Haitian Hit

by Don Pendleton

  The time had come to prove himself.

  He prayed that he was equal to the challenge.

  * * *

  Jacques Petoit ran through the numbers one more time, disheartened as he realized that he had only fifteen soldiers left. The rest lay dead where the Macoutes had left them, food for rats and vultures, rotting in the sun. He would creep back that night, with darkness, to prepare a funeral pyre, but it was suicide to risk the clearing in daylight. The Macoutes might still be watching, men with radios prepared to call the gunships out of hiding and resume the hunt.

  He wondered if his nerve was broken, finally deciding that only time would tell. Petoit had been humiliated by his mortal enemies, compelled to tuck his tail between his legs and run like a beaten mongrel. Twenty-seven men lay dead at the encampment, some of them cut down before they had a chance to reach their weapons, others fighting back until their lives were ripped away and scattered to the winds.

  Petoit had failed them all. The very fact of his survival was a brand of shame, when a commander should have gone down fighting with his men. He scanned the grimy faces of his new survivors, wondering how many of them hated him because he was alive.

  So many lost!

  A few might still be scattered in the forest, but he had no hope of finding them again. He thought of Father Paul, Michelle and the American, all missing from the group of soldiers who surrounded him. Henri Saint-Cyr was dead, beyond the shadow of a doubt; Petoit had seen him riddled by machine guns. It was his final memory from the encampment, watching Henri's body twist and shudder with the impact of a dozen rounds.

  Revenge might wipe the burning image from his mind, but first he had to take stock of his survivors and their slim provisions. Of the fifteen men before him, nine were armed with rifles, two had pistols, four had only knives. A single man had carried ammunition, shared already with his fellow riflemen. In any concentrated firefight, they would be effectively unarmed within five minutes.

  None of them were wounded; the Macoutes had seen to that by executing stragglers and injured members of his band before they had a chance to crawl away. Ten rifles, counting his, and it would have to be enough until they found some more arms and ammunition.

  Soon.

  They couldn't wait, if they were going to exact revenge upon their enemies.

  There was an outpost east of Leogane, within their reach by nightfall if they pushed themselves. There might be twenty soldiers in the garrison if it was up to strength, but they would be relaxing now, convinced the rebels had been crushed. Surprise could make the difference, and a victory would bring them vital weapons. Rifles, hand grenades, machine guns, ammunition. It would be a start.

  He faced the small band of survivors, felt them watching him as he began to speak. They seemed to listen with respect as he described his plan, and no one challenged his authority. He waited for dissenters to express themselves, discount his strategy, but no one spoke.

  Survivors all, they had apparently decided to forgive him for the fact that he was still alive.

  With greater confidence, he spun a web of hopes and plans around the future. Targets they would capture or destroy when they had armed themselves for war. Selected enemies they would annihilate in honor of their fallen comrades. They would teach the damned Macoutes a thing or two about scorched earth, and if they ultimately lost their lives, they would have left a legacy behind for other rebels, an example to be studied, emulated.

  They couldn't be written off just yet.

  Petoit had debts to settle with the junta. For Armand Saint-Cyr, Michelle, Henri and Father Paul. For all the three common soldiers who had laid their lives down in a holy cause, to free their homeland from the cruel yoke of oppression.

  He meant to pay those debts in blood.

  * * *

  Brognola's eyes in Port-au-Prince had pegged the voodoo temple as a front for the Macoutes and Anthony Bartoli. Haiti's thought police had always worked the voodoo angle in their bid to dominate the hearts and minds of captive citizens; it was reported that the presidential office, under Papa Doc Duvalier, contained a standing effigy of Baron Samedi, the lord of zombies. Time had scarcely weakened voodoo's hold in Haiti, and the Syndicate had clearly seen advantages in forming an alliance with the cult, thus gathering intelligence while spreading tentacles of iron control throughout the population.

  Houngans — voodoo priests — who balked at dealing with the Mob or the Macoutes were killed or driven underground once they had been identified. A few, apparently, were working overtime on spells designed to break the junta, but their efforts to the present time had met with no success. For Bolan's part, he put his faith in strategy and steel.

  An herb shop fronted for the temple he had singled out that afternoon. The houngan, one Roman Leclerc, peddled drugs on the side and was known to keep tabs on the dissident wing of his church for the government. As a reward, he was free to pursue his illegal activities, banking his cash in a numbered Bahamian account. If police came too close, he had only to pick up the phone.

  Bolan entered the shop, killing time at a book rack and letting his pupils adjust to the murky interior lighting. A bell mounted over the door had announced his arrival, but no one responded at once, and he moved toward the counter, examining bottles and jars filled with bright-colored powders, dried herbs, cloudy liquids. In one jar, a deer fetus stood in formaldehyde. In a terrarium close by the register, vipers lay watching through dull, lidless eyes.

  "May I help you, monsieur?"

  Bolan turned to confront the proprietor, noting that Roman Leclerc was an easy six-four weighing in around three hundred pounds.

  "That depends. You the houngan?"

  "Perhaps."

  Bolan put on a show of impatience. "The thing is, I've got no spare time for a square dance, you read me? I've come with a message for one of your buddies. It could mean his life. If you don't want to help him, that's fine."

  "Could you be more specific?"

  Leclerc looked suspicious, examining Bolan with caution.

  "Bartoli," the warrior replied. "Are you reading me now? Is that plain enough for you?"

  "I'm listening."

  "Great. You've been pushing his shit in the streets, and New York wants it stopped. You'll be dealing with us from now on, understand?"

  "Not precisely."

  "Okay, let's try this on for size. Don Bartoli's a thing of the past. Call him history. New York is taking his action, including your franchise on heroin, pills, the whole shot. Are we making connections?"

  Leclerc wore a lopsided smile.

  "You pretend to know much of my business," he said, "and yet you are a stranger to me. My agreement with Mr. Bartoli — if any agreement exists — is a matter of business and honor between us. Desertion of friends in a crisis entails certain risks to both body and soul."

  Bolan snorted. "Your soul's not my problem. But as far as your body's concerned, you've got bigger risks bucking New York. They remember their friends in Manhattan, and likewise their enemies. You don't look stupid to me. Do I have to draw pictures, or what?"

  "I do not believe artwork is called for." The big man was circling the counter. His move brought him closer, while keeping a bulwark between them. "You must understand that Bartoli is here, and New York is a long way away."

  "Not so far," Bolan told him. "You might be surprised."

  "If you've come by yourself…"

  "That's mistake number one," Bolan snapped. "Number two is you thinking I can't do the job on my own."

  As he spoke, Leclerc's hands slipped under the counter out of sight. Reacting on instinct, the warrior lunged forward, his hands locking on to the taller man's ears. With a sharp forward motion, he slammed Leclerc's face through the glass on the top of the heavy display case.

  The black man cried out and swung blindly with a two-foot machete, but Bolan was ready. He parried the swing with a forearm and locked on the wrist, twisting sharply. His free hand maintained its pressure and scrubbed Lecler
c's face on sharp prongs of glass.

  Bolan vaulted the counter, released the houngan and let him drop to the floor. Leclerc wriggled away from him, hands coming up to his face as he scrabbled for cover, but Bolan pursued him and pinned him, a knee on his chest.

  "You'll be phoning Bartoli," he said, "just as soon as they take a few stitches and make you look pretty again. You can tell him New York's in the saddle. You got that?"

  "I'll tell him."

  "You do that. And have a nice day."

  Bolan paused by a stick-figure statue of Baron Samedi, in top hat and tails, which the houngan had parked by his door. Picking up one limp sleeve, Bolan wiped Leclerc's blood from his hands.

  * * *

  Don Bartoli was furious. He'd been on the phone for the past forty minutes with idiots, trying to learn what had gone wrong with his world. Giacorelli, downtown, had been feeding him nonsense about orders to hand over three million dollars' worth of heroin to Omega, and to flush the rest down the toilet. Before that had time to sink in, the don had a call from Leclerc, saying that a man from New York had just carved off his face. It was hard to get through on the voodoo priest's wave length, but one thing seemed clear from his halting description: the "man from New York" was Omega.

  Terrific.

  The Ace had been in Bartoli's own house, talking strategy, promising help if a war came around, and a short hour later the same guy was ripping him off for three million in heroin, signing his name to the job. It was crazy, but New York was like that. In spades.

  So, the Families had a pet Ace on the payroll. Right now, that meant nothing to Bartoli. He was determined to pay back Omega worth three million worth of discomfort the next time they met. Never mind that the Aces were said to be invincible. No one was bulletproof. If he was breathing, the guy could be killed.

  The first thing on his list was security, both for himself and his people who worked in the capital. While this Omega was out on the streets, every made man, employee and casual contact became a prime target for violence. The bastard was running amok, but Bartoli discerned a slick method, obscured by the madness.

  The Army had a name for it: psychological warfare. Omega was hoping to spook him, which would generate mistakes. It was classic, but now that Bartoli had seen through the ruse, he could lead with an ounce of prevention. It might cost him money, but he would shut down for a day or so, cover his people and keep them on payroll to ward off complaints. While Omega was hunting for targets, Bartoli's top gunners would be hunting him.

  The capo sat back with a smile on his face. For the first time since Friday, he felt in control. Let Omega run wild if he wanted; Bartoli would wait in his web and respond with a swift killing stroke when a target presented itself.

  In the meantime, if troops from New York showed their faces in his private preserve, he was ready to send them home in a box. Never mind that it might lead to war. That had been New York's choice from the start. The bastards were looking for war. Let them find what they came looking for.

  The Aces might not be extinct as a breed, but Bartoli was ready to take out one more of the species. If the Commission resented his move, let the members say so. By then it would be in the bag, and the high priest of voodoo himself would have no luck reviving Omega.

  He glanced at his Rolex. In another two hours or so, his troops would be landing to beef up the ranks. He had ordered a check on the airlines, hotels and the cruise liners, convincing himself that New York had no sizable force on the island thus far. While they might have been moving their people as tourists, the climate of violence had minimized travel to Haiti of late, and the «possibilities» still on the island were just over twenty in number. By nightfall, Bartoli would have their rooms under surveillance.

  In a few days the war would be history. He could get on with his business in peace, or else take the offensive and bring the fight home to the States. There were ways to eliminate even the strongest of capos, regardless of their security measures. Manhattan would soon have to fold or prepare for a game that would topple their house of cards.

  It was Bartoli's deal, and he was playing for keeps.

  12

  Marie Dufresne had been a close friend of Michelle since they had been in school, a fine distinction that had set them apart from countless other girls in Haiti. Most were doomed to spend their lives in ignorance and poverty, Michelle, Marie and several hundred others like them were the chosen few: the children of aristocrats and politicians, born to families with money in the bank.

  Sometimes at school Michelle had felt completely isolated from the world outside. She saw the filthy, starving people of her country on the streets, of course, and while the images disturbed her, she believed that there was nothing she could do about their plight. Her father was a liberal, involved in government, and she had learned from his frustration that the problems of the poor weren't about to go away because a young girl wished that it were so.

  Marie had helped to make Michelle feel more at home around the school. A few months older, she had taught Michelle the ropes, befriended her and listened sympathetically on stormy nights when the pain of life at home without her mother had come spilling out. Marie had been the one to offer solace when Armand Saint-Cyr was too wrapped up in politics to understand his children's needs.

  In time their friendship had evolved into something more like sisterhood, and it had deeply grieved Michelle to run away from Port-au-Prince without a chance to say goodbye to Marie. On two occasions she had smuggled notes into the city with one of Petoit's runners, but there had been no opportunity for a reply.

  It was an imposition now, she realized, to simply drop in out of nowhere, unannounced… but she had nowhere else to turn. Marie had shared her views about the government in power, going even further than Michelle in her denunciation of the junta. She hadn't gone public with her criticism yet, to the best of Michelle's knowledge, but Marie was sympathetic to the rebel movement, and she would have helped Michelle in any case.

  There would be danger. In Haiti, every action had its price: the risk of possible reaction from a government primarily concerned about its own longevity. Michelle's arrival would immediately make Marie a target, which could cost her her life. Prior to finalizing her decision, Michelle had spent the early afternoon examining her options.

  Simply stated, there were none.

  If she remained where she was, she jeopardized two friends, and while Marie was closer, more important in her life, the numbers had to count for something. Neither could she sit and wait for Blanski to return. The American had worries of his own, and when he left the island there would be no place for her inside his baggage. It would be Marie or nothing.

  The flat was small, befitting Marie's status as a nurse in training, but at least she didn't have to share the room with ten or fifteen relatives. The Dufresne family had roots in Cap Haitien, where they maintained a cargo shipping line. Marie had been the first and only child to turn her back upon the family business, but she did it in a loving way and managed to retain her generous allowance.

  The Macoutes would know about her friendship with Marie, but they couldn't watch everybody all the time. Michelle spent half an hour dawdling through the neighborhood, pretending interest in the wares of vendors on the street, alert for any signs of a continuing surveillance. There was nothing, and she crossed the street a half block down, retracing anxious steps until she stood outside Marie's apartment building.

  The second-story flat was served by metal stairs, providing access to a long, communal landing. In appearance, the apartment house resembled the motels Michelle had seen along the highway leading to Miami on her one brief visit to America. It wouldn't pass for luxury, unless your present home was something made of tin and cardboard, leaning in an alley choked with filth. It shamed Marie to realize that almost ninety percent of Haiti's population couldn't claim that simple standard for themselves.

  She moved along the landing, reached Marie's door and knocked. The door was opened by
a smiling man in uniform, who held a pistol. Behind him, she could see Marie hunched forward on the sofa, weeping as she held a bloody handkerchief against her face.

  "We've been expecting you," the gunman said.

  Michelle was prepared to bolt and risk the bullet, but her path had been cut off by men emerging from the flats that flanked Marie's. She was surrounded, and an aversion to heights prevented her from leaping off the balcony.

  Resigned, she gave her head a toss and faced the smiling officer. "Then, shall we go?"

  * * *

  Jean-Claude Solange was pleased with his achievements for the day. He had destroyed a rebel camp before the midday meal, annihilating close to thirty traitors in a single stroke. An hour after lunchtime, he had cracked a leftist demonstration in the streets of Port-au-Prince and nabbed the so-called priest who stood a chance of heading up the rebel movement as a new Armand Saint-Cyr.

  The priest, Langois, looked thin and vulnerable on the parrot's perch, suspended upside down and wearing nothing but his chains. Solange enjoyed the preparation for interrogation nearly as much as the sessions themselves. It pleased him to see haughty spirits broken, beaten down as they were stripped of clothing and dignity, hoisted like fresh slabs of meat on a hook. Some cracked without the need of more inducement, but he rarely let them slip away unscathed.

  It seemed a shame to bring them all this way and let them miss the party.

  In the priest, Solange faced everything that he despised: traitor of the godless left who used his costume as a cover, working to subvert the church and state together. This Langois had no respect for God, tradition, or the junta, and he would be punished for his disrespect. Before dawn's light broke through the darkness to proclaim another day, the man would be begging for another opportunity to pledge his vows.