And it would be too late.
Whatever happened, whether any valuable information was extracted from Father Paul Langois or not, the priest was marked for death. His rebel sympathies had been no secret, but now Solange had evidence that this "man of God" had been a part-time tenant of the rebel stronghold, saying Mass to keep the terrorists believing they were on the side of right and decency.
Solange approached the naked priest, his bull prod dangling from a leather strap around his wrist. "I hope you're comfortable."
"Why have you brought me here?"
It was a stupid question, obviously stalling, but Solange had time.
"Through your participation in subversive actions, you have jeopardized both public safety and the government's stability. A number of your criminal accomplices are known to us, but I believe there might be others. I require their names."
"And if I tell you nothing?"
Langois stared at the prod as he spoke. Solange allowed himself the luxury of honest laughter.
"You will tell us everything, in time. Forget about the childhood stories of a fearless hero taking secrets to the grave. Your mind and body can be broken if you fight us. On the other hand, if you should make the wise decision to cooperate…"
"I'll die first."
"Not so easily as that," Solange assured him. "We have doctors on the staff. Their drugs will guarantee that you remain alive — and conscious — while we have our little chat. If you pass out along the way, we will revive you instantly. Believe me, it can last forever."
"I am prepared to suffer for my God."
Solange emitted a disgusted snort. "Your God? Would that be Marx or Lenin? Mao Tse-Tung, perhaps? Which god have you espoused, who comforts terrorists?"
"The same God who will one day visit you in wrath for all your crimes against humanity, Solange! Do not deceive yourself that you can hide from him."
"I don't believe in hiding, Father. I prefer to hunt my enemies like rodents and destroy them. You are nothing but a rodent now."
"Destroy me, then."
"In time."
He circled the suspended priest and chose his target at the coccyx, just above the buttocks cleft. Langois went rigid at the touch of the electrodes, tried to brace himself, but it was in vain. It was impossible to take the charge without reacting, and Solange had barely stroked the trigger when Langois convulsed, his body thrashing like a game fish on the hook.
He left the rebel chaplain to his agony for a moment, circling back around to stand before him.
"Such pain. Are you determined to proceed?"
"You know about the camp. It is destroyed. I have no further information."
"As you wish. Please trust me when I say that I derive no pleasure from your suffering."
"I think you lie."
Solange was grinning. "Naturally. But we must still preserve appearances."
"Your soul is damned, Solange. A place awaits you in the pits of hell."
He shrugged. "You might be right. If so, I'll see you there. Perhaps we can continue our discussion through eternity. Would you enjoy that, Father?"
He was reaching out with the electrodes when a young lieutenant appeared in the doorway, obviously nervous at the thought of interrupting the commander at his special work.
"What is it?"
Stepping forward with a smart salute, the young man passed a folded slip of paper to Solange. He read it quickly, then again, before he smiled at the lieutenant.
"Offer my congratulations to the team," he instructed.
"Yes, sir."
Solange turned to face his captive.
"Good news. A friend of yours is on her way to join us. I believe you know Michelle Saint-Cyr?"
* * *
The Executioner smelled trouble from a block away. He had returned to see Michelle on instinct, trusting the sensation in his gut that told him something might be wrong. As he approached the safehouse, Bolan knew his intuition hadn't failed him.
Two squarish government sedans were parked outside the flat, blocking off the street. One man had stayed behind to guard against theft or vandalism. Two cars meant four men, minimum, and very likely more. With one man visible, that left another three to five inside the "safehouse," questioning the tenants.
And Michelle?
He had no way of knowing, but it seemed to Bolan that she would have been removed at once for questioning downtown, assuming that the troopers knew who they were looking for. And if they didn't, why were soldiers here at all? Bolan needed answers, and he knew that there could only be one source. Accordingly he decided to wait.
The neighborhood, like many in the capital, incorporated both small businesses and dwellings. Bolan dawdled on the sidewalk, killing time with window-shopping, blending with the crowds as much as possible. It wasn't easy for a white man in a business suit to pass unnoticed, but he kept his distance from the flat, convinced that tedium and midday heat would keep the single guard outside from paying close attention to what was going on in the neighborhood.
There was a Catholic bookstore on the corner, and Bolan stepped inside, examining a rack of paperbacks and pamphlets near the window. He chose one or two at random, thumbing through them as he concentrated on the flat, downrange. He had no way of judging whether the Macoutes had just arrived, or whether they had been inside for hours. Either way, it had become a waiting game.
It took another fifteen minutes before three men dressed in khaki uniforms emerged from the apartment building and walked to the cars. They had no prisoners in tow, and Bolan felt a measure of relief. It didn't mean that Michelle was safe, but she hadn't been captured here. If she had escaped, her friends could brief him on her destination.
Bolan waited for the cars to clear the neighborhood before he stepped outside into the street. He had observed no signals passed to watchers on the sidelines, but there still might be surveillance of the flat. If the Macoutes were leaving empty-handed, then it stood to reason they might watch Michelle's known contacts in an effort to secure their prey.
Bolan crossed the street and drifted toward the intersection, scouring storefronts, upstairs windows, spotting no one who struck him as a plant. The enemy might well be more sophisticated than he gave them credit for, but he was gambling against it.
He chose to approach from the rear, negotiating mounds of stinking refuse in an alley where the rusted garage cans had overflowed. No watchers here — unless they were concealed inside the cans — but he released the single button on his jacket all the same, permitting easy access to his side arm. He moved along a sagging chain-link fence to stand behind the small apartment house.
The gate came off in Bolan's hand. He propped it up against the fence and went inside; the wooden stairs in back were old enough to sag beneath his weight, and Bolan heard them groan in protest more than once before he reached the landing.
This was where the enemy would strike if they were waiting. Bolan knocked and stepped away, prepared to fight if he was greeted by a uniform. Instead Michelle's male friend appeared, the woman close behind him, apprehension mingled with relief as they identified the man they knew as Blanski.
"The Macoutes were here," they told him after he was safe inside.
"I saw them."
"There was nothing we could do."
"I know that. Where's Michelle?"
"You have to understand. They knew already!"
Bolan felt the icy fingers close around his heart. "Knew what?"
"I can't believe Michelle would tell them, but they knew."
"Where is she?"
A momentary silence was broken by the woman's sniffling. Her husband answered. "They arrested her this afternoon. She left while we were out and tried to reach another of her friends. Thank God we saw the note before…"
"How long ago was that?"
"She left about…"
"I don't care when she left. How long ago was she arrested?"
"An hour, more or less, if you believe the damned Macoutes
."
For once the Executioner was willing to accept an adversary's word. An hour meant Michelle was safely under lock and key, but there was still a chance that the interrogators hadn't gone to work in earnest. If he turned the heat up fast enough and high enough, he still might win her back.
It would require a change in strategy, and he'd have no time to lose.
The Executioner was shifting into frenzy mode.
* * *
The airport sweltered beneath a broiling sun. From where he sat inside the air-conditioned limo, Sonny Esposito could see heat waves rising off the runway, making stationary aircraft shimmer like some curious mirage. He shifted in his seat and glanced across at Marco Rizzi, running out of patience.
"Shouldn't they be in by now?"
"Don't sweat it, Sonny. They'll be here. It probably took a little while to clear a flight plan out of Lauderdale."
"I guess. It still seems like they ought to be here."
"You're a worrier, you know that? I'm surprised you haven't got a freaking ulcer."
Esposito stared at Rizzi in amazement. "You're not worried? I suppose this all seems natural to you. I mean, who cares? We start a war with New York's Families every day."
"We didn't start the war, okay? They did. That makes a difference."
"Right. Except I still feel like they've got us on the numbers, five or six to one. I think we're going to get our asses kicked."
"You're sounding like a chicken shit. I wouldn't talk that way in front of Mr. B. if I were you."
"I'm not a chicken shit, all right?" It bothered Esposito that the underboss had pinned his problem down so quickly. Damn right, he was scared, but it would never do to let that show. "I hate these odds is all I'm saying. Us against the Families is one thing. Us against the Families and the Commission might be something else."
"It won't come down to that."
"Oh, yeah? Why not? You got some kind of crystal ball or something I don't know about? Because if I was sitting on the board, I think I'd be inclined to look at what was happening and figure maybe Florida was stepping out of line."
"They aren't all deaf and blind on the Commission, Sonny. We've got friends."
"So why the hell is New York free to come down here and jump our action? I was always taught that the Commission was supposed to keep the peace. Like the United Nations, but with balls, I guess I heard that wrong, if they just shine it on and leave us hanging while New York moves in."
"Who says they left us hanging? Hell, for all we know, they could be talking to New York right now. There could be soldiers on the way to back us up on any play we make."
"Don't hold your breath. You want to see some chicken shits, I think you ought to take a look at the Commission. Those old men don't want to rock the boat by taking on New York. They'd rather let us take it in the shorts than dust off their guns."
"You sure you haven't got an ulcer. Sonny?"
"Nan, I'm saving it for Christmas. That way I can treat myself. You think we're going to see another Christmas, Marco?"
"Pull your weight and you'll be around. Don't let me catch you dogging it or spreading this defeatist crap around the Family."
"I'm talking one to one. It goes no further."
"That's okay, then. Hell, there isn't any crime in getting spooked sometimes. You think I never had a second thought about some job, the odds of getting whacked? I thought about it plenty, but I always went ahead and did my freaking job."
"I hear you."
"Fine. It's good you hear me. Sonny, 'cause I'm giving you the kind of good advice that saves your life. We all get hinky, sometimes, but we can't afford to let it show. It's not the manly thing."
Embarrassed, Esposito changed the subject. "What's the headcount here supposed to be?"
"We called for thirty buttons. Mr. B.'s considering a backup, but the last I heard he hadn't made the call."
"That's thirty with the guns we've got already. And New York's not coming down, remember. They've got plenty business of their own at home. We've checked the airlines out these past few days, along with travel agencies, hotels, the whole nine yards. The tourists have been mostly staying home, in case you hadn't noticed. At the most there's fifteen, twenty guys we can't account for on the island. Figure some of them are bound to be straight citizens, and I'd say we've got fairly decent odds. Like, maybe, four or five to one."
That sounded fair, but Esposito couldn't shake the feeling that his world was ready to collapse around his ears and take him with it.
"Four or five to one? You think so?"
"Guaranteed, If they try to put more people on the island, it'll be like Iwo Jima. We'll be down to meet them at the beach."
"Hey, Marco?"
"Yeah?"
"The Japs lost Iwo Jima."
"Shut up, Sonny. Just shut up."
13
Bolan's target was a dockside warehouse, owned — on paper — by a firm called Tropic Freight and Storage. Back in Washington, Brognola's people had unearthed the fact that T.F.S. was operating as a wholly owned subsidiary of Southern Enterprises, founded in the latter part of 1986 by Anthony Bartoli. Southern Enterprises, was a cargo company that farmed its small jobs out to T.F.S. and half a dozen other firms throughout the Caribbean, moving everything from cocoa and bananas to cocaine and automatic weapons.
Tropic Freight and Storage had apparently been organized specifically to handle all material and merchandise required for the construction of Bartoli's new resort at Liberté. In such a fashion, Don Bartoli paid himself for moving lumber, steel and concrete, furnishings and gambling equipment from the States to Haiti, minimizing his expenses all around. For reasons still unclear, he had dispatched the huge casino's slot machines and gaming tables prior to breaking ground; they had been sitting in the warehouse ever since, waiting to fleece the suckers when they got a chance.
The Executioner had other plans.
He parked against the loading dock, eschewing stealth, retrieved a satchel from the trunk and mounted concrete steps to reach a door restricted to Employees Only. It was open, as expected, and he stepped inside.
It must have cost a fortune, but the warehouse had been air-conditioned to protect the stored merchandise against the steamy tropic heat. It fell delicious on Bolan's face as he moved along a narrow corridor to reach the warehouse proper.
Several Haitians wearing hard hats were engaged in shifting crates from one aisle to another, supervised by a man who seemed to be their foreman and a chunky Caucasian in a business suit. The latter would be muscle, pulling easy duty as a watchdog, and the Executioner would have to deal with him before he could proceed.
The foreman and his companion noticed Bolan at a range of fifty feet. The hardman looked him up and down, eyes narrowing to scrutinize the satchel Bolan carried, flicking back and forth from it to Bolan's face.
"You got some business here?"
The tan might be Miami, but the voice had solid roots in the Bronx. Ignoring him completely, Bolan faced the foreman with a smile.
"Do you speak English?"
"Oui." He nodded. "I speak English very good."
"That's fine. I need to have your men stop working now and clear the premises."
"Hold on a minute, here!" The hardman's hand was creeping toward a shoulder rig. "I don't know who the hell you think you are…"
"That's right, you don't," the Executioner replied.
He hauled out his Beretta and put a single parabellum round between the man's piggy eyes in one efficient movement. Impact drove the hardman over backward, toppling him like a fallen redwood while a thumb-sized fragment of his brain took flight and slapped against the nearest stack of crates.
The foreman gaped at Bolan, horrified, as the warrior made a point of holstering the automatic. In its place, he palmed a marksman's medal, reaching out to drop it into a pocket of the foreman's jumpsuit.
"Get your people out of here," he growled. "Make sure Bartoli gets my calling card. Just tell him it's a presen
t from Omega."
Grateful for the opportunity to live, the foreman started barking orders at his crew. The laborers responded with alacrity. The foreman followed his men, glancing back at Bolan once before he cleared the exit.
Slot machines had been arranged inside the warehouse on the basis of their size and value, with the latter clearly stenciled on their wooden crates. The nickel slots had been eliminated, on the theory that a gambler who could fly to Haiti for the weekend wouldn't waste his time with petty cash. The machines on hand were geared to handle coins between a quarter and a silver dollar, with the larger models capable of eating paper currency. Beyond the slots, two hundred gaming tables packed in crates were stacked on top of one another, towering an easy fifteen feet above Bolan's head.
He placed the plastic charges quickly, seating timers as he went. The longest gave him seven minutes, and the shortest sixty seconds. They were synchronized to blow as one and bring the house down.
Outside, the sun scorched Bolan, banishing his memories of air-conditioning and shade. He twisted the ignition key and sat a moment with the engine idling, counting down the numbers in his mind. Ten seconds. Seven. Five.
The blast was muffled, but he heard it all the same, and felt a vestige of the shock wave. Skylights on the roof exploded, windows all around the warehouse spewing glass like frozen waterfalls. A portion of the roof collapsed, dropping the massive air conditioner in pieces to the floor below.
Black smoke belched from the windows and rolled off the roof as Bolan drove away from there. He scanned the roadside, looking for a telephone. He owed his enemies a preview of the nightmare yet to come.
* * *
Francois Descartes was startled when his private line began to ring. He didn't want to have another conversation with Bartoli, but he had to answer all the same. Someone of importance in the junta might be calling, and he dared not keep him waiting on the line.
"Hello?"
"Descartes?"
He didn't recognize the voice. "Who's calling, please?"
Ignoring him, the caller forged ahead.
Haitian Hit Page 13