“Loss of faith could cause all-out civil war.”

“Destabilizing U.S. interests here,” Bolan concluded.

“Right,” Fonesca agreed. “That would also give the conservative elements in Washington ammunition to talk the President into adopting a military solution.”

That idea was unthinkable, although Bolan knew that a civil war in Puerto Rico would leave the Man no choice but to send military forces to restore law and order. The small National Guard presence on the island would never be enough to quench the fervor of an all-out armed conflict between civilians.

Civil war in Puerto Rico? America having to intervene with its own protectorate by means of military force? The end results of such a thing would be tragic and horrific, at best.

“I’ll start by sending a message to the Independents, letting them know if they are responsible this won’t go unchecked.”

“Fair enough,” Fonseca said. “What do you need from me?”

“A place to deliver it,” the Executioner replied.

Diplomacy Directive

Mack Bolan®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Though force can protect in an emergency, only justice, fairness, consideration and cooperation can finally lead men to the dawn of eternal peace.

—Dwight D. Eisenhower

1890–1969

My use of force is always as a last resort. Unfortunately, it’s the only thing that terrorists understand, and sometimes without it we can never know peace.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Guadalupe La Costa knew a break when she saw it.

It wasn’t every day the director of the local Associated Press affiliate in Puerto Rico handed out juicy assignments to reporters—especially to a young woman who refused to sleep with him—let alone a rookie reporter with a penchant for being a might too ambitious. In any case, some might have viewed covering the upcoming election to appoint a new governor as one of the more mundane assignments. La Costa saw it as a challenge with a gem of a story behind it: a human interest story that focused on the two opponents.

The director had issued an order that La Costa not broach personal issues with the candidates, and keep the parameters of her story confined to the issues. La Costa got the gig, which would include a two-minute live segment on the nightly news channel feed out of Miami. And if she played her cards right, she’d get an exclusive with each of the candidates during the little soiree being held later that night. That last detail had cost her plenty, namely a Gucci leather handbag she was still sure was a knockoff and some very expensive French shoes. The gifts went to the respective PR chiefs of the two candidates, both of whom happened to be women, and felt like cutting a sister a break if it meant she could get ahead. They had required her to present her questions in advance, and to her surprise the candidates agreed. The campaign had become as much a race of personalities as it was one of competent leadership.

Then again, many elections founded on basic democratic principles were more of a popularity contest than about the election of someone who might actually be able to do the job.

La Costa shook her head every time she thought of that. Well, she didn’t give a rip who got elected. Her only connection to Puerto Rico was she’d been born there while her father, an American career diplomat, was assigned to the area. The family headed back to the States, and her father continued his career in various posts.

Securing a job with the Associated Press as a foreign affairs journalist posed no challenge. La Costa’s Masters in journalism certainly helped, and she hadn’t minded using her father’s connections, either.

The man seated next to her in the van didn’t come up quite the same way. No, definitely no silver spoon in Julio Parmahel’s past. Parmahel had been raised the hard way in Little Havana, scraping and fighting his way into a decent college where he could study photography. Journalistic photography had a limited scope, though, since most reporters were also expected to be decent photographers. With a lack of work, Parmahel turned to camera operations. It wasn’t his first love, but at least he got to use some of his creativity.

“Man, I am bored out my skull,” he said in his heavy, Cuban accent. He leaned back as best he could manage, given the size of the driver’s seat of a studio van. He yanked a toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at La Costa to make his point. “And sweet Mama, why do the nights always got to be so damn hot?”

La Costa shook her head and laughed. “Julio, I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question, since we’ve been together down here almost a year. I’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

“I’ll never be used to it. Guess I’m just homesick.”

The appearance of a sponsorship member on the platform they had erected for the speeches diverted her attention from making a reply. As he introduced the first candidate, La Costa and Parmahel transferred to the back of the van and began checks on their equipment. They weren’t there to cover the actual speeches; somebody else had that part of the assignment. La Costa was there only for the interviews and to present her live recording after the speeches were concluded. They’d already gone through their checks twice, but she insisted they do it one more time.

Parmahel responded to her obsessive-compulsive whims without grumbling, which was one of the reasons she liked to work so much with him. By the time they finished running through the checklist, the second candidate had stepped up and was about halfway through his speech. The sponsors had allotted each candidate a total of fifteen minutes to present.

La Costa helped Parmahel unload the equipment from the back. They did a quick test run of the remote feed, then stood by as the second candidate completed his speech. As the cheers went up from the crowd, they locked the van and moved into position near the dais, where they would begin the segment once things started to break up. The crowd started dispersing shortly after the announcer concluded with the sales pitches for each sponsor.

The production supervisor showed up at the last minute, just like he always did—about the only thing in which the guy seemed consistent—and shortly thereafter the countdown began. The supervisor began a countdown from five, then used his fingers to silently tick off the last two seconds before the lights came up, the dome on the camera went red and he pointed to La Costa to begin her spiel.

“Thank you, Cassandra. We’re here tonight in beautiful downtown San Juan, where the candidates have just completed their speeches and are now shaking hands with their constituents. The city is afire with the pending vote to elect a new governor, and you can feel the excitement here. Later this evening we’ll have the unique privilege of getting to chat personally with each of the candidates, who have graciously granted us exclusive interviews. You won’t want to miss these interviews as the candidates will be talking candidly with us about their individual views of the upcoming election. The huge show of support here tonight was impressive. We—”

The area around them exploded in sounds of shouting, screaming and gunfire.

The stage lit up like a fireworks display, and the podium where the two candidates had stood just minutes earlier exploded. Pandemonium erupted and people scattered in every direction. Security and police officers nearby rushed the stage, struggling to pick their way past the dead or dying bodies, and debris littered the explosion site.

More shooting ensued as law-enforcement officials began to trade fire with a small band of armed men who rushed the wall of people surrounding the two candidates. The aggressors wore assorted military-style fatigues and bandannas of red, white and blue—colors of the territorial flag—while triggering semiautomatic pistols and assault rifles. The paramilitary police force split up, some staying to move the candidates out of harm’s way behind the dais and into the adjoining government building, while others fanned out to form a defensive perimeter.

La Costa dived for cover and shouted at Parmahel to follow her lead, but the cameraman kept shooting footage. She screamed at him, but her objections were overridden by the crazed crowd looking to escape death and the production supervisor, who yelled at Parmahel, “Keep rolling! Keep rolling!”

The new arrivals in fatigues appeared to be indiscriminate in their shooting, seeming more intent on terrorizing anybody in their path than at actually assassinating one of the candidates. La Costa glimpsed Sallie Manzano, the Popular Democratic Party’s candidate, go down as rounds ripped open her belly. La Costa emitted an involuntary scream and felt tears gush from her eyes and her face flush. The shooters weren’t firing even close to them and yet La Costa couldn’t extinguish the fire of terror in her gut.

The battle continued to rage for several minutes before the few remaining gunmen spent the last of their ammunition, then turned and ran in the opposite direction. People were still scrambling over one another—some had been trampled nearly to death—while others stayed frozen behind whatever cover they could find.

In less than five minutes it was over.

But for Guadalupe La Costa, it would never be over. It would be something she’d remembered for the rest of her life.

CHAPTER ONE

Mack Bolan deplaned from the Gulfstream C-21 belonging to Stony Man Farm, one of America’s top covert special operations units.

The vulcanized neoprene soles of his combat boots held firm on the rain-slickened tarmac at Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport. Balmy winds off the North Atlantic tugged at his black hair and filled his nostrils with its salty scent.

Jack Grimaldi poked his head out of the cabin and took a deep breath. “Ah, there’s nothing like the tropics.”

Bolan looked up the steps at Grimaldi and produced a half smile. The two men had been friends for what seemed like an eternity, their initial meeting more fate than chance for both of them. Grimaldi had been working as a chopper pilot for a Mafia casino boss, and meeting the Executioner had created a paradigm shift in his life neither of them would soon forget. Now Grimaldi served as ace pilot for Stony Man and served Able Team and Phoenix Force—Stony Man’s elite counterterrorism teams—with the occasional “loan out” to Bolan’s officially sanctioned missions.

“You need help with the equipment?” Bolan asked.

“Naw, but if you can get our wheels that would be sweet.”

Bolan nodded and headed across the tarmac toward a solitary hangar close by. Inside he knew he’d find everything he requested: a sport utility vehicle, a briefcase containing assignment information, military uniforms, credentials and official-looking military orders. Since Puerto Rico was a commonwealth and protectorate of the United States, and there was no official military presence here other than a contingent of National Guard, any potential acts of terrorism fell under the jurisdiction of the Department of Defense. Bolan had used the alias of Colonel Brandon Stone many times, and would do so again.

“You’ll have the full cooperation of the governor’s office,” Hal Brognola had informed him.

While Bolan had maintained a strictly informal alliance with his government, Brognola was a friend and wouldn’t hesitate to call on him in the direst circumstances. The violent attack on political candidates perpetrated by a paramilitary guerrilla unit qualified, and the president had agreed when Brognola brought that fact to his attention.

Bolan drove the SUV to the tarmac and, despite Grimaldi’s protests to the contrary, helped offload equipment into the back. Normally, Bolan would have preferred to operate alone and leave Grimaldi with the plane, but he needed the time to review the paper and electronic files provided by Stony Man, so the pilot agreed to be his chauffeur.

“So what’s the gig, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked as he left the airport and headed for the downtown area. The ace pilot was the only person from the Executioner’s past who called him that.

Bolan’s eyes never left the file he was reading by a red interior lamp. “Unknown aggressors engaged police and civilians at a political rally two days ago. Total of nineteen victims, four were fatalities.”

“Terrorists?”

“Not sure,” Bolan replied. “Although if this were a terrorist group I’d have trouble buying politics as a motive.”

“Why’s that?”

“There are easier ways, Jack. Politically motivated terrorists don’t usually operate so openly. They tend to favor well-placed bombs or hit key targets. This was entirely random. To march into a crowd and simply start shooting doesn’t sound political.”

“I thought I heard Hal say they blew something up, too,” Grimaldi replied.

“Yeah. They threw a grenade at the stage. It wasn’t a bomb.”

Grimaldi sighed. “Grenades and automatic weapons. Sounds like a paramilitary group, maybe militia or rebels.”

Bolan nodded. “Exactly.”

The drive to the hotel took less than thirty minutes. Once they checked in, Bolan traded his civilian garb for a class B army uniform. As Bolan emerged from the bedroom bedecked in olive-drab trousers and a light green, short-sleeve shirt adorned with military decorations and the appropriate rank insignia, Grimaldi returned from the restaurant with two cups of coffee and a half-dozen cheese Danishes. Bolan gratefully took the coffee, but shook his head at the pastries.

“Just leaves more for me,” the pilot said.

“Which I’m sure you had planned,” Bolan replied.

Grimaldi nodded with a wink as he stuffed half a Danish in his mouth. Around a mouthful of the food he said, “Don’t you look dapper.”

“I have a meeting first thing this morning with one of the governor’s security advisers.”

“You need me for that?”

Bolan shook his head. “The office is only a few blocks from here. I’ll walk.”

After a few minutes of small talk, Bolan secured his Beretta 93-R in a standard military holster, donned his utility cap and headed outside. The streets were coming alive with morning commuters, but it was still early enough that Bolan didn’t encounter many passersby. It took him ten minutes to reach the government building, and a secretary immediately showed him to the office of the security adviser. Bolan had read the brief on his contact, a native-born Puerto Rican named Alvaro Fonseca, who’d served with the Central American desk of the CIA and as a Foreign Affairs adviser to the U.S. Senate before taking this assignment. Fonseca had a reputation as a no-nonsense type with a dubious background in foreign intelligence. Still, Bolan had every confidence the guy knew his stuff, which was affirmed upon meeting the man, who offered a strong handshake and polite smile.

Fonseca asked his assistant to bring coffee and then took a seat on a comfortable sofa across from one of a couple chairs he offered Bolan.

“I hate meeting with folks behind my desk,” he told the Executioner. “It’s too impersonal.”

“I understand. I know you’re busy so I won’t impose on too much of your time, sir,” Bolan said, easily shifting into his role as a military man accustomed to extending full diplomatic courtesies.

“Are you kidding, Colonel? Hell, you’re doing me a big favor by being here. I’m sure you can understand the governor wants this situation resolved as soon as possible. It’s resulted in a lot of political unrest.”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you,” Bolan replied. “What are your thoughts about this attack being politically motivated?”

“I’m not buying it. And frankly, by virtue of the fact you even bothered to ask that question I’m thinking you aren’t, either.”

“Not really.”

Fonseca settled into the sofa by crossing his legs and draping one arm over the backrest. “As I’ve already told the president, I believe this indicates a move by militant members of the Puerto Rican Independence Party calling themselves Los Independientes. The Independents.”

“That’s a serious charge,” Bolan observed. “Especially seeing they’re an officially recognized party of government.”

“True, but not all of their members necessarily speak for the PIP. Please bear in mind this particular faction does not have any official position or support by the party. In fact, the PIP leadership denounces any actions by the Independents, and has further implemented both political and legal sanctions against them. Moreover, the views of this group are diametrically opposed to the New Progressive Party.”

Bolan furrowed an eyebrow. “Afraid I’m not familiar.”

“The New Progressives also support independence for Puerto Rico, but by means of ratification into U.S. statehood rather than adoption of territorial autonomy. If I might be blunt, it surprises me that the Oval Office would choose to respond to this incident by sending a military man rather than a full ambassadorial party.”

Bolan thought fast. “My position is…unique.”

“Really? In what way?”

“My function is actually as military liaison to the Diplomatic Security Service. Because of my particular background, someone thought I’d be of more use than a politician or DSS agent alone.”

“I see,” Fonseca replied, poker-faced. “You are, um, attaché to some sort of special operations group.”

Bolan smiled. “If it allays your concerns as to my qualifications.”

“Fair enough. I won’t press with uncomfortable questions. I’m sure the president’s decision to send you was well thought out, and that’s good enough for me, Colonel. And I can assure you that you’ll have the full cooperation and authority of my office as well as that of the governor’s while you’re in Puerto Rico.”

“Thank you. What else can you tell me about the militant group you suspect was behind this?”

“Well, you’ll recall I mentioned the New Progressive Party, or PNP as they are often referred to. They have their own entourage of violent radicals, whose actions are also fully sanctioned. The PNP has had considerably more success disavowing this group than the PIP has of the Independents, since there’s never been any evidence that ties the PNP cell to any violent actions in Puerto Rico, political or otherwise. Or anywhere in the Western Hemisphere for that matter.”

“Peaceful political extremists?” Bolan frowned. “Doesn’t feel right.”

“It may not be after what happened the other night,” Fonseca replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“What do you mean?”

“Nobody’s claimed credit for the attack, yet, but if the Independents do come forward this might very well spurn their enemies into a counterresponse. A violent one. And that won’t be good for either the current political state of Puerto Rico or the upcoming elections.”

“You think the Independents might try to foment the PNPs folks into armed rebellion under some flag of solidarity.”

“The thought had merited my concerns for just such a possibility, and the governor agrees. In either case it’s a threat we cannot afford. We must stop the Independents, guilty or not, before there are any further acts like this.”

He paused for a time, probably to let the Executioner chew on that statement for a bit.

After a time, Fonseca continued, “There’s always been a level of political unrest here, Colonel. Most individuals in the general populace have very personal and impassioned views about what should be done to solidify Puerto Rico’s political sovereignty and economy. If such incidents continue to occur, warring between the Independents and their enemies could well become the least of our problems. It could cause Puerto Ricans to utterly lose faith in our system of government and, quite honestly, result in a full-scale civil war.”

“Thus destabilizing U.S. interests here.”

“Right. That would also give the more conservative elements in Washington ammunition to talk the president into adopting a military solution.”

That idea was unthinkable, although Bolan knew that a civil war in Puerto Rico would leave the Man no choice but to send military forces to restore law and order. The small National Guard presence here would never be enough to tamp down the fervor of an all-out armed conflict between civilians. The circumstances leading to the very founding of America had proven that. Democratic society only worked as long as the people had faith in the system of representative government. The moment they lost that faith, it wasn’t hard to believe they would take matters into their own hands by organizing an opposing force. Civil war in Puerto Rico? America having to intervene with its own protectorate by means of military force? The end results of such a thing would be tragic and horrific.

“I think I’ll start by sending a message to the Independents, letting them know if they are responsible this won’t go unchecked,” Bolan said.

“Fair enough. What do you need from me?”

“A place to deliver it,” the Executioner replied.

CHAPTER TWO

Bolan got a delivery address, and after returning to his hotel room and changing into civvies, he drove across San Juan to a poverty-stricken east side neighborhood. Grimaldi would pick up another rental vehicle and be on standby in case the Executioner needed backup. The houses were really shacks; gutters and sidewalks were in disrepair, and filth covered the streets and cluttered the curbs. Weeds or mud took up space where green lawns should have been. The cars parked in the yards or along the narrow streets were so old and rusted that most didn’t look like they could be moved, and if they were they might well fall apart before traveling even half a block.

Bolan had seen squalor like this before, and it left him understanding why elements within Puerto Rico were dissatisfied with the current state of affairs. Not that the Executioner believed an independent Puerto Rico could fair better. Sometimes there were political elements that chose to let things continue like this, to permit certain segments of the populace to live in these conditions, so they could justify some higher political gain.

Why would it seem out of place, then, for the Independents to set up shop in a neighborhood like this?

Bolan studied his target through the binoculars from his position a half block down. He didn’t take long to get the lay of the area. His vehicle stuck out like a sore thumb, and he knew if he stayed too long it would draw some unwanted attention, which he couldn’t afford. He would have to hit the place hard and fast.

Only one problem. Nothing moved around the house. No sign of sentries or a roving patrol. There were no vehicles parked in the narrow drive or in front of the property on the street. The house looked utterly rundown, almost as if it had been unoccupied, and something in Bolan’s gut told him it was empty and had been for some time. The only thing he’d learned from his recon so far spoke of abandonment and disuse.

Bolan considered his next move, deciding if a closer look on foot would be worth it, but he didn’t get the chance to act on that thought. A flash of light reflecting off metal winked in his side mirror and drew his attention. He spotted a quartet of motorcycles with black-clad riders as they rode up on his vehicle with the muzzles of wicked-looking machine pistols leveled in his direction. Bolan went horizontal in the seat in time to avoid a maelstrom of autofire. High-velocity rounds shattered the front and rear side windows and left shards of glass to rain down on Bolan in their wake. The soldier folded up the center console, slid over to the passenger door and went EVA.

By the time he’d rolled to the relative safety of cover behind the SUV and gained his feet, the four motorcycles were making their turn for a second pass. Bolan reached into the glove box and came away with his Desert Eagle. The massive, stainless-steel pistol had become a faithful ally in moments such as these. Since Bolan didn’t have easy access or time to get to the heavier weaponry, the .44 Magnum hand-cannon would fill the void.

Bolan took up position just forward of the A-frame post, leveled the weapon in a two-handed Weaver grip and sighted on the closest rider. He squeezed the trigger and the weapon thundered as a Cor-Bon 305-grain full-metal-jacket round left the barrel at 1,600 feet per second. The round struck the motorcyclist in the chest as he was triggering his own weapon. The motorcycle seemed to shimmy a moment beneath the rider before the impact drove him from the saddle. The motorcycle continued on an erratic path for another twenty yards or so before crashing to the pavement about the same time as did its rider.

Bolan had already tracked on another rider and triggered his second round. The big weapon boomed again in the noonday air with equally satisfying results. The man’s head exploded inside his helmet, and a crimson spray washed over the face shield. The handlebars appeared to become wrenched from the rider’s grasp, and the bike made a sudden and awkward turn to the right before sliding against the pavement and dragging the deceased rider along with it for a fair distance.

The remaining two motorcyclists were now even with the Executioner and opened up simultaneously. Bolan ducked behind the SUV, which protected him from the volley of fresh rounds. He heard them slap into the metal and fiberglass body of the SUV, absorbing the impact with a noisy chatter of protest as round after round chewed through the thin skin of the vehicle and lodged deep in its frame or pebbled the safety glass of the windshield.

Bolan waited until they passed, then climbed inside the cab and cranked the engine. He whipped the steering wheel into a hard left as he gunned the engine. The vehicle left its spot at the curb, tires smoking as Bolan powered into an intercept course. Or at least that’s what he’d planned. But the riders no longer appeared interested in sticking around. With their numbers halved they seemed more concerned with escaping their enemy’s fury. Bolan meant to see to it they didn’t get off so easy with their hit-and-git; the Executioner wouldn’t be anybody’s target for a sucker play like that.

The soldier put his foot to the floor and kept one eye on the motorcyclists, who were rapidly widening the gap between them. If they decided to split up, the entire pursuit might turn out to be for nothing, but he couldn’t worry about such petty details. As long as he could keep at least one of them in sight, he’d be in good shape. At the moment he wished he could get Grimaldi into the air. With air observation he could follow their course without having to keep them physically in sight at ground level.

To his surprise, the riders slowed down—whether forced by the thickening traffic on San Juan’s busier streets or by simple design—which allowed him to keep them in sight. Bolan figured they probably planned to lead him into a trap. They could have killed him back there if they’d exercised a bit more caution in their approach, but instead they had chosen to come at him like gangbusters. Maybe their intent had been to lead him away from that neighborhood all the time, which meant either he’d come closer than they liked or they had been prepared for his arrival.

A leak inside Fonseca’s office? Possible, but highly unlikely. Fonseca had told him when he first gave up the address it might not lead Bolan to much. Their intelligence on the Independents was sketchy, at best, and was practically nonexistent on the enemies of the political guerrillas and sworn enemies of the group. So if Bolan had barked up the wrong tree and wasn’t really presenting any sort of threat, why not simply let him go about his business until they had reason to interfere? No, Bolan’s arrival in Puerto Rico had obviously shaken up someone and the warrior meant to find out just who it was.

The pursuit continued along the narrow backstreets, and as traffic increased it became a more perilous journey. Within ten minutes they were back in the heaviest urban sections and the chase hadn’t lost any intensity. It seemed almost surreal as other drivers who passed him looked at his bullet-riddled vehicle with expressions that ranged from mild curiosity to utter shock. A few more minutes elapsed and the motorcycles suddenly turned onto a side street that led south out of the city. Bolan continued following at a distance, now curious more than intent on catching the motorcyclists and dispensing some good old-fashioned street justice. Obviously they wanted him to tail them, and they were doing a good job of keeping far enough ahead so he could follow them, but not so close as to arouse his suspicions.

More trouble seemed to appear out of nowhere as Bolan realized he’d picked up a tail. He wondered for a moment if they had put a car on him in the rear position, but then he dismissed it. This driver was no professional. If the enemy bothered to set up a way to box him in, they wouldn’t send anyone so sloppy. His pursuer had little to no experience in the fine art of inconspicuously tailing a vehicle. An amateur all the way, and that meant someone who could get in harm’s way.

Bolan’s eyes alternated between the motorcyclists and the tail. Eventually they got off the highway exit and proceeded along a dusty road. The Executioner figured if he was headed into an ambush, this would be the perfect spot, and this time he meant to be prepared. He waited until the dust obscured his vehicle at both front and rear, then steered off the road and maneuvered into a thick stand of brush. Bolan bailed from the driver’s seat and scrambled over the rear seat to the storage area. He saw the trail of the vehicle that had been following him continue past without slowing—the driver hadn’t even spotted him.

Yeah, definitely an amateur.

Bolan retrieved several 30-round detachable box magazines loaded with 5.56 mm NATO rounds. They fit the next item he withdrew from the weapons bag, a carbine version of the Fabrique Nationale FNC. The weapon packed the versatility of a full-auto assault rifle in a virtual submachine gun profile. In fact, the FNC was often mistaken for the HK33 at first glance, but the two were quite different in a number of ways. Bolan had come to prefer this assault weapon above almost all others because of its reliability in close-quarters combat.

The Executioner performed a final check on the weapon before locking and loading. Then he placed it on the seat, backed from cover and onto the road, and proceeded in the direction he’d been heading. Now he had both the enemy and the unknown tail in front of him; they would either be surprised to encounter each other or realize both of them had been duped. In any respect, they had made the mistake of putting the ball in play.

And the Executioner was a veteran of this particular game.

THE RED-CLAY ROAD, pockmarked with ruts and divots, terminated at a copse of tall pinnate palms that formed a natural canopy over it. From this point it appeared to end, but through the windshield Bolan observed the fresh tire tracks that seemed to pass into the dark, variegated brush beyond that point. The soldier put the SUV in Reverse, traveled roughly fifty feet, then downshifted to Drive and gunned the engine.

The tires churned rocks and dust in their wake as the SUV lurched into motion and crashed through the brush into a natural, jungle darkness beyond. As Bolan had suspected, there was a man-made road beyond the concealed entrance and through the gloom ahead he could see a wood-and-barbed-wire gate positioned between thick, makeshift posts. The soldier poured on the speed and would have crashed through the gate, but was stopped short by the sudden appearance of the vehicle that had tailed him.

Bolan swung the wheel to the right to avoid crashing into the side of the car, but the move put him on a collision course with a massive tree trunk. He leaned on the brakes, but the tires found no purchase on the slick, mossy ground and the front end of the SUV slammed into the tree hard enough to deploy the air bags. Bolan snatched the FNC off the seat and exited the vehicle at the same time as the other driver bailed. He turned the weapon in the driver’s direction.

The Executioner took in the entire scene within a heartbeat and his combat senses negated the petite, dark-haired woman as a threat. The half-dozen armed men approaching from the opposite side of the gate, however, were another matter entirely. Bolan managed to reach the young beauty just in time to drag her down behind the cover of her sedan. The air around them came alive with a metal storm of rounds that whizzed overhead like a horde of angry bees.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

Bolan grimaced. “Later. Now get in.”

She tensed at first, standing her ground, but let Bolan haul her into the front seat. The woman got her legs in under her own power before Bolan slid behind the wheel and whipped the nose of the sedan into a collision course with the gate. As he picked up speed, Bolan stuck the FNC out the driver’s window and triggered it one-handed to keep the gunners’ heads down. The sedan, while small, did a fair job of smashing into the makeshift gate and ripping the pine frame from the uprights, which were obviously dry-rotted from the elements.

Bolan rammed into one of the gunmen who didn’t get out of his path quite fast enough. The guy’s head connected hard with the windshield at an awkward angle and produced an audible crack. Bolan swung the muzzle of the FNC into acquisition on two more targets and snapped off a few short bursts. Brass shells ejected from the weapon and tinkled against the metal body of the sedan, followed by screams of agony as the pair fell under the Executioner’s marksmanship.

The soldier ordered the woman to keep her head down as he rolled out of the seat and away from the vehicle. He landed on his feet, pivoted in the direction of the remaining trio of shooters and swept them with a sustained volley. One man took three rounds to the pelvis and another took two rounds to the abdomen. The remainder of the 5.56 mm slugs cut through the chest, neck and head of the last target, and a gory, crimson mess exploded through midair as the man’s corpse folded to the jungle floor.

Shouts and the sounds of booted feet approaching signaled it was time for the Executioner to make his exit. Under normal circumstances he would have stayed to fight, but he now had a bystander to consider, one who obviously had no idea upon what sort of mess she’d stumbled, and he couldn’t risk getting her killed. There would be another place and time, another battleground on his terms. Bolan entered the SUV, grabbed the weapons bag and sprinted for the sedan.

The woman had taken her place behind the wheel now, and Bolan managed to leap through the open window of the passenger door just as she jammed the stick shift into Reverse and hauled out of there. His head ended up in her lap, but she seemed oblivious, apparently more intent on getting out of there as fast as the four-cylinder engine could take them. By the time Bolan had righted himself in the seat, the woman had cleared the tree line and picked up speed as she struggled to keep the wheels on the slick, dusty surface of the road. Twice she almost lost it, and Bolan finally looked over his shoulder to verify they weren’t being followed before he spoke to her.

“You can ease off. We’re in the clear.”

“You want to tell me who you are now?” she demanded. “And what the hell all that was about?”

“It depends,” Bolan replied easily. “You want to tell me why you were following me?”

“I didn’t know I was following you,” she snapped. Then she looked at him, noticed his easy smile and added, “I mean…at least until I realized you were following the guys on the motorcycles.”

“What’s your business with them?” Bolan asked.

“Uh-uh,” she countered. “I’ve given you something, now you tell me what you’re doing here and what your beef is with those men.”

“I’m afraid that’s classified.”

“So you’re with the American government.” She smacked the steering wheel. “Hot damn! I knew I was onto a scoop!”

“You’re a reporter?”

She nodded. “Guadalupe La Costa, AP out of Miami. I’m here on temporary assignment for a couple of years.”

“Let me guess. You were at the rally the other night.”

“You’re damn skippy we were,” she said.

“We?”

“My cameraman and I. We were right smack-dab in the middle of that shooting gallery. Hell, my producer even added a few gray hairs being down there. Oh, Julio’s going to pass a rainbow-colored Twinkie when he finds out I went on this excursion without him.” She patted a digital camera on the seat next to her. “Boy, did I get some good shots.”

Bolan reached down, popped open the camera’s flash drive compartment and removed the memory card.

“Hey!”

“The name’s Stone,” he said.

“What the fu—?”

“And I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to have my mug splattered all over the front page. You can have whatever’s left back once I’ve removed any images of me. I promise.”

“Ever hear of freedom of the press?”

Bolan’s voice took an edge. “Not when it interferes with my op, La Costa. And this is too important to let you screw it up so early in the game.”

“How about giving me the scoop?”

“If there’s one to give, I’ll see what I can do,” Bolan said. “Why not tell me what you know about our friends back there? Are they part of the Independents?”

La Costa expressed suspicion. “What makes you think those animals were part of Los Independientes?”

“That’s a question, not an answer. Try again.”

“Look, I’m not sure who they are, but I’m positive they’re not with the Independents.”

“My intelligence contacts say otherwise,” Bolan replied.

La Costa shrugged. “You asked my opinion, I’m giving it to you. Those guys are bad, no doubt, but they aren’t part of the Independents. I’ve been following up on a whole lot of leads since the other night, and everything I can come up with says they’re not part of any political party in the country, official or unofficial.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” La Costa replied. “I was trying to find out when you got in the middle of investigation.”

“There is no investigation,” Bolan said flatly. “Not anymore. It ends now. Whoever’s behind this attack has created a political and social firestorm, one that could turn ugly for everyone in Puerto Rico. The situation is too hot for me to allow you or anyone else to get in the way.”

“How do you propose to stop me?”

“Tie you up, if necessary.”

“Sounds kinky,” La Costa replied. “But it’ll have to wait.”

“Fine with me. But you still haven’t explained where you came up with the idea someone on the outside is behind this.”

“Because neither of the radical politicos in this region operates this way,” she said. “They’ve protested, even turned riotous and been squelched by local police, but an outright act of violence is totally out of character. Plus the fact, I know the head of the Independents personally. He would never do anything like this.”

“Maybe his people planned it without his knowledge?”

La Costa shook her head with a snort. “Not likely. Believe me, Stone, I’ve been here for over a year reporting the news. I know everyone who’s anyone. This isn’t his style.”

“Then maybe you can help me after all.”

“How?”

Bolan grinned. “By making an introduction. Maybe if I hear it from this guy myself I can help clear him and his people.”

“I’m not sure he’d meet with you.”

“Never know until you try,” Bolan replied. “Besides, it’s better than being tied up in some strange hotel room until I can clear this up by more indirect methods.”

La Costa laughed. “Says who?”

CHAPTER THREE

Despite Guadalupe La Costa’s reservations, Mack Bolan eventually convinced her to take him to the leader of the Independents.

Something made him admire this young, spirited reporter. She didn’t take any sass and gave out plenty, and she seemed genuinely concerned about reporting the truth no matter how brutal it might seem. Bolan could admire that kind of gutsy determination and devotion to duty; he understood those traits because they were so much a part of what made up his own identity. He related to La Costa and in large part that contributed to her attractiveness.

“The Independents are led by a man named Miguel Veda,” La Costa told him as Bolan drove them to the man’s seaside home northwest of San Juan.

It seemed Veda lived off the coast. Although he had other business interests to the degree that his political interests seemed more entrepreneurial—or those of a raving lunatic who really cared little about the future of Puerto Rico—La Costa’s description of Veda’s estate left Bolan with the impression business was good. When they finally arrived at the place, about a thirty-minute drive from the hotel, the big American’s assessment was confirmed.

Two uniformed security men checked their credentials and La Costa’s vehicle, including looking in the trunk and running a mirror the length of the undercarriage, before an escort team in a golf cart led them up the driveway. More armed security ushered them into the house. They were shown to a spacious office and library. Most of the furniture looked early twentieth century, although some peculiar-looking pieces were interspersed among the predominant decor. Everything here looked as if it had been chosen with regard to functionality, with very little gaudiness apparent. Everything had to serve some practical purpose; Veda obviously didn’t buy anything for its artistic value.

“You’re damned right he doesn’t,” La Costa replied in agreement when Bolan verbalized the sentiment. “Miguel’s the kind of man who doesn’t feel he should squander his hard-earned money on overpriced trinkets while his people are starving.”

“Miguel,” Bolan echoed. “You’re on a first-name basis?”

La Costa looked abashed. “Have been. He gave me my first big break down here. It’s not easy being both a woman and a minority in the press, even today. Especially working in Puerto Rico, where the male ego is fragile enough that machismo is still a mainstay of the culture.”

“I’d think something like that would prove a real turnoff for someone as strong-willed as you.”

La Costa smiled and winked. “You have no idea.”

A set of double doors on the far side of the office, opposite from where they had been shown in, swung open and cut short their dialogue. The man who stepped into the room walked slowly with a visible limp. From what little La Costa had told him about Veda’s activities, Bolan didn’t figure that the man could have been a day over fifty, but this man looked twice that age. Unkempt white hair grew in tufts along the sides of his head and yet curled oddly into neatly trimmed sideburns that ended midear level. Liver spots were visible on his exposed arms and the once-dark skin had taken on an odd, yellowish tint when the light hit it a certain way. His face possessed a gaunt quality, but still had more health and glow than the rest of his body appeared to have, which was a bit of a surprise to Bolan.

Two muscular men wearing pistols in shoulder holsters followed Veda and took up positions where they could react quickly should any threat present itself.

“Lupe,” Veda cried, shuffling over to her and bending to accept a kiss on the cheek.

Veda turned to Bolan, then extended his hand.

Bolan felt as if he were shaking the limb of a skeleton. “I’m—”

“Colonel Stone, U.S. Army,” Veda finished. “Yes, Colonel, I knew of your arrival practically from the moment you stepped foot in Puerto Rico.”

Bolan held an impassive expression. “You seem well-informed.”

Veda chuckled as he sat behind his desk. “It’s a job requirement in my business.”

“Which is?”

“Come now, Colonel, there’s no need to be coy,” Veda said pleasantly. “I know who you are, so it stands to reason I would know why you’re here.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because of the incident the other night at the rally.”

Bolan nodded in way of prompting him to go on.

“I’m sure that Governor Hernandez’s advisors are telling him that either the Independents or our contenders are to blame,” Veda continued, “but I can assure you that such allegations are entirely false.”

“Really,” Bolan interjected. “Why?”

“Because despite whatever rumors you might have heard to the contrary, we are not violent militants. In fact, I do not believe in violence as means to an end, whether for political purposes or otherwise. I believe in peaceful resolution to conflict.”

“You can’t ever hope your views will be recognized through standard political channels while your group is sanctioned.”

“On the contrary, it is because we are under sanctions that is at the very heart of these matters. You see, Colonel, supporters for the idea of statehood for Puerto Rico have dwindled over recent years for a good number of reasons, the instability of the economy and devaluation of the U.S. dollar not the least of them. This has caused significant increased support for our cause. The current party in power knows that, just as they know that their own influence falters.”

“So if you know that they’re touting propaganda about your efforts and the Independents, why not set the record straight through peaceful means?”

Veda laughed outright this time. “We do, Colonel Stone, we do! And that’s why I can promise you that we had nothing to do with this. Someone is out to destabilize Puerto Rico because it is a commonwealth and protectorate of the United States.”

“And?”

“What sense does it make for a group like ours to conduct violent acts against the established government, when by their nature those same acts would topple our wish to be independent and promulgate further interference by the United States? In fact, I surmise such acts would force the president to invoke emergency powers by military means. Your presence here is proof enough of that. Is it not?”

Veda gave pause there, probably so Bolan had some time to absorb it.

The soldier locked gazes with Veda. He’d learned long ago how to spot deception in people. What he saw now made him wonder if Veda was one of the biggest liars alive or if he actually spoke the truth. Bolan decided to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, play a card and see what happened.

“I never really bought the whole political motive from the start,” Bolan ventured.

“And well you shouldn’t, Colonel.”

Bolan didn’t miss a beat. “But what I haven’t heard you do is offer any hard evidence your people aren’t behind the attack.”

“From where I stand, I can offer no such proof,” Veda conceded. “Only my word. And assurances that those you encountered earlier today are not members of the Independents.”

“How did you know about that?” La Costa asked.

Veda’s expression softened and he offered La Costa an ingratiating smile. “My dear, you know I have eyes and ears everywhere in Puerto Rico. Why should this surprise you?”

La Costa didn’t have an answer for him.

Veda turned to Bolan. “Colonel, when I first heard of your arrival I wasn’t the least bit inclined to cooperate with you. But now that we’ve spoken and I’ve seen you’re only interested in getting to the truth, I offer you every resource at my disposal.”

“I appreciate that,” Bolan said warily. “But I think you’ll understand if I decline your offer for the moment.”

“I understand. You must maintain some air of neutrality. But consider the offer standing for the duration of your time here.”

Bolan nodded. “Thanks.”

“As to other places to look, might I suggest you start within the very place this thing started?”

“The governor’s office?”

“You sound surprised,” Veda said. “Is it so hard to believe? Who else stands to suffer considerable losses if political parties pressing for an independent Puerto Rico gain popularity? The idea of becoming a country of our own is known in many circles as progress. But I and my colleagues wish to do this peacefully and legally. We still lack resources and the support of the strongest backers, those with the money and political clout, primarily due to the current government’s disinformation campaign against any group preaching independence be it by nationalism, secession or otherwise.”

“You’re proposing the government’s in bed with terrorists,” Bolan said evenly.

“I’m proposing that someone inside Governor Hernandez’s office is in bed with terrorists,” Veda countered.

Bolan grasped the tight, aching muscles on the back of his neck and considered Veda’s proposal. In other circumstances it would have sounded utterly preposterous, but in this case he could see its feasibility. Whoever hit the rally, and Bolan was fairly convinced he could rule out anyone working for Veda at the moment, would have given an insider exactly the leverage they needed to point the finger at the Independents or another group like it, not to mention all the political ammo they needed to take the attention off themselves. That left just motive and Bolan could think of only one.

If terrorists could get Puerto Rico out from under American control, it would provide them not only with a significant financial resource, but would also establish a strategic stronghold and base of operations from which to launch strikes against the continental U.S. and her allies. It was unthinkable, but not implausible.

“Let’s suppose your theory has some merit,” Bolan finally said. “Where would I start looking? I can’t very well start poking my nose into the affairs of the Puerto Rican government’s office without raising eyebrows. I’d be demoted and transferred to some remote post for the duration of my career.”

“Having once been a soldier myself, I can empathize with the predicament such actions might cause you, Colonel. So in good faith, I would like to suggest that you look in Las Mareas.”

Bolan looked askance at La Costa.

“On the other side of the island,” she offered.

The soldier returned his attention to Veda. “That’s all?”

“It is, I am afraid, all that I can offer you,” Veda replied. “To say any more would violate the…ah, air of neutrality we spoke of. Now if you don’t mind, I have a tremendous amount of work here that demands my attention.”

Veda looked to the two guards, who took a couple of steps forward. Bolan knew the conversation was over, so he nodded at La Costa and the pair rose.

As they turned to leave, Veda said, “My men will conduct you safely back to your vehicle and off the premises.”

“We can manage,” Bolan said.

“It’s our pleasure,” Veda replied in a nonnegotiable tone.

When they were off Veda’s estate and on their way back to the hotel, Bolan said, “Well, he told us something but nothing.”

La Costa smiled. “That’s Miguel. Do you trust him now?”

“No.” Bolan glanced at her. “But I’m not sure why. Not yet.”

“Well, I tried,” La Costa said. “I’ll admit he was acting a bit strange.”

“He’s sick, isn’t he?”

La Costa nodded. “Very. Pancreatic and liver cancer. The doctors have given him less than a year. So was it something he said, maybe, that makes you mistrustful of him?”

Bolan shook his head. “Instinct.”

“That’s all?”

“That…and the fact there’s someone following us,” Bolan replied as he scanned the rearview mirror.

AS SOON AS THE VISITORS departed, Miguel Veda considered his options. He hadn’t wished to tell the American as much as he had, but he also knew if he’d refused to cooperate that Stone would hound his every waking moment. He didn’t need those kinds of distractions. Not now. Not when the time was coming so close to his plan. His final plan. The plan that would bring independence to Puerto Rico, make her a free nation.

Not that he stood much chance to see that day. The cancer had eaten at his internal organs so rapidly that even the best physicians on the island couldn’t offer much hope. By the time they detected it, he’d already advanced to late-stage sarcoma that had metastasized to most of his abdominal organs. He’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to fly in some of the greatest oncologists in the world, but even they could offer little comfort. None of that really mattered now, however. The only thing that mattered was going through with his plans.

Veda felt sick having to lie to La Costa. He didn’t really give a damn for the man named Stone or his precious American government. America. Why the very word was like a monosyllabic curse that left the same foul aftertaste as if he’d imbibed sewer water. But La Costa had been straight with Veda from the beginning, and he couldn’t imagine what she would say—even what she would do for that matter—if she uncovered his deceptions. Well, best to put it from his mind. He had an important call to make.

Veda ensured none of his staff were within eavesdropping range and then secured the doors to his office. He returned to his desk, picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. A gruff voice on the other end answered with a “Yeah” on the third ring. Veda identified himself and a few minutes ticked by before another voice came on the line.

Veda recognized the smooth, cultured tones of Siraj Razzaq. Still, they had to exchange their code words for the day. Veda felt foolish playing these silly games of secrecy, yet he knew the importance of pleasing Razzaq.

“What have you to report?” the terrorist leader asked.

“Well, you already know the attack in the square was successful,” Veda replied. “But I think someone may be onto our plans.”

“Who?”

“A U.S. Army colonel by the name of Stone. He’s been to the governor’s office, and he’s engaged some of my men firsthand.”

“You mean my men,” Razzaq interjected. “The Americans have a saying—‘don’t forget where your bread is buttered.’”

Veda considered a flippant reply at first, but bit it back in afterthought. It hadn’t been easy making alliances with a member of a cell within the New Revolutionary Justice Organization. He hadn’t lied when telling La Costa and Stone he abhorred violence as a means to gain a political end, but the cancer eating away at his body had transformed Veda’s optimism into pragmatism. The fact the NRJO stood to benefit significantly from this unholy alliance was too obvious to even bear mentioning, but it had come to the point that Veda saw this as the only way to get things done. Once he’d left this life, he didn’t think any of his subordinates would be able to hold things together for long. There would be infighting after his death, followed by a complete breakdown in order. Ultimately, that would lead to dissolution of the Independents. Veda saw the NRJO and its offer as the only remaining option.

It wasn’t a decision he’d come to lightly, and it had proved most difficult because he had to maintain a business-as-usual air around his people. They could never know about this alliance. Never.

“As you prefer,” Veda finally said. “My point is that this new development stands to create a complication for both of us.”

“I’ve just received word that one of our subposts near the city did not check in at their appointed time.”

“Yes, I was led to believe he had a violent encounter with one of your small-ops units.”

“And how did he connect them back to you?”

“I’m not sure,” Veda lied. Thus far, he’d managed to keep La Costa’s existence under wraps and he intended to keep it that way.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, of course, other than that I do not believe in using violence to gain political advantage.”

Razzaq produced an almost scoffing laugh. “Yes, that tired old story. However, I do know it is a conviction you’re passionate about. That should have been convincing enough for him. What do you think he will do next?”

“I know exactly what he’ll do.” Veda paused, savoring the moment. “I sent him to Las Mareas. I’m sure he’ll travel there by vehicle. That will give you time to implement a reactionary plan and take him down before he gets there.”

Razzaq didn’t say anything for some time. Then, “That should do nicely. Yes, my friend, well done.”

Veda felt sickened by the mere intimation he could be friends with a man like Razzaq. “I figured whether you send someone to intercept or simply order your people there to await his arrival, which I believe will be imminent, you should have no trouble eliminating him.”

“And what of the rest of our plan? Are your preparations nearing completion?”

“I should need a few more days, at most, which is still well ahead of your timetable.”

“That is good news. Very good news, indeed.”

Veda considered not even bringing up the last thing, but he felt there wouldn’t be a more opportune time, particularly since he had Razzaq in good spirits.

“You are still committed to our agreement, yes?”

“You refer to your longevity.”

“You know I am.”

“No need to go on the defense, my friend. I may not have the most endearing virtues, but one of them is that I’m a man of my word. Your personal affairs will be addressed when the time comes.”

“I would hope so. And now if you’ll excuse me I have other matters that need my attention. I will be in touch when all is readied.”

Veda hung up without waiting for Razzaq to say goodbye, then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. They burned and itched, partly from exhaustion and partly from the pain medication. He checked his watch and realized the time had come to take what he’d christened his “comfort cocktail.” He reached into his desk drawer to remove the pill bottles. He poured a glass of water from the crystal set on a nearby tray, then dutifully swallowed the three-pill combination that enabled him to function.

What Veda appreciated more about the medication was it masked some of the internal feelings, not those derived from the disease ravaging his organs, but the more foul aspirations of his soul. To have allied himself with the NRJO went against nearly everything he’d fought for these many years. This only served to remind him just how desperate he’d become to see it through. One day his countrymen would curse him, but he saw a bright future—one beyond the boundaries of the short-term—where a united and independent Puerto Rico would one day immortalize his name.

CHAPTER FOUR

The tail initiated when Bolan and La Costa were no more than a mile outside Veda’s estate and maintained a discreet distance on the return trip to San Juan. As Bolan swung into the small drive and stopped beneath the overhang in front of the hotel, the other vehicle edged to the curb about half a block back. It was still early afternoon, so traffic didn’t clog the thoroughfare, and a minute adjustment to the side mirror earlier afforded the soldier a direct line of sight.

“Are they still there?” La Costa asked, tension in her voice.

“Yeah.” Bolan unbuckled his seat belt. “Stay here.”

“But—”

“No buts, stay here.”

Bolan left the car, walked around the front of the vehicle and pushed through the revolving door that led into the hotel foyer. He walked straight to the courtesy phone and dialed his room. Jack Grimaldi answered on the first ring.

“It’s me,” Bolan said. “I’ve picked up watchers.”

“Friendly?” Grimaldi asked, voice immediately alert.

“Not sure yet,” Bolan said. “I need to know their real interest. They’re in a late-model, silver Toyota. I’ve also picked up a reporter named La Costa. I need you to come down here, go straight out front where her car’s parked. Blue Toyota. Get behind the wheel and drive away. Keys are in the ignition.”

“Where to?”

Bolan thought on it a moment. “Airport. When you get there, requisition us a light chopper. Where’s your rental?”

“Hotel garage, ground floor. White Ford Escape. Keys are under the front wheel well in a magnetized case. What’s your angle?”

“If they follow you, they’re after La Costa. If they don’t, then their only interest is in me. Either way, any contact will be on my terms.”

“Understood.”

“Out here.”

The soldier dropped the phone in the cradle, already formulating a plan of action as he went out the back door of the hotel to the open-air, two-story parking garage. He went straight to the SUV, retrieved the key, got behind the wheel and left the garage. Bolan checked his watch, confident in the timing, and swung in behind the enemy’s sedan just as Grimaldi pulled from the curb. The enemy’s sedan left the curb to enter the flow of traffic. Bolan saw his opportunity and pulled out behind it; obviously, their interest lay in La Costa, and the soldier felt a bit of responsibility for her since she’d agreed to take him to Veda.

Bolan waited until their vehicle had entered the thoroughfare before driving the nose of his SUV into the rear of the fender at the seam of the driver’s door.

The jolt caught the wheelman off guard, the surprise evident on his face even as Bolan backed up a foot, then went EVA with Beretta in fist and leveled the pistol at the driver’s head. He’d hit that target with a very specific purpose in mind. He’d damaged the sedan in such a way that the door would jam against the fender if the man attempted to open it. The pair were effectively trapped since the passenger’s door would not open as it was now wedged against the rear bumper of the car behind, which they had parked.

“Stay right there, hands clear!” Bolan ordered.

The two men complied and Bolan quickly sized them up. Both Hispanic males, about equal in physical size, clean-shaved and with hard expressions that spoke of experience combined with training. If he hadn’t known better, Bolan would have sworn he was looking at a couple of federal agents—maybe FBI or U.S. Marshals—given the way they carried themselves. Well, at least they weren’t extremists, because if they had been Bolan knew his warnings would have gone unheeded. No, these weren’t fanatics; they had too much of a sense of self-preservation to try anything while he had them at gunpoint.

Bolan ignored the honking of angry motorists who had to maneuver around the crash site. He kept his eyes on the pair, watchful for movement while he occasionally scanned the area surrounding them for any sort of backup. Convinced they were operating alone, Bolan approached the driver’s door until the muzzle of the Beretta came within a few yards of the man’s head but still afforded Bolan a clear field of fire in the passenger’s direction.

“Which of you boys would like to explain?” Bolan said.

“We mean you no harm,” the driver replied.

“Could have fooled me. I saw you the moment you picked up my tail. You obviously aren’t interested in me, so that means you’re after the woman. I want to know why.”

“We work for the Internal Security office,” the passenger protested.

“Fonseca sent you?”

He nodded. “We’re just following orders, Colonel.”

Bolan gestured toward the driver. “Show me ID. Slowly.”

The man reached into his jacket pocket. If these guys were legit—and Bolan had the sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t have made up such a ridiculous story on the fly—neither of them would try drawing down on him. The driver held his ID card out the window for inspection. Bolan took it from him, perused it for any hint of forgery, then flipped the holder back through the window, satisfied it was the real thing.

Bolan holstered his pistol. “What’s Fonseca’s interest in the woman?”

“She’s been consorting with known political criminals,” the passenger answered.

Bolan frowned. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“What way would you put it?”

“That you should drop it,” Bolan replied with a hard edge to his voice.

“Mr. Fonseca—”

“Is out of line sending you to tail her. I’m here operating under the authority of Governor Hernandez. You go back and tell your boss I said to remind him of that. And no more covert ops against the woman.”

“We got orders.”

“Like I said, drop it.”

Bolan didn’t wait for any further arguments. He returned to the SUV, reversed easily from his contact with the sedan and swung into traffic. He checked the side mirror once and caught the pair of stony faces watching him go, glanced again in the rearview to make sure they didn’t follow him and then pointed his vehicle in the direction of the airport. He turned on the wipers as an early-evening rain had begun to fall while the sun dipped toward the horizon.

Something didn’t make sense here. Why would Fonseca tell Bolan about Veda and the Independents and then put a pair of his men on La Costa’s tail when he knew his tip would have to lead Bolan right to her? The soldier didn’t believe for a second that Fonseca didn’t foresee his information would lead the Executioner straight into a hornet’s nest. For one, he could hardly have called Fonseca’s intelligence leads solid. If he knew about Veda already, why not just send Bolan straight to the source? Moreover, why wouldn’t he mention someone like La Costa as a potential lead? No, Bolan was beginning to see a lot more at work here than met the eye.

From this point on, he knew he couldn’t afford to take anything in Puerto Rico at face value. It wouldn’t have been the first time the corruption went deep within the halls of political power. Bolan’s instinct told him somewhere along the way something, or someone, had gone awry inside Governor Hernandez’s political circle. Maybe the tale Veda had spun for him about the disinformation campaign within the present governing body wasn’t such a preposterous idea after all. Well, one way or another he’d get to the bottom of it.

And then Mack Bolan would deal with it in his own unique way.

“ANY IDEA WHY the governor’s security advisor would have an interest in you?” Bolan asked La Costa as the pair stood on the tarmac at Marín International.

“No.”

“Those the cats who were following us?” Grimaldi asked.

Bolan nodded to his friend and then pinned La Costa with a searching gaze. “If there’s something you know and you haven’t told me, it’s time to come clean.”

La Costa’s expression hardened. “I’ve told you everything I know. Okay? I told you about the Independents, I took you to see Veda and I’ve even risked my job, since I’ve been out carousing with you and I’m three hours overdue at the studio. I don’t know what the hell else you want from me.”

“Nothing, not a thing. I appreciate all your help, as does your country.” Bolan handed her a card. “In fact, if you get any trouble with your employer, just tell them to call that number and ask for Hal.”

La Costa stared at it a moment and then looked up. “The U.S. Justice Department?”

Bolan shrugged. “I have a few friends.”

“Yeah.”

“Now I have a plane to catch.”

Grimaldi took the cue and climbed into the requisitioned civilian version of the OH-58 Kiowa on which he’d done a preflight while waiting for the Executioner.

Bolan put out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, La Costa. Good luck with your story.”

“What?” La Costa looked at his hand and blinked. “You mean that’s it?”

“What’s it?”

“I mean, that’s just it?”

“What were you expecting?” Bolan asked.

“Something,” she replied. “Maybe some solid leads on my story, an exclusive…something!”

“Listen, La Costa, if Veda is right about someone high up in the government being dirty, and that same someone’s on to you, that makes you a liability to my mission. I appreciate your help, but I didn’t promise you anything and I don’t have time to be yanking your butt out of harm’s way at every turn.”

Yeah, that was for sure. The numbers were running down, Bolan knew it, and he didn’t have time to explain it to La Costa in detail. He couldn’t allow her to get in any deeper.

“I’m sorry if I’ve somehow affected your sensibilities of fair play,” Bolan told her, “but time is a resource luxury I don’t have. And every minute we stand here arguing could turn into a cost in more human lives. Understand?”

La Costa stared him in the eyes a moment, then nodded. “Oh…yeah. I understand perfectly, Colonel.”

She whirled on her heel and stomped toward her car. Bolan watched her a moment, then turned and boarded the helicopter. He pushed thoughts of the reporter from his mind. He really did feel a twinge of remorse because while he hadn’t made a direct promise, he had implied a potential reward for her cooperation. Now he was taking to the skies and telling her she couldn’t go along like an older brother telling the younger sibling she couldn’t hang out with him.

By the time Bolan dropped into the copilot’s seat and Grimaldi had the helicopter moving, La Costa’s vehicle was nowhere to be seen. He donned the headset so he could communicate with the pilot.

“Whoa, Sarge,” Grimaldi said immediately. “She did not look happy.”

“She wasn’t,” Bolan said.

“Didn’t like the travel arrangements, eh?”

“No.”

“Well, Hal called while I was in preflight. Needs you to contact him ASAP.”

Bolan nodded as he turned the receiver channel on his headset to the frequency that interfaced with a secure, onboard communication satellite uplink. He could only hope that Fonseca’s goons would carry the message back to their boss and lay off the woman reporter. Deep down, his gut told him they would. It was the same gut feeling that told him that somehow he had neither seen nor heard the last of Guadalupe La Costa.

BY THE TIME La Costa arrived at the AP offices, Julio Parmahel had already packed the van and departed.

La Costa could see by the stern look on her producer’s face, visible through the blinds spanning the office windows, that she’d really blown it this time. Well, who the hell gave a damn? She felt betrayed by the man she knew only as Colonel Stone and just rebellious enough that if her producer confronted her she’d likely lose her job for telling him exactly where he could shove his disapproval.

Fortunately, she managed to get to her desk, retrieve a bag from the bottom drawer where she kept a spare change of clothes and a toiletry bag, and beat feet out of the office before the man saw her. La Costa knew exactly where to find Parmahel as he’d probably gone with a sub—or by himself—to cover a small, red-carpet political fund-raiser. It took only one time circling the block before she spotted the van. To no surprise, she found her friend and colleague slumped with his head against the window and snoring loud enough for it to be audible outside the news van. She found more amusement in the fact he’d been sleeping long enough to fog part of the driver’s window he used as a pillow.

La Costa rapped her knuckles on the van and startled Parmahel awake. He immediately rolled down the window when he recognized her.

“Well, where in the hell have you been?” he asked. He looked at his watch as he smacked his lips, his mouth dry from his nap. “You realize we were supposed to be on a segment almost half an hour ago?”

“Screw the segment,” La Costa said through clenched teeth. “We got a much bigger story.”

“Says who?”

“Me,” she said. She tried to look over the window to see the gas gauge, but the angles were wrong. “How’s this thing fixed for gas?”

“Just topped her off before I left.”

“Good, we got a long trip ahead of us,” she replied as she dashed around the front of the van.

When she’d jumped into the passenger seat, Parmahel asked, “Trip to where?”

“Las Mareas.”

CODE NAME: AD-DARR. Mission: eliminate the American military officer attached to the Diplomatic Security Service.

For lesser men it would have been potentially impossible, but for Afif Ad-Darr—an expert in the killing arts—it was simply another job. Not that he underestimated the man calling himself Colonel Stone. Siraj Razzaq’s spies inside the U.S. military hadn’t been able to come up with a thing on Stone. According to their records, there was no Colonel Stone in any of the four major branches of the military or the U.S. Coast Guard. That meant either a covert, military operative or civilian black ops using a military cover.

As he stared through the open window of the bar at the rain-streaked streets of downtown Las Mareas, Ad-Darr wondered how this Stone’s people could be so sloppy. After all, when providing a cover it seemed only natural that cover would be in place, so if someone did a routine personnel check they would find the person existed. By virtue of the fact this enigmatic Colonel Stone allegedly didn’t exist at all troubled Ad-Darr. Would the American intelligence community be so careless? He didn’t think so.

Maybe the record had been removed permanently from U.S. military personnel files when Stone went to work for the DSS. Unfortunately, Razzaq’s connections didn’t go wide or deep enough to get that kind of information, and Ad-Darr didn’t consider it important enough to pay the hefty price it would probably require, not to mention he didn’t have the time. Already the Americans were apparently ahead of the game and only Razzaq’s puppet, the man named Veda, had managed to divert this Stone to Las Mareas, where he would be out of the way and Ad-Darr could deal with him neatly.

Although why Razzaq had agreed to work with that imbecile Veda was anyone’s guess. Ad-Darr had been in the employ of this cell of the New Revolutionary Justice Organization for many years now. Razzaq was legendary for spearheading such operations, and this one had proven to be no exception. A fully equipped base nestled in the swamplands of the East Gulf Coastal Plane of Georgia—the name of which escaped him at the moment—that boasted an army of nearly thirty men. Razzaq had ears all over America, with satellite areas spread throughout the United States that consisted of maybe one or two members, at most. Once firmly ensconced, Razzaq had turned his sites toward his plan for Puerto Rico. The independence of this island territory would prove to be a major coup for Razzaq. Perhaps he would be able even to unite the disaffected among their ranks and restore the former glory of their cause.

For now, Ad-Darr would draw consolation from performing the duty for which he’d earned his name. “Professional assassination” and “Ad-Darr” were practically synonymous terms. Whenever the NRJO wanted to make sure a mission succeeded, they called on him. It was a compliment to his craft, and one Ad-Darr didn’t mind exploiting to maximum benefit. And benefit, he had. By his twenty-second birthday Ad-Darr had become a millionaire; by his twenty-fifth, a multimillionaire. What was the old saying: he was in the business of killing and business was good? Something to that effect.

Ad-Darr had also turned out to be the perfect tool because he’d been born in the United States. Technically, he was an American citizen, but in the depths of his soul he knew that was only a birthright of pure circumstance. No, at the very core Ad-Darr was Lebanese, and a Muslim. His brothers in Hezbollah were still in need. The war against the Americans, British and Israel had to survive, and their ability to set up a massive base in Puerto Rico from which to strike would indeed provide them distinct advantages in their war, not to mention the rich natural resources of this sizable island.

The NRJO was operating in America’s own backyard, and they didn’t even know it.

Ad-Darr smiled at the thought as he watched the rain consume everything, washing the streets clean of dirt and detritus from the lives of squalor lived here. Somewhere out there he would find this Colonel Stone, then Ad-Darr would conclude his business for the glory of his faith and heritage.

And the American would die a slow, painful death.

CHAPTER FIVE

While Jack Grimaldi would have preferred better weather, he managed to land the helicopter safely with only minutes to spare before the skies overhead released a warm and thunderous tropical downpour.

“Remind me next time to bring an umbrella,” he told Bolan.

The Executioner didn’t really have a retort, as his conversation with Brognola, albeit brief, had put him into a deep contemplation.

“We may have a problem,” Brognola had told him.

“Lay it out,” Bolan said.

“One of Bear’s sniffer programs picked up that a computer query was performed on the military jacket we provided for your Colonel Stone cover.” “Bear” was Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man’s resident computer wizard.

“You flagged it?”

“Well, we did what we would normally do, and that’s simply to say the jacket is restricted only to eyes with a class six or higher security clearance. The troubling thing here is that this query came from inside a military facility, and what’s worse is that because of the odd way the hacker tried to move around the system to get the information it came up as a null.”

“In other words, I never existed.”

“Right.”

Bolan could hear the grimness and regret in Brognola’s tone, and decided to go easy on the guy. “It’s water under the bridge, Hal. I’d concentrate on finding out who made the query and not worry about my cover. I’d have to guess after my little run-in with some hostiles earlier today my cover doesn’t mean much now anyway.”

“Sorry, Striker,” Brognola said.

“Don’t be.”

“What about you? Everything okay?”

“Peachy if I can just figure out what’s really going on here.”

“Anything we can do to help?”

“I’d like Bear to dig a bit deeper into the staff in Governor Hernandez’s office, particularly Alvaro Fonseca.”

Bolan then elaborated on his encounter with Fonseca’s men and his meeting with Veda.

“That doesn’t make sense,” the Stony Man chief said when Bolan had finished. “Governor Hernandez requested this intervention and in complete agreement with the president. Why would Fonseca try to undermine that?”

“I don’t know, but I need you to give me something more,” Bolan said. “Preferably something I can use for leverage if the need arises.”

“We’ll get on it right away.”

“I’ll reconnect for it when I can.”

“Be careful, Striker.”

“Roger. Out.”

Bolan now reconsidered his conversation with the Stony Man chief as he and Grimaldi walked from the chopper to the small office east of the runway. They needed some wheels and spotted a row of cars, identical makes of American Chevy Aveos, aligned against one side of the makeshift tower and airport office.

Grimaldi jabbed his chin at them. “Wonder if any of those are for rent.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Bolan said.

“I imagine anything’s for rent or sale here at the right price,” the Stony Man pilot replied.

They stepped into the comparative coolness of the office that was divided into a few spacious cubicles against one wall, a row of offices opposite that and a long service counter just inside the double-door foyer. The furnishings were modern and the rooms spacious. There were also a few private areas where travelers could hook up to the Internet or make a phone call by credit card.

“Gentlemen, good evening!” the proprietor said. “How may I help you?”

Bolan held the man with an expression that implied he didn’t have time for any nonsense. “Those cars out there for rent?”

“Of course, sure,” the guy answered, rubbing his hands. “How long will you need one?”

“Not sure,” Bolan replied. “Not more than a couple of days.”

The man perfunctorily reached beneath the counter and brought out a few forms. It took only ten minutes to fill in the forms, pay the rental fee by cash and load the weapons bags from the chopper into the trunk. The rain began to let up as they headed toward Las Mareas, a mere five minutes away.

“So what’s the plan?” Grimaldi asked after a few minutes of riding shotgun in silence.

Bolan’s reply seemed a bit grim. “Truthfully, I don’t have one yet. Veda didn’t give me any indication as to who or what to look for, but I got the impression from the way he said it we wouldn’t have to look hard.”

“You think one of his people will make contact,” Grimaldi said.

“Yeah.”

“Can we trust Veda?”

Bolan shook his head. “No. But then again, who can we trust? The fact someone in Hernandez’s office might be involved in this supports one of two theories. Either the local government here is planning a coup or Veda’s lying to throw me off his trail.”

“What’s your gut tell you?”

“That theory two’s the most plausible,” Bolan replied. “But then my run-in with two of Fonseca’s goons gave me pause to wonder. Now I have to at least consider the possibility Veda’s on the level and there’s an internal conspiracy at work here.”

“Well, Veda does seem pretty well-informed, Sarge. He managed to know you were involved from practically the moment we arrived here.”

“A guy like Veda has far-reaching contacts. His information could have come from anywhere.”

“Yeah, except for the fact that only a few people outside of Stony Man even knew about your mission here, and all of them were inside Hernandez’s office.”

Bolan nodded. “Yeah, I thought about that, too. That’s why what Veda told me makes so much sense.”

“You think La Costa will be okay?”

“If Fonseca gets my message and backs off her, she’ll probably be better off than we will.”

They rode the remainder of the trip in silence. When they reached the town, the two men could see why the dinky airport didn’t have much business. Las Mareas couldn’t have been comprised of more than five or ten streets. As a barrio in Guayama—a municipality of less than fifty thousand—only one of those streets even sported a commercial section. Bolan almost drove past the half-lit sign that boasted “—OTEL” and swung precariously in the damp breeze. He slowed and gently pulled over, careful to pump the brakes so he didn’t skid the vehicle into the high curb. The sharp, jagged edges that protruded from years of disrepair would have torn those cheap, economy tires to shreds like cat claws through tissue paper.

Grimaldi gave the place a once-over, peered at the sidewalk and then grinned at Bolan. “Think I’ll wait here.”

Bolan nodded and left the car. The rain had stopped, but the mock flagstone steps leading up to the narrow house were still slick with water. Bolan ascended them carefully and rapped on a screen door that had metal bars mounted to it. He didn’t get any response, then noticed a thick piece of twine dangling to his right he hadn’t seen before in the gloom. He gave it a yank and somewhere inside a bell jangled. Two minutes passed before Bolan signaled again and just about that time the inner door opened and a heavyset, middle-aged Hispanic woman stepped onto the porch.

“I’m coming. What you want?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Bolan said, not even sure he knew why he was doing this. Something just told him it was right.

“You no want room?”

“No.”

“Then go on, I don’t want know your business.”

As she started to turn and go inside, Bolan called, “Miguel Veda sent me.”

The woman froze in her tracks. So, he’d been right about Veda—the guy had connections everywhere. She’d obviously been told to expect him; either that or he had a name the poor and disheartened of the country knew all too well. Whatever the case, she turned and cocked her head. She had an entirely different expression, a smile, and in one sense it almost creeped Bolan out.

At least she hadn’t slammed the door in his face. “You come inside. It’s wet out there.” As she opened the door to admit Bolan, she nodded at Grimaldi, who she obviously noticed still sat in the car. “What about you friend? He come inside, no?”

As he followed the woman inside, Bolan shook his head. “He’s kind of shy.”

The woman led Bolan through a cramped hall littered with tables of knickknacks and other cheap junk. It took some flexibility and catlike grace to avoid knocking over something on at least one of the tables. After negotiating the obstacle course they made it into an equally cramped kitchen, where Bolan discovered a young, fair-skinned male sitting at a two-seat table in the corner. The man didn’t even look at Bolan, but was satisfied to grunt and wave Bolan to the unoccupied chair.

As he sat, Bolan glanced at the woman, who didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she turned her attention to whatever she was cooking on the stove. The young guy looked like a first-rate hood, between the tattoos adorning both arms from the knuckles to the shoulders, and the gold tooth that glinted through slightly parted lips. A two-inch-wide line of hair ran Mohawk-style from front to back on an otherwise bald head. He wore baggy jeans and a white muscle shirt that was yellowed and tattered with age.

“You Stone?” he asked.

Bolan nodded.

“Okay, like, I got told that if you managed to find your way here that I was to tell you what you wanted to know.”

The soldier considered that for a moment and then replied, “You work for Miguel Veda?”

The guy half laughed and half belched and then took a deep pull from the sweating, long-neck bottle. “Why do you care?”

Bolan tried an easy smile. “I like to know where my information’s coming from.”

The young man tried to look puffed up, his wiry frame all but puny against Bolan’s combat-honed mass of sinew and muscle. He might have intimidated lesser men, but the Executioner didn’t see him as a threat. The possibility existed, of course, the guy had ten or fifteen guns waiting in the next room, but Bolan knew if he gave even the slightest impression of weakness he would lose all respect. And maybe get his throat cut, too. He thought about an additional rejoinder, but he decided a steady look would suffice.

When the guy sensed Bolan wasn’t a pushover, he said, “Yeah, okay, so who doesn’t work for Miguel?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“Yeah, okay. I work for Miguel. Whatever gets you through the day. Okay, man?”

The guy made some kind of gang sign, but Bolan let it pass. “You were going to tell me something.”

“Yeah, sure,” the guy said, taking another drink as if trying to build up courage. “You want to know who did the deed the other night in San Juan, no?”

“Yeah.”

“It was them dudes down here. Guys over on the north side of town.”

“What guys?”

“I don’t know, man,” the young man said irritability. “They some guys from the States, man. Guys from your home turf, man.”

“Americans?”

“No, these no Americans. These guys aren’t even white, man. These dudes are like al Qaeda or something.”

The hairs stood on the back of Bolan’s neck. “You’re saying these men are terrorists?”

“I guess so, if that’s what you say.”

“It’s not what I said, it’s what you just said.”

Bolan found this guy more frustrating by the moment. Right now, he didn’t have time for games. He couldn’t understand why Miguel Veda would have sent him on a wild-goose chase to Las Mareas if he didn’t have anything to hide. Unless Veda was stalling, in which case that would’ve clinched the party leader’s guilt. For now Bolan knew he’d have to find a way to work with this guy. Yet something deep in the Executioner’s gut told him he could be walking into a trap.

Bolan shook his head. “Look, if you have information for me then spill. Otherwise, I’m out of here.”

“Look, man, all I do is what Mr. Veda says. I tell you only what I see, which is all I can tell you, ’cause I don’t know nothing else.”

“All right,” Bolan said. “Tell me where I might find these terrorists.”

“They have a club on the north side of town, I think.” He leaned back in his chair and scratched his belly thoughtfully. “I can give you an address, but if you want it you got to pay.”

“First the address and then the money,” Bolan replied coolly.

The man stared at Bolan for a time and then finally shrugged, leaned forward, grabbed a pen from the table and quickly scribbled a barely legible address on a scrap of paper. He then set the pen down with a pronounced movement and promptly held out his hand. Bolan scooped up the paper, made sure he could read the address and then dug into his pocket. He handed the guy a fifty-dollar bill as he rose and turned to leave. Under other circumstances he might not have turned his back on a crew like this, but he didn’t think they would try to burn him at this point. They had plenty of opportunities to take him out, and neither of them had given him any reason to suspect they would try something now. Bolan traversed the hallway as quickly as possible, went out the door and within a minute he and Grimaldi were headed for a barrio in uptown Guayama.

“FOR PITY’S SAKE!” Guadalupe La Costa snapped. “Will you step on it already, Julio? At the rate we’re going I’ll have grandkids before we get there.”

“I’ve got it pegged now,” Parmahel protested. “These things won’t go over fifty-five miles per hour. If you’d like to get out and push, that might help.”

La Costa thought about cursing him out with a string of obscenities, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She considered apologizing, but then simply sighed, slid down the seat and closed her eyes. She was acting like a bitch and she knew it, but in her defense that damned Colonel Stone had utterly messed with her head. La Costa knew better than to have trusted him; she learned many years ago that most men eventually lied, cheated or just simply broke hearts. They couldn’t help it—it was in their blood.

Julio had always been different though, which is probably why their partnership had worked out so well over the past year. In one way, she regretted the thought of parting company with Stone, but this story would make her career and she wasn’t about to let anyone hold her back. Especially not some cocky and arrogant military type with a Neanderthal protective instinct.

Of course the possibility remained that she wouldn’t find Stone in time, in which case she’d not only be out of a story, but also most likely a job. It still made sense on some level, however, to risk it. Beside the fact, she stood a pretty good chance of finding out what was going on without Stone’s help, and if she came back with exclusive news and videotape her producer couldn’t possibly be angry with her. Yeah, that was the answer. She had to come back with something really big and really juicy. How else to keep her job?

She opened her eyes just in time to catch the sign marking the city limits of Guayama.

At long last they had arrived!

“Well, it looks like we finally made it. Now all we have to do is find Stone.”

“What’s so important about this Colonel Stone?” Parmahel asked. “I mean, it’s not like the guy’s going to tell you anything. He already screwed you over once. What makes you think he won’t do it again?”

“My goodness, Julio. Haven’t you learned anything working with me? You don’t honestly think I’m going to let Stone rip me off from my story, do you? He told me I had to stay in San Juan, but you see how that worked out.”

“Why do I get this strange feeling that you’re getting us into something really messy and really dangerous?”

“I don’t think it is dangerous,” La Costa replied. She batted her eyelashes at Parmahel. “You don’t honestly think I would jeopardize your life and mine on a whim.”

Parmahel scratched absently at his neck. “Well, after working with you for this long I’m not exactly sure what kind of crazy stunts you might pull. And the last time I checked, there were guys with guns shooting at us.”

“They weren’t really shooting at us.”

“Okay, my bad, they were shooting around us! Which is pretty much the same as shooting at us in my book.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Julio?”

“Guess I’m just addicted to breathing,” he said.

La Costa chuckled and punched his arm. “Just stick with me, my friend. I’ll show you the time of your life.”

CHAPTER SIX

Guadalupe La Costa knew of only one person in all Guayama who would answer to Veda, and subsequently have the kind of information that Stone would seek.

La Costa knew him only as Frederico, a drunken and tattooed fool living in Las Mareas who would do anything for a quick buck. And usually did. Not that a little cash didn’t go a long way in Puerto Rico—certainly way more than it did in the States. And if there was anything La Costa had it was cash. Actually, the AP compensated her pretty well. In addition to providing her travel expenses while she worked, they had also arranged for very affordable housing through coop apartment homes and condos. La Costa shared a two-bedroom apartment with another reporter who handled the night beat. This way, she was able to sock away a lot more than if she had a place on her own.

They found Frederico in his usual place, doing his usual drinking and scratching his rear and avoiding anything resembling hard labor, seated on the front porch of the run-down motel owned by his aged mother. Frederico didn’t look terribly happy to see her, and he seemed even less enthused when setting eyes on Julio Parmahel. La Costa would never have admitted it but she figured Frederico had somewhat of a crush on her, and he probably viewed Parmahel’s presence as an infringement on his territory.

“Hello, Frederico,” she said.

“What do you want?” He was slurring his words, and even in the dim porch light she could see his eyes were bloodshot.

She nodded toward the whiskey bottle on the small table next to his chair. “I see your tastes have moved up in the world. You must have come into some money recently, because you’re not drinking that rotgut you normally do. And Canadian whiskey no less. Fancy, fancy. I don’t suppose that money happened to come from a tall American who asks too many questions, did it?”

“What kind of a businessman would I be if I talk too much about my clients?” He belched.

“Frederico, you are disgusting,” La Costa replied. “But unfortunately, we don’t have time to go into proper etiquette and manners around a lady.”

Frederico squinted. “Yeah, man, especially since I no see a lady here.”

“I think I’ll just let that one go by, since I know it’s a bunch of false bravado anyway. What I need to know from you is real simple. What did he ask you and where did you send him?”

“Why should I tell you? Huh? What you do for me?”

“First, I won’t ask any of my friends on the Guayama police to kick your head in the next time they catch you downtown.” She produced a roll of money. “Second, I have here what I’d bet is at least twice what he offered you.”

Frederico grinned broadly as greed filled his eyes. “What was the question again?”

MACK BOLAN DROVE SLOWLY past the address he’d been provided and scoped out the area.

The address happened to be a club of some kind nestled in what he quickly surmised to be Guayama’s red-light district. Pedestrians of every ethnicity hung out on the sidewalks, a good number of them obviously out to do nothing more than take in the sights. However, that left plenty who clearly had another purpose in mind. Some wore the clothing and colors and stances of gang members; some were out to sell flesh; some were simply out to peddle their wares, be it drugs, guns or knockoffs.

The soldier knew this scene all too well, but he wished he could have said otherwise. The vices of this area were no different than they would have been in any mid- to large-size city in America. Those who had spent their lives in unemployment and squalor—usually without equal access to opportunities in jobs and education—typified the majority of the denizens in this part of the world. Bolan knew it wasn’t all bad. Puerto Rico boasted many beautiful and prosperous areas.

This just didn’t happen to be one of them.

As they rolled past the club, Bolan pointed toward two big men who weren’t standing close enough to the door to be bouncers. No, these men had been waiting, and to Bolan’s trained eye had been waiting for some time. The fact they wore sunglasses and had rather long black hair, coupled with their custom-tailored suits, marked them as out of place as a pair of hippos in a petting zoo. Neither Bolan nor Grimaldi could tell if the pair of watchers had taken more than a casual interest in their car.

Bolan continued along the thoroughfare without changing speed and proceeded another two blocks. He turned right onto a side street, drove one block and made another right. Along this part of the north side commercial area all the businesses were dark. Bolan pulled to the curb and stopped. He killed the engine before going EVA and opening the trunk. From the weapons bag he retrieved his Beretta 93-R nestled in the shoulder holster. He donned the leather rig and fastened it down, then procured an MP-5 K machine pistol.

By the time Grimaldi had joined him, Bolan had also withdrawn a Benelli M-1014 combat shotgun. Adopted by the Marine Corps in 2001, the weapon had proved itself as a reliable and powerful ally against the war on terror. And in the hands of Grimaldi, it would do so once again.

“I take it this means you have a plan in mind?” Grimaldi asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I’m thinking soft probe,” Bolan said. “But I want to be ready if it goes hard.”

“What’s my role?”

“You’re going to take the wheel, give me fifteen minutes and then drive past the front of the club. Have the window down and be ready in case I have to come out swinging.”

“What’s the shotgun for?” Grimaldi asked, as he took the Benelli from Bolan.

The soldier smiled. “A hasty exit.”

Bolan turned and crossed the street, heading for the back of the club. He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but he couldn’t think of a better way to get answers. If the information he’d bought didn’t pan out, it would mean a dead end. Still, he knew only one of two possibilities lay in wait beyond the walls of that club—there were terrorists operating in Puerto Rico or Miguel Veda had managed to dupe him into a trap. Something about this setup told Bolan he was walking into a trap anyway. It didn’t bother him—he’d walked into them before.

The waist-high cinder-block wall didn’t pose any obstacle to him any more than the ten-foot wrought-iron gates beyond it. Within a minute, Bolan reached the rear entrance of the club. The door was locked, so the soldier went to work on jimmying the catch using his boot knife. It didn’t take long before he gained access; the door didn’t even have a dead bolt. Apparently, the proprietor didn’t worry about break-ins. That told Bolan whoever owned the club relied more on human security.

The rear door opened onto a dimly lit, narrow hallway with a red carpet, red walls and overhead blue lightbulbs. A number of doors, all of them closed, lined both sides of the hallway. Before Bolan could investigate further, he spotted two behemoths heading toward him.

As the first guy got close, he reached inside his jacket and Bolan reacted with an offensive posture. Knife still in hand, the soldier rammed the razor-sharp blade straight through the breast pocket of the man’s coat and subsequently through his hand. The guy let out a bloodcurdling scream as the weapon penetrated cartilage and nerves, and continued with a three-inch intrusion of his chest wall. Bolan followed with a kick to the groin that doubled the man over and exposed his partner to the MP-5 K Bolan swung into target acquisition. As the first man fell and his weight drove the knife deeper into his heart, the Executioner squeezed the trigger and delivered a short burst to the second man’s chest at nearly point-blank range. The 9 mm Parabellum rounds made neat, red holes in the target’s breastbone and lungs before the impact lifted him off his feet and dumped him flat on his back.

Bolan pressed his back to the wall and held the MP-5 K in ready position, muzzle leveled at the door on the far side of the hallway. No further threats presented themselves. Bolan heard the heavy, steady beat of what sounded like rave music emanate from beyond the door. He waited a full minute before trying the handle on the door nearest to him. To his surprise it turned without resistance. Bolan opened the door onto a small, cramped room containing only a bed and a sink. He went to work immediately—dragging the two bodies into the room—but since there wasn’t enough space to hold them both side by side he had to stack them. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if neatness counted.

Bolan locked the door before closing it behind him. If this back hall served the purpose he thought it did, it would be some time before anybody got curious and made forced entry into the room. By that time he planned to be long gone. He proceeded along the hallway until he reached the far door. He’d consider checking the other rooms just to make sure he covered his flank, but quickly dismissed the idea as too time-consuming. While they might not come looking for their colleagues immediately, Bolan knew he still didn’t have a lot of time and especially not if he was forced to deal with other enemies inside the club proper.

The soldier opened the door, keeping the MP-5 K held low against his leg, muzzle down. Near blackness accompanied the deafening music, and people took scant notice of him. The place was wall to wall with bodies and Bolan figured many of those faces—what he could see of them anyway—were dazed by too much loud music, noise and chemical stimulation to be focused on him. This kind of crowd actually proved fortunate, allowing the soldier to move through the club with relative anonymity.

Bolan passed beyond the crowds until he found another door set in a wall just beyond where the curved bar ended. The two bar attendants were so busy filling orders that neither even noticed him as he approached the door. They also didn’t notice him raise the MP-5 K and stick it into the gut of the lone monster in the silk suit standing guard. The guy started to look in their direction, but a nudge of the weapon and shake of the head proved adequate in squashing any designs he entertained to warn them. Bolan inclined his head toward the door, and the man seemed all too happy to comply.

Not that he had a choice.

The soldier followed the man into the room, which actually turned out to be a very large office, and closed the door behind them. Against a far wall, a man sat busily typing at a computer keyboard, his lithe body wedged between the massive desk and credenza. The guy barely looked up from whatever held his attention on the computer screen and mumbled something about leaving whatever it was he’d been expecting on his desk.

Bolan cleared his throat and the man looked in their direction, an expression of surprise melting the stony sculpture of his features.

“Leave your hands where I can see them,” Bolan ordered. He followed the command with the jab of the muzzle into the guard’s back, prodding him in the direction of the sofa. He returned his attention to the guy behind the desk. “You running this operation?”

At first the guy didn’t make a response and Bolan began to wonder if he spoke English. Finally, he replied, “Yes.”

The Executioner thought he detected a slight Southern accent in the man’s voice, but other than that this one didn’t possess any striking features. Something about him didn’t seem quite right, but Bolan couldn’t exactly put his finger on what it was. Maybe the way he held himself or the look in his eyes or just a simple calm with which he carried himself. Whatever the case, it seemed plainly obvious that barring his initial surprise, he didn’t seem overly concerned. Bolan detected the unusual way in which the man sized them up.

“It would seem,” the man said as he was careful to keep his hands in view, “that you are under the mistaken impression you have us at a disadvantage.”

“You mean I don’t?” Bolan quipped. He waved the MP-5 K. “Seems to me this gives me the advantage.”

“Don’t believe for a moment that brandishing a weapon necessarily puts you in a position of authority, neither does it grant you automatic consideration. In fact, I’ve had a weapon pointed at me many times before…and yet here I am, still alive.”

“I’m not really interested in killing you,” Bolan replied. “If that were the case you’d be dead already. The only thing I’m here for is information, and if you give it to me, then I’ll leave here and nobody else needs to die.”

“You’re saying you’ve already taken the life of one of my men?”

“Two men. And only because they left me no choice.”

“That is unfortunate,” the man replied.

“And why’s that?”

“Because you will not leave here alive.”

“Who are you exactly and why are you here?”

“You don’t think after admitting to killing two of my men that I’m going to answer any of your questions. If you do, you are crazier than I anticipated.”

Bolan considered the statement a moment before replying. “It sounds like you were expecting me.”

The man inclined his head slightly. “Very perceptive.”

“An educated guess,” Bolan said with a smile that lacked any warmth. “But the joke’s on you, since I had already considered the possibility this was nothing more than a trap. You see, I came prepared for a fight.”

As if on cue, the door burst open and a fresh torrent of gunmen—about a half dozen all told—fanned out and trained an assortment of machine pistols on the Executioner’s position.

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