He had no doubt that they would kill him to protect their mission. Broderick might do it just for sport, if he decided that the odds were on his side. If they couldn't arrange an accident, straightforward violence would do just as well. And either way he cut it, Bolan ran an equal risk of losing it before he could derail the master plan.
Would it postpone the operation if he forced their hand in public? Bolan couldn't say for certain, but he would have bet that the arrest of four or five Berets wouldn't derail McNerney's scheme. The body of his force had been recruited elsewhere, and they would be standing by to sweep down on San Felipe to complete their mission. Removal of the Rafferty contingent might result in some peripheral confusion, but he couldn't count on scuttling the plan so easily. To break the raiders, it would take a hot reception on the ground.
Which brought him back to Able Team and Phoenix Force. He knew their basic game plans, knew that Pol had been assigned to penetrate the local Contra team, but otherwise he had no inkling of their progress, their security. For all he knew their covers might be blown by now. If Hal or someone in the White House had been sloppy in their preparations, it could all be over but the dying.
Bolan pushed the defeatist train of thought away, refusing to be cowed by long-shot possibilities. If worse came down to worst, he was prepared to tough it out alone. They would be counting on a turkey shoot, without resistance from the peasants, never counting on a wild card in the ranks. Alone, he still might have the slim advantage of surprise. It wasn't much, but it could buy him precious numbers when the chips were down and it was killing time. One man could make a difference, sure, and if the Executioner couldn't prevent a massacre at San Felipe, then perhaps he could arrange for roughly equal body counts on either side.
It was a kamikaze game that he was contemplating, but it might turn out to be the only game in town. If he couldn't reach out to any of his outside contacts, he would have to take the play by ear, relying on his instincts in the clinches. The Executioner wasn't afraid of death, but neither was he looking forward to the prospect with anticipation. When it came to banzai missions, Bolan knew the drill, but he would bide his time until the other possibilities were thoroughly exhausted.
Bolan showered, shaved and dressed for breakfast underneath the watchful eye of Jason Rafferty. The sergeant lingered close to him, like a self-appointed officer in charge of Bolan's personal morale. His other purpose, that of keeping Bolan under constant scrutiny, was shared throughout the day by members of the inner circle.
Steiner sat with Bolan during breakfast, griping animatedly about the quality of food available on-base, soliciting "Lambretta's" views about the coming season's baseball prospects. Broderick was with him like a shadow on the short walk to his duty station in the records office where DiSalvo picked it up and worked beside him through the afternoon. Throughout, the only sour note was Broderick's overt animosity; the others treated Bolan as if he were a longtime friend. Beneath the smiles, however, he could feel a strain of tension. And he had no doubt that each man was wondering if they had moved too quickly with "Lambretta," trusting him too soon. They were prepared to move against him at the slightest sign of deviation from the plan, and knowing that, the warrior also knew he had no choice. At any cost, he must attempt to get off-base and alert his allies in the field.
It was approaching four o'clock, and he was winding down his shift when Rafferty popped in, all smiles. " 'Bout ready?"
Bolan didn't have to feign confusion. "What's the story?"
"Little pregame bash to loosen up the troops," the sergeant told him. "Nothing heavy, understand. A couple of drinks, a little native poon to take the edge off. Whatcha say?"
It was an offer Bolan literally couldn't refuse. If he declined, the sergeant would insist, suspicions mounting to the danger level, pressing until Bolan acquiesced. It was a test, of course; no field commander sent his men out on a binge the night before a crucial mission. Somewhere up the line someone had questioned "Frank Lambretta's" mettle and had decided to provide him with a handy length of rope. At this point, Bolan had two options: he could hang himself, or he could reverse the tables, use the line to haul himself out of his personal dilemma. They were taking him off-base to test him. And in the process, they were granting Bolan one last opportunity to put his mission back on course.
* * *
On his second try, Blancanales still got no answer on Katzenelenbogen's line. Politician gave it up, uncertain what the ringing silence might portend, but ready to accept the worst. He had been blown with Gadgets and Lyons, either of whom might now be dead. The Phoenix line had been unmanned since ten o'clock the previous evening, and he wasn't about to risk a call to the United States. If he was on his own, fine. Pol had played it out that way before, and he could make it work again.
Mulling over options since his first attempt to contact Katz, the Able warrior knew that he had reached the only workable conclusion. It was far from safe, but the alternatives were suicide or worse: surrender. Subsequent attempts to reach the Phoenix team had also failed, each failure reinforcing Pol's original decision, stiffening his personal resolve.
He had decided to stick with Machado's team. Some of them would surely know about Ruiz and Esperanza by this time; they would have picked up rumbles, rumors of another gunman at the scene, and one or two might have an eye out for "Rosario Briones," even now. He didn't plan to make it difficult for them to find him. Quite the contrary: he was on his way to see Luis Machado personally.
It would require finesse, but that was why he had been nicknamed Politician. If Anastasio Ruiz had been alone, or acting with some group outside Machado's clique, it might be possible to pass the shooting off as jealousy. How could Pol know anything, if questioned, of foreigners who might, or might not, have been shot to death in a hotel downtown? Besides, how could such matters possibly relate to Esperanza's death or Ruiz's obvious insanity? He had been forced to kill Ruiz in self-defense, he'd explain, and had been hiding in the meantime, conscious of the fact that he would be a hunted man. Sure, the police could by now have descriptions of him on the street, but he was more concerned with friends of Anastasio Ruiz, the possibility of lunatics or traitors threatening Machado's rule within the local Contra movement.
If Ruiz had learned anything, and had shared his information with Machado and the others, Blancanales would be dead before he had a chance to offer them his spiel. All things considered, it was still the best he had to offer, and he couldn't bear the thought of abandoning Mack Bolan in the field. There might be little he could do from this point on, but he would give it everything he had, and screw the consequences to himself.
He knew Machado's address and wasn't surprised to find the modest house ablaze with lights despite the early-morning hour. Bad news travels fast in any language, and the Contra chief was clearly braced for trouble. Pol detected sentries on the front porch and knew there would be others spaced around the small frame house. He wondered if they had been primed to kill on sight, but decided that it didn't really matter either way.
They spotted Pol at fifty yards, one lookout swinging up a twelve-gauge pump gun while his partner disappeared inside the house. Pol never broke his stride. He was already close enough for them to cut him down at will, and they would surely open fire if he should change his mind and try to run. Instead, he held his jacket wide, revealed the automatic slung beneath his arm and slowly raised both hands above his head. The guard appeared confused, but he was steady as a rock, the riot gun unwavering as Blancanales closed the gap between them.
The gunner's backup reappeared, a squat Detonics .45 in hand, and beckoned Pol to join him on the porch. Once there, he was subjected to a thorough frisking while the sentry with the shotgun covered both of them. His autoloader was removed and tucked away inside the pistolero's belt before his captor prodded Pol inside.
Machado, Raúl Gutierrez and a dozen other stone-faced men were waiting for him in the parlor. Gutierrez's grief about his sister was evident. The other s
crutinized "Briones" with undisguised suspicion.
Machado broke the ice. "I did not think that you would come here."
"Where else should I go?"
"You bring disaster to this house. It might have been more prudent to escape."
"Escape from what?" He feigned amazement. "Can it be that you are uninformed of what has happened?"
"We are well informed," Machado told him stonily. "Two of our trusted comrades have been slain."
"Unfortunately, only one was worthy of your trust. The other has betrayed you and the movement with deceit and treachery."
Raúl Gutierrez bristled and took a stride toward Blancanales, but the others held him back. Machado stepped between them, glowering at Pol. "Explain yourself, Rosario."
Politician swallowed hard. He didn't have to fake the swelling of emotion in his chest.
"You know of my regard for Esperanza. We were lovers. I do not deny it. It was my desire to marry her as soon as possible. I knew Ruiz had eyes for her, that he was jealous… but I never knew that he was loco. Last night… I… Esperanza never had a chance to save herself. I shot Ruiz in self-defense and to avenge her death."
Raúl had ceased to struggle, listening to Blancanales speak. "Ruiz killed Esperanza?"
"Sí. You thought… that I…?" He spread his arms and spluttered outrage at the stony faces that surrounded him. "Ballistics tests will show the truth. You have my pistol. The police have Anastasio's. But do not wait for any tests! If you believe that I would kill this woman, whom I loved as life itself, then shoot me now. You have the weapons. I demand it!"
Raúl Gutierrez stared at Blancanales for another moment, than shook his head and turned away. "Ruiz was jealous. I have known this and did nothing to prevent my sister's death."
Machado placed a hand upon the grieving Contra's shoulder. "There was nothing to be done. A jealous man is unpredictable. His anger is like lightning, here and gone. You must not blame yourself."
The angry silence in the parlor broke at last. Machado's troops began commiserating with Raúl, a cautious few of them extending hands to Blancanales, welcoming him back into the fold. He felt the tight knots in his stomach slowly loosening and knew that it was still too early for congratulations. He was momentarily secure, but he was still a long way short of wrapping up his mission with the Contras. Their involvement with McNerney's force was still obscure, the nature of their mission — if they even had an active role — concealed from Pol. He would need more, and quickly, if he was to salvage something from his risky grandstand play.
"Inquiries must be made," Machado told him. "By this afternoon, police reports should be available, as you suggest. If they support your story, you will take Ruiz's place, at my right hand. If not…"
He didn't have to state the grim alternative. Pol knew precisely what would be in store for him if his story didn't hold.
* * *
Calvin James straightened his tie one last time and examined himself in the full-length mirror. The uniform fit well enough, which was all he could ask for in the circumstances. Higher rank, they told him, had been unavailable, and he received the word with his usual good grace.
"Your mama."
James wasn't precisely thrilled with his assignment — going in without the paperwork to back him up if he got bagged — but it already beat the hell out of tailing Contras, pulling shift around the clock because they didn't have enough damned guns to go around. It wouldn't matter in the long run, anyway, he finally decided. If he did get bagged, his ass was grass, and that would be the end of it. The people they were up against weren't about to check his papers if they caught him huddling with Bolan. They would count him out, no questions asked, and all the background in the world was useless when it came to stopping bullets.
And at one level he was very pleased with the assignment. It would be good to see the man again, make sure that he was safe and sound. Make that as safe and sound as anyone could be in his position, dancing with the devil on the rim of hell. One dip, one slip, and you were crispy critters, but the big guy seemed to like it that way, on the edge.
James hadn't stopped to think about his options if Bolan wasn't safe and sound. If someone had already tumbled to his act, for instance, lining up a little surgical removal prior to game time. It was going on five days without a word, and that was too damned long for Calvin's taste. The usual rules of play were hit-and-git, but this one put the rule book through a shredder from the start. What kind of freaking world had it become when you were playing off against your own team half the time?
The kind of world that needed able warriors, sure. And Calvin James was ready from the git-go. Able, ready and most definitely willing.
He was prepared to lay it on the line tonight, for Bolan, for the mission, just as he had laid it on the line a hundred times before in situations every bit as tight. Whatever happened, James was ready to accept the final consequences and deal with any sacrifice that was demanded on the way to victory or death. You either played the freaking game for keeps, or else you might as well stay home.
With any luck, he would be able to make contact with the Executioner among the myriad cantinas, cathouses and assorted dives that drew Tegucigalpa's servicemen and tourists after nightfall. Failing that, he would be forced to go on-base. He had papers that should get him in if no one on the gate was in a picky mood. But getting out again could be a problem. And on-base the odds of being spotted by the enemy were infinitely higher.
Still, the Phoenix warrior knew that he would do whatever was required. Calvin James had never run from any confrontation in his life, and he wouldn't be starting now.
The dicey part was going in unarmed. He had convinced the others that a boot knife was in order, that no serviceman abroad was ever really naked to the world, but it would only help him if the fight was hand-to-hand. At present Calvin didn't know the number of the enemy, their faces or their names. But, so what? They'd be dealing with a mean cat, the party animal.
First up, the easy part: he had to hit as many bars as necessary, seeking Bolan on the streets. When he was finished there, convinced that every possibility had been exhausted, James would think about the problems that awaited him on-base. Right now the toughest job ahead of him was keeping down a couple dozen watered drinks while tracking Bolan through the red-light district of Tegucigalpa.
Smiling, Calvin James knew he was equal to the task. If he had to search among the fallen sisters of the street, why, he could handle that as well. Perhaps there were fringe benefits to his profession, after all.
But at the end of it lay death for someone, possibly himself. And Calvin James, the party animal, could be a lethal predator when he was cornered, when the smell of blood was in his nostrils and the enemy had been identified. If Bolan had been tagged already, it would be his job to bring the message back and help the others map out their alternatives. It was his duty. But there was nothing in the book that said he couldn't kick some righteous ass along the way.
And if the big guy had been tagged, then his killers had already booked their next dance with the party animal.
A dance of death, with Calvin James to call the tune.
24
The imitation Yankee rock band didn't know its Buddy Holly from its Grateful Dead, but Bolan didn't mind. The "music" did its job as background noise, allowing him to think while Rafferty and his friends attempted to converse above the racket. Bolan caught a snatch of dialogue from time to time, but they were keeping it innocuous in public, talking booze and women for the most part, with a few trajectories and calibers thrown in. To any casual observer, it would seem to be the sort of conversation held by fighting men around the world. If the hypothetical observer noted Bolan's moody silence, it would likely be ascribed to large quantities of beer.
In fact, the Executioner was stone cold sober. That was no mean feat, considering the rounds of warm cerveza purchased by the others, but adrenaline was keeping Bolan's thought processes crystal clear. He had to lose his shado
ws soon, long enough to find a telephone and place the call. So far they had been taking turns, accompanying Bolan to the bar or cigarette machine; on two occasions, Vince DiSalvo had trailed him to the rest room, running murky water in the pitted sink and whistling while Bolan had used the toilet.
Now, to make things worse, they were collected in a smoky dive that seemed to have no telephone at all. Bolan glanced at his watch. It was approaching ten o'clock. He didn't know how late the others planned on hanging out, but if their strike was scheduled for the next day, they would be heading back to base within the next few hours, blowing any final chance he had to contact Able Team or Phoenix Force. His pent-up anger and frustration sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through his veins. He longed to put his fist through Broderick's face, then work his way around, smashing each in turn until they couldn't stand. It would accomplish nothing in the long run, but he thought that it would make him feel just fine.
"It's gettin' late," DiSalvo said to no one in particular. "What say we go an' find some señoritas?"
"One more round," the sergeant countermanded, flagging down a waitress who was clownish in her heavy makeup. Holding up a hand with fingers splayed, he yelled, "Five cervezas, honey, por favor." She slipped away before his probing fingers could insinuate themselves beneath her skirt.
"You're lookin' peaked, Frankie. What's the matter?" Rafferty was eyeing Bolan from the far end of the table, peering through a haze of cigarette smoke.
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