Haitian Hit

by Don Pendleton

  One of the gunners had been wiping down a shotgun, polishing the barrel with a chamois cloth. But he forgot the chore when Bolan barged into the room. He was tugging on the slide and chambering a round when the warrior hit him with a figure-eight, the spray of parabellums hurling the guy across the nearest bed and out of sight.

  He swept the Ingram back and forth, its muzzle flashing, cartridge cases pattering around him on the carpet. Number four was breaking for the balcony when Bolan caught him in midstride, pitching him forward. The hardman smashed face-first through the tall sliding doors and hung there, impaled, as his life blood trickled out on the floor.

  Number five had his pistol in hand and squeezed off a round as he ran for the bathroom and cover. The Ingram was empty, and Bolan relied on the 93-R, putting two slugs through the bull's-eye and dropping his man on the threshold, his face pressing tile.

  The Executioner was feeding the Ingram its last magazine when he stepped through the doorway… and met number six. He was late for the party, but fast on the draw with his chrome.45, knocking holes in the wall where his target had stood seconds earlier.

  Diving, the warrior emerged from his roll with the Ingram up and tracking, rattling off the last magazine in something like a second and a half. The gunner took it all, his jacket rippling with the impact, shredded on his back by bullets passing through. He toppled backward heavily and lay immobile on the carpet.

  Bolan left his borrowed Ingram in the middle of the corridor and turned away. As he retreated toward the stairwell he heard the hiss of elevator doors behind him, turning just in time to lock eyes with an old, familiar face.

  The lone survivor of the convoy. And there were other men behind him, holding guns as they emerged into the corridor.

  * * *

  They didn't want to listen right away, but Sonny Esposito had impressed the gunners with his sense of urgency. Reluctantly they put their coats back on and brought their hardware, four guys accompanying Sonny in the elevator, four proceeding to the stairs in case their man was traveling the hard way.

  They agreed to start on five, collect the other men there, and move on to six. If there was still no sign of Sonny's target, he would stand them all to drinks and write it off as nerves. It was far better, after all that he had seen in the past few days, to blunder on the side of caution.

  He saw the dead man first, and recognized him as a member of the Lauderdale contingent. Next he noticed the open door and a figure moving past it toward the service stairs. The gunman must have heard them coming, for he turned immediately, pinning Esposito with those graveyard eyes.

  "We've got the bastard!" Sonny shouted. "Nail him!"

  He was deafened by the thunderclap of weapons going off around him. His automatic suddenly felt heavy, but he held it firm in both hands, squeezing off three rounds in rapid-fire before he realized his target had evaporated.

  The stairwell!

  Esposito didn't have to tell the others what to do. They were already rushing forward, leaving him behind as they attacked the doorway, spreading out on either side in case their prey was waiting just beyond with a surprise.

  They huddled at the door for several seconds, listening, before they tried the knob. It opened easily on empty space. Esposito was about to urge them forward when he saw them gaping at their feet, recoiling from an object that had wobbled toward them.

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "Look out, for…"

  The blast knocked Sonny on his backside and emptied his lungs, but he was lucky, even so. Up close, the frag grenade had fired a thousand bits of jagged shrapnel through his troops, and they were lying crumpled on the carpet, plaster sifting down from overhead.

  His ears were ringing, and he felt blood streaming from his nose, but Sonny's first reaction was amazement, followed by a flash of rage.

  And fear, when he considered how his capo would react.

  The mafioso was beginning to feel sorry for himself, when yet another blast sent shock waves rippling through the floor.

  * * *

  The Executioner was waiting on the sixth-floor landing when the stairwell filled with smoke and screams. He had removed the safety pin on one grenade and propped it up against the door, permitting gravity to do the rest when his pursuers tried to follow. It had worked, but he wasn't free and clear.

  Below the swirl of dust and smoke, he heard new voices on the stairs. A second hunting party had been sent to cut off his retreat, and Bolan palmed the second grenade, releasing the pin as he moved to the railing, extending his arm over empty space.

  His fingers opened after another heartbeat, and the lethal egg was lost in drifting plaster dust. He heard it strike the stairs below, rebounding, striking farther down, as startled voices registered the threat.

  "What's that?"

  "It sounds like…"

  Bolan cleared the access door and closed it as a second blast ripped through the stairwell, rattling the walls. He backtracked, moving down the corridor until he reached the room where he had killed the first two mafiosi. He had locked the door behind him when he left, so he had to shoot the lock off. Stowing the Beretta, he entered and crossed directly to the window.

  From the balcony it was relatively simple to reach the fire escape, with Bolan's sports car standing undisturbed below. Any survivors of his hit would be more concerned with patching wounds and fabricating stories for police than mounting a pursuit. But he was counting on a swift reaction from the enemy when word of the engagement filtered back to Don Bartoli.

  One way or another, it was bound to hit the fan.

  He only hoped that Michelle wouldn't be caught in the cross fire.

  Bolan reached his car and slid in behind the wheel. He had his key in the ignition when a sudden movement on his left attracted his attention. He recognized the man who had emerged from hiding in the shadow of a garbage Dumpster.

  "You must help me find Michelle," Jacques Petoit demanded.

  15

  The journey into Port-au-Prince had been a risky proposition for Petoit and his commandos, but the news about Michelle and Father Paul had been compelling, forcing Jacques to take the chance. He learned of their arrest almost by accident, when he made routine contact with a sympathizer in the capital, a man with eyes inside the state police and other branches of the government. It was the worst of news, in such immediate conjunction with the slaughter of his soldiers, and Petoit knew some response was necessary. Voting with a show of hands, his fifteen brave survivors had agreed unanimously.

  They had scrubbed the raid for arms and packed such weapons as they had, proceeding on a short forced march to reach the highway. There, a farmer was «persuaded» to provide them with a lift, his passengers unloading near the city limits, where the squalid slums hung on like dark, malignant growths.

  The rebels found a place to hide themselves inside an ancient, burned-out factory that had become a sort of housing complex for the homeless. The police paid no attention to the area, and they would be secure for several hours while Petoit went into town.

  His contact in the city had a wealth of information, which he hadn't revealed when they had spoken briefly on the telephone. Not only were Michelle and Father Paul in custody, but there was trouble with the gamblers, some kind of shooting war among themselves. The lord of Liberté, Bartoli, had imported gunmen from America to sway the odds.

  Petoit had recognized Mike Blanski's hand at once. Not only had the American survived, but he was still at liberty and carrying on his war against the gamblers. If there was a way of making contact…

  Jacques had pumped his contact, learning that the new arrivals, gunmen all, were staying at a large hotel downtown. With Haiti's tourist business in a killing slump, the odds were they would have the building almost to themselves.

  Almost.

  Petoit would happily have bet his life on Blanski dropping in to pay the enemy a visit. Twenty targets, all together, was a lure the American wouldn't resist. And if he was mistaken… well, at least
he would have had a walk downtown.

  The battle had been underway when he arrived. Petoit heard nothing of the gunshots, but the detonation of grenades was audible outside of the hotel, albeit muffled, distant. He was moving toward the servant's entrance, bent on doing something — anything — when he observed a figure scrambling down the fire escape. He found a hiding place and waited.

  Sneaking up on Blanski was, perhaps, the greatest risk Petoit had taken yet that day. He trusted the American to look before he fired, and this time faith had been rewarded. Still, there was a tremor in his voice as he addressed the warrior.

  "You must help me find Michelle."

  "I'm working on it," Blanski told him, when a block of city traffic lay between their backs and the hotel. "I've spent the past two hours rattling Bartoli's cage to make him lean on the Macoutes. I'll keep it up until he comes across or folds."

  "And if Michelle…"

  He couldn't finish, but the soldier understood.

  "I'll blow their house down," Bolan told him simply, with conviction.

  "What of Father Paul?"

  "What of him?"

  "He was also taken into custody. A demonstration in the street."

  "I didn't know about Langois. That makes it sticky, but I'll try to put him on the shopping list. No promises."

  "I understand."

  They drove in silence for a time, until they found a public telephone and Bolan parked beside the open booth.

  "This won't take long," he said. "Start thinking of a drop, in case we're lucky."

  "Drop?"

  "A meeting place if they deliver."

  But Jacques Petoit required no time to think about a "drop." He had a meeting place in mind already, which he thought would suit them perfectly.

  * * *

  It took a moment for his call to be patched through to Francois Descartes, and Bolan was about to cradle the receiver when he recognized the high-pitched, nervous voice.

  "Hello?"

  "I'm hoping you're not dumb enough to try a trace."

  "But no, monsieur. You may recall that something happened to my telephone."

  He smiled at the indignant tone. "It could have been your head, Francois. A bunch of Don Bartoli's boys just found that out."

  "I am aware of the… disturbance."

  "Then you know the reason for my call."

  "Of course. It is unfortunate you didn't call before your visit to Bartoli's men."

  "How's that?"

  "The junta has agreed to your demand. Michelle Saint-Cyr will be released."

  A surge of sweet relief was swallowed by concern. A trick was almost mandatory in the circumstances, but he had no time to think of that at the moment.

  "I also want the priest."

  "The priest? What priest?"

  "Langois. He was arrested in a street parade this afternoon."

  "Ah, yes." The functionary's tone was dismal. "I'm afraid that what you ask will not be possible."

  "Why not, Francois?"

  "Because the prisoner in question is deceased. He was…"

  "Attempting to escape," the soldier finished for him. "Yeah, I know the drill. Consider Don Barton's men a small down payment for Langois. If there's a problem with the girl — and I mean any problem whatsoever — you can count on joining them yourself."

  "We must arrange a meeting place."

  "I'll call you back. We're too long on the line already."

  Circling his car to reach the driver's seat, the Executioner was pondering his problem. They were bound to tail Michelle, in hopes that she would lead them to another rebel stronghold. Bolan's blitz couldn't go unavenged by either the Macoutes or Don Bartoli.

  "Well?"

  "Langois's already dead." He read the rebel leader's pain as genuine, but neither of them could afford the luxury just now. "How many soldiers do you have?"

  "Fifteen," Petoit responded.

  "In the city?"

  "Yes."

  "They're ready to release Michelle, or so they say. We need to pick a drop that we can cover, just in case she has a tail."

  "They'll follow her of course."

  "I wouldn't be surprised."

  "I know a place."

  He listened as Petoit described the old, abandoned factory and its crumbling neighborhood. It sounded adequate, but Bolan added a refinement of his own.

  "I'd like a neutral pickup point," he said. "One man can meet Michelle when she's released, and minimize the risk of ambush on the spot."

  "Agreed."

  "The contact leads her to the drop, along with any tails they might pick up along the way. Official vehicles should stand out in the kind of neighborhood you just described."

  "Of course. We'll know them instantly."

  "What kind of physical support can you expect from the community?"

  "They have no love for the Macoutes, but they aren't well organized."

  "Are many of them armed?"

  "Some certainly have guns. For most, I think machetes, bolo knives and such would be the limit."

  Bolan frowned. He wasn't looking for a massacre, but their survival might depend on a diversion that would change the odds.

  "What would it take to set them off?" he asked.

  "A show of force by the Macoutes might be enough."

  "All right." He palmed another coin. "I have to make another call. I've got an arbitrary meeting place in mind. From there we run a simple track and bring her home."

  "Along with the Macoutes."

  "And anybody else who wants to join the party."

  He issued terse instructions to Descartes and waited while the man gave them back from memory without an error. Going through the motions, Bolan told Descartes that it would be «unfortunate» if anyone should try to follow, and the junta's mouthpiece solemnly agreed.

  "They bought it," Bolan told Petoit when they were rolling once again.

  "And what have we bought?"

  Bolan glanced at Jacques Petoit and registered his obvious concern.

  "With any luck, we'll have Michelle. And one more chance to shave the odds."

  "Have you considered the selection of a pickup man?"

  "I'll take it," Bolan said.

  "Do you speak French?"

  "Not the island dialect."

  "It is possible that the officers who make the delivery won't speak English."

  "Right. In that case…"

  "I'll go." Petoit pronounced the words with quiet self-assurance.

  "What about your men?"

  "I'll prepare them in advance. Enough of them speak English that you should be able to communicate in an emergency."

  "Terrific. Is your mind made up?"

  "It is."

  "You realize the pickup man has twice the chance of taking hostile fire."

  "I've considered all the risks and options."

  Bolan shrugged. "Okay. I never argue with a martyr."

  "Let's hope that I'll live to fight another day."

  "Let's hope," the soldier fervently agreed.

  * * *

  Michelle Saint-Cyr felt trapped inside the prison van, with sweaty men in uniform pressed close on either side. She also felt unclean, remembering her degradation at the hands of the Macoute commander, but she wouldn't break down and cry before these men. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

  During the rape, she had remained impassive through an almost superhuman effort. Her attacker had been furious — Michelle had robbed him of his climax, after all — but he had managed to restrain himself from striking her. Self-discipline was hardly customary with Macoutes, and she was curious, at first, until another officer returned her clothing and commanded her to dress.

  It took some time, in spite of everything, for her to realize that she was being freed. At first she had expected them to kill her, drive her to some lonely spot as they had her father and dispatch her with a burst of rifle fire. But surely, if they meant to kill her, she would have been questioned beforehand.


  As had Father Paul.

  She trembled at the memory of what she had witnessed in the Macoutes interrogation chamber, how the jets of blood from Langois's severed throat had splashed her face, her body. Torn between the need to weep and vomit, she controlled herself by concentrating on the fact that she would soon be free.

  It was incredible. Unprecedented. The Macoutes didn't release their prisoners so easily; in many cases, they weren't released at all. Michelle had learned much by listening to her father, Jacques Petoit, the other rebels, and she understood that something very strange was taking place.

  If anything, she might have counted on more brutal treatment than the average prisoner. Instead she was about to be released without a word of explanation, dropped off in the middle of the city where she would be met… by whom?

  Another mystery.

  It wouldn't be Marie Dufresne, of course; the raiders would have frightened her enough to last a lifetime. No one else knew where she was, or what had happened. Did they? Could they? And what sort of pressure could her few acquaintances apply, resulting in her swift release?

  She thought of Michael Blanski then, and felt a giddy rush of hope. If he had learned of her arrest somehow, he might have…

  What? Demanded her release? She nearly smiled at the suggestion. How could one man hope to sway the junta, make demands of the Macoutes? It was preposterous.

  She had been seated facing toward the rear, the two small windows in the back of the vehicle painted over to keep her from identifying streets or landmarks. She had no idea where they were taking her, but she would get her bearings quickly, once she was released. According to the final statements of her captors, she was being met by someone whom they called "a friend." No names were offered, and she didn't ask, afraid of implicating someone who might otherwise escape official scrutiny.

  The van was slowing — for an intersection, she supposed — but then it stopped entirely, and the driver killed the engine. One member of her escort leaned forward with a key and took the handcuffs off. His partner waddled to the double doors in back and threw them open, keeping one hand on his submachine gun as the blinding light of day poured in upon them.