He pressed a hidden catch behind the driver's seat and dropped the panel that concealed a pair of loaded Uzi submachine guns. Choosing one, he flicked the safety off and drew the cocking lever backward, chambering a parabellum round to get the weapon primed.
Outside, his would-be nemesis was leveling an automatic at the window, frowning as he realized the.45 would never make a dent. Bartoli could imagine Esposito's thoughts: what should I do? How can I crack the limousine and reach the target?
He'd never get the chance.
Bartoli turned a knob that opened a three-inch gun port in the limo's door. If Esposito noticed, it wasn't reflected on his scowling face. Bartoli slid the Uzi's muzzle through the gun port, aimed by instinct and prepared himself for the hellish noise as he fired.
At that, he very nearly missed his target, cutting Sonny's legs from under him when he was hoping to get the bastard in the chest. It scarcely mattered, though, since Sonny fell across his line of fire while Don Bartoli held the Uzi's trigger down, a wicked stream of parabellum manglers ripping through his stomach, chest and face before he hit the ground.
The capo fed the stuttergun another magazine before he stepped outside the car. It was a pity he wouldn't be able to interrogate his Judas, find out who had anted up the thirty bits of silver, but at least he had begun the job of cleaning house. In future he would have to be more cautious with promotions from the ranks.
Bartoli circled Sonny's corpse to reach the driver's door. He left his Uzi on the fender for a moment, as he needed both hands to drag the driver clear. He felt a flicker of revulsion as he slid behind the wheel. The seat was slick with blood, and it was soaking through his slacks, the fabric sticking to his thighs.
Bartoli had his hand on the ignition key when he realized the damage that the final burst from the Ingram had inflicted upon the dashboard. The speedometer, the fuel gauge, clock and AM/FM stereo were shattered; random rounds had nailed the driver's telephone, the air-conditioning controls, the glove compartment.
Without a shred of hope, he turned the key and was rewarded with a muffled groan from beneath the limo's hood. The second time he tried, Bartoli got no sound at all.
He slammed a fist angrily against the steering wheel, aware that he had soiled his clothes with blood for nothing. Scooping up his weapon, he quit the car. He knew that there must be some other form of transportation on the site. The company had several cars and pickup trucks that were used for daily runs to Port-au-Prince. If he could find one that hadn't been shot to hell, the capo had it made. The keys, he knew, would be inside what was left of the office.
Cursing underneath his breath, Bartoli stepped across the driver's corpse and started back the way he had come.
* * *
Petoit had led the rush toward the casino, where a number of Macoutes and armed mobsters had taken refuge. Several of his men were lost as they advanced beneath the lights, but then the building site went dark and the survivors finished their approach by moonlight, clinging to the walls before they slipped inside the building.
The main casino was designed with several sets of double doors and massive windows, none of which had had glass installed. The apertures admitted moonlight, but the cavernous interior was still a murky place of gliding windows, lighted only by sporadic muzzle blasts from automatic weapons.
Petoit crept on his belly over cool concrete, covering thirty yards before he came up short, against the cover of a native stone partition. From his vantage point, he had a panoramic view of the casino battlefield, almost a hundred yards across, with riflemen in isolated pockets trading fire across the central floor. He had a fair idea of where his people were, determined by the path of their advance, and so was able to identify the enemy without being within point-blank range.
Some fifty feet in front of him, two members of the opposition force were laying down determined cover fire with submachine guns, halting the advance of his commandos on the right. Petoit took aim with his AK-47, sighting on the muzzle-flashes first, then picking out the human forms in silhouette. He squeezed off half a dozen rounds, repeated when the second figure didn't fold immediately, and the guns fell silent.
Tracking on, he quickly saw that the defenders, isolated as they were in several points around the room, had missed his entry to the battle. Armed with the advantage of surprise, Petoit selected other targets, still within his weapon's optimum effective range, repeating the procedure until he had silenced seven guns in all.
The defenders recognized him now, their concentrated fire descending on his sniper's nest and driving Jacques to the ground. He wriggled back along the stone partition, feeding a fresh magazine into his rifle as he went, prepared to try another angle of attack if he could only find the way.
He found it moments later, nearly toppling down a flight of steps before he caught himself. A sunken bar was near completion, off the main casino, and he scuttled past the upright posts installed for stools, concealed from his opponents by the darkness and his drop below their normal line of sight. Another forty feet, and he found other steps that took him back to the casino floor, but he was coming in behind a number of his adversaries now to take them by surprise.
He removed one of his two grenades from his belt as he approached a group of half a dozen riflemen whose concentrated fire had proved a major obstacle to the advancement of his troops. When he was close enough to make it count, Petoit withdrew the pin and pitched the lethal egg from twenty feet, a gentle underhand that dropped it squarely in the midst of his targets.
Belly-down, he rode the shock wave as the frag grenade went off, its shrapnel slicing through the nearest gunners, blowing them away. Petoit was on his feet before the echoes of the blast died and was closing in to finish the survivors, firing single rounds from his assault rifle at their moaning, twitching forms.
His rebels were pushing back the enemy now, confining them within a corner of the giant room. Here and there he heard the voices of Macoutes as they began to plead for mercy and were answered by the blast of automatic weapons fired at point-blank range. His tiny strike force could afford no prisoners, and they weren't inclined to mercy after all that they had suffered through the years.
It was a weary business, hunting men, but Jacques Petoit had made his choice and there could be no turning back. His people had endured enough from despots in their time, and they were pledged to even up the score.
Petoit stood, the weight of Haitian history upon his shoulders as he moved to join the hunt.
* * *
Bartoli wasted precious moments scouring the office, but he finally uncovered several sets of keys and stuffed them all inside a pocket of his tattered, bloodstained jacket. It was possible that he had missed a set or two, but he was running out of time, and with the keys that he had he should be able to obtain some form of transportation to take him out of there.
The problem was that no one had as yet devised a central parking lot, for Liberté. The vehicles he sought were scattered around the site, and he'd have to take his chances on the battlefield to find one. It was risky from the start, but it was still the only game in town.
Emerging from the office, he heard the steady beat of small-arms fire reverberating from inside the great casino. Jesus, it would cost another million dollars, easy, to repair the damage done this night, but it would all be worth the price if he could put the New York Families in their proper place. The bastards had a lesson coming, and Bartoli relished his position as the teacher.
Moving out, he shied away from the casino, drifting away from the concerted action on the open ground. He came upon a pickup first, but both front tires were flayed by shrapnel, rusty water draining from the punctured radiator.
He was scanning for another option when he saw the big man, moving like a wraith through wafting clouds of battle smoke. It was Omega, sure as hell, but he had been transformed, completely clad in black now, wearing a military harness and holding an automatic rifle in his hands. He hadn't spotted Bartoli yet, from all ap
pearance, but at a glance the capo knew he was Omega's chosen prey.
Bartoli dropped beside the wasted pickup, fingering the Uzi's trigger. He could try a burst from there, uncertain of the range, but if he blew it he was up Shit Creek without a paddle. On the other hand, if he could slip away before the Ace discovered where he was…
The capo spied the car, some fifty feet away, and noted that it seemed undamaged. It was open country all the way, unfortunately, and Bartoli knew that he could never make the move unnoticed by Omega. He'd have to. take the bastard first — or pin him down, at any rate — in order to protect his flank and buy some time.
From that point on, it was a relatively simple matter: reach the car without some other asshole blowing him away; sort through the different sets of keys and pray he had the right ones in his hand; drive off before Omega or some other enemy could stop him with a stray round through the engine block.
No problem.
First, Omega. Bartoli rose from cover, bracing elbows on the pickup's dented fender and sighting down the stubby barrel of his submachine gun. It was sixty feet or more, but he could make it if he held the weapon steady and remembered not to jerk the trigger in his haste to make the kill.
All nice and easy, Don Bartoli thought.
And then he let the Uzi rip.
* * *
A sniper unwittingly saved Mack Bolan's life. The rifle bullet whispered past his ear, and Bolan went to ground precisely as the Uzi opened fire. He kept on rolling as the parabellum rounds kicked up a cloud of dust beside him, swinging up his AK-47, ready to respond as Don Bartoli broke from cover and sprinkled over open ground.
The soldier recognized his prey and realized his destination, shifting his attention to the car that was parked beside an uncompleted wing of the hotel. Bartoli still had twenty feet to go when Bolan shot the starboard tires to hissing ribbons, finishing the job with four rounds through the fender, striking home beneath the hood.
Bartoli faltered in midstride, his hopes evaporating. Furious, he spun to face the Executioner, his face a twisted mass of hate.
"You worthless bastard!" he cried. "How much is New York paying you for this?"
The Executioner was on his feet again.
"New York's not part of this," he replied. "It never was."
"You lying son of a bitch. Why should I believe you?"
"I've already told you why."
Bartoli spent a moment letting that sink in. "It's really you," he said at last.
"It's really me."
"You played me for a sucker all along."
"I did my best."
The mafioso seemed confused. "Why me?"
"Because of who and what you are. Because you're here."
"You've got a hundred bigger fish at home. You didn't have to come down here and take me on."
"Let's say I like the tropic sun."
"You want some heat, you bastard? Right. I'll give you heat."
Bartoli came for Bolan over open ground, the Uzi blasting from his hip. He wasn't good enough to make it count at such a range. Bolan raised his AK-47 to his shoulder, squeezing off a single round that drilled between the capo's eyes. Bartoli wilted in his tracks and toppled backward, settling in a dusty heap.
Around him, Bolan heard he sounds of combat fading. Armed resistance in the main casino had been crushed, and rebel troops were mopping up in the hotel. The few Macoutes and mafiosi who attempted to surrender had been executed on the spot.
Bolan counted it a victory of sorts, but he understood that victories were transient in an everlasting war. His enemies would rise again with other faces, other names, on other battlefields. Their criminal objectives would be subtly altered, but their major thrust would be the same. They would devour everyone and everything that lay before them, if they weren't stopped by force.
His battle was finished here in Haiti, but Mack Bolan's everlasting way marched relentlessly on.
The Executioner turned hungry eyes toward the next engagement.
Haitian Hit Page 22