A moment later, Michelle let herself be led outside the van. They were in a parking lot, and the young woman immediately focused on a battered old sedan, which was parked thirty yards away. She blinked, refusing to believe her eyes at first, until she recognized Petoit.
The nearest Macoute nudged her with his weapon, forcing her in the direction of the car. She started to walk faster, half expecting automatic weapons fire to cut her down at any instant, knowing it had to be a trap. Then she stood beside Jacques, his arm around her shoulders.
"Are you well?" he asked. "They didn't… harm you?"
"I'm all right," she told him simply. There would be another time for truth, perhaps, when they were far away and truly safe.
"Come on, then. We must hurry."
As they headed west, she caught him looking out the rearview mirror frequently. Concern was plainly written on his face.
"We're being followed." Even as she spoke, Michelle was certain of the answer, and it didn't come out sounding like a question.
"Yes," he said. "I think so."
"Can we lose them?"
"I don't want to lose them," he responded with a cryptic smile. "They must not be permitted to escape."
* * *
Jean-Claude Solange felt awkward in civilian clothes. Deprived of military braid and rank, he was diminished, no more than another peasant on the street. It scarcely mattered that he had an army at his beck and call, prepared to kill or die for him upon command. Without the trappings of his office he felt small and insignificant, a circumstance that fueled the fires of rage that burned inside him.
He'd been ordered to release the girl, but no one had forbidden him to find out where she ran. Through stealth, he might identify her cronies, bring them all beneath his hand for punishment. And when he had the girl in custody again…
Solange felt angry color rising in his cheeks as he recalled his recent humiliation. Failure to perform in bed was one thing; the embarrassment of falling short before an obvious inferior was something else entirely. She would suffer for the discomfort she had caused him.
If she lived.
The first priority was wiping out the rebels — root and branch. If it was possible to take survivors for interrogation, fine. If not, Solange would be content with wiping out his enemies and wading in their blood. It was a prospect that he found appealing.
"Closer."
With a nod, his driver stood on the accelerator, closing the gap between their own car and the vehicle they were pursuing. Solange couldn't identify the driver, but there would be ample time for that once he was stretched out on a slab. Solange would know him then in every detail, from the moment he was born until the hour of his death.
Soon, now, and no mistake.
He slipped the heavy automatic pistol from its holster, double-checking to be certain it was primed and ready. With his driver and the two Macoutes behind them, plus three other cars with four men each, he was prepared to close the noose around his enemies.
The downtown district was behind them, residential streets unfolding in a sprawl of homes that had been fashionable once upon a time, but had fallen into disrepair. Solange ignored the children playing in the streets, dismissing them as insignificant.
He used the two-way radio to keep in touch with his teams. Their vehicles were running parallel and keeping track of the pursuit, prepared to close at once on a signal from Solange. No matter where the rabbits went to ground, they would be trapped, completely at his mercy.
And Solange, just now, didn't feel merciful.
He felt like slaughtering his enemies and grinding them into dust.
* * *
Before he left to meet Michelle, Petoit had spoken with his men, appointing two interpreters to translate any orders, if necessary, from the American. Bolan recognized their faces from his training sessions at the rebel compound, and their shrunken numbers forcibly reminded him of all that had been lost.
He counted fifteen men, and wondered what the odds would be against them when Michelle and Jacques led the trackers home. If the Macoutes were feeling confident, they might employ a token force, expecting no resistance in the heart of Port-au-Prince. Conversely, paranoid commanders might dispatch an army, sealing off the old abandoned factory that been chosen for the ambush site, corralling Bolan and the rebel troops.
The factory wasn't ideal for Bolan's purposes, but it would do. Petoit's commandos had persuaded many of the squatters to remove themselves; the handful who remained were sheltered in a concrete storage room where they were safely out of sight and — hopefully — removed from harm. If the Macoutes emerged victorious, the stragglers would be shot as rebels, but they had refused to leave, insisting that they had no other home.
The layout offered high-rise vantage points for snipers on the catwalks of the second story, and seven of the riflemen were stationed there, with orders to conserve their ammunition for precision fire. The Executioner gave one of them his sniper rifle, with some brief instruction on adjustment of the scope, and cautioned him that he must block the enemy retreat if the Macoutes began to cut and run. The eight remaining soldiers were assigned to ground-floor posts, where they would meet the first assault with everything they had. It wasn't much, but if the enemy was once inside, it might be possible to trap him there.
A couple of Petoit's irregulars had carried only knives in the beginning, but the troops had spent some time among their neighbors in the squalid slum, soliciting assistance, picking up three pistols and an ancient shotgun in the process. Other residents were armed as well, but kept their guns at home, declaring that they might — or might not — join the battle when they saw how it was going for the rebel side. It seemed a rational decision in the circumstances, but it left the Executioner without dependable backup force.
The factory itself was old but sturdy, its brick-and-mortar walls still more or less intact, though windows had been smashed by vandals. The surviving doors had been stripped clean of locks by squatters who refused to be kept out. Determined enemies would have no problem gaining entry, but the warrior's plan required precisely that. He didn't have the men or ammunition to defend the building like an ancient fort besieged. The action must be swift, decisive — and complete before their adversaries had a chance to summon reinforcements.
The Executioner was armed with his Beretta and the Desert Eagle.44, with extra magazines for each. If all went well, their enemies would be supplying other weapons soon, but he couldn't afford to look beyond the moment, concentrating on his present strategy. The punishment for overconfidence in battle was inevitably sudden death.
He'd be waiting on the ground floor when the Macoutes arrived, to stand beside the frontline troops and help them meet the enemy. If they were overrun, he was prepared to go down fighting, but with any luck at all, they just might pull it off.
The posted lookout whistled sharply, calling everyone's attention to the battered car that was approaching. Petoit was at the wheel, but he wasn't alone.
Behind the lead car, slowing at the curb, an «unmarked» government sedan was coasting to a halt, a second, carboncopy vehicle appearing close behind. Announcements from the other ground-floor troops informed the Executioner that vehicles were closing on the south and west as well.
Petoit pulled up outside an entrance to the plant and parked his vehicle in such a way that it would block the door. Michelle was close behind him as he entered, eyes immediately going wide at sight of Bolan.
"The Macoutes," Petoit announced. "They're right behind us."
"Guess again," Mack Bolan said. "They're here."
16
Michelle knew that they had been followed, but naively she had counted on a simple tail. Petoit, Blanski and the others clearly were expecting an assault at any moment and were scurrying for cover, drawing guns before she had a chance to ask them how her liberty had been secured.
A rebel named Philipe escorted her across the barren floor to an inner room devoid of windows, where at least a dozen r
agged souls were tucked away, presumably for safety. She objected, stating her desire to stand beside the others in the coming fight, but she was quietly refused. The rebel had his orders, and he dared not disobey Petoit.
All right, she'd wait until the action started, when the troops were occupied, and slip outside to help them on her own. There must be something she could do, instead of hiding in the darkness like a frightened mouse.
Michelle controlled her fear with a determined effort, concentrating on the faces of her roommates. They were lean and hardened by despair, their eyes impassive, posture stooped, as if the weight of mankind's ills had settled on their shoulders. She couldn't identify with them specifically, because their backgrounds were so different, but she realized a little of the horrors they had seen, the deprivation they endured.
They were the future of her homeland while the junta stayed in power.
She would fight because she had to. She owed it to her father's memory, her brother and to Michael Blanski. He had saved her life at the encampment, and his presence indicated that he also had some role in liberating her from the Macoutes.
She walked among the human scarecrows, finding one who had carried a revolver hidden underneath the tattered, filthy rain coat. She persuaded him to hand it over and opened the cylinder to find three cartridges in place. A few terse questions revealed that half a dozen others had ammunition in their pockets, even though they owned no guns. Two more rounds of the proper caliber were grudgingly surrendered, and she now had five.
Michelle had never killed a man before, nor even fired a shot in anger, but she had learned to hate in recent weeks, and she had suffered through a grim refresher course that day. The raid on the encampment and her brother's death, her own arrest and rape, the brutal death of Father Paul Langois combined to stoke the fires of rage within her.
She could kill now and never lose a wink of sleep at night. If the Macoutes were idiots enough to make themselves available as targets, she wouldn't allow the opportunity to slip away.
With any luck, she thought, her rapist might be one of those who came to take her back. He was a ranking officer, and he'd set her free with obvious reluctance, under orders from above. Michelle could only hope that he'd come for her in person, grant her one small chance to even up the score.
As if on cue, there was a warning shout outside, immediately answered by a volley of rifle fire. The blasts reverberated in the echo chamber of the vacant plant, the whine of ricochets unearthly in their tone.
The young woman glanced outside the storage room, saw men on both sides exchanging fire from any cover they could find. Michelle was terrified, but in her heart she knew she had no choice.
She ducked outside and ran to join the fight.
* * *
Jean-Claude Solange was old enough and wise enough to recognize an ambush when he saw one. As his vehicle pulled up outside the vacant factory, he knew that they had been manipulated for a purpose. He experienced no outrage at the thought; if anything, his mood was closer to amusement. It delighted him that his opponents would attempt to play a game of cat and mouse.
It gave him one more golden opportunity to kill them all.
One scout car joined him at the curb, some fifty yards from the deserted plant. By radio, he had the others take positions on the south and west, permitting them to cover three sides simultaneously and prevent the rebels from escaping. Solange would lead the main assault with his seven men; the others would surround the factory and close the circle.
The plan was foolproof.
At the most, Solange decided, only a handful of rebels would be inside the ancient plant. Undisciplined and cowardly, they could be counted on to break ranks and run when they discovered their ambush was a failure. When they ran, Solange would have the sport of hunting them down.
The cars moved closer on his order, the unmarked cruisers shuddering to a halt thirty feet from where Solange's prey had parked the old sedan. Macoutes armed with automatic weapons left the cover of their cars and bolted toward the factory, scrambling through the open frames of windows, some men crawling over the abandoned car to(reach the door.
Solange was close behind them, carrying a short Beretta submachine gun, chambering a round as he advanced. Inside he heard a shout of warning — one of his men discovering a hostile figure in the shadows — and a crash of small-arms-fire immediately followed.
His enemies were armed, and he was faced with an immediate decision. He could join the fight himself, or double back and use the radio to call for reinforcements. Still, he had no clear idea of hostile numbers, and he didn't wish to court humiliation with a panic call before he verified the need for help.
And that could only be accomplished on the inside, where the action was already under way.
Solange approached the nearest window frame and clambered through, a bullet flattening against the wall six inches to his left. He fell to hands and knees, the submachine gun dangling from its strap around his neck, and scurried for the meager cover of a pit where two of his Macoutes had taken refuge.
In the old days, he supposed the pit had been designed for servicing the great machines employed by the factory. It ran for thirty feet, lengthwise across the factory. Layers of ancient grease were crusted on the floor, and the commander nearly lost his footing as he dropped into the pit.
He couldn't count the enemy from where he crouched, his head below the level of the floor, but they were taking fire from several positions. Snipers overhead were firing cautious, probing rounds, attempting to produce a lethal ricochet inside the grease pit, but so far their efforts had been wasted.
With a sudden twinge of fear, Solange began to think he might be trapped. He should have called for reinforcements at the first report of gunfire, rather than proceeding to the battleground himself. The snipers weren't terribly efficient, but they might get lucky.
Solange popped up above the level of the floor and loosed a burst from his Beretta, firing high in the direction of the catwalks overhead- He was rewarded with a flash of sparks as bullets struck the railing, but swift return fire drove him back to cover.
"We're helpless here," he snapped at his men. "We must attack!"
They glanced at one another, doubtful, but his anger spurred them on.
"I gave an order, damn you! Kill them!"
One of his commandos leaped to his feet and scrambled up the makeshift ladder, disappearing into shadows. Number two was halfway up and poised to follow when a bullet struck him in the face and drove him backward, sprawling in the grease pit. It didn't require a second glance to know that he was dead. The corpse's one remaining eye was open, staring at Solange with an expression of surprise.
No time to hesitate. The gruff commander of the Macoutes approached the ladder, breaking off his fingernails in haste as he began to climb. A bullet whispered past his ear; another struck the wall to his left and splattered him with jagged pieces of cement.
He cleared the lip and stumbled, nearly falling as he raced for the protection of a tiny office on his right. The windows had been broken by vandals long ago, but he would find a measure of protection once he slid behind the waist-high wall of cinder blocks.
Another rifle bullet shattered on the concrete floor behind him.
To Solange it sounded like the crack of doom.
* * *
From his position of concealment, on the left side of an elevated concrete platform, Jacques Petoit leaned out to scan the battleground for moving targets. Eight Macoutes had entered from the front, eight more approaching from the south and west to close the ring, but two of them were down already. He could see them lying crumpled in the center of the open room, where they had fallen in their tracks.
The odds had shifted in his favor finally, but they could change at any moment. One of the Macoutes might have a walkie-talkie, or they might have left a man outside to call for backup. Either way, arrival of a fresh contingent, sealing off the factory, would spell the end.
He pushed
the morbid thought aside and raised his AK-47, sighting on the grease pit where a number of Macoutes had taken refuge. One had slipped away from him already, while Petoit was lining up the shot. He would be ready when the next man showed himself.
Above him, bullets rattled on the catwalk, others smacking into solid flesh. He was glancing upward when a member of the rebel force took a hit, his awkward swan dive ending with a crunch of bone on the concrete. He recognized the tattered shirt and said a silent prayer for Louis DesJardin, a founding member of the people's army. Sacrificed — for what?
The gunner showed himself, and this time Jacques was ready, squeezing off a 3-round burst that struck his target in the face and dropped him back inside the grease pit. One for Louis, and he hoped he might have time to kill the rest of the Macoutes before another wave appeared.
Petoit had ceased to think in terms of ultimate defeat or victory. The moment took priority, survival instinct overriding conscious thought. Michelle was safe while the Macoutes were held at bay, and there was nothing to be done for Father Paul except to seek revenge.
So many dead. Petoit suspected he could fight forever, kill a thousand of his enemies, without redressing the imbalance for his loss.
But he could make a start right now.
Before he could react, a third Macoute erupted from the grease pit, nearly losing his balance, and raced for the office cubicle. Petoit squeezed off a hasty burst, but he was late and high, the bullets gouging pockets in the wall behind his target, wasted. Cursing bitterly, he watched the running figure disappear beyond his line of sight.
He pulled the empty magazine and fed another into the receiver. That left one, and he'd have to make them count. His life was riding on the line, together with the lives of all his men. Perhaps, another vantage point…
Haitian Hit Page 17