The stranger shifted in his chair, embarrassed by the reference to his flight from danger. "I saw one of them," he answered stiffly. "It all happened pretty fast."
"Of course." Dismissing him, Solange observed the faithful, a benevolent expression on his face. "There will be no mistakes," he told them flatly. "I intend to wipe this stain of treason free from our homeland and avenge the officers who were assassinated in performance of their duty. If there are no further questions, let's go."
The pilots made their exit first, to get the helicopters ready. Members of the raiding party followed, on their way to check out weapons from the arsenal. The lone American hung back, a dour expression on his face, and waited for Solange.
"This wasn't my idea," he told the colonel as Solange approached.
"If you prefer to stay behind, monsieur…"
"No chance. I've got my orders, just like you."
"Let there be no mistake," Solange replied. "I give the orders."
"Right. Whatever. I just want to get this over with and give my people their report. I didn't come along to get my ass shot off."
"Do not concern yourself. It should be — how do you explain it in America? — a piece of cake."
* * *
It wasn't.
Sonny Esposito didn't mind the jumbo jets, and he could tolerate a private Lear if necessary, but he never felt secure in helicopters. They appeared to violate the very laws of nature, large and small propellers whipping air in different directions, hovering above the treetops like some kind of giant prehistoric insect. The vibration was enough to make you toss your cookies, and he thought for sure that they were going down each time the pilot banked into a turn.
"A little farther."
He could almost hear the goddamned colonel grinning at him, gloating over his passenger's obvious discomfort, and he wished that they were back in Lauderdale, where he could put a bullet through the snotty bastard's guts without a second thought.
"I'm fine," he croaked, eyes closed behind his mirrored aviator glasses, stubbornly refusing to meet the officer's gaze.
In Haiti, Esposito had become familiar with the strutting psychopaths who ran the military and police. A few were honest gangsters like himself, but the majority were cruising on a one-way ego trip that made him nervous. They'd go through all the motions of performing in a normal way and then, from out of nowhere, they'd pull some crazy stunt that made you wonder if you might be dealing with a loony.
As far as Esposito was concerned, the digs at Liberté were being built on quicksand. They could pour good money into architecture and security, surpassing anything available in Vegas or Atlantic City, but it wouldn't stand for shit if some demented macho man in Port-au-Prince woke up tomorrow with the notion he should be in charge. Bartoli couldn't stand against the Haitian Army. He could use every gun he had in Florida and buy off the local brass, and they still could all wind up against the wall this time next week.
He risked a glance outside the helicopter, saw the treetops skimming past and felt his stomach rolling. Damn Bartoli anyway, for choosing him to tag along and verify the body count. He didn't have a hope in hell of picking out the rebel he'd seen, unless they ran around in war paint all the time. Still, the boss said "Jump," and it was Sonny's job to ask, "How high?"
He wore the custom.45 beneath his arm, but the colonel had given him an automatic rifle, just in case. All things considered, a member of the Tom-tom Cuties, or whatever they were called these days, and it wasn't his job to do their killing for them.
Still, if he couldn't avoid the trip — and Mr. B. had left no doubt on that score — it was just as well to be prepared. He double-checked the rifle, making sure it had a live one in the chamber and the fire-selector switch was set on semiautomatic. There was no point squeezing off the whole damned magazine at once, especially when he hoped he wouldn't have to use the piece at all.
"Five minutes," the colonel announced.
Five minutes.
Sonny felt his bowels contract and prayed he wouldn't embarrass himself.
Goddamn Bartoli with his bright ideas.
Goddamn the colonel with his hard-on for a little down-and-dirty action.
Goddamn Marco Rizzi for suggesting Esposito as the best man for the job.
A fucking piece of cake already.
Sonny thought it looked like devil's food.
* * *
The narrow game trail took them eastward on a track that roughly paralleled the stream. Nocturnal creatures had returned to their secluded hiding places in the forest, and their daylight counterparts were taking over, rustling through the undergrowth and calling from the treetops. Bolan caught Michelle within a dozen yards of camp and let her lead, alert to any sign of danger as the jungle closed around them.
"Here we go."
A smaller trail crossed the first, and Bolan followed as Michelle struck off on a tangent, moving slower now and sometimes bending double as she ducked beneath the overhanging branches of surrounding trees. The new trail had a claustrophic feeling. If they met a hunting party here, or flushed a boar, it would be difficult to make an orderly retreat.
To Bolan's great relief, the trail widened after fifty yards or so, delivering them safely to a clearing. Dappled sunlight glistened on a pond, apparently replenished from a subterranean reserve. He was reminded of a science fiction tale, read years before, in which the sun shone only on a single, secret path of Mother Earth.
"I found this place three months ago," Michelle explained. "I haven't even told Henri."
"I'm flattered."
"As you should be."
Bolan smiled. "You come here often?"
"When I have a chance. Jacques tried to have me followed once, but I'm too quick. The man he sent was old enough to be my father."
Bolan kept his smile in place. "You mean like me?"
"I don't know anyone like you."
"You might be better off."
"I doubt that very much."
"Michelle…"
"I need your help."
"How's that?"
"To get away from here. I told you I'm not a prisoner, but neither am I free. My father gave his life for Haiti. Jacques and Father Paul would have me hide forever."
"They want to keep you safe."
"No one is safe in Haiti. Not today."
"Michelle, I'm only passing through."
"I haven't asked you to adopt me. All I need is to get away, reach Port-au-Prince." She hesitated, pinning Bolan with her eyes. "I'll pay you."
"I don't want your money."
"There are other forms of payment." As she spoke, a simple shrug released her jacket and it fell away. Slim fingers found the topmost button on her blouse.
He lost the smile. "No sale."
"A gift, then. Out of friendship."
"Sorry, no."
"You find me unattractive?"
Bolan swallowed hard. Her blouse was open to the waist, and she disposed of it with one more easy shrug. The body he recalled from yesterday was even more inviting as she moved in close enough to touch.
"You're beautiful," he said. "That doesn't change a damned thing."
"I want you," she informed him bluntly. "If you help me afterward, I will be doubly happy. And if not…"
He heard the soft, metallic whisper of her zipper. Reaching out with both hands, Bolan caught her wrists.
"Enough, Michelle."
"Not yet." She stepped close, her firm breasts flattening against his chest. Reading Bolan's mind, she told him, "I'm not a child. And you aren't my father."
"Still…"
She pressed a finger to his lips. "I want to please you. We can please each other."
He tried to speak her name but couldn't find his voice. Her youth and zeal inflamed him, prodded him to slip his arms around her naked back and crush her tight against his chest. Their lips were welded in a hungry kiss, and when it broke, an aeon later, both of them were breathless. The blood was roaring in Bolan's ears like �
� Rotor blades.
She fell away from him as three large helicopters thundered overhead at treetop level. Bolan recognized them as the Bell UH-1H «Hueys» used in Vietnam, now found throughout the world as foreign aid and surplus sales made them available to virtually anybody with the price. Unless he missed his guess, the Hueys would be packed with soldiers — and they were making for the camp.
His passion failing in a heartbeat, Bolan knew that he'd be too late. The Hueys had a lead already, and he couldn't hope to match their speed.
"Come on!"
Michelle was scrambling for her blouse and jacket, but he didn't wait. He might arrive too late, but training and experience forbade the Executioner from doing nothing. At the very least, he had to try.
Behind him, he could hear Michelle in close pursuit, a thrashing sound and muffled cursing as she tried to dress in flight. It should have been hilarious, like teenage lovers startled by a parent's premature arrival, but his mind was focused on the Hueys, estimating manpower and firepower, praying that the compound's lookouts would have time to rouse the troops.
If they responded swiftly, kept their wits about them under fire, a number of them should survive. And some undoubtedly would die. He saw no way around that judgment, any way he tried to slice it. Some of them were doomed.
A hundred yards to go, and Bolan heard the sound of automatic weapons, muffled by the trees. Too many, he decided, for the helicopters on their own, which meant the rebels were fighting back. And dying.
Bolan glanced around and saw Michelle approaching, fighting with the zipper on her jacket as she ran. He slowed his pace and raised a hand in warning as they moved along the final stretch of trail, the sounds of combat growing louder, more imperative, with every stride.
He meant to help them, but he wouldn't blunder aimlessly into the killing ground. There was Michelle to think of, in addition to the soldiers under fire. He palmed the Desert Eagle, flicking off its safety as he moved along the trail at double time.
8
Jean-Claude Solange was ready when the Hueys flew free of the treetops, engine noises shattering the stillness of the clearing below. He didn't try to count the rebel force scattering for cover. It was enough that he had found the enemy, the men responsible for murdering his brother.
It was payback time.
The colonel keyed his microphone and shouted loud enough to make the pilot grimace. "Fire!"
In the Huey's open bay, the automatic weapons hammered in response to his command. Converging streams of fire ripped through the army-surplus tents and toppled running figures in their tracks. A cooking pot erupted, sprouting holes and drowning the fire in clouds of steam. A fat man in butcher's apron stumbled on a string of bullets, staggered through an awkward pirouette and sprawled across the smoking embers.
Deadly fire was pouring from the other helicopters now, as riflemen and gunners manning big M-60s chose their targets for the turkey shoot. The impact of their bullets kicked up spurts of dust and made the tents appear to shimmer, rippling in a lethal breeze.
A number of the rebels were returning fire, sporadic and disorganized, but some of them were scoring hits. No major damage yet, but any damage could be major on a helicopter, and Solange's pilot took them out of range when half a dozen bullets rattled off the undercarriage. Following his lead, the other Hueys rose like flies ascending from a carcass.
Furious, Solange reached out to clutch the pilot's shoulder. "Take us down!" he snarled.
"Bat, sir…"
"If one of them escapes because of you, I'll see you serve his term in prison with the worst degenerates. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
A stray round cracked the Plexiglas but failed to penetrate. Solange released the safety on his automatic rifle, pivoting to see the curly haired American. His face was grim, devoid of color, and he held his borrowed weapon tight between his knees.
"I want to land," Solange informed the pilot. "Now."
"Yes, sir."
The pilot would have crossed himself, but he was busy at the moment, setting down his chopper in a hot LZ.
Solange released his safety harness, braced to make his move before the craft touched down. Another moment now and he would have his sweet revenge.
* * *
Against all odds, the helicopters had surprised Petoit. He'd been waiting for his breakfast with the others, talking shop and listening while some of them described their plans for reeking havoc on the enemy in days to come. It was an old, familiar litany; if they could only meet the army or the Macoutes in open combat, they'd show the bastards something. It would be a massacre.
Petoit had agreed. He couldn't bring himself to tell them they weren't prepared, that any open confrontation with professionals was bound to decimate their ranks. Compelled to work with laborers and farmers, Jacques could only pray for time in which to train his men, prepare them for the all-out combat they desired.
Mike Blanski had been helpful, but his tips could only take the men so far. Three days of training had barely scratched the surface, and Petoit's commandos had had to work with empty guns, since they couldn't afford to waste their precious stores of ammunition on a practice exercise. Outnumbered and outgunned, he'd wondered whether they would ever have the strength to make a difference, count for something in the scheme of things.
The American would be leaving them tomorrow, and Petoit had promised help in his campaign against the gamblers who were building Liberté. The promise had been easy; keeping it was something else entirely. Conflict with the foreigners meant confrontation with the army and Macoutes, a clash that might annihilate his forces. Still, a promise had been made. If Blanski — Where was Blanski?
Smiling at a joke he didn't hear, Petoit began to sweep the compound with his eyes, disturbed that he could find no trace of the American. He had no fear of Blanski slipping off before he ran the final training exercise, but there was something else.
Michelle.
A second sweep. And nothing.
Either one of them, or both, might still be in their quarters. It was early yet… but in his heart, Petoit knew he was merely offering excuses. Blanski was an early riser, up before the sun these past two days; Michelle, for her part, hadn't been this late for breakfast since she joined the camp.
He found Henri in line, the same bored expression on his face, completely unconcerned about his sister's absence. Jacques wished he could share the carefree attitude, but it escaped him. He was conscious of the girl's desire to make her mark at any cost, and he was afraid that she might persuade the American to help her get away. Despite her father's death, she didn't seem to realize — He heard the helicopters then, too late, and shouted at the others, calling them to arms. The lead gunship was in sight before Petoit retrieved his weapon; hostile fire was tearing up the camp as he reversed directions, racing back to help his men.
Three Hueys roared around the clearing at an altitude of twenty yards, laying down a steady screen of fire. He saw men get hit and nearly stumbled over bodies lying in his path, the bitter gall of failure rising in his throat. His men were being massacred before his eyes. His dream lay broken in the dust.
Petoit snapped up his carbine, squeezing off in rapid-fire, and was rewarded by a loud metallic clang. He could scarcely hope to bring a helicopter down with such a weapon, but he had to fight, resist in the hope of inflicting some irreparable damage.
The first ship veered away, but another swung in close to bring him under fire. He broke and ran, pursued by automatic rounds that churned up the earth behind him, snapping through the foliage as he reached the cover of the trees. Ashamed, he huddled there and watched the hunters turn away in search of other prey.
He caught sight of Henri Saint-Cyr in the middle of the camp, beside the cooking fire. The boy was struggling to his feet, his left arm nearly severed at the shoulder. As Jacques watched, a second gunner marked Henri and dropped him in his tracks.
He was about to rush the gunship when hands restrained
him. Swiveling to face his adversary, Jacques was startled to discover two men from his troop. Both were wounded, but on their feet, still mobile. In the trees behind them, he made out the forms of more of the rebels.
He was torn between the forest shadows and the clearing, where the door gunners were firing into bodies of the dead and dying.
"We must go," one rebel urged him, tears of anger and humiliation brimming in his eyes. "Before they kill us all."
Petoit retreated from the clearing, following the tattered remnants of his band. Behind him, echoes of the carnage sputtered, finally died. He wondered if Michelle at least was safe.
So many dead. It seemed a pity he wasn't among them.
* * *
Father Langois was in his tent, recuperating from a restless night, when he was shaken by the sound of rotors overhead. He cleared the tent flaps in a rush and thereby saved himself. A heartbeat later, automatic gunfire ripped through the canvas, riddling his cot and shattering his shaving mirror. As the helicopter passed over his prostrate form, Langois was sprinkled with a rain of empty cartridge casings.
A trooper stumbled past him, doubled back to check the priest. Langois heard a slapping sound, and blood splattered on his upturned face. He was forced to roll away before the dead man fell, a stunned expression on his face.
The ship was doubling back, guns winking from its open bay as Langois pushed himself erect and sprinted for the cover of the tree line. A second helicopter cut him off, dipping low to spray the row of tents along the north side of the clearing. Rebels, caught without their weapons, were jostling one another, cursing, falling to the earth as the bullets swept among them.
Father Paul could hear the bullets striking flesh. Inside the helicopters, he could see Macoutes in uniform, their dark faces broken into hungry smiles.
He found a submachine gun and lifted it from lifeless fingers, scarcely thinking as he swung the muzzle skyward. His job wasn't to kill, but in the heat of combat there were no distinctions. Members of his flock were dying while he watched; if he could save them — even one of them — by taking up the gun, then he was left with no alternative.
Haitian Hit Page 8