Petoit ignored a sudden escalation in the firing as he broke from cover.
* * *
The Desert Eagle thundered once and sent two hundred and forty grains of death downrange, its human target vaulting backward on impact like an acrobat. Bolan ducked back under cover as the dead Macoute's two comrades opened up with submachine guns, raising clouds of dust from broken cinder blocks before they realized that they were wasting precious ammunition.
He had counted sixteen hostile guns, and nine of them were down, against a friendly loss of four known dead and one man wounded. He wasn't in a position to confirm the body count, but it was close enough. It said that they were winning, for the moment, if they didn't screw things up.
Bolan shifted slightly to achieve a new perspective on the killing ground. Around the fallen bodies, blood had puddled on the concrete floor, its crimson luster soiled by grease and grime. The smell of gun smoke filled his nostrils, hanging like a pall above the indoor battlefield. The steady beat of gunfire had begun to fade, as each side settled down to wait the other out and save its ammunition.
Bolan knew the rebels must be running short. He counted three positions that had fallen silent in the past few seconds, whether from an act of prudence or exhaustion of their meager stock he couldn't tell. In either case, he heard the doomsday numbers running in his head. They couldn't drag the battle out interminably, or police might happen by and intervene.
Across the cavern of the factory, a clutch of four Macoutes had obviously reached a similar conclusion, breaking cover as the Executioner was searching for a plan of action on his own. Their movement threatened a pair of rebels who were obviously taken by surprise, pinned down by automatic fire.
The Executioner snapped up the Desert Eagle in a secure, two-handed grip and sighted down the slide. The first round struck his target just below the armpit, spinning him around and toppling another man off balance in the process. Bolan nailed the second gunner with a head shot, drilling through one cheek and taking out a fist-sized portion of his skull in back.
Numbers three and four were startled, panicked, and they broke in opposite directions, seeking cover. Bolan chose the nearer for his mark and let him run, knees pumping, face contorted with the rigor of exertion. Sighting on his chest, the soldier stroked his Magnum's trigger, rode the savage recoil, gauging for effect.
The runner seemed to stumble on a hidden trip-wire, wobbling through an awkward pirouette with arms outflung before he hit the concrete floor. There was a dazed expression on his face, as if in death he had secured the unexpected answer to some final mystery.
And number four was gone.
The man had found an open doorway and was safe inside before the Executioner could verify his spot and swing the Magnum into target acquisition. It was careless, but at least the hostile numbers were reduced by three, a pair of rebel soldiers spared from instant death. He left them to it, hoping they could root out the final gunner and deal with him themselves.
Intent on seeking other targets, Bolan nearly shot Michelle. She was a darting shadow on his left, a sudden movement in the midst of no-man's land. When he turned to bring her under fire, he recognized the profile, easing off the trigger with a heartbeat left to spare.
He cursed beneath his breath, was braced to follow her and drag her back if possible, when concentrated fire from other quarters pinned him down. His final view, before she disappeared, revealed her crouching in the shadow of the little bricked-in office, creeping slowly toward the open window where her enemies lay waiting.
There was nothing he could do to help her now.
It would be all the Executioner could do to help himself.
* * *
Michelle was out of breath from running over open ground, with bullets snapping at her heels. She thought perhaps both sides had opened fire at one point, neither recognizing her immediately, anxious for a target now that everyone had gone to ground. It was a miracle, of sorts, that she was still alive.
She sat and rested for a moment in the shadow of the office cubicle, allowing pulse and respiration to regain some semblance of normality. The throbbing of her pulse was audible, almost obscuring the sounds of gunfire in the factory. She was afraid her heart might fail and cheat her of a chance to confront her rapist.
But she had seen the man moments earlier, emerging from the grease pit on a hectic dash to reach the office. He was still inside, with others of his kind, and she had sought him out deliberately, the symbol of her shame and suffering. If she could kill this man, alone, her life would have some meaning and she could surrender it with dignity.
Five rounds. She hadn't fired her weapon yet, nor would she waste a single round before she had a solid target. Inexperienced with guns, she knew that point-blank range would be her only hope. And that, in turn, meant she'd have to make her way inside the tiny office.
It might be tantamount to self-destruction, but she felt numb inside, and thus had nothing left to lose. But there was everything to gain.
An empty window frame was just ahead of her, and she was sliding toward it, in a fighting crouch, when one of the Macoutes popped up to fire his rifle. Stretching out her arm before he could react, Michelle squeezed off a single round at skin-touch range and slammed a bullet through the center of his forehead, shattering his skull.
She swallowed her revulsion, lunging through the window as the echoes of her gunshot died away. She lost her footing on the dead man's stomach, falling, and the stumble saved her life as two Macoutes came up firing.
Both had submachine guns, but their haste betrayed them, and the weapons laid down overlapping patterns on the cinder blocks above her head. Reflexively she answered with three quick rounds, amazed to see one gunner topple backward, spewing crimson from a blow hole in his chest.
The other — clearly recognizable by now — was leaping for the nearest window, disappearing in a sprawl of arms and legs outside as she relaxed her pressure on the trigger. Only one round was left, and she wasn't about to waste it while her rapist made his getaway.
Ignoring danger to herself, she sprinted through the doorway, close upon his heels. The man was overweight, but panic gave him speed, and he was running for his life. She saw him breaking for the door where she'd entered with Petoit short moments earlier and veered to cut him off.
The man seemed to know that he was being pursued. Turning as he ran, he loosed a burst in her direction, snarling as the shots flew wild. Michelle stopped short, the small revolver braced in both her hands and drew a bead, her pressure on the trigger long and slow.
She didn't miss, but it wasn't a killing shot. She saw the plume of blood that spurted from a shoulder wound and heard his weapon clatter on the concrete. Reeling, somehow managing to keep his balance, he continued running, reaching the doorway and disappeared.
Effectively unarmed, Michelle gave chase.
* * *
Jean-Claude Solange couldn't believe the way his fortune had deserted him. His men were dying in the factory like livestock in a slaughterhouse, and he was running for his life, disarmed and wounded by a woman. He could reach the car at last, attain some distance from the fight and call for reinforcements. Later, when the rebels had been crushed, he could revise the history of the engagement to present himself in a heroic light.
Just now, the issue was survival.
Pounding through the doorway, he was forced to climb one-handed, scrabbling across the old sedan that had been parked to form a barricade. He made it, barely, and was moving toward the cruisers when he saw the crowd.
Perhaps two hundred ragged peasants had descended on the Macoutes' cars and were systematically destroying them with hammers, lengths of pipe and other makeshift bludgeons. Windows had been battered in, antennas stripped away, the hoods pried open so that members of the mob could vent their wrath on the engines.
One of them spotted Solange, and while the colonel had never laid eyes on the man, the peasant smiled in instant recognition. He immediately recognized
Solange for what he was.
An eerie, warbling cry was raised. "Macoute! Macoute!"
Solange was forced to draw his pistol as they rushed him. Grappling with the safety, thumbing back the hammer, he fired twice, three times, and watched the leaders of the lynching party topple in their tracks before he was surrounded.
And his own voice briefly joined the screaming chorus as he died.
17
The posters had been printed overnight, from grainy photographs of Father Paul Langois. A printer sympathetic to the rebel cause had done the work, producing seven hundred blowups of the movement's newest martyr, with a bloodred caption reading Murdered By Macoutes.
To Jacques Petoit, the face depicted in the photographs seemed unfamiliar, strange, as if a rank impostor had disguised himself as Father Paul. The snapshots, taken at another protest months before, had caught him in the middle of a speech, with one fist raised. It made him look combative, but it failed to catch the gentleness of spirit that had been his trademark while alive.
For all of that, the posters set a mood, and that was Jacques Petoit's main interest now. With yesterday's arrests in mind, the circulation of reports that Father Paul was dead, assassinated by the government, it had been simple to recruit participants for one more demonstration. Thousands had begun to gather on the streets by eight o'clock; by nine o'clock he gave up counting and decided they were ready to begin.
If he was coming, the American should be in place by now.
The demonstration had a point to make with leaders of the junta, but it also had another purpose. Blanski had a special target on the line of march, and if he followed through on schedule, he would use the protest as a cover for his own approach. He had assured Petoit that members of the demonstration wouldn't be endangered by his actions, and Petoit had taken the man at his word.
Considering the numbers of police in evidence, it was the least of his concerns just now.
The body of Jean-Claude Solange had been unrecognizable when his attackers scattered, fleeing the approach of distant sirens, but the radio had carried grave reports of his "assassination by the so-called people's movement." It was one thing, battling Macoutes and soldiers to the death, but quite another when an ogre like Solange was brought to book. Petoit had felt a surge of satisfaction in a job well done, before he realized that there would be a new commander of Macoutes, another to contend with in the endless struggle.
With the passing of Jean-Claude Solange, the junta had prepared itself for war. A handful of police had been on hand at eight o'clock, when marchers started gathering downtown, and they were quickly reinforced. They couldn't match the marchers with their numbers, but Petoit had seen that some of them were armed with riot guns and rifles, in addition to the usual prods and truncheons. Several of the reinforcements also carried submachine guns — in an effort to intimidate the dissidents? Or were they acting under different orders this time? Had they come to kill?
It would be nothing new for troops to fire on demonstrators, but in the past such actions had been taken only in the face of widespread violence, the threat of armed attacks on the police. It would be something else entirely, if the men in uniform were unleashed to avenge Jean-Claude Solange. A massacre might easily result, and if it came to that, Petoit didn't intend for all the casualties to be civilian.
He had spotted seven of his riflemen on rooftops and in the windows of second-story flats along the route of the march. Each sniper was positioned so that he could watch a block in each direction, with the capability of overlapping fire from other nests. The men were to take no action if the demonstration ran its normal course — the usual arrests and clubbings — but they had orders to respond at once if any officer should fire into the crowd.
The demonstrators had begun to move when Bolan arrived. He wore a suit and tie, and carried an attaché case. He scarcely glanced in the direction of the marchers and police. To all appearances, he was a businessman with business on his mind.
Petoit moved on and wished him luck. He had a feeling the American might need it.
* * *
Bartoli's private bank was tucked away behind the staid facade of an investment firm in downtown Port-au-Prince. Its address and its function were known at Justice, back in Washington, but money stashed in Haiti or invested on behalf of clients there was well beyond the reach of the IRS. Each month, a «mule» departed from Miami or Fort Lauderdale, his luggage stuffed with cash and the airline tickets covering a round-trip to Jamaica. No one bothered checking baggage bound for Kingston, since Jamaica banking officers had shown their willingness to deal with Uncle Sam. Upon arrival, Don Bartoli's bagman simply caught a short commuter flight to Port-au-Prince, avoiding hassles all the way, and registered the new deposit.
There were no receipts, no passbooks. None was necessary, since Bartoli owned the building and the bank, a small improvement on the banking laws that doubled his security. The «president» and staff had been advised about the consequences of discrepancies in the account. They understood and offered service with a smile.
The Executioner intended to erase those smiles in one fell swoop.
He hadn't robbed a bank before, but he'd done his homework and he came prepared. He'd demand to see the president, and since the man had little else to do, aside from sitting on Bartoli's cash, he would comply. As for the rest… well, that would be a challenge.
As he pushed through the frosted doors, Bolan caught a whiff of money in the foyer. It was a distinctive smell, most often found in boardrooms and the offices of banks like Chase Manhattan. Tiny branch banks, squatting in a thousand shopping malls across America, could never measure up; they smelled like cheap department stores. Bartoli's private bank was rich enough to carry the aroma, and he breathed it in like the bouquet of fine old wine.
The teller-cum-receptionist seemed startled by the actual appearance of a customer. Bartoli had no shipment due this week, and no one else had ventured through the door in more than two weeks. It took a moment, but she managed to approximate a smile of welcome.
"May I help you, sir?"
"I need to see the manager, at once."
"I'm sorry, sir, but…"
"As you should be. I've been waiting for him to return my calls, and I'm afraid my patience is exhausted. Will he see me now, or should I speak to the police?"
Her eyes went wide. "One moment, please."
She disappeared and returned half a minute later with man of middle age. His snowy hair was styled precisely, setting off his sunlamp tan. His teeth were capped, and he looked perfectly at home inside a thousand-dollar suit.
"I don't believe we know each other, sir."
"We will."
Bolan slipped a hand inside his jacket, as if reaching for a business card, and hauled out the Beretta.
"I'm withdrawing my entire account," he said.
The man in charge was having trouble with his voice. "Account?"
"Bartoli, once removed. Let's see the vault."
"You're making a mistake."
"It wouldn't be the first time."
The Beretta settled any further arguments, and Bolan trailed his prisoners along a corridor that bore no great resemblance to a bank's interior. A door marked Private opened onto a second door, which was constructed of armor-plated steel and fitted with a row of combination locks.
"I'm waiting."
Several moments passed before the door was opened. The vault was relatively small and resembled a walk-in closet with a bank of steel drawers mounted in one wall. They were safe-deposit boxes, filled with cash and securities belonging to Bartoli. Money reaped from drugs and prostitution, from extortion and pornography, from the corruption of a thousand honest businesses.
"Dump everything out here," he ordered, pointing toward the middle of the floor. "The cash goes in the briefcase. Large bills only."
The bank employees followed his instructions to the letter, emptying the drawers until a knee-high pile of currency and stock certificates was hea
ped upon the floor between them. Bolan counted close to seven hundred thousand dollars as the bundles filled his bag. He retrieved it when it was loaded, and directed his two hostages to leave the vault.
He palmed a pair of slim incendiary sticks and dropped them on the pile of loot, the timers running down to doomsday. The went off together with a snap and crackle as he cleared the doorway, white-hot chemicals enveloping the cash and stocks in leaping flames.
"You have a fire alarm?" he asked.
"Downstairs."
"I'd recommend you use it. If they're fast enough, you might save something yet."
The president departed in a rush, but his receptionist was slower, hanging back with Bolan on the stairs. "You're not an ordinary thief," she said. "Who are you?"
Bolan handed her a marksman's medal as the fire alarm began to clamor.
"Give this to Bartoli. It should answer any questions he might have. And thank him for the loan."
He reached the sidewalk as the tail end of the demonstration passed by. Outside, the fire alarm was barely audible above the din of chanting voices, and the officers on riot duty never even glanced in his direction, keeping their attention focused on the crowd.
The warrior left them to it, heading back the way that he had come, and let the press of human bodies carry him along.
* * *
"I've got more people on the way," Bartoli snapped. "That's not the problem. What I want from you is some assistance!"
He was getting through, at last. Descartes was shifting in his seat and making nervous little gestures with his hands, a sign of agitation.
"Well?"
"If you desire protection…"
"Jesus Christ! You can't protect the leader of your own goddamned police force. I'll protect myself, all right? You run those rebels down and put them out of action. Can you do that for me? Mmm?"
Haitian Hit Page 18