. The U.S. Navy SEALS were as good as they came, and SEAL Team 6 was the best of the best. They were specially trained for counterterrorist operations and would provide far better security than the average shore patrolmen on temporary security duty.
But their presence indicated something else as well. Unless Bolan's positive first impression of George Hronopulos was wrong and the man was a raving paranoid, the captain was expecting trouble from some quarter.
Addington pulled in behind the lead jeep and the two SEALS escorted Bolan and Castillo to a steel door. The man in the sweatband punched numbers into the combination lock, and the door buzzed open, revealing a long, brightly lighted passageway.
They stopped for another lock at the first door on the left before the two SEALS took the Cuban down the hall. Bolan saw the emblem embossed on the glass in the door: an ancient Greek griffin, his lion's body rampant below the snarling head of an eagle, spread his wings in flight while a submarine broke in half between his hind claws.
Bolan entered the room and took a seat across from Hronopulos, who sat in the middle of a semicircle of folding chairs. They were soon joined by the two SEALS and four more hard-looking young men in cammies.
When everyone was seated, Hronopulos looked at Bolan. "I don't know who you are, Pollock, but you've got some clout somewhere. As soon as you're briefed, you're in charge." He paused, his heavy eyebrows lowering as he studied the newcomer. "Normally I'd fight like hell to oversee an op like this myself. I don't just turn my base over to everyone who walks through the door — and to hell with what the fat asses in Washington say." Deep furrows appeared on the big Greek's forehead as he continued. "But I'm big on gut-level reactions, and the one I get from you is that you're the man for the job.
"Anyway," Hronopulos went on, "the exchange is scheduled for tomorrow evening. You'll shove off on the M. E. Hart in the morning."
Bolan frowned. "That means we've got security problems, Captain. You're aware of the Alpha 66 involvement. Any reason we can't set sail right now?"
Hronopulos nodded. "Yeah. The same Washington sand crabs I just mentioned have decided that this is too good an opportunity to let slide by. They've got an intelligence-gathering team on their way down now to rig the ship with all the latest electronic James Bond crap. I don't go for it, either, Pollock. It means we've got approximately fifteen hours to baby-sit our friend."
The Executioner exhaled deeply. "This is an open base. Access is easy. Where do you plan for us to hole up until morning?"
Hronopulos shook his head in disgust. "You won't like this, either. Seems Washington's handling this with kid gloves. They don't want our friend here in cuffs and chains, and they don't want him locked up. It's been strongly suggested that I extend the use of my quarters and make him feel at home."
"You're right," Bolan said. "I don't like it. And as far as the delay goes, I thought Castro was in a hurry to get his buddy back."
"He was. But he agreed to wait until tomorrow night." Hronopulos rubbed a big hand across his heavy beard. "Probably gives the bearded wonder time to let Russian spooks set up their own surveillance." The captain motioned towards the SEALS. "I haven't always been a pencil pusher, Pollock. Until a year ago, I was with Naval Special Warfare Group 2. Helped form SEAL Team 6 back in 80." He paused a moment, and Bolan could tell his mind was drifting back to an assignment with which he'd been more at ease. "I've kept security light to avoid unwanted attention, but the men I've got here are the best. I ought to know — I trained them. They're at your disposal."
Bolan turned to the six men. "You'll help me provide security until after the exchange," he said. "The main threat while we're still on land is Alpha 66. We don't know that they're even aware we've got Raul, but it pays to prepare for the worst rather than hope for the best." Bolan hesitated, then continued. "The way I see it, the weak length in the chain is the next fifteen hours. We've got an open base and a bureaucratic chain of command that doesn't understand the risks diplomacy implies in a situation like this. Primarily that's because they've never been in situations like this themselves.
"When we get to sea," the warrior went on, "the primary enemy becomes Castro himself." He turned back to Hronopulos. "Have the details of the exchange been worked out?"
Hronopulos shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Yeah. Castro wants to meet in the hills overlooking Bahia de Nipe. That's his old stomping grounds, the area where he grew up. He's agreed to two escorts — you can pick whoever you want." He indicated the SEALS. "But if he sees more than three faces, he'll consider it a trap and start shooting. If you ask me, the old man's half-convinced the whole thing's another CIA plot to take him out. Castro's promised to bring only two bodyguards, himself. And Montoya. And if anyone believes that, I've got some beachfront property for sale in the everglades."
"We won't disappoint him," Bolan said. "And we don't need another escort. I'll take Raul in myself."
The SEALS looked disappointed. Addington peered at him from under the sweatband. "But sir…" he started.
Bolan shook his head. "Two men won't be any better than one. Not under these circumstances. There's no point in risking another life when we don't need to."
"Which brings me to the question I've been wanting to ask," Hronopulos said. "Pardon my ignorance, but what in hell makes you think Castro will ever let you off the island alive once he has his pal, here?"
Bolan smiled grimly. "You were with NSW 2, Captain. Their home is an RAF base in western Scotland, isn't it?"
