The Americans were on vacation. Everybody in the world knew that they never traveled far without their guns.
And they were paying cash.
Avoiding the valet, Mack Bolan parked his car in back, beneath a fire escape, and circled back to enter through the lobby. Disembarking from an elevator as Bolan entered the hotel was a familiar face — the lone survivor from his strike against the payroll convoy Friday afternoon. The gunner wouldn't recognize him in a well-cut suit, without the streaks of war paint on his face and hands, but Bolan took no chances. He veered sharply toward the registration desk before their paths could cross.
"Yes, sir?"
"I need to circulate among the guests who just checked in, make sure there's nothing special any of them need. You get my drift?"
"Of course, sir."
"Trouble is, I don't have all the numbers."
"Numbers, sir?"
"Their rooms."
The clerk began to lose his smile. "I'm sorry, sir, but hotel policy…"
Bolan slid a twenty-dollar bill across the desk; the deskman made it disappear.
"Of course, in that case…"
He began to rattle off the numbers. Bolan read back the list from memory, hearing it confirmed. He thanked the clerk and drifted toward the elevator, grateful that Bartoli's man had found his way outside. He saw the man in profile, handing the valet a ticket stub, and then the elevator doors slid shut to block his view.
The reinforcements occupied three different floors, as a concession to security. It might have been sufficient, in the case of a direct assault by hostile troops, but Bolan had a different strategy in mind. He started at the top and chose the target farthest from the elevator, working backward, hoping that he might be finished with his task before the bodies were discovered. Either way, he'd be heading toward the exit, rather than away from it.
He knocked three times before he got an answer at the first door and was finally confronted with a sallow face, dark eyes and a twisted sneer.
"What is it?"
"It" consisted of a silent parabellum round, dispatched at skin-touch range between the eyes. He gave the door a shove, to keep the dead man's fall from blocking it, and found his partner just emerging from the bathroom, zipping up his pants.
"What's all the… Jesus Christ!"
The shooter didn't have his guns on, and he recognized the fatal error in a heartbeat, breaking toward the bed where several weapons had been laid out for cleaning. Bolan helped him get there with a round between the shoulders, which lifted him completely off his feet and draped him across the mattress.
Bolan checked their weapons and smiled. An Ingram submachine gun with a foot-long silencer attached protruded from beneath the body of his second target. The warrior worked it free and checked the action, trying out the safety, chambering a round.
His own Beretta had the capability of firing 3-shot bursts, but he could use the little Ingram room-broom to facilitate his play from this point on. He found three extra magazines and slipped them in his pocket, conscious of the way in which they weighted down his jacket. It wasn't important. At the moment, fashion was the least of Bolan's worries, and the men he was about to meet would be in no position to complain.
Before he left, he rummaged through an open suitcase, found a pair of frag grenades and clipped them to his belt. The troops had come prepared for war, and he wasn't averse to using their own arms against them. It fit his sense of justice nicely, all in all.
Emerging from the room, Bolan checked the corridor for traffic, carrying his liberated Ingram in the open. His second stop was three doors down.
He knocked, and this time got an answer on the first attempt.
"Who is it?"
Bolan braced himself, the Ingram at his hip.
"Room service."
He could hear muttered conversation on the other side. "We didn't order nothin'."
"Compliments of the house."
"Oh, yeah? Well, what the hell…"
The door swung open. Bolan triggered off a rising burst that ripped his human target from the belt line to his Adam's apple. The follow-through was necessarily abrupt, as Bolan knew the gunner's roomie would be scrambling for hardware.
A second hardman stood near the sliding doors, clearing leather as he recognized the Ingram's muffled growl. He never had an opportunity to use his weapon as a trio of parabellum manglers pinned him against the wall and snuffed out the spark of life. He left a crimson smudge on the wall as he slithered to the floor and came to rest.
Four down, a mere sixteen to go. The Executioner reloaded and turned on his heel. He checked the wall clock, fashioned in a sunburst, as he reached the door.
Death had a schedule to keep, and he was running right on time.
* * *
It took a while, but something clicked in Sonny Esposito's mind — the tall man in the hotel lobby, wearing an expensive suit. He wasn't out of place, per se, considering the prices charged by the hotel, but tourists slumming on the island didn't dress that well, and there was something else about the guy — a look, perhaps — that Sonny couldn't put his finger on.
If anyone had asked him off the cuff, he might have said the guy was in from Lauderdale to join the party. But he wasn't. Sonny knew the reinforcements to a man, and he'd never seen the stranger before.
Or had he?
There was something in his posture and the way he moved that struck a chord of memory with Esposito. They hadn't been introduced, of that much he was certain, but he might have seen the big man at a party, one of those conventions that the Families convened from time to time.
New York?
The mere suggestion sent a chill through Sonny's blood. If the bastards had a man in the hotel, they might be getting ready for a major move.
He shouldered through the tall glass doors and scanned the lobby. Zip. He hustled toward the registration counter, where the spit-shined clerk was grinning at him, doubtless hoping for another tip.
"Monsieur?"
"A tall man, dark, expensive clothes."
"Yes, sir?"
"Where is he?"
"I believe he went upstairs."
"Is he a guest at the hotel?"
"No, sir. But he had business with the other members of your party."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
He had two choices: he could either call Bartoli, or he could proceed alone and save some precious time.
The elevator was returning, and its door slid open to reveal an empty car. He bolted for it, making up his mind while in motion, and stabbed at a button with his index finger. He would start on four, and take it up from there. Along the way, he could recruit the other guns to help him in his sweep. They could begin to earn their money right away.
If only he could place the stranger, figure out where they had met before.
It would help if he knew something about the man he was about to kill.
* * *
Jean-Claude Solange replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle, scowling. Meddlers! How could spineless politicians expect him to do his job when he was undercut by interference from above?
Francois Descartes had spoken to the officers in charge of Haiti's military government before he called. There had been no mistake on that score, and for all his disappointment, all his anger, it would be a serious mistake to disregard the orders.
He would have to free the girl. As for the priest…
Descartes hadn't explained in any kind of detail. It was «necessary» for Michelle Saint-Cyr to be released, unharmed, as soon as possible. The rulers of the junta had agreed.
So be it.
Moving back along the corridor, he came to the interrogation room and entered, careful to secure the door behind him. Father Paul Langois was still suspended from the parrot's perch, his naked body covered with the welts of beating and burns inflicted by the prod. Michelle Saint-Cyr was shackled to a chair directly opposite, her pristine flesh as yet unmarked by violence.
Solange
had taken pleasure in compelling her to watch the priest's interrogation, crying out as if in pain each time that he applied the prod. She seemed to share the cleric's suffering, as if their souls were somehow intertwined, and it amused Solange to make two puppets dance by prodding one.
The girl had been earmarked as a special treat, but now Solange would have to pass. Descartes was waiting. More importantly, Jean-Claude's superiors were waiting, men who held the power of life and death. He might be the commander of Macoutes, but in his heart Solange knew he could never stand against the junta. He didn't have men or guns enough.
"You're going home," he told the naked girl, then immediately turned toward the priest. "And you…I think you've told us everything by now. Is that not so?"
He walked across the room to stand behind Langois, examining Michelle across the bony outline of the cleric's knees. She didn't see the razor in his hand as he bent down to grasp the man's hair, haul backward on Langois's head and bare the curve of his throat.
"Good-bye, my friend."
The blade bit deep, slashing from left to right across the jugular and the carotid artery. Dark fountains spurted high, the crimson droplets falling on Michelle's thighs and breasts. Twin streamers marked her cheeks like bloody tears.
Solange stepped backward, waiting for the priest's convulsions to subside. A drain was centered in the concrete floor, beneath the parrot's perch, and it was gurgling now, a hollow, thirsty sound.
He wiped the razor off on Father Langois and slipped it in his pocket, reaching for the buckle of his belt. Unharmed, Descartes had said. An expert in the field of harm, Solange knew that it didn't mean untouched.
"My child," he fairly whispered. "There is something that you wish to tell me, is there not?"
One hand reached out to smear the blood across her breast, the nipple stiffening beneath his touch. Solange didn't mistake her terror for arousal. He was simply unconcerned about the difference.
"No comment? Very well. Shall we begin?"
* * *
"I'm telling you, they didn't bring us all this way, with all this iron, to sit around and watch 'em build casinos."
"Yeah? So where's the fire? Who is it we're supposed to be at war with, can you tell me that?"
Francesco Abbandando spun the cylinder on his revolver, peering through the empty chambers, cleaning brush in hand. The weapon was a big Colt Python; it would drop a charging rhino if you knew precisely where to place your rounds, and Frank the Dasher knew. He was an artist with the weapon and he knew a little bit about the politics of war, as well.
"I'm betting on New York," he said around his cigarette. "They're always hungry. Never get enough, those bastards. Someone bakes a pie, they have to be the first ones with their noses in the oven."
"I don't know about that, Frank."
His roomie, Art Falcone, couldn't let it rest. The guy would argue if you told him that the sky was blue.
"You think I'm wrong?"
"I think Chicago could be pushing it, that's what I think. Things haven't been so hot the past few years, with all that federal heat. I wouldn't be surprised to hear Don Scipio was looking for some extra income on the side."
"You're dreaming, Artie. It's New York, believe me."
"Yeah? I got a C-note says you're blowing smoke."
"I hate to take your money, man."
"So, force yourself."
"You're on. First dude we pop, you wait and see if he's not from the Apple."
"Do I have to hold my breath?"
"I'll tell you something, Artie — no one likes a smart ass."
"Sounds to me…"
His line was interrupted by a rapping on the door. Both gunners glanced in that direction, back at each other, then reached for their iron. The Dasher got his Python loaded, closed the cylinder and slipped his index finger through the trigger guard.
"It's prob'ly Michael, or the Frog."
"I guess. You want to check it out?"
"No problem."
Falcone drifted toward the door, the Dasher covering. He stopped ten feet away, his automatic still inside its holster as he called. "Who is it?"
The response was garbled, indistinct.
"Say what?"
Again, from where he sat, Frank Abbandando couldn't understand the words.
"Sounds like he's talking with his mouth full." Artie grinned. "Some people got no couth."
His hand was on the doorknob, twisting, when the Dasher understood their danger. Rising from his chair beside the bed, he took a step toward Artie, toward the door, and caught himself.
"Hey, Artie, don't do tha…"
Too late. The door was opening, with Artie moving in to block his view. "For Christ's sake, I can't understand a fucking word…"
The Dasher didn't have to see the gun. He recognized its sound, and the effect its short burst had on Artie, drilling through his chest and ripping blow holes in his back. He was dead before he hit the carpet.
Abbandando dropped behind the bed as Artie's killer stepped inside and closed the door behind him. It was reflex, sure. He wasn't frightened. Maybe just a bit concerned, but he was also still alive, and meant to stay that way.
He could explain the seeping dampness at his crotch another time.
By listening, he knew approximately where the gunner stood, no more than fifteen feet away, at roughly ten o'clock. He would be sweeping with the submachine gun, knowing that his second target had to be behind the bed or in the closet. It would be a simple choice; the closet door was standing open, showing luggage on the floor and nothing else.
The Dasher had to make his move, regardless of the risks involved. He couldn't simply lie there on the floor and hope the gunner would leave; it just didn't work that way.
If he could make some noise, alert the others, they would come and help him. Right. Assuming they were still alive and able to respond. He cursed the memory of Art Falcone. The little bastard never should have touched that doorknob.
In the movies, gunmen always came out snarling with defiance, making macho noises for the camera. Never mind that you would give yourself away before you ever fired a shot, with all those barnyard noises. Hollywood was filled with hacks who wrote their scripts so Walter Mitty types could play along.
The real pros killed in silence, sneaking up behind an adversary when they could — or conning someone like Falcone into opening the goddamned door. It made things so much easier when you could take your target by surprise.
The Dasher heaved himself erect and fired the Python twice, its thunderous explosions filling the room before he realized his error. Magnum hollowpoints gouged plaster from the wall, but they had passed through empty air to get there.
Twelve feet to his left, the stranger held an Ingram leveled at his waist. The Dasher knew he didn't have a hope in hell of pulling off the shot, but he would no more give it up without a fight than he would use the Python on himself.
He twisted, trying desperately to aim before he lost his balance. He saw the Ingram's silencer erupt with flame, experienced the hammer stroke against his ribs. And he was falling, weightless for a moment, barely conscious of the pain.
He lost the Python as he fell, numb fingers giving up their purchase. Lying in the middle of the room, he watched the stranger circle, moving closer, holding steady with the stuttergun. There was no feeling in Frank's body below the armpits.
"New York?" he asked the dark man. "Yeah, I thought so. Hey, that's one you owe me, Artie."
Somehow, somewhere, Frank the Dasher hoped he would be heard.
* * *
Six down, and there were six more on the fifth floor, eight men on the fourth. He took the service stairs this time and had them to himself. On five he risked a glance along the corridor before emerging and froze at the sight of two Americans approaching.
He ducked back, held the door ajar and waited, listening. The hardmen knocked and waited, answered in a moment by another of their kind who welcomed them inside and closed the door.
Fine.
The troops had settled in, unpacked their bags and were visiting among themselves. It was a natural progression, but it made his work more dangerous. With four men in a room, the odds against his pinning all of them at once were doubled. Twice as many guns meant twice the risk… and he was running out of time.
The two wild shots upstairs hadn't been audible below, and Bolan thanked his lucky stars for that. If there were other guests on six, however, someone might be dialing the police right now. It would be one thing to abort the mission, leaving seventy percent of his intended targets still alive, but slipping past a riot squad was something else.
Bolan flipped a mental coin, deciding to proceed. He stepped into the empty corridor and padded silently forward until he reached his destination. He could hear them through the door, their laughter coarse and as hard as nails.
How many?
If all six had gathered in a single room, his knock might put them on an instant combat alert. On the other hand, if there were only four inside, and they were still expecting company…
Bolan drew the Beretta with his left hand, held the Ingram in his right. He knocked on the door with the butt of the 93-R, and there were no questions this time as the door was opened by a hulk with curly hair and double chins. A shoulder rig supported a.45 beneath each arm.
The warrior led with the Beretta, squeezing off a single, silent round that drilled his adversary's forehead, spouting crimson. He followed with a flying kick against the door. The dead man slammed backward, going over on his back as Bolan stepped inside. There was no time to close the door behind him as he caught four soldiers scrambling to their feet.
Four soldiers, and the one already down made five.
So, where the hell was number six?
They scattered, or attempted to, within the limitations of the room. One guy was breaking off to Bolan's left, a snubby.38 in hand. The Executioner punched him against the wall with two quick rounds from the Beretta, swinging up the Ingram simultaneously to protect his other flank.
Haitian Hit Page 15