Cutting Edge, page 17
part #139 of The Executioner Series
Montoya took his seat before replying. "Enjoyable, yes. But I'm sure you're aware that we face serious problems."
Castro smiled. How little the man really knew. He watched Montoya in irritation as cigar smoke rose slowly from the Colombian's mouth to the ceiling. "Yes. I understand that an American gangster has rampaged throughout your country attempting to assassinate you." He smiled again with satisfaction as the other man reddened.
"He'll be brought to justice. It's only a matter of time," Montoya said.
"Yes. But until then, you seek asylum in Cuba?"
The crimson face deepened in color. "Yes."
Castro nodded. He watched as Montoya puffed nervously on the cigar and fought a sudden impulse to rip it from the man's mouth. Then, unable to resist one last insult, he said, "Where you will be safe from harm?"
Montoya looked at the floor. "Yes."
Castro laughed. "You are welcome, of course. For as long as you wish. As a matter of fact, I'm fortunate you have come when you did."
Montoya looked up in surprise. "Please explain."
"I intend to," Castro replied. "Since you and your associates split from Noriega and the Panamanians, it has been difficult to keep our association from the eyes of the world."
"Yes," Montoya agreed, his head bobbing. "But we were both aware there would be problems. We have handled each situation as we encountered it, and we have both grown wealthy in the process."
Castro felt the pain in his chest return as he stared at the greedy man before him. His lips curled into a snarl. "Don't judge me by your standards, Montoya. I haven't done what I have done for personal gain."
"I didn't mean to imply…"
"My navy will escort your shipments for two reasons, and two only. The revenue will help lighten the load of our economic problems." He paused, taking a deep breath, as the hatred threatened to consume him. "And I will delight in knowing that the cocaine will bring misery to the American pigs."
Montoya said nothing.
"But now, I face a most serious problem."
The general leaned forward. "Can I be of some assistance?"
Castro smiled. "I'm glad you have asked. My minister of defense has been kidnapped."
Montoya jerked forward in his chair. "But I understood he was at the resort at La Paz," he said. "How could…"
"It doesn't matter," Castro interrupted. "He's in the hands of the Americans, even as we speak. He was taken from your resort. And it is you I hold responsible." He paused to let it sink in.
Montoya stared at him. His hands began to tremble in his lap. "But…"
Castro waved a hand in front of his face. "Don't concern yourself," he said. "I have already made arrangements for his return. The Americans will deliver Raul to the island this evening, but they're demanding a trade." He watched in amusement as a frown spread over Montoya's face.
"A trade? For what?" the Colombian asked.
"You."
The dictator watched the color drain from Montoya's face. He smiled with satisfaction as the man dropped the cigar into the ashtray, reached into his coat pocket and swallowed several tablets from a small medicine bottle.
"You must relax. Rest assured that I have no intention of turning you over to the Americans." The blood slowly returned to Montoya's face. "They have agreed to make the exchange at Bahia de Nipe tonight. There will be no more than two men who come ashore with Raul. It should be a simple enough matter to kill the men who bring him. You'll be along simply as — how do the Americans say it? — window dressing." He stood to indicate that the meeting was over.
Juan Montoya rose from his chair and extended his hand across the desk. Castro gripped the hand and smiled. "Don't worry, my friend," he said. "I'll never allow American agents to operate on Cuban soil. They won't take you from the island against your will."
The hearty odor of Montoya's cigar lingered on after the Colombian had left the office. Castro inhaled deeply, his eyes falling on the key to the desk drawer.
One cigar, he thought. One cigar to celebrate the return of Raul Castillo. One cigar couldn't possibly make any difference.
He inserted the key into the lock, slid open the drawer and withdrew a sealed wooden box.
Perhaps there was still a chance to save his country. He would begin escorting the cartel shipments as soon as Raul was safely back in Cuba. The association with the Colombians would bring millions of dollars to the island.
The old man used the key to break the seal on the box. He lifted a long, thin cigar to his nose and inhaled the aroma lovingly.
Assisting the cartel would also further the second phase of the vision he had held over the years. It would erode the United States from within by sending previously unheard of quantities of cocaine flooding into the country.
The old man placed the cigar reverently between his lips. He smiled as the faintly salty taste of the rolled leaves met his tongue. He reached across the desktop for the lighter he hadn't used in three years.
One cigar to celebrate the return of his friend and the downfall of the American pigs, and to hell with what the doctors said.
Holding the lighter below the tip of the cigar, he spun the wheel with his thumb and gazed into the bluish-yellow flame.
Then slamming the lighter violently against the wall, he gripped the cigar in both hands and snapped it in two.
Castro rose from behind the desk with a new vigor coursing through his body. He crossed the room to the window.
No. Nothing would stand in his way. Not kidnappers, not self-interested weaklings like Montoya and certainly not his health. Nothing would prevent his witnessing the destruction of the country that was responsible for the poverty he saw in the streets below.
Fidel Castro extended both arms through the open window. Crumbling the two halves of the cigar between his hands, he released the leaves into the gentle breeze and watched them float softly down to the dirty street.
He turned once more to the photograph of Nikita Khrushchev on the wall.
"We will bury them," he told his old friend.
13
It was time for war.
Bolan unzipped the front of the black night-fighter suit, worked the elastic belt around his waist and secured the Velcro ends. He dropped the small reel-to-reel recorder and the body transmitter into the pockets at the front.
The Executioner lifted the canvas knapsack. The leather straps bit down into his shoulders as he positioned the heavy contents at the center of his back. His eyes fell to the flat plastic rectangles on the couch. A series of numbered buttons extended from the face of each, making them look vaguely like television remote controls.
They were remote controls, but the «show» the buttons would tune in if pressed would be far more spectacular than anything the networks had ever produced.
Bolan slid the Beretta's shoulder rig over the backpack straps and holstered the Desert Eagle on his hip. He glanced at the mini-Uzi and magazine carriers that lay next to the controls.
He had no need for them, not on this mission.
The warrior picked up one of the controls and pushed a series of numbers, his efforts causing a small red light to flicker in the corner of the display panel. Satisfied, he dropped the control in the breast pocket of his combat suit.
Raul Castillo stared up at him from his seat at the stateroom desk. The Cuban's lips curled into an amused grin. "And what are you carrying in your bag?" he asked cockily. "A snack? Perhaps we can all have a moonlight picnic on the beach. I hope my premier doesn't forget the wine." He threw back his head and laughed.
Bolan didn't bother to comment. He thought briefly of the many good men — and one woman — who had given their lives in the quest to return the loudmouthed Cuban to his country. A sudden knock on the stateroom door roused him from his thoughts.
The Executioner's hand flashed instinctively to the Desert Eagle. Since the incident in the motor whaleboat, he hadn't left Raul's side. Though there had been no more attempts on the Cuban's life as they sailed through the night, the Executioner would take no chances. Not at this stage of the game.
Bolan cracked the door, pressing the barrel of the big .44 against the metal frame where it could penetrate the barrier and eliminate any threat that might appear on the other side.
Jesse Oven stood in the passageway, flanked by Edwards and Hronopulos.
Bolan glanced behind the three men before swinging open the door and allowing them to enter.
Oven wore a desert cammo uniform, festooned with ammunition belts for the Stoner M63A1 cradled in his arms. Bolan saw that the SEAL lieutenant had replaced the stainless steel Python with a mat-black Sig-Sauer automatic. The heavy 9 mm pistol and a series of double-stacked magazine carriers hung from the web belt around the man's waist.
Bolan locked the door behind them.
"It's almost 1815," Oven said. "All ready?"
The warrior nodded. He turned to Hronopulos and handed the big Greek the second remote control. "You know what to do."
Hronopulos nodded, then shook his head and grinned. "Pollock," he said, "you've gotta have gonads the size of basketballs."
Bolan led the way down the passageway and up onto the bridge, the Beretta held close to his side. When they reached the captain's gig, Edwards extended his hand. "Good luck. We'll plan on seeing you back here later tonight."
"Count on it," Bolan said as the gig descended to the dark waters below.
Oven joined the two sailors near the bow while Bolan and the Cuban took seats in the cabin. The Executioner sat sideways, letting the heavy backpack rest on the back of the seat next to him as the boat cruised through the sea at a steady twenty knots.
Castillo broke the silence. "You're quite skillful at your job, Pollock," he said. "I know no other man, on your side or ours, who could have gotten me safely through the terrorists as you have done."
When Bolan didn't answer, the Cuban pressed on.
"Exactly who do you work for?"
The Executioner paused. "America," he finally said.
"Yes, of course," Castillo said. "But are you a CIA operative? Or Drug Enforcement? It's obvious that you're not with the Navy." He studied the Executioner's face. "It's not important. I would like to make you a proposition."
The Executioner knew what was coming. "You'll be wasting your breath."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I'll take over the People's Republic of Cuba upon Fidel's death — which I will confide in you — will not be far off."
"You're sure of that, are you?" Bolan said.
"Oh, yes." Castillo laughed. "There's no one else qualified to replace him, particularly now that we have rid ourselves of Ocha. I'll grieve when Fidel is gone, of course, but death for us all, is inevitable. One must look to the future. Let me get to the point. I will double — no, triple — whatever your country is presently paying you."
Bolan caught himself smiling. His country had paid him, all right. But not in money. The United States had provided him and other Americans with the finest brand of freedom in the history of the human race. There was no way a Communist country like Cuba could ever equal, let alone double or triple, that payment.
The Executioner's only reward for the services he rendered was the knowledge that he did his part. He helped to rid the free nations of the world of the constant threat people like Fidel Castro and his cohorts represented to that freedom.
It was the only payment he had ever gotten. It was the only payment he wanted.
He turned to the man in the seat next to him. "We'll be there in a few minutes. Keep your mouth shut the rest of the trip. When we tie off at the pier, you do exactly what I tell you to do until I've left the island. Anything out of line gets you dropped where you stand."
The corners of Castillo's mouth curled downward. "You'll never leave the island alive, yanqui pig."
The Executioner looked him in the eye. "That's a distinct possibility," he said slowly. "But if I don't, you'll never live to see another day."
Through the darkness of the Gulf of Mexico's night waters, they saw the faint glow of a flashlight as they neared the shore.
* * *
The coxswain cut the engines and the boat glided alongside the pier. Oven joined Bolan and the Cuban outside the cabin as the bow hook tossed up his line. A lone soldier, AK-47 slung over his shoulder, caught the line and secured it around a cleat.
The three men stepped ashore as the soldier tied off the stern line before turning to face them.
Bolan gazed past him at the sand that separated them from the sixty-foot cliffs. Both the beach and the rocks beyond looked deserted. It didn't matter. The Executioner didn't have to see them. He could feel their presence.
The Cuban raised the flashlight, focusing the beam first on Castillo, then Bolan and finally Oven. He stared at the machine gun in the SEAL lieutenant's hands and shook his head.
Oven glanced toward Bolan. The Executioner nodded, and Oven tossed the Stoner back on board.
"Uno," the Cuban soldier said.
"What the hell does he mean?" Oven asked.
Bolan looked at the soldier who held up his index finger in irritation. "One man only," he said, glancing from Oven back to Bolan.
"That'd be me," Bolan said.
"Now wait just a goddamn minute," Oven protested, stepping toward the man.
The soldier raised the AK-47 and jammed the barrel into Oven's chest. Above the gentle sounds of the surf, Bolan heard the click as the weapon's safety kicked off.
Oven stared the Cuban soldier in the eye. "Well, shit," he finally said. He turned to Bolan. "And I know better than to waste my time arguing with you" He swung back on board the gig. "Be careful."
The soldier turned the AK to Bolan. "Your weapons," he ordered in Spanish.
The Executioner slid the Desert Eagle from his hip and thumbed the hammer. He extended his arm and aimed the barrel at the bridge of the soldier's nose. "Enough is enough," he said. For a moment, the two men's eyes drilled holes through each other, then the Cuban's gaze fell to the gaping half-inch hole in the end of the automag. He lowered the AK-47.
Slowly Bolan returned the Desert Eagle to his holster.
The muscles in the soldier's face relaxed and he shrugged. "It won't matter," he said. He turned from the pier and motioned for them to follow.
Bolan grasped Castillo by the arm and led him across the sand to a narrow trail leading into the cliffs.
They followed the soldier up the rugged, winding footpath, stepping over rocks and the stumps of long-dead trees in the scant moonlight. Twice the Executioner had to turn sideways, scraping the bulky backpack along the rock as he squeezed his way through the narrow passage.
Unidentifiable shadows moved in the cliffs overhead, and Bolan heard muffled whispers over the rustling breeze that flowed through the stony corridor.
The warrior pulled the gasping Castillo the last few feet to the top. The Cuban soldier paused to let him catch his breath.
Bolan surveyed the area as best he could in the semidarkness. The trail widened into a road as it left the cliffs. Dark, dry sugar cane stalks grew from the fields on either side, and down the road, he could make out the lines of what appeared to be an old, colonial-style manor house. Bolan heard the soldier whisper something into the darkness ahead.
Suddenly the sugar cane field bursts into flame.
Castillo jumped under the Executioner's grip. "It's the season for burning the stalks," he said with a sneer, "and I see that Fidel has timed it to honor your arrival."
Bolan and the Cuban followed the soldier down the road, the flames forming a blazing tunnel around them.
As they approached the house, Bolan saw that a carefully manicured four-foot hedge surrounded the yard. Three shadowy figures stepped from the porch and crossed the lawn to meet them as they neared.
The graying beard and faded green fatigues of the man in the lead betrayed his identity.
"Ah," Castillo said as their feet hit the crushed oyster shells of the circular drive. "We're almost home, Pollock."
The mixed scents of bougainvillea, night-blooming jasmine and smoke from the fields filled the Executioner's nostrils. Still holding the Cuban by the arm, he escorted the little man to the middle of the yard and stopped directly in front of Fidel Castro.
Shadows from the nearby inferno skipped across the face of the aging dictator as he eyed the Executioner.
Bolan looked past Castro to the other two men. One wore the uniform of a Cuban general, the grips of a Czech CZ-75 automatic extending from the top of the black patent leather holster on his belt. The third man was Juan Montoya.
The Colombian general shifted his feet nervously as Castro embraced his friend, kissing him on both cheeks. "You were treated well?" he asked him in Spanish.
"Satisfactorily," Castillo replied. He turned to Bolan. "If not for this man, the terrorists would have killed me."
Castro nodded, his face an eerie mixture of lines and shadows in the firelight. "Yes," he said. "It's a shame, then, that he must die."
Castillo agreed. "Yes. I have offered him a position with the Revolution, but he refused."
Bolan unzipped the front of his combat suit to reveal the body transmitter. "We're being monitored," he told Castro.
The words had barely left his mouth when the ship's horn of the M. E. Hart sounded in the distance.
Castro burst into laughter. Then the laughter turned to sputters as he bent forward in a sudden coughing fit. The Cuban general held out a handkerchief, but the old man pushed it away, spitting phlegm into the grass at his feet.
The dictator's eyes narrowed, the pupils barely visible under the heavy lids as he regained control. He turned back to Bolan and raised a hand.
Cuban soldiers sprang up from behind the hedges on both sides of the yard. Bolan heard the bolts of a hundred AK-47s slam home as the men fixed their sights on him. Three uniformed snipers appeared on the roof of the house, aiming their night scopes down at the Executioner.
The Cuban premier smiled. "It doesn't matter," he said, reaching behind him and pulling Montoya to his side. "I have given this man my word that you will not take him. And while it doesn't bother me to break an agreement with imperialistic pigs, my word is my bond when dealing with friends." He bent slightly at the waist, leaning closer to the transmitter in Bolan's belt. "Your rescuers will never reach you in time."
