Mack Bolan.
Jesus!
Sonny was young, but he knew the stories. Mack Bolan was a wild man who carried some ancient hard-on for the Outfit that he had never laid to rest. There were reports that he had been killed a few years back, but then the bastard had come back from nowhere, kicking ass like he was fresh from a vacation on the Riviera.
The mafioso felt chilled, but he was sweating all the same. It blew his mind to realize that he had faced the Executioner twice — well, more or less — and walked away both times. He couldn't count on luck like that to hold.
He thought about escape. What kind of money would he need to leave the island, hide himself where Don Bartoli couldn't find him? Sonny's smile was rueful, and he realized that there was no such place on Earth. With Bolan, there was still a chance — however slim — that he might walk away. If he turned traitor on Bartoli, he'd have no chance at all.
So he waited for the plane, convinced that twenty guns were nowhere near enough. Bartoli would need an army if he meant to tag the Executioner.
He thought they might just have a chance at Liberté. The guy would have to make his play on hostile ground, without Bartoli's forces being spread around the countryside like sitting ducks. It was a chance: no more, no less. And if they blew it…
Sonny didn't even want to think about the grim alternative.
Next time he saw Bolan — if there was a next time — Sonny decided that he would shoot him where he stood without a second thought. No mulling over options, running back for reinforcements or approval from the capo. It would be a king-sized feather in his cap if he could be the man who brought down Mack Bolan. The million-dollar standing bounty was a fair inducement in itself, but there was more at stake, oh yes. Like rank within the Family. Advancement up the ladder to a level where decisions were conceived and executed.
Power.
Sonny Esposito had his share of raw ambition, fettered though it might have been through years of playing gofer for Bartoli. Hell, if he could nail Mack Bolan, La Commissione might even elevate him to the rank of capo. He would need a Family, of course… but then again, he just might have one ready-made.
A lot of things could happen in the middle of a Bolan blitz. The bastard liked to shoot for bosses, cutting off a Family's head, and if Bartoli bit the big one — Sonny smiled. A lot of things could happen. And some things could be made to happen. If the Executioner missed Don Bartoli, maybe Esposito wouldn't. Maybe he could clear the path himself; one well-placed bullet when the shit was in the fan, and it was taken care of.
But he had to play it cautiously, or else the whole damned thing could blow up in his face. If Sonny's move on Don Bartoli was seen, or if he missed, then God above would be the only one inclined toward mercy.
Risks.
You never got ahead in life without them, but a wise man also knew his limitations. Sonny Esposito was a soldier with ambition, but he wasn't suicidal. If and when he made his move, the time would have to be precisely right. No cowboy jobs. No wild-ass shooting up the scenery before he had a target squarely in his sights.
And no mistakes, please God. No fatal foul-ups.
He would bide his time and watch for openings. When Bolan made his move on Bartoli, Esposito would be waiting in the wings. And if he had to knock off Marco Rizzi in the bargain, well, he wasn't overly fond of the underboss anyway.
Still smiling to himself, the would-be capo settled back and waited for the plane.
* * *
As always, violence in the streets produced a cresting wave of discontent throughout the slums of Port-au-Prince. Although the body count showed twice as many dissidents had fallen in the morning's demonstration, the elimination of Macoutes by armed resistance had provided food for thought. As Jacques Petoit began to circulate among the people seeking recruits, he found them more receptive than before.
Of the fifteen soldiers who had survived the helicopter raid, only ten now remained alive. He didn't need an army for the strike at Liberté, but neither was he willing to commit his tiny force to almost certain death. The gamblers had at least two dozen men with weapons, and if Michael Blanski was correct, there would be more arriving at any moment. If Petoit was going to attack a force that size, he definitely needed reinforcements, not to mention arms.
The latter were supplied by Blanski. He had given Jacques a dealer's name, a suitcase full of cash and sent him on his way. The noontime meeting had been conducted in a warehouse, where Petoit was free to browse among the crates of automatic rifles, hand grenades, submachine guns, pistols, loaded magazines and RPGs. The rebel leader made his choices, fronted half of the required amount, and made arrangements for delivery that afternoon.
Recruiting men to use the arms had been more difficult. Long generations of oppression and subservience had taught the men of Port-au-Prince that it was hopeless to resist authority. Disease and hunger sapped their strength. But there were those among them who dreamed of better days to come. They joined in demonstrations on occasion, seized an opportunity to strike back at the system when they could, and waited for a leader who would organize them into a concerted fighting force.
Petoit sought out such men. He knew that there were traitors on the streets, prepared to sell their brothers for the price of a decent meal. He ran the risk of losing everything, but there was no alternative. Without a spearhead force to make the strike at Liberté, he had no chance at all.
There would be no time to train the recruits or to have them practice with the weapons. At the very least they could learn to load and aim their weapons. The rest was in the hands of fate.
He only prayed that it would be enough.
* * *
Bartoli supervised the disposition of his troops at the construction site, examining their hardware, plotting strategy until he satisfied himself that they would have no problems beating back an armed attack. The rebels had been weakened, losing men and weapons through attrition over several days, and he was confident they couldn't field an armed contingent large enough to overrun his outpost. If they tried it — and he almost hoped they would — the end result could only be a massacre.
It was tough about Solange, but he had never really liked the bastard. Inevitably someone else would take his place, and the machine would go on functioning as it had done for years on end. The Haitian people were conditioned to a yoke around their necks, and Don Bartoli had no plans to tamper with tradition.
Drifting toward his air-conditioned office, he was mildly curious about the silence from New York. If someone in the Families was really flexing muscle on the island, they should have been in touch by now. It made no sense to push a thing this far without delivering your ultimatum, trying to negotiate a settlement.
Unless they wanted Don Bartoli dead. It had to be. Whatever else was said about the New York dons, they weren't a bunch of numbskulls. Someone in the crowd had realized Bartoli wouldn't take the muscle lying down. He wouldn't fold his tent and crawl away, so they were pouring on the pressure, waiting to negotiate with his successor once they made the hit. No other explanation came to mind.
The Bolan angle was a clever ploy, but Don Bartoli was not falling for it. With the countless targets stateside, Bolan would be wasting time in Haiti, but a wise guy in Manhattan just might hope to make Bartoli think the Executioner was interested in Liberté. That way, if any squawks got back to the Commission, an established enemy would take the heat.
Bartoli felt a little pang of jealousy, and wished that he had thought up the plan himself. He could have used it in reverse, and staged a coup against his enemies.
Too late for that, but knowing what they had in mind was half the battle. And the other half was kicking ass, which happened to be Don Barton's specialty.
He was especially looking forward to the showdown with Omega-Bolan, who had cost him several million dollars in the past two days. It was approaching paycheck time, and Don Bartoli always relished settling his debts. If New York's pointman had the pure bad luck to
let himself be captured, they would have a high old time together, guaranteed. And only one of them would be around to reminisce about it afterward.
Bartoli meant to be that one, and he would light a candle for the soldier who had given him a hot run for his money. He'd light a candle, sure — and shove it down the bastard's throat.
A little foretaste of the fires to come, when he was roasting merrily in hell.
19
From his position in the forest, Bolan studied the construction site at Liberté. It was a beehive of activity, between the native workmen striving to complete their daily tasks and hard-eyed gunners wandering about the place at will, sometimes obstructing progress. Bolan noted that they carried their weapons openly, which included stubby shotguns, submachine guns and automatic rifles.
Bolan had to give Bartoli credit. When it came to going hard, the capo definitely knew his business. He was turning Liberté into a makeshift fortress, and the place would close up tight once all the workmen had gone home.
Despite the greater risks involved, the attack force had to wait. Bolan hadn't come this far to have a hundred-odd construction workers caught up in the cross fire of his private war with Don Bartoli. Let them leave in peace, and he'd do whatever was required to even up the odds. With any luck at all, the new additions to the rebel arsenal might do the trick.
Bartoli's liberated cash had bought them AK-47s, Uzis, hand grenades and ammunition, plus a little something extra. Four Soviet RPG-7 portable rocket launchers had been added as a bonus, providing Bolan and the rebels with power punch transcending meager numbers. Thirty-nine inches in length, the RPG weighed fifteen pounds and fired a five-pound payload. Accurate up to five hundred yards with static targets, the projectile would penetrate 12.6 inches of armor on a direct hit, detonating with cataclysmic force. Unlike the disposable LAW rockets, the RPG was reloadable, but the rebel budget hadn't permitted acquisition of surplus rockets.
Still, if properly employed, the Executioner thought four should be enough. One of the launchers lay beside him now, as well as an AK-47 assault rifle. With his side arms in reserve and fragmentation grenades suspended from his military harness, Bolan felt he was prepared to meet the enemy.
Prepared or not, he had no choice.
By this time, Don Bartoli could have been in touch with the Commission, or the New York Families directly, if he cared to try. Assuming that his paranoia kept him off the phone, he'd be checking and rechecking every angle of attack, attempting to identify his enemies before the final showdown. In the end, it mattered little to the Executioner if his opponent realized the truth. It was essential only that the Haitian project be neutralized by any means available, the spread at Liberté" reduced to smoking ashes.
He checked his watch and found that it was still a quarter-hour before quitting time. By now, Petoit's commandos and the new recruits should be in position, waiting for the signal to attack. He only hoped the new men would be disciplined enough to wait, and cool enough to choose their targets under fire without expending all their ammunition in an aimless burst.
Bolan watched as a staff car and a pair of troop trucks rumbled into view. The vehicles disgorged uniforms that fell in line to wait for their instructions. With a hollow feeling in his gut, he realized the odds against his side had roughly doubled in the space of thirty seconds.
Still, it made no difference. They'd have to go ahead as planned.
There was simply no other way.
* * *
Francois Descartes had opted for a bold first move against the enemy. By reinforcing Liberté, he would immediately demonstrate his willingness to meet the rebels in an open confrontation, simultaneously winning Don Bartoli's favor by protecting the American's investment. If the peasant «army» never struck at the construction site, so much the better. Then, Descartes could claim that his preliminary move had served as a preventive measure, warding off attack.
And if they did appear, he'd be safe at home, or in his office, when the bullets started flying. Let his field commander take the heat. Descartes wasn't a soldier, nor was he responsible for the shortsightedness of junta leaders who had cast him in a warrior's role.
He watched as the uniformed Macoutes leaped from the trucks and fell into double ranks, their weapons slung on their shoulder straps. He walked along the line, pretending to inspect them, noticing Bartoli as the mobster left his air-conditioned office and strode toward the vehicles. His face bore no expression whatsoever, and Descartes couldn't decide if he was pleased, amused, or just disinterested. Two gunmen trailed him, armed with M-16s, alert to any hint of danger from the new arrivals.
"A token of the government's concern that nothing should disrupt your progress here," Descartes explained before Bartoli had a chance to speak. "My men have orders to defend the site at any cost."
"Your men?"
"Indeed, monsieur." Descartes puffed out his chest to take advantage of the tailored uniform that had replaced his business suit. "Since the unfortunate removal of my predecessor, I have been appointed to command the Volunteers for National Security."
"Congratulations." Was there irony in Don Bartoli's voice? Descartes decided it was best to let the question go unanswered for the moment.
"Have you been in touch with your associates?" he asked. "I hope this matter can be peaceably resolved."
"Don't hold your breath. New York's not talking, but I've got their number all the same. I'm not fresh off the boat, the way some people seem to think."
Descartes wasn't familiar with the turn of phrase, but he pretended perfect understanding. "No, of course not."
"I don't figure we can scare them off," Bartoli continued, "but we can damn sure kick their asses if they try to use the muscle here. In another day or so, I'll have things covered on the other end, and we can wrap it up. I'm looking forward to business as usual."
Descartes was anxious to be gone, but he couldn't allow his eagerness to show. If nothing else, he had his uniform and office to consider. He must not be seen as running away from the prospect of a fight.
"If there is any more that I can do for you…"
"Come in and have a drink before you go." Bartoli cocked a thumb in the direction of his office. "You can beat the heat and leave your boys to get things sorted out. They know their business, right?"
"Of course. Unfortunately I have urgent business to complete in Port-au-Prince. My first day on the job, you understand…"
"Your paperwork's not going anywhere," Bartoli said. "Come on."
Descartes considered standing firm, insisting that he had to leave at once, but he'd probably offend Bartoli in the process, and he had no wish to do so. Adamant in his decision that a single glass of whiskey would suffice, he trailed the mobster and his escort back to the temporary office building, frowning at the dust that had already fouled his shoes and the trousers of his uniform.
One drink, no more, and he would have his driver take him back to Port-au-Prince, no matter what Bartoli said. As the commander of Macoutes, he had a nation to protect, and in the hours since his appointment, he had come to take that duty seriously. If he also made a profit in the bargain, well…
There were subversives in the land, committed to a revolution that would shatter Haiti from within. No matter that the blights of poverty, illiteracy and disease had gone a long way down that road already. He wasn't prepared to countenance solutions that involved the decimation of the ruling class.
Descartes himself had been a humble man — though never poor, as those he drove past every morning in the streets of Port-au-Prince were poor. His father had been a merchant in the capital, and he had earned enough to put Francois through school. Loyalty to the Duvaliers had guaranteed his slow but steady progress up the ladder of success, and now a twist of fate had placed him near the pinnacle. If he impressed the leaders of the junta in his new position, he might hope for greater things.
And if he never rose above his present rank, he still had opportunities for wealth and power be
yond a Haitian merchant's wildest dreams. Bartoli could assist him there. One drink wasn't a grievous price to pay, all things considered. If the whiskey tasted good enough, Descartes might stay for two.
The paperwork would wait, as Don Bartoli had suggested. At the moment, in the fine tradition of his predecessors, he was looking out for number one.
* * *
At precisely six o'clock workmen started packing their tools then drifting toward the buses that would take them back to the city. They worked eleven-hour days at Liberté, not counting time they spent in transit, and the laborers looked weary as they punched the time clock. It would be full dark before they reached their homes.
Tomorrow, if they came to work, they would be starting off from scratch, amid the ruins.
Jacques Petoit refused to let the newly arrived Macoutes scare him from his chosen course of action. Twice the opposition simply meant that his troops would have to do their work with twice the usual precision, striking by surprise and punching through the line before the Macoutes had time to mount a viable defense.
Petoit was nervous, waiting for the signal that would send his men to battle. Grudgingly he had agreed to let Blanski choose the moment, picking out a target for his RPG that would begin the general assault. If everyone performed on cue, the hostile forces should be decimated in the first barrage; survivors could be mopped up afterward at leisure.
A rocket launcher rested on the spongy ground beside Petoit, primed and ready. The remaining RPGs had been dispensed to his most trusted marksmen, the targets chosen in advance for maximum effect. They would be aiming for the most expensive pieces of equipment and the office building, where the leader of the gamblers had retreated with the officer in charge of the Macoutes. One rocket mightn't do for everyone inside, but it would startle them enough to leave the troops effectively deprived of leadership for many crucial moments.
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