Haitian Hit

by Don Pendleton

  It should be obvious. He must be innocent.

  The crew chief settled back and wished like hell he could relax.

  * * *

  "Be ready!"

  As the word was passed along in whispers, Jacques Petoit took time to double-check his M-l carbine, making certain that the safety was released, a live round in the chamber. Once the firing started, there'd be no room for error, no time for hesitation.

  It had been weeks since his commandos had taken a government patrol, and they were getting restless, grumbling about their failure to engage the enemy. They needed action in the same way that Petoit required a victory, to lift their spirits, reaffirm their own validity. Without that affirmative, they were simple peasants, less than nothing in the Haitian scheme of things.

  It would be sweet to take a convoy running home from Liberté. The very name was blasphemous, a mockery of everything Petoit believed in and for which he fought. There would be liberty in Haiti when the unemployed and undernourished peasants drove the scheming foreigners and grasping politicians from the island, slaughtered the Macoutes and put the army in its rightful place. Until that day, their homeland would be rife with poverty, illiteracy and disease, a sore that festered on the face of Mother Earth.

  For nearly two years now, Petoit had tried to make a difference, living in the forest like an animal with those who had the fortitude to join him, stealing weapons from the military and police whenever possible, engaging hostile units where the odds weren't too long against them. An assassination here, a bombing there. It added up.

  Petoit didn't regard himself as either a terrorist or radical. He was a patriot, attempting to preserve his homeland — or what little of it might remain — from the rapacious onslaught of her enemies. The fact that some of them were native-born meant nothing; traitors were a part of Haiti's shameful history, forsaking others of their class and race in the pursuit of personal enrichment.

  Jacques Petoit had lost his faith in moderation long ago, when first his parents, then his older brother were abused and murdered by the Tonton Macoutes on orders from the presidential palace. He had been encouraged briefly when the young Duvalier was driven out of Port-au-Prince. But handpicked stooges had taken his place. Less capable than Baby Doc, the tyrant's chosen heirs presided over something close to anarchy. Their very helplessness had paved the way for military domination and the new-old tyranny that Haiti suffered now.

  Petoit didn't believe that he could change all that by killing soldiers or Macoutes, but he could make a start. If no one rose in protest or fired a shot in anger, the regime would have a tacit license to continue with its «legal» rape of his country. And if Jacques Petoit should die while trying to release his homeland from her bondage, then at least his death would count for something in the end.

  The dime store walkie-talkie crackled in his hand, emitting static and a voice that reached Petoit as an asthmatic wheeze.

  "They come."

  He passed the word along, turned off the radio and set it on the spongy earth beside him. Taking up the carbine — now considered obsolete in modern countries, but still a lethal tool in close-range combat — he prepared himself to kill.

  The first time had been difficult, the second less so. By the fifth or sixth, killing had begun to seem routine, a dirty job like burying the offal in an old latrine. He didn't relish bloodshed, but for now it was a sad necessity of life in Haiti. He could mourn the dead — or some of them, at any rate — and still do everything within his power to increase their numbers.

  Petoit could hear the vehicles approaching, two or three if he could trust his ears. The forest muffled and distorted sounds, but living in the wild had trained his eyes and ears to some extent, investing him with talents a city dweller might mistake for second sight or "magic." A religious man, Petoit didn't dismiss the possibility of otherworldly forces operating on an earthly plane… but for the moment, he would put his faith in firepower.

  "Ready!"

  It was passed along the line, although Petoit had been primarily speaking to himself. He braced his cheek against the carbine's stock, his index finger rigid on the trigger.

  Waiting.

  * * *

  Bolan started counting down the doomsday numbers, primed to make his move on "zero."

  He never made it.

  A storm of small-arms fire erupted from the undergrowth, peppering the military vehicles and scoring hits on flesh inside. He didn't know precisely what was happening, had no idea of who his saviors were, but Bolan realized that there would never be a better time to act.

  He sat up with a twist that made his muscles scream, and snatched an automatic rifle from the fingers of a trooper who had stopped a bullet in the chest. The dead man's sidekick was returning fire to starboard, vaguely conscious of the hostage stirring at his feet. Before he had an opportunity to save himself, the Executioner had placed a 3-round burst behind the man's ear, the point-blank impact shearing off a major portion of his face.

  The officer and driver started to react, each scrabbling for weapons in the panic of the moment. Bolan shot the captain first, a killing round between the shoulder blades that slammed him forward, headfirst into the windshield. Incoming rounds punched the dead man back in his seat.

  The driver swiveled in his seat, one hand fighting the flap of his holster, the other locked tightly on the wheel. Bolan wasted no time on demands in a language his target might not comprehend. His rifle spoke for him, its muzzle blast clearing the driver's seat, dumping his enemy into the road.

  Bolan lunged for the wheel, squirming into the seat as the staff car began to decelerate, finding the pedals in time to prevent it from stalling completely. He stood on the gas, felt the tires catching traction — and then one exploded. The vehicle swerved hard left, jerking Bolan around like a fisherman fighting a marlin.

  A second tire blew, on the right this time. Rifle slugs ripped through the grille, clipping wires, knocking holes in the engine block. Bolan was ready to jump when a sudden cease-fire changed his mind.

  Hanging on to the rifle, he spared a quick glance for the second car, finding its occupants slumped in their seats, shot to pieces. Bolan waited for the hidden gunners to reveal themselves, prepared at any moment for another burst of fire to end his life.

  Instead a sniper cleared the trees, an M-1 carbine leveled at the Executioner. Behind him, others were emerging from the forest, dressed in civilian clothes and bearing arms that ranged from old repeating shotguns to the latest army-issue M-16s. On instinct, Bolan laid down his weapon and waited for the leader to approach him.

  For the second time that evening, he was asked if he spoke English. This time he elected to reply.

  "I do."

  "You aren't one of these." The M-l waggled toward the captain and his men.

  "No."

  The rebel leader frowned.

  "You have one minute to explain yourself."

  4

  It didn't take a minute. Bolan judged his audience on sight and opted for a somewhat altered version of the truth.

  "I cracked a convoy bound for Liberté," he told the man in charge. "The soldiers didn't seem to like that very much."

  "They are Macoutes, not soldiers. There is still a difference, even now." The gunner studied Bolan's face and garb. "You're an American?"

  "That's right."

  "But this isn't America."

  "I get around."

  "Your business here?"

  "Is personal."

  "So be it." The man stepped back a pace and raised his carbine. "You may take the secret to your grave."

  Around the Executioner, a dozen guns were snapping into position, leveled at his face. He shrugged.

  "If there's a choice, I'd rather live to fight another day."

  "Cooperation is required."

  "Okay, let's say I have a vested interest in the Mob."

  The gunner looked confused. "The Mob?"

  "The Syndicate. The Mafia. Whatever."

 
; "Ah, the gamblers."

  "Bingo."

  "You are a policeman?"

  "Strictly private. I approach the problem from a different point of view. No badge, no bargains with the enemy."

  "A soldier."

  "Once removed."

  Behind the gunner, other members of his team were picking over corpses, stripping them of arms and ammunition. Bolan stepped aside and gave the scroungers access to his carload of Macoutes. A young guerrilla took his rifle, stepping closer.

  "I've got some things in there."

  "No weapons, yet," the leader said, retrieving Bolan's combat harness and weapons from a member of the cleanup crew. "You're invited to accompany us. A little walk, and then we shall decide what must be done."

  "And if I'd rather not?"

  "The choice is yours, of course. We would be forced to leave you here."

  The man didn't have to add that they would leave him dead. It was a given, in the circumstances, and the Executioner required no time at all to think about his options.

  "I could use the exercise. Before we go…"

  The gunner was a step ahead of him. "My name is Jacques Petoit. And yours?"

  "Mike Blanski."

  "Shall we go?"

  He thought about the possibility of Macoute reinforcements, knowing that they could arrive at any time.

  "That might not be a bad idea."

  The Haitian jungle wasn't as dense as others Bolan had experienced, but it could still surprise the careless traveler and lead him to his death. They skirted marshy areas where biting flies and large mosquitoes filled the humid air, descending on the troops like uninvited neighbors at a barbecue. Their passage startled flocks of brightly colored birds into screeching flight, but otherwise they made their way in silence, Bolan's guards communicating with their hands and eyes instead of words. He was impressed.

  Full darkness overtook them shortly after half an hour, but the members of his escort never slowed their pace. The forest was an old, familiar friend to these commandos, and they made themselves at home. A river crossing, trails that vanished in the dark, and slopes where rain had churned the earth to mud; they coped with each new obstacle in turn and uttered no complaints.

  It crossed his mind to ask about their destination, but Bolan knew the effort would be wasted. He'd seen enough of Jacques Petoit to know the man wasn't taking any chances. Bolan was a guest in name, but still a prisoner in fact, and while he stood the slightest chance of making an escape, Petoit couldn't afford to let him know where they were going.

  It would take some time to win the rebel's trust, and Bolan had a schedule of his own to keep. His near miss with the convoy was a setback, and in order to maintain momentum, keep the pressure on, he'd be forced to move against his enemies without delay. The side trip to a rebel camp wasn't precisely hurrying things along.

  He paused, considering another point of view. The time might not be wasted if he used it wisely, gaining allies for his cause. The rebels had an ax to grind already, and Petoit's reaction to his mention of the Mafia gave Bolan cautious hope of finding common ground. There'd be risks involved, of course, but at the moment he had nothing more to lose.

  His "escorts," on the other hand, might view the matter differently. They had a war in progress now, against the ruling junta and the Macoutes. Petoit might be reluctant to engage another enemy, and Bolan didn't plan to press the issue. If their causes meshed, so be it. If he had to carry on the fight alone…

  And that would be the problem, Bolan realized. If Jacques Petoit wasn't convinced that they were fighting toward a common goal, he'd be forced to think of Bolan as an enemy. In that case, Bolan's private war would reach a grinding halt.

  Forever.

  * * *

  "One guy? You mean to say one fucking guy wiped out your crew, all by himself?"

  Bartoli pushed back his desk chair, stood and started to pace, like a panther in a cage. His eyes were locked on Sonny Esposito's, boring deep inside his skull.

  "No, sir. I said I only saw one guy. There must have been a dozen, anyhow, the way they poured it on."

  "I hope so, Sonny. I sincerely hope you didn't let one fucking guy bring all this grief down on our heads."

  Beside the door Marco Rizzi cleared his throat.

  "I checked it out there, Mr. B. However many guys there were, they came prepared. Those Caddys looked like…"

  "Save it, Marco. I've got tow trucks on the way. A few more minutes and I can see the damage for myself. I'm not concerned about the cars, all right?"

  "Yes, sir. I just don't think this thing is Sonny's fault."

  The crew chief shot a sidelong glance at Rizzi, grateful for the boost and simultaneously eaten up with dark suspicion. What did Marco stand to gain from saving Esposito's ass? They weren't enemies per se, but neither were they friends. If Marco went to bat for Sonny now, there had to be a payoff somewhere down the line.

  Bartoli found his chair and settled into it again, his eyes still locked on Esposito. "I sincerely hope it wasn't Sonny's fault," he growled. "Because the man responsible for this is gonna wish that he was never born. You hear me, both of you? I don't sit still for shit like this, no way."

  "I hear you, Mr. B."

  "You'd better feel the same. You're getting paid to feel the same, you hear me? And you're getting paid to see that shit like this doesn't happen!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Anyway, you saved the cash. That's something."

  "I got lucky."

  "Funny thing, that luck. One minute, you're on top. Next thing you know, somebody has to scrape your ass off the pavement with a shovel."

  Sonny tried to blank that image out, before it ran together with the grisly sights he'd already seen that afternoon. Too many boys were getting scraped up as it was, and Esposito had no wish to join the list.

  "Okay," Bartoli growled, "let's talk about this guy you saw. What did he look like?"

  "A little bit like Rambo, only real." He saw the color rising in Bartoli's cheeks and hastened to amend his statement. "He was wearing camouflage, you know? Like in the Army. He was carrying grenades and stuff. His piece looked like an M-16, but it was shorter, like sawed-off."

  "Was he black?"

  Sonny thought about it, trying to decide. The action had gone down so fast.

  "No, sir. I think he was white."

  "What the hell? You think?"

  "Well, sir, his face and hands were painted up, you know? Like jungle fighters do, sometimes. And he was moving through the smoke, like making tracks."

  "You couldn't see his skin, and yet you think he was a white man?"

  "From his hair!" It came to Sonny in a flash, from somewhere in his subconscious. "I could see his hair. It wasn't nappy, like."

  "Okay." Bartoli still looked skeptical, but he sat back and took a breather, lowering his voice a couple dozen decibels. "A white man, then — in war paint. What's that sound like, Marco?"

  "Rebels, Mr. B. I'd guess they're taking on some mercenaries. Someone who can help them get their act together."

  "Maybe. On the other hand, these mercenaries might be working for another player."

  "Sir?"

  "Who stands to gain if we get fucked and shoot our wad out here for nothing? Who's been itching for the chance to squeeze us out and grab the action for themselves?"

  "New York."

  "You bet your ass, New York. Those bastards have been sniffing after me for eighteen months. They didn't like the plan when we were raising the cash, but now that we've got solid friends in power and we're looking at an early opening, they're playing like the whole damn thing was their idea. That bastard Mitrione's whispering to the Commission night and day, explaining how we 'owe' him something, since he's 'family. "

  "That's bullshit, Mr. B."

  "Damn right. Mitrione and his Family can have exactly what they got invested in the project. Zero. Nada. If New York wants a war, I'm happy to oblige."

  "You figure Mitrione pulled this action,
then?"

  "I wouldn't put it past him, but we can't come out and call him on it, either. Not without some solid evidence to back us up."

  "What kind of evidence?"

  "Oh, say this soldier boy, for instance. Someone who can point a finger at New York, before we cut his fingers off and feed them to him, one by one."

  "Hike it, Mr. B."

  "Suppose he doesn't work for Mitrione, sir?"

  Bartoli stared at Esposito as if the crew chief was a three-eyed man from Mars. "Who cares? It doesn't matter who the bastard works for. Sonny. All he has to do is say he works for Mitrione. Lay it on a little thick for the Commission, like, before we whack him. We solve our problem that way, and New York can take the reaming for a change."

  "I like it," Marco said again.

  "I like it, too," Sonny added, putting on a smile he didn't feel.

  "I'm glad to hear it." Don Bartoli had him pinned with X-ray eyes again. "I'm glad, because you've got the job."

  The crew chief couldn't help but look confused.

  "What job is that?" he asked, remembering to add a «sir» before it was too late.

  "What job?" Bartoli grinned. "Oh, nothing much. Just find your soldier boy and bring him to me. Alive. That's crucial, Sonny. Can you do that for me?"

  Esposito felt his stomach plummet, but he covered well, relying on experience.

  "Yes, sir. No problem, Mr. B."

  "I'm glad to hear it, Sonny. You can go now. Get yourself a bath, some food and then get hopping. We don't have a lot of time to spare."

  "No, sir."

  He caught a grin from Marco Rizzi as he passed, and Esposito would have loved to pop the bastard one, free of charge. Someday, perhaps… but not just now.

  He was engaged in other business at the moment, tracking down a man who had nearly killed him once, a phantom of the forest. All Sonny had to do was track him down without a clue to go by, round him up and bring him back to Mr. B. Alive.

  No sweat. A piece of cake.

  * * *

  Bolan felt the sentries before he saw them, checking out the raiding party and its prisoner, allowing them to pass without a challenge. There were at least three. The camp had started with a clearing in the forest, which had been enlarged by sweat and toil. There was no fence — it would have trapped the occupants instead of making them secure — but Bolan spotted riflemen patrolling the perimeter. They became alert at sight of the patrol, then went about their business when they recognized Petoit and others in the column. Bolan was an unknown quantity, but he was under guard and therefore not a threat.