Once the Executioner hit the beach, he'd be on his own.

  That was why Bolan had taken his own precautions. And he would already be loaded down without dragging along recorders and bugs.

  Still, it made sense to record an exchange that had the potential to escalate into a global incident. "What type of recorder are we talking about?" he asked Buvinger. "Nagra?"

  "Yes. And a relatively small Fargo body transmitter," the intelligence expert answered as if reading his mind.

  "Fine," Bolan said. He was familiar with both items. The reel-to-reel Nagra wasn't much bigger than a pack of cigarettes, and the Fargo transmitter was even smaller. There would be plenty of room left for his own "insurance policy."

  A knock sounded on the cabin door. Edwards opened it and allowed the steward to enter. The skipper motioned him toward the desk, and the white-jacketed man set down a tray of steel-covered plates and left.

  "Anybody hungry?" Edwards asked.

  "Let's finish first," Bolan said. "Then we'll eat. I'll take Raul and meet whoever Castro sends…"

  Oven interrupted. "Let me make a suggestion. You know Castro's not coming to meet us with just two troops. Now, I know you've said you'll take Raul in by yourself, and it's easy enough to figure out why. But dammit, I'm a professional, too. It's as much my job as yours. That's why they sent for me." He glanced briefly at Hronopulos. "Even with me along, you'll probably be outnumbered twenty to one. But two guns are always better than one, and who knows when that extra gun might just make the difference."

  Bolan looked him up and down. He was a SEAL, and he had to be good or they'd have shipped him out somewhere long ago. The Executioner would have his hands full looking after Castillo and trying to second-guess the Cuban premier. It wouldn't hurt to have someone watching his back.

  "Suit yourself," he told Oven. "We'll follow our contact wherever…"

  Suddenly the door burst open and the skipper's runner sprinted into the room.

  "What the hell?" Edwards demanded.

  "I just came from the stateroom, sir," the runner panted as his hand flashed to his forehead in salute. "The prisoner is missing, sir." He paused to catch his breath. "And Flags is dead."

  Bolan rushed down the passageway with the other two men at his heels. Not bothering to wait for the captain's key, he hit the door with his shoulder. The lock sprang, and the Executioner burst into the stateroom, the Desert Eagle clenched in his fist.

  The signalman lay sprawled on his side, his open eyes staring fixedly across the room. A thin line of blood trickled from just above his left ear to the deck.

  Bolan threw open the door to the head and looked inside.

  Nothing.

  The food Edwards had ordered sent to the stateroom sat untouched on the desk. Bolan lifted the steel cover, and steam rose from a bowl of boiled potatoes.

  "They can't have gone far," Bolan said. He turned to Edwards. "Who was the steward?"

  Edwards shrugged. "There's close to three hundred and fifty men on board this ship," he said. "I don't know them all."

  The captain's runner looked up. "New man, sir," he said. "Transferred on board this afternoon. Filipino, I think. At least his name indicated it."

  Bolan shoved the Desert Eagle back in his hip holster. "Call the watch and issue a security alert," he told Edwards. "We'll check the boats first. If we don't find them there, we'll work backward."

  Edwards flipped the switch on the communications system as Bolan, Oven and Hronopulos raced through the door, down the passageway and climbed the ladder to the bridge. They sprinted through the superstructure hatch and out to the weather deck on the ship's starboard side.

  "How about the rubber dinghies?" Bolan asked Hronopulos as they sprinted along the side of the ship. He glanced at the drum-shaped objects attached below.

  "They'll be locked up," the big Greek puffed. "A steward wouldn't have access."

  Bolan ran to the captain's gig and stepped on board. The cabin was empty.

  That left only one possibility. Unless the steward and Castillo were hiding somewhere on the destroyer rather than attempting immediate escape, they had to be in the motor whaleboat.

  Bolan looked at Oven as several sailors, bearing .45s and Remington 870s, raced out of the superstructure and took up security positions on deck.

  "Check the fan rooms and any other place that might be unlocked," he told the SEAL. Oven sprinted away across the deck. Bolan turned to Hronopulos. "Where's the whaleboat located?"

  "Port side," the big Greek replied.

  Bolan glanced at the superstructure. "Can we get through?"

  Hronopulos shook his head. "Be faster to circle."

  The Executioner raced along the deck as waves swelled over the rails of the M. E. Hart. Hronopulos struggled to keep pace as they rounded the bow of the destroyer and headed toward the whaleboat. Bolan could hear clanging sounds as the small craft descended the side toward the water. He peered over the rail and saw the top of Castillo's head.

  The steward stood next to him, a silenced Colt Woodsman .22 in his hand.

  "Can you stop it?" Bolan yelled at Hronopulos as the big Greek joined him.

  Hronopulos didn't answer. He chugged past the Executioner to the davits. Bolan heard the shrill screech of metal on metal as the whaleboat came to a halt thirty feet below.

  Two sets of eyes looked up to the rail. Then the steward threw an arm over Castillo's head and pulled him close. He pressed the barrel of the Woodsman into the man's neck.

  A salty mist of seawater splashed him in the face as the Executioner drew his own suppressed weapon from shoulder leather. He wiped the moisture from his eyes with a shirtsleeve.

  "Alto!" the man with the gun screamed. "Por la Cuba libre!" His eyes darted from the whaler's bow to stern, frantically seeking escape from the boat that hung suspended, halfway to the sea.

  Bolan moved slowly, extending his arm over the rail and sighting down the barrel of the Beretta. "Drop the weapon," he ordered.

  "No!" the man below shrieked. "The bastard is my prisoner. He goes to my comrades to pay for his crimes." He hugged Castillo to his body and jammed the .22 deeper into the flesh of the man's neck.

  The warrior clung to the rail with his left hand as a wave rolled into the ship. He closed his eyes as more mist sprayed his face.

  Water dripped from Bolan's nose to his shirt as he opened his eyes once more. He stared through the moonlight at the men below. The Alpha 66 kidnapper's body was hidden behind Castillo's. The only area of exposure was the upper right quarter of the man's face.

  "Drop your gun!" the Alpha man demanded. "Or I will kill him here!"

  Bolan hung on as another wave rocked the ship. His timing had to be perfect. He'd have to time the waves, then wait until the ship steadied and fire in the split second before another wave spoiled his aim.

  And hope the ocean stayed out of his face.

  "This is your final warning!" the man below screamed into the wind.

  "No," Bolan replied. "It's yours. Throw the gun over the side."

  Hronopulos joined him at the rail. "Mexican standoff?" he asked.

  "Cuban," Bolan said grimly. He squinted into the dark sights of the 93-R.

  The Executioner waited until the ship crested the next wave.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The suppressed Beretta coughed discreetly in his hand. Bolan felt the 9 mm recoil shoot up his wrist as a sudden spray of salt water blinded him.

  He wiped his eyes and looked below.

  The Alpha 66 gunman lay on his back in the motor whaler, a blood-filled cavity where his right eye had been.

  Hronopulos engaged the davits, and the whaler rose to the deck. Bolan pulled Castillo back aboard the ship. The Cuban said nothing as they entered the superstructure and descended the ladder to the stateroom.

  Edwards met them at the door where a sailor was already busy, repairing the lock Bolan had broken.

  "I'll call the watch," the skipper said. "We'll get security to stand by the rest of the way."

  Bolan shook his head. "Don't bother." He pushed Castillo past the repairman and followed him through the open door.

  Turning back to Edwards and Hronopulos, he closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  Juan Montoya felt a trickle of sweat roll from his forehead to the lapel of his white linen suit. He rubbed the damp palms of his hands across his pant legs. As if they had a mind of their own, Montoya's feet shuffled nervously on the floor. The Colombian general pushed hard on his thighs to make them stop.

  Reaching into the side pocket of his sport coat, Montoya located a vial and popped two antianxiety tablets into his mouth.

  For the past two days, ever since the incidents at the country inn and airport, Juan Montoya had been riding an emotional roller coaster. His moods swung from, fear to anger to sorrow and back to fear. With time for a reasonable amount of lust thrown in between, Montoya thought. He glanced again at the red-haired Cuban secretary.

  The buxom woman swiveled to face him in her desk chair, the white crotch of her cotton panties flashing past his eyes as she crossed one nylon-covered leg over the other. "I am sorry, General Montoya," she said, smiling. "It shouldn't be much longer."

  Montoya shrugged. His heart rose in his chest as his mind lingered on the image of her shapely legs.

  He warned himself not to think of her. Women had always been his Achilles' heel.

  The lust in Montoya's heart was replaced by a sudden surge of hatred. Particularly women with red hair.

  And the last one had almost killed him.

  Montoya tried to force his thoughts from Janie, but she refused to leave his mind. Then the hatred gave way to an overpowering melancholy. She had been special. She had been everything he had ever dreamed of possessing in a woman.

  But she had betrayed him.

  Montoya turned back to the woman behind the desk. Her flaming hair caressed her cheeks as it fell to her shoulders, looking almost orange against the smooth brown of her face and neck. The hair was obviously dyed — or rinsed — as women liked to say. Montoya wondered if the red of Janie's hair had been the true color. Perhaps she had deceived him even more than he knew, dying her pubic region, as well.

  Forget her, he almost said out loud as the anger returned. It was over. The redheaded witch received what she deserved for her treachery.

  Montoya ran his hand along the tattered upholstery of the couch. Everywhere he looked since arriving in Cuba, he saw signs of the economic depression that plagued the island.

  He thought of his own country where poverty, if not vanquished, had at least been restricted to a few select barrios of the major cities. At least it couldn't be seen, as it could throughout the streets of Havana.

  Montoya felt the pride of accomplishment flow through his veins. He smiled.

  And who has brought this booming economy to Colombia? he asked himself.

  The pride swelled higher in his breast.

  No, not the government. A king.

  King Cocaine.

  Montoya thought of a Carlos Lehder, Pablo Escobar, and the early days of the cartel. It had all been so easy. American customs had been lax, and the weekend flights from Lehder's island in the Bahamas had shown profits far beyond anything any of them had imagined.

  They had all become rich. And the money had financed his political campaigns as he rose nearly to the top of the Colombian government.

  Montoya jerked involuntarily as a wave of anxiety hit his chest. Was it over?

  The entire operation had gradually become more complicated as the American attitude changed. What had been called the drug problem became the drug war. Then suddenly the American armed forces were being used and the cartel had been forced to ally itself with that madman, Manuel Noriega. Then even the Panamanian general had fallen to the outraged Americans.

  Montoya lighted a cigar and stared at the closed office door. Fidel Castro was a definite improvement, even if he was a rude and ill-mannered boor. The bearded dictator had made an initial mistake by putting that clown, General Ocha, in charge of the cartel shipments. And Ocha had drawn attention.

  But now that Raul would be the liaison to Colombia, things should run more smoothly.

  Montoya glanced impatiently at the diamond-studded Rolex on his wrist as anger replaced anxiety. He had been treated well since his arrival, but there was no excuse to be kept waiting like this. He was top general of a country far more prosperous than this dying island.

  As if Castro had read his mind, the phone on the secretary's desk suddenly buzzed.

  "His Excellency will see you now," the woman announced. She stood, running her hands down the front of her skirt to smooth the wrinkles. Her high heels clicked across the tile to the door as Montoya followed, his eyes glued to the curves of her buttocks as they rolled beneath the confines of the tight fabric.

  He crossed the threshold and saw the old man behind the desk. Suddenly the realization that he was at the mercy of the most feared dictator in the Western world nullified all the emotions that had yo-yoed through him since his escape at the airport.

  It didn't matter that he was the commander-in-chief of the Colombian armed forces. It didn't matter that Cuba was slowly dying. He glanced at the picture of the Cuban premier and Nikita Khrushchev on the wall behind the desk.

  Fidel Castro was still alive and functioning. He wielded far more political power in the world arena than any Colombian ever had or would.

  And Juan Montoya's fate lay in his hands.

  * * *

  The man with the gray-streaked beard coughed twice and felt the pain burn through his upper chest. From the breast pocket of his faded green fatigue shirt, he produced a handkerchief and spit phlegm into the coarse white linen.

  He leaned back in the chair and studied a framed photograph on the wall above his deck. A younger man, smiling, the beard still black above the olive-green shirt, shook hands with an overweight, balding, Slavic-looking man.

  Nikita. Sometimes he missed the loudmouthed old braggart.

  Fidel Castro glanced at the picture once more. In the background, just above where he and Khrushchev linked hands, was the proud face of his best friend.

  Castro turned his eyes to the bottom drawer on the desk's left side. He coughed again and longed for one of the large cigars locked away behind the cold metal. How long had it been since the doctors had found the tumor? How long since he'd been forced to give up one of the last true pleasures he had? Almost three years now. And not a moment in one of those long, grueling days had passed in which he wouldn't have traded anything he owned for another of the dark-leaved Cuban masterpieces.

  Redirecting his gaze to the photograph, he examined the beard and wondered when the gray had first appeared. He couldn't remember. He had been far too busy in the early days to pay attention to such trivial, personal details.

  He had held a vision.

  The old man smiled, recalling the naive enthusiasm that had driven all of them to restore his native land, an overpowering, all-encompassing drive that sometimes seemed to have a life of its own. He had held a vision that he could rebuild Cuba far past the affluence it had enjoyed under the imperialistic domination of the devil, Batista, and that someday he would see the decadent Americans overthrown and a world governed by the working people.

  That had been more than thirty years ago.

  The vision had never taken shape.

  Castro felt the sharp pain in his back as he tried to rise from the chair. He put his hands on the desktop and let his arms assist his legs as he rose to his feet. He crossed the room to the window overlooking the streets of Havana and gazed upon the consequences of his failure. Ragged, hungry children roamed the streets while their equally impoverished mothers searched the trash containers for food.

  Yes, he had failed. The pain in his chest forced another uncontrollable series of spasmodic coughs. Would he live to see that failure reversed?

  The U.S. embargo had hurt the island far more than he was willing to admit. It was the Americans he had to thank for the poverty that was slowly destroying his country. He glanced across the street to the market area where a pudgy, red-faced tourist with a camera slung around his neck bargained with one of the street merchants. A woman, equally fat and sunburned, looked on.

  Castro shook his head. In desperation he had finally opened the island's gates to American tourism, and thousands had poured into the country. But they had no appreciable effect on the economy. As always, the capitalists took more than they gave.

  And now they had taken his one true friend.

  Raul had been his sole confidant since Che Guevara's death, and Raul was certainly the only one who could be trusted with the delicate liaison between Cuba and the Medellín cartel. That relationship had almost been exposed before it had gotten off the ground. It had even become necessary to throw General Ocha to the wolves.

  The old man laughed as he thought of Raul at the trial, pointing his own guilty finger at the accused. The popular general's arrest and public disgrace had served two purposes. It had eliminated the only serious competition Raul had to become the next premier, and Cuba had shown the world that they, too, were combating narcotics.

  Castro snorted. Ocha had been a pawn. A scapegoat. To his dying day, the old fool would never figure out what had happened.

  Now, the cartel presented him with a new problem. He couldn't be certain who was holding Raul. The CIA, the DEA or possibly even the traitorous Alpha 66 terrorists.

  But the old man intended to get him back.

  Castro lifted the telephone, pressed the receiver into his ear and punched the intercom to the reception area. Moments later, a tall thin man in a light cotton suit entered the office. Castro noted the cigar in his mouth and the sweet, familiar aroma it sent throughout the room.

  "Mr. Premier," the visitor said, extending his hand nervously across the desk.

  "General." Castro motioned toward the chair in front of his desk. "I was aware you had arrived. I hope your stay has been enjoyable. My apologies for the delay in seeing you. It has been a most… unusual period in the People's Revolution."

 

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