Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan reached his destination sooner than he expected. He could see the individual shadows of the four men huddled together like kids playing touch football. He waited for Washington to reach his own position.

  Checking his watch, he frowned when he realized it was more than an hour since they'd reached the cantina. The two jeeps were still there, but if Rivera wasn't, they had wasted a lot of valuable time. Perhaps too much.

  The warrior edged closer. He could almost reach out and touch the nearest man. It was so tempting to use the Beretta and take them out. But for all these men knew, they were doing the right thing. How could you blame a soldier for following orders when nobody seemed to know what should be done? Scratch two congressmen and you got two speeches on what was wrong with U.S. Central American policy. It was so much easier to let somebody else decide, go along with the program, follow orders. At least nobody could accuse you of shirking your responsibility.

  Bolan heard the sharp crack of a dry stick. It had the desired effect as all four men turned to stone for a moment. He slipped up behind the nearest man, held the Beretta at his temple and wrapped an arm around his neck. Even in the dark the warrior knew he was young. He could feel the kid's downy whiskers against his forearm.

  "Everybody take it easy and nobody gets hurt. Understand?" Bolan asked in Spanish.

  "Yes, sir," the young man replied, his Adam's apple bobbing against the pressure of Bolan's arm.

  Washington stepped through the undergrowth on the far side of the small clearing. One by one he took their weapons, then pressed each man to the ground.

  Working quickly, Washington bound their hands behind their backs with lengths of a tough, ropelike vine, then tied their feet, running a line from ankles up to wrists and jerking their feet into the air. Cutting strips of duct tape from a silver roll, he taped their mouths closed, making sure each man could breathe before moving on to the next.

  "You'll be all right," Bolan whispered to the captives. "When we're finished we'll come back and set you loose. In the meantime just stay calm. Don't try to get loose. You can't, and you'll only make things more difficult for all of us. Understood?"

  All four nodded.

  "Let's go, Cazz."

  Bolan sprinted out of the trees and across the road. He ran straight for the side wall of the building, between the two jeeps. When he had his back against the wooden wall, he waved Washington across. Cazz joined him, puffing slightly from the long sprint. Bolan's side was beginning to throb, and he felt a little weak.

  The flimsy walls of the cantina looked as if they would give way under the first strong breeze. There was no window on that side, and he had to get a look inside before deciding what he could do. If Rivera wasn't there, then they'd be back to square one. He whispered to Washington that he was going to find a window. The man nodded and moved toward the front corner, where he could watch the door.

  Bolan moved the other way, waiting for Washington to get in place before he slipped around the back. Two windows, one toward either corner, threw dim light onto the wet grass. He raised his head to the sill and listened. A low mutter from inside was unintelligible. Continuing on past, he stood on the far side and eased back just far enough to look into the room. Two men sat at a scarred round table, playing dominoes. They were talking quietly, absorbed in the game. There was none of the usual banter that accompanied the slapping of tiles in place, none of the insulting challenges, the triumphant celebrations.

  Bolan tiptoed along the wall to the far window. Knee-high weeds at the base of the building hampered his progress, but the farther away from the wall he got, the more likely someone would spot him from inside.

  At the far window he stopped again. This time he looked first before listening. He could hear someone talking, but he couldn't see anyone. The angle was all wrong. He ducked beneath the sill and moved to the far side of the window. Looking back toward the middle of the building, he could see the speaker now, leaning over someone seated in a chair. The conversation was in Spanish, but Bolan caught scraps of it each time the speaker's voice rose.

  Berating the seated man, the speaker was urging him to sign something. The speaker's broad shoulders blocked everything at the table from Bolan's view. A fist pounded on the table, and the speaker turned away in disgust. "You stupid pig," he was saying, raising his voice for the first time. "Don't you understand that you have no choice? You have to sign."

  The seated man said something Bolan didn't catch. Whatever it was, it enraged the speaker. He whirled around, reaching for his pistol at the same time. With the gun drawn, he leaned forward again, pounding on the table repeatedly with an open palm. As he pounded, he moved gradually around the table toward the front of the building. Slowly the seated man came into view. And when the speaker finally stopped pounding, he was across the table from the seated man.

  Emiliano Rivera shook his head again. "I won't sign it," he said. The standing man leaned closer, raising his pistol until the muzzle was pressing against Rivera's chin. "You think we'll kill you if you sign it, don't you, old man?"

  "I know you will," Rivera replied.

  "Wrong!" The standing man pounded the table with a fist to emphasize each denial. "We'll kill you if you don't sign. You can save your life."

  "And lose my soul? And betray my conscience and my country? No, thank you."

  "The butcher of Matagalpa has a conscience?" The man laughed. "You must be joking."

  "That was a long time ago. I've learned a great deal since then."

  "Not enough, old man." The speaker was losing his grip. Bolan could hear the rage in his voice. He wasn't used to being defied. The gun pressed harder against Rivera's chin. Bolan had wanted to frame some sort of plan, but there wasn't time.

  He banged the stock of the AK-47 against the wall. The thump echoed in the room and the speaker backed up a step. He looked toward the window, jerking the pistol away from Rivera's chin and pointing it at the wall. Bolan cut loose with the AK at the same instant. The shattering glass obscured what happened next, but when Bolan could see into the room again, the speaker was on the floor. Rivera was standing, backing away from the table. The warrior stuck his head through the shattered window frame as two men rushed into the room, probably the same two who had been playing dominoes.

  Bolan took them out of the play with a tight figure eight as they barged in, the second man tripping over his comrade and falling through the deadly hail. Rivera hobbled toward the window. The Executioner heard the rattle of chains and realized the general was in shackles. His hands were manacled.

  "Stay out of the line of fire," Bolan barked, and Rivera slid to one side, the awkward penguin strut Imposed on him by the chains almost comical. At the same instant a burst of gunfire erupted around the front of the building.

  A third man charged through the door, but before Bolan could raise his rifle, the man stumbled and fell, ripped from behind by a tight burst. He sprawled facedown, half a dozen holes across his back from shoulder to shoulder.

  "It's me," Washington shouted. "Don't shoot." He stepped over the carnage in the doorway, ramming another clip into his rifle. He looked at Bolan with a lopsided grin. "You don't believe in foolin' around, do you? Next time give me a shout or something first, okay? This John Wayne shit almost gave me a heart attack."

  "There wasn't time, Cazz."

  Bolan turned to Rivera. "Where's the key?"

  Nodding toward the body on the floor by the table, the general said, "In his pocket. There are four more of them. You better hurry."

  "Already taken care of, General," Washington said, snapping off a mock salute. "Who the hell are these guys, anyhow? They don't look like Sandies."

  Bolan interrupted them to open the locks on the shackles and manacles. Rivera watched silently as the chains came free. He rubbed his wrists for a second, then walked to the table and picked up a sheet of paper lying under a ballpoint pen. He read the paper to himself, then spit into it and crumpled it into a ball. Tossing it onto the floor by th
e dead speaker, he said, "They're not. They're former members of the National Guard."

  "Somocistas, huh?"

  "No more. Now they're worse than pigs. They're Paganistas." Rivera looked at Bolan. He nodded, then answered Bolan's question before the big man got a chance to ask it. "I'm sure."

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A blade of light slashed through the narrow opening at the door of the tent. Bolan turned in his sleep, and the light fell across his face. Instantly awake, he blinked and sat up. Gil Hoffman was sitting at the foot of the cot, his back to Bolan and his arms propped on the small table.

  "What's up?" the warrior asked.

  Hoffman didn't answer him immediately. He took a deep breath, then turned to look at the big man as he swung his legs over the edge of the cot. Bolan watched him without speaking.

  The CIA agent stood, bumping his head on the taut canvas, then moved to the center of the tent where he could stand upright.

  Bolan ran a hand through his hair, then took the Desert Eagle's holster from the end of the cot and slipped it on, wincing as the pain shot through his side.

  Finally Hoffman spoke. "Bartlett's dead."

  "What did you say?"

  "Bartlett's dead. Murdered. Blown to fucking bits."

  "What the hell happened?"

  "Arledge set it up. I found out too late to do anything about it. And I've got news for you. I think that asshole Gardner's in Pagan's pocket.

  "But why?"

  "Search me. I just don't know. But I've put it together every way you can and it always comes out the same. Arledge knew too much. He knew shit Bartlett and I were doing, and I know Bartlett didn't tell anybody. At least he said he wouldn't, and I believe him. I didn't like the guy, but I trusted him."

  "That explains it, then."

  "Explains what?"

  "How they knew we were here. We had a little excitement while you were away."

  "I know. Rivera told me."

  "What about Arledge?"

  "Eighty-sixed. I blew him to hell, along with his blood money. I think the gators will probably get ptomaine. At least I hope so."

  "Gators?"

  "I'll tell you about it sometime."

  Bolan knew not to press. He pushed open the tent flap. "Be right back."

  Hoffman sat down again, this time facing the mouth of the tent. He stared at the crack of brilliant sunlight until his eyes hurt. He'd seen a little too much in the past few days. Maybe he needed a little down time, he thought. Maybe seeing wasn't so good. Maybe if he seared his eyes with something other than the truth, he'd look at the world differently. Maybe…

  When Bolan returned, Hoffman was still staring at the blade of sunlight.

  "You okay?"

  Hoffman nodded. "Yeah. But we're blown. I know that as sure as I know my mother's name."

  "We can handle it."

  "I hope so."

  "Does Rivera know about Bartlett?" Bolan asked.

  "I told him when I got in. He thinks it's Pagan. Says he wants to even the score."

  "Easier said than done. If you're right about Gardner, we're bucking both ends. They cut us loose."

  "Like you said, we can handle it."

  The tent flap moved aside, and Rivera stood in the light. "We have a few things to discuss," he announced.

  Bolan nodded. "Come in, General."

  "So formal, Mr. Belasko. That's not like you."

  "It's his postmortem style," Hoffman said. Rivera glanced at him, then at Bolan.

  "You know about Mr. Bartlett, then?"

  Bolan nodded, then sat on the bunk. "What did you want to talk about?"

  "I've had a long, restless night. Soul-searching is the term, I believe. I'm long past believing in so elusive an entity. But the process is useful, nonetheless. I think it only fair that you be the first, and so far as I am concerned, the only ones to know what I'm about to tell you."

  "Secrets have a short half-life these days, General," Hoffman said.

  Rivera looked at him sharply. "If you can't keep one, then perhaps you should leave me alone with Mr. Belasko. I have no qualms about him."

  "You don't have to have any about me, either." Hoffman's voice was sharp. "I just meant that it seems difficult to keep them secret for very long."

  "Be that as it may, I have one I expect you to keep. It seems that Guillermo Pagan is determined to keep me from running in the election, whatever he has to do. But I don't think Señor Pagan is what Nicaragua needs. Not now. Not ever."

  "He's got a hell of a head start on you, General. Not to mention the fact that he's holding all the aces," Hoffman said.

  "I suspect Señor Ortega has a few of his own." Rivera smiled.

  "So did Wild Bill Hickok," Bolan added.

  "I don't understand the reference."

  "Aces and eights. General," Hoffman explained. "It's what Hickok was holding when he was killed. Dead man's hand, they call it."

  "Do I understand you correctly, Mr. Belasko? Do you mean to tell me that part of the operation involved assassination?"

  "According to Harry Martinson, it does."

  "That bastard," Hoffman exploded.

  "You know him?" Bolan asked.

  "Yeah, I know him."

  Rivera and Bolan both looked at him, waiting for an explanation. Hoffman seemed reluctant to follow up on his outburst.

  Under the insistent stares, Hoffman shrugged. "Let me put it this way. If he were KGB, he'd be a specialist in Vet affairs.»

  "I've seen evidence of that myself," Bolan said. "He was part of the attack on the chopper. General."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I wasn't quite sure. Besides, what was the point? It was over. If there was another attack, we'd have to be ready. And we were. There was no reason to assume Martinson would be involved in it, anyway. If they're out to get you, you can bet there's more than one executive action team roaming around."

  "I'm not sure about that," Hoffman said. "As near as I can figure it, this was in a pretty tight box. I don't think Gardner wants half the Company to know about this. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole thing was off the books. Bartlett seemed to think so."

  "How do you know that?" Rivera demanded. "Why have you been holding out on me, both of you?"

  "It seems we've all been keeping our little secrets, General," Bolan said.

  Hoffman kept silent for a minute. Finally he stood. "I pulled a couple of strings. After they got Bartlett, I got in touch with an internal security man. He got me into Bartlett's house. I found a few things in his desk — a file on Pagan, one on Arledge. It looked as if he was cross-referencing things, piecing things together, sifting through what he knew from me and what Arledge had been telling him. My guess was that he was onto something, and Arledge guessed it. He probably pushed the button for Pagan."

  "We're in a deeper hole than I thought," Bolan said.

  "Without a ladder," Hoffman added.

  "Then we'll do what any good soldier does in such a situation, gentlemen."

  "What's that, General?"

  "We'll take the offensive."

  "Good luck."

  "The just man doesn't need luck, Mr. Hoffman. All he needs is courage."

  Hoffman looked at Rivera then at Bolan. "The way I see it," he whispered, "we don't have a whole lot of just men in this tent."

  "On the contrary, we have two, and I shall do my best to atone for my past. Perhaps I can become a third." Rivera sighed. "But I can't participate in a fraud and I can't be a party, however remote, or a beneficiary, however indirect, of assassination."

  "We can't do anything about it, General. The ship has sailed."

  "Ships can be recalled or, if necessary… they can be sunk."

  "What the hell are you going to do?" Hoffman asked. "Call Ortega on the phone and tell him to look over his shoulder?"

  "Only as a last resort," Rivera said. "I would rather we just handle it ourselves."

  "You're joking…"

  "I don't think so,"
Bolan said quietly. Turning to Rivera, he continued, "You know how long the odds are, don't you, General?"

  "I do."

  "All right, let's do it, then. Let's lay it all out. This is no time to hold back anything. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," Rivera said.

  Hoffman nodded. "What the hell?"

  "All right, Gil, tell us everything you got from Bartlett's files. The more we know about Martinson and Pagan, the better chance we have to pull this off."

  Hoffman talked for the better part of an hour. When he finished, he stared at his audience of two, waiting for their reaction. Bolan ran a hand over his unshaven chin. Rivera just rocked back and forth on the bench where he had sat the whole time as motionless as a painting.

  Bolan was the first to respond. "I think we have to assume that the general is also a target. I think we can also assume that Martinson knows the plan Bartlett had devised for the general's approach to Managua."

  "What's your point?" Hoffman asked.

  "The point is, we know where to find them because they'll be waiting for us."

  "That doesn't help on the Ortega end."

  "It might. I think we have to make one more assumption. I might be reaching a bit, but I don't think so. If I were in their shoes, I would make sure the general went down before taking Ortega out. Otherwise you run the risk of the public throwing its support behind the general. So Ortega is safe at least until an attempt is made on the general. They might cut it very close and move on Ortega at the same time, but they'd want confirmation, I think. I know I would."

  "So what do you propose, Mr. Belasko?" Rivera's voice showed no emotion despite the fact that Bolan had just spoken about a probable attempt on his life. He was all business, and the warrior had yet one more angle from which to view the man. He was beginning to wonder whether there was any limit to the colors of this strange chameleon.

  "I think we go ahead with the original plan, with one simple modification. I'll explain that in a minute. General, how many of these men can you really trust?"

  "Two dozen, I think. Why?"