Haitian Hit Read online

  The jungle had begun to appeal to Sonny. He'd been too young for Vietnam, too smart to waste his time in military service when Grenada rolled around, but sometimes Esposito felt that he'd missed an opportunity to prove himself. He was a combat veteran, of a sort, but skirmishes with blacks in Brooklyn and Colombians around Miami weren't the same. When Sonny dreamed of war, he saw himself in action at the Khe Sanh, Hamburger Hill, along the DMZ.

  And it was too damned bad there were no decent wars around these days. Sometimes he wondered what America was coming to.

  "I hate this part of it," the bagman commented, confirming Sonny's first impression. He was looking at a Grade A pussy.

  "Take it easy, will ya? We've got every angle covered. No one fucks with me or Mr. B."

  The bagman made a sour face at Sonny's choice of language and studied his polished fingernails. So, fuck him. He was excess baggage on a run like this, and everybody knew it. Someone had to verify the payoff when they got to Liberté, but Esposito knew that any lamebrain with a calculator and an index finger could have done the job. He had no patience with the pseudostraights who made their living off the Family and then pretended that their hands were squeaky-clean.

  When there was about thirteen miles to go, Sonny began to plan his Friday night. Suddenly something captured his attention up ahead — a flash or something, there and gone, with just a wisp of smoke to mark the spot. He had the walkie-talkie in his hand when summer lightning struck the lead car and the hood blew skyward, smoke and flame enveloping the front end of the vehicle.

  His driver hit the brakes and cranked the wheel hard right to compensate. They drifted, sliding through a quarter turn before coming to rest ten feet behind the burning Caddy. In his mind, he saw the lead car's fuel tank blowing up and knew that they were too damned close for comfort.

  "Get us out of here!"

  "I'm working on it."

  Muttering, the wheelman put the car in reverse, lurched backward, stalled the engine. It was flooded, and he twisted the ignition key in vain, producing garbled sounds of protest from beneath the hood.

  "Come on, goddamn it!"

  "Shit, I'm trying!"

  Thunder clapped behind them then, and Sonny turned in time to see the tail car settling on shredded tires. The Caddy looked as if two dozen shotgun blasts had peppered it from either side, the windows shattered, ragged holes punched through the bodywork as if it were made of tinfoil. Sonny saw the driver slumped across his steering wheel, but no one else was visible inside the car.

  He drew his.45 and jammed it in the driver's ribs.

  "I want us out of here right now!"

  "I'm try…"

  The engine caught, and Sonny saw a smile reflected in the rearview mirror as the driver tried to reverse a second time.

  "Hang on!"

  "Just do it!"

  They were rolling, swinging wide around the riddled Caddy, and he had to give the driver points for courage under fire. When they got back to Port-au-Prince — Sonny didn't even have time to brace himself before the world blew up in his face.

  * * *

  The high-explosive rocket pierced the Caddy's grille to detonate on impact with the engine block, and Bolan watched as the hood flew skyward like a scrap of plywood caught up in a cyclone. Smoke and oily flames were eating up the lead car as he dropped the empty launcher, reaching for the radio remote to key his mines.

  The Claymores were positioned to provide a deadly cross fire, triggered simultaneously as he found the button and pressed it with his thumb. A double thunderclap eclipsed the other noise, followed by what sounded like giant hailstones beating on a garbage Dumpster, as the Cadillac was riddled by a spray of tiny steel balls fore and aft.

  Bolan raised the second rocket, shifting his position for a better shot and lining up the limo in his sights. The flooded engine grumbled, finally caught. His target was rolling in reverse when Bolan pressed the firing lever, keeping both eyes open as he saw the missile on its way.

  It struck the limo's forward doorpost on the driver's side, and no amount of «bullet-proofing» in the world would save the occupants from one ungodly ride. He dumped the launcher, found his carbine and was moving out before the battle-scarred Mercedes came to rest.

  The lead car, first. He saw two dead men in the front seat, with the smoking engine in their laps, but three of those in back had managed to survive the blast. He nailed one coming out, a 3-round burst that dropped the gunner on his face, but two had scrambled out the other side and were seeking cover now, unleathering their hardware.

  Bolan circled through a drifting pall of smoke, half-crouched. He was ready when the nearest gunner showed himself, a lurching shadow with an Uzi tracking a ragged burst from right to left. The parabellum manglers whispered over the warrior's head, and he returned a short, precision burst that punched the shooter backward out of sight.

  Two down, and number three was waiting as he came around the Caddy's twisted nose, a riot gun protruding through the smoke. It took a heartbeat to decide before Bolan hit a flying shoulder roll as his adversary loosed a charge of buckshot, peppering the forest at his back. A second blast stung Bolan's cheek with dirt and gravel, but he had the target now, and unloaded the CAR-15 from a range of thirty feet. He watched the 5.56 mm tumblers strike their target, drilling flesh and fabric as the gunner fell.

  He steered a course around the disabled limo and checked out the tail car, finding everybody inside dead. The Claymores were efficient to a fault. And that made twelve.

  The limo driver would have made thirteen, but Bolan couldn't find him. It would take a microscope and tweezers to identify the wheelman after riding out a close encounter with the antitank projectile; reassembly would require a miracle.

  His shotgun rider made it fourteen. He'd been skewered by a shaft of jagged metal through the chest, impaling him to his seat. Below the waist, his body had been shredded by the impact of the blast, and his face was frozen in an expression of pure, unmitigated terror.

  In the back he found another button man stretched out across the floorboard, liquid dreams extruding from a fist-sized shrapnel wound behind one ear.

  Fifteen.

  The bag man was alive but fading fast. His lips were working silently, and Bolan put a mercy round between them, answering his plea.

  Sixteen.

  He swiveled, searching for the crew chief, scowling at the empty seat and open door. No satchel, no cigar, but there had been no time for Bolan's quarry to escape. At best he would have dragged himself to cover while the Executioner was counting heads. But where? Behind the tail car? In the jungle?

  Bolan circled back around the limo, looking for a blood trail, conscious of the fact that his opponent might be lining up a shot at that very moment. If he was armed, with strength and guts enough to try it, number seventeen would stand an even chance. And while he had the money…

  Bolan didn't need the cash. He was prepared to carry it away or burn it on the spot, whichever proved convenient and effective in denying access to his enemies. The payroll was his target, and until he found it, he was simply marking time.

  He made another circuit of the tail car, keeping one eye on the trees, and cursed himself for not paying more attention to the limousine after impact. He'd been in such a hurry to complete the sweep that he'd started mopping up before he had his targets marked and measured. Now he was confronted with a choice of scouring the jungle for his prey or leaving empty-handed.

  Looking at it that way, Bolan and no choice at all.

  He scanned the tree line closest to the limo, seeking telltale signs of movement. Anything at all. A broken limb would be enough to put him on the track, a smudge of blood on emerald leaves.

  The sound of racing engines was closing from the east, from Port-au-Prince.

  Bolan gave it up, disgusted, falling back in the direction of his hidden jeep. The new arrivals might be messengers, construction workers, backup gunners, but they spoiled his play, regardless. He had no time to h
unt the crew chief down, relieve him of his burden. He'd have to settle for a body count on personnel.

  As Bolan retreated past the limo, a movement on his flank alerted him to the presence of an enemy. A rustling of undergrowth and the sudden glint of steel forced the warrior to scramble for cover as a pistol shot reverberated through the forest. Two more bullets whined against a twisted fender of the limousine. Bolan had a rough fix on the sniper when a line of military vehicles swept into view around the narrow curve.

  The cavalry was coming. And this time, he was on the wrong damned side.

  2

  Bolan burst from cover, firing toward the trees and pinning down his unseen adversary with a burst that emptied half his rifle's magazine. It seemed to do the trick, and he was making tracks before the crew chief had a chance to find his nerve.

  He didn't engage the soldiers. Their progress had been momentarily retarded by the wreckage strewn across their track, and Bolan hoped to spare their lives if possible. It was a point of honor with the Executioner that he had never killed a law-enforcement officer, and only in the gravest of extremes had he used deadly force against the soldiers of a «friendly» nation. In Colombia, not long ago, he'd been instrumental in destroying a detachment of militia hired to guard a giant cocaine lab, and while he knew the Haitian military's reputation, he wasn't prepared to kill these men.

  Not yet.

  His adversaries, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Gunners in the forward vehicle were tracking Bolan's progress, firing automatic rifles as their driver left the roadway, plowing through the jungle to negotiate a path around the limo and its smoking bookends. Other vehicles were trailing; Bolan thought there might be three or four, but he was out of time and in the circumstances, numbers seemed irrelevant.

  His jeep was hidden thirty yards downrange, the keys in the ignition. Bolan reached it as the first of his pursuers slipped around the shattered convoy's scout car, using four-wheel drive to shake off the forest and climb back on the track. The gunners, blinded momentarily by leaves and branches, scanned the empty roadway for a target.

  Bolan gave them one. The jeep responded to the twist of the key, snarling as he threw the beast in gear and stood on the accelerator. Bursting out of cover, the Executioner had a moment to himself before the startled riflemen recovered.

  The road ran arrow straight for almost hundred yards beyond his chosen ambush site, and Bolan tried to compensate for lack of cover, weaving back and forth across the narrow road. It was a lame attempt, with his pursuers spraying automatic fire, but short of swerving off the road it was his only option.

  He was taking hits. The jeep's spare tire saved Bolan's life, absorbing several rounds that might have pierced the driver's seat. His taillights shattered — no great loss — and Bolan heard a bullet drill his extra can of gasoline. In seconds, fuel was everywhere, around his feet and sloshing on the floorboards, blurring Bolan's vision with the tears its fumes produced. He didn't want to think about the explosion that would follow one stray round touching off a spark.

  So far he had no strategy. A military escort and pursuit weren't included in his calculations for the ambush, and his fallback options had been limited to swift departure from the scene when he was finished mopping up the opposition. A simple operation, in and out, to let the wise guys know that someone out there didn't like them.

  He had no base camp in the area, no sanctuary. His rations, arms and ammunition rode behind him in the jeep, awash in swirling gasoline. The jungle might consent to hide him, but he had to shake the bloodhounds first, and that would be no easy task when they were racing down the only road for miles around.

  Correction.

  Bolan's pregame scouting had revealed a second road that ran from east to west, connecting Léogane with half a dozen smaller villages, eventually wandering back home to Port-au-Prince the long way. Narrow, rutted, nearly overgrown in places, it was still an option. And it intersected Bolan's track to Liberté, approximately six miles farther on.

  At best it was a gamble. He'd have to lead the pack by half a mile at least to guarantee the necessary privacy. If they were watching when he made the hard right-angle turn, then the ploy was wasted. They'd simply follow him until a lucky round drilled through his skull or struck a spark and fried him at the wheel. He needed time, a decent head start.

  His jeep was fast, but the pursuers had more power underneath their hoods, and the evasive zigzag patterns cost him precious time. How best to slow down his adversaries?

  The Executioner undipped two fragmentation grenades, wedged one between his thighs and kept the other in his hand. He waited for the road to curve, providing him with momentary cover as he slipped his left thumb through the safety ring, released it and gave the lethal egg a backward pitch across his tailgate.

  Thunder exploded on his flank, and in the rearview mirror Bolan saw the «highway» churned to swirling dust. He primed the second grenade but kept it in his hand, his grip securing the safety spoon until the forward chase car-moving slower now — rolled into view.

  Another pitch, another thunderclap, and Bolan gave the jeep its head, accelerator flat against the floorboard. He was clocking sixty-five or better, four miles left to go, and for the first time since the hectic chase began it seemed that he might have a chance.

  He would have crossed his fingers, but he needed both hands on the wheel. Behind him, scattered shots reminded Bolan that he wasn't alone.

  Reluctantly he closed his hand around another grenade.

  * * *

  René Solange enjoyed the perquisites of power. In his military uniform, he was a figure of respect, and no one looked beyond the decorations to behold the pudgy adolescent he had been, the dumpy man he had become. His rank and reputation were enough, enhanced by blood relation to the chief of Haiti's national security police.

  For decades under the Duvaliers, the dread Tonton Macoute had been a law unto themselves, exempt from all restraint and answerable only to the president-for-life. Since Baby Doc's evacuation of the island, there had been subversive mutterings about elections, civil liberties, dismantling the state police, but terror — coupled with the ancient powers of voodoo, cautiously applied — had served to keep the peasants in their place. If demonstrators wanted violence in the streets, the men of the Tonton Macoutes were ready to oblige.

  René Solange had suffered apprehension when the military seized control of Haiti's government, afraid his brother might be ousted from his post as chief of the Macoutes. The army had its own intelligence division, ever jealous of the state police, and now their star was on the rise. René had emptied out his safe-deposit boxes, packed his bags and disengaged himself from half a dozen mistresses before the word came down from Port-au-Prince.

  The rulers of the junta, in their wisdom, had decided that the state police would be allowed to function as before, once ranking officers had demonstrated their allegiance to the new regime. A few diehards were weeded out, but in the end René had seen his own position strengthened with his brother's elevation to supreme commander of the Macoutes. He could afford a more expensive brand of liquor and a better class of woman now.

  His duties as a captain of the state security police included periodic visits to the site where foreign artisans and Haitian laborers were in the process of constructing Liberté. The grand casino would be first, with its hotel, and once a steady tourist clientele had been established, new construction would begin on more casinos, nightclubs and boutiques.

  It was considered beneficial for the laborers to catch a glimpse of the Macoutes from time to time, reminding them that they were fortunate to be employed and working for the overall improvement of their homeland. Any wage was better than starvation, and if left-wing unionists should try to organize the laborers, René and his contingent of security police were primed to intervene.

  He made the trip to Liberté at weekly intervals, without advance warning. René knew there were rebels in the countryside who would rejoice at his death
, and he wasn't about to make their mission easier by following a strict routine. His trips from Port- au-Prince were unannounced, and even members of his entourage were taken by surprise when he decided that the time was right.

  This Friday afternoon, his visit wasn't made on impulse. Paid informers on the site had warned of a potential demonstration when the payroll was distributed. A handful of the workers were expected to reject their pay, insisting on a raise while goading other members of the crew to fall in line. René didn't accept the rumors automatically, but he couldn't afford to overlook the possibility of a disturbance, either. If the Reds tried anything at all, he was prepared to deal with them from strength; on impulse, he'd called up reinforcements from the capital.

  The radio transmission from his backup team changed everything. Guerrillas had attacked the payroll convoy, wiping out Monsieur Bartoli's crew. The reinforcements were in hot pursuit, their quarry moving fast toward Liberté.

  The captain wasn't content to sit and wait. There were a hundred places where the rebels might escape to unless he moved to cut them off. When he had killed or captured those responsible, recovering the payroll for Monsieur Bartoli, then he would begin to grill his own informants, making certain that their story of a protest in the making hadn't been a mere diversion, part of some conspiracy against the state.

  René Solange left half a dozen men on guard at the construction site. The rest of his contingent climbed into two jeeps and roared south, toward Port-au-Prince and confrontation with the enemy.

  * * *

  Emerging from the forest with a.45 in one hand and a suitcase full of money in the other, Sonny Esposito knew he had to be one lucky son of a bitch. The chase had passed him by, and that was fine. It was a long walk back to Port-au-Prince, but Esposito figured he'd meet a backup team en route, once word of the attack got back to Don Bartoli.