If the detonator was in one of those buildings, Ortega was as good as dead, because there was no way Bolan could get inside without being pounced on immediately. He heard a horn blaring in the street behind him and turned to see a van trying to nose through the thickening crowd. Then he faced the plaza again. This was a no-winner. It was nearly impossible.
He saw Rivera slipping through the crowd, getting close to the front. He and Cruz had separated, as each tried to squeeze ahead of the mob and get close to the podium. As Bolan watched, Cruz got into a shoving match with a couple of farmers who resented his impertinence in crashing the front. The warrior thought for a second that there would be a fistfight, the last thing they needed. If the police were called, they'd find the Uzi under Cruz's shirt, which would probably be enough to cancel Ortega's appearance. One of the fundamental axioms of protecting heads of state said that if you found one gun, you had to assume there were others.
The blaring horn continued as the van fought its way into the plaza, drifting to the left and literally bumping people out of the way. People beat on the sides of the truck with the flats of their hands, setting up a drumming sound like small thunder. Bolan was intrigued by the big black vehicle. He couldn't imagine why it had chosen to cut across the congested plaza. Suddenly the truck braked, then stopped altogether.
Bolan watched three men scurry out of the vehicle and rush toward the rear doors. They opened the back and began to haul out glittering aluminum piping. When several sections of the piping had been removed, two men began to assemble it as the third continued to unload. In no time a scaffolding began to ascend the side of the van, then spread out across its top.
The warrior drifted closer to the van, more than curious now. It began to look as if a possible nest for the button man were being assembled right in front of his eyes. A car started honking at the edge of the plaza, and Bolan turned as it swam through the crowd like a shark in a school of minnows. The car bore some sort of insignia on its side, but the crowd was too heavy for Bolan to be able to read the inscription.
Finally the car managed to nose in behind the van, and a stylishly dressed young man with blow-dried hair climbed out. He carried a clipboard and sported designer sunglasses whose cranberry frames were the same color as his tie. Two men got out of the back seat of the car and rushed to the van. The smaller of the two climbed into the truck while his companion waited at the open rear door. Several coils of black cable were passed out of the truck and on up to the man atop the scaffolding. Bolan didn't need to see the camera to realize he was watching a mobile video crew set up, presumably to broadcast Ortega's speech.
All perfectly logical, and perfectly innocent, but Bolan had a hunch. Moving still closer, he pretended to be looking past the van toward the podium area while taking stock of the video unit. It was the perfect location — a guaranteed line of sight to the podium, the normal activity of a perfect cover, and no one would raise an eyebrow at a blinking red light or a black plastic box with a red button. It was electronic camouflage at its finest.
Bolan pushed the brim of his hat farther down his forehead, shading his eyes with it. He saw Rivera at the far left corner of the podium, about five rows back. The general was scanning his immediate neighbors in the throng, and the telltale blue feather on his straw hat bounced like a fishing bobber on a turbulent stream. Cruz, too, was checking his sector. Bolan would have to watch them carefully to know whether they had spotted anything. The signal would be a shift of the blue feather from the left side of the hat to the right. The warrior stroked the feather with his left hand to make sure it was still securely in place.
The odds were long, even though Bolan was convinced he'd found the location. Six men were candidates, none more likely than any of the others, although if he had to eliminate one, it would be the journalistic fashion plate. The man would handle a mike and, most likely, handle no other electronic gear. It would be too noticeable if he did. But that still left five.
The crew continued to work at a feverish pace, which could only mean that Ortega's arrival was imminent. The camera crew set up with brisk professionalism, one man on the scaffolding to provide podium coverage, while the other strapped himself into a minicam backpack. One of the tecnies screwed the battery pack cable into the camera, then climbed into the truck.
Bolan was only twenty-five feet away now and able to see everything very clearly. His height, which called attention to him, also enabled him to see over the bulk of the crowd. He was gambling on logic. It was his only ally at the moment, but it had a reputation for subtlety he had no time to consider. The minicam cameraman would have his hands full, which seemed to rule him out. But that still left the three tecnies and the platform cameraman. One out of four with the stakes this high were lousy odds.
Positioning himself behind the reporter's car, he watched the four remaining candidates intently, looking for anything to whittle the odds a little more to his liking. The crowd was beginning to buzz, and he glanced toward the speaker's platform. Three or four men huddled behind the podium now, the tops of their heads visible behind the bunting-draped partition bracketing the rostrum.
One of the technical men climbed back up on the van, while the other two sat on the tailgate and opened brown bags that contained nothing more lethal than hunks of bread and cheese. Despite the open air, the crowd and the heat made Bolan feel as if he were in a box. He found it difficult to breathe, and his ribs still ached from the bullet wound. Adding to the tension was the fact that he was going to have to stop the button pusher without giving himself away. He couldn't afford to be captured, even by police inclined to be grateful. Not here, not under these circumstances. No matter what happened, he had to get away clean, or he wouldn't get away at all. An American on the scene of an attempted assassination of the Sandinistas' best known spokesman would be a propaganda plum too juicy to ignore.
Bolan noticed a bulge in the rear pocket of the techie on top of the truck. It was bulky enough to be a detonator, but its contours were so nondescript that it could have been a wallet or a key case, even a handkerchief. Moving around to the side of the van, staying far enough away not to attract the attention of either man atop the van, he checked the cameraman. The guy's shirt pocket also hid a small rectangular bulk.
The crowd started a chant "Viva Sandino, Viva Sandino" louder and louder as more and more voices picked it up. Hands started to clap, punctuating every syllable, and stamping feet took up the rhythm as Bolan tried to get a clear look at the two men from another angle. The crowd around him pressed forward, chanting louder and louder. The clapping hands and stamping feet sounded like thunder now, the words all but drowned out by the rhythm, reduced to an elemental surge.
The crowd pressed on to the platform, and the warrior had to struggle against a tide of human flesh to avoid being swept away from the van. The cameraman seemed to be absorbed in his work and kept his eye glued to the viewfinder. As Bolan tried to make his way toward the van, the cameraman reached into his pocket and the warrior tensed until he saw the familiar red-and-white of a Marlboro pack. Without taking his eye off the viewfinder, the cameraman tapped a cigarette out of the box and stuck it into the corner of his mouth. The box disappeared and a lighter took its place. That left the techie, who hadn't reached for his back pocket yet.
A tremendous roar erupted from the crowd, sounding like a tidal wave rushing toward a stone wall. As the pressure built, the sound seemed to rise in pitch instead of in volume, then grew louder as a hiss like breaking surf sizzled over the plaza. Bolan was near the rear bumper of the car now and shoved two men aside to leap onto the trunk. Hands clutched at his pant legs and the reporter turned to shout at him, but the warrior couldn't hear anything over the roar, which seemed to have gotten a second wind.
Bolan jumped to the roof as the two techies dropped their lunch bags and stood up, waving their arms. Bolan leaped toward the scaffolding alongside the van. The techie on the roof glanced back at him, letting go of the bunched cables in his ha
nd. Bolan scrambled up the aluminum rungs of the scaffold as the two techies below him tried to pull him back. The warrior lashed out with a foot, catching one man in the face. When the techie on the roof made a move to intercept him, Bolan knew the cameraman was the assassin.
A speaker announced Ortega, then the sound system crackled like lightning. Through the cameraman's legs, Bolan could see Ortega stepping toward the microphone. A slender silver antenna protruded from the cigarette lighter, catching the sunlight as the cameraman reached out. Bolan swept the techie aside and drew the Beretta. He saw the cameraman's thumb fumble for a small, shiny switch on the side of the bogus lighter and swung the Beretta around.
The cameraman started to turn as his thumb slid along the surface of the lighter. Bolan fired twice, the suppressed sound completely inaudible in the bedlam sweeping toward the platform. Two bright red flowers blossomed on the cameraman's shirt as he spun away from the camera. The lighter spiraled high into the air as the assassin flung up his arms in reaction to the punch of the slugs.
Bolan scrambled over the lip of the van, reaching for the detonator. The techie seemed stunned, as if he were starting to understand what was happening, but didn't know whose side to be on. As the detonator fell toward the roof of the vehicle, Bolan leaned forward, launching himself across the polished metal, his arm extended. The detonator struck him on the wrist and started to skid off the roof when the techie stopped it with his foot. Bolan's fingers closed over it carefully.
He looked at the techie, who watched in slowly dawning comprehension. He shook his head, as if to say he wouldn't interfere, and Bolan slid the lock in place, then pushed the antenna back into the detonator. Police from around the perimeter of the plaza were beginning to surge toward the van as Bolan slipped off the roof and down into the crowd. He pushed and shoved his way to the car and climbed in through the passenger's window. Slipping behind the wheel, he started the engine.
The warrior leaned on the horn and gunned the engine, his foot still on the brake. As the crowd began to part, he jerked the wheel and headed toward the speaker's platform. The reporter ran alongside the car, trying to drag Bolan's hands from the wheel, but the big man stiff-armed him and lifted his foot off the brake. The reporter lost his grip on the window frame and fell to the ground.
Up ahead, the platform floated above the heads of the parting sea like a vision of the promised land. Bolan hoped he had better luck than Moses.
Chapter Forty-One
The platform was deserted now. Directly ahead of the car people scurried like ants to get out of the way. The crowd behind them pushed back, and Bolan could feel the near misses as hands and elbows, knees and feet bounced off the car. He couldn't stop, because the crowd would press in around him and he'd have to run someone over to get moving again.
Trapped in the car, he couldn't see Rivera or Cruz. They would have been hard-pressed to hold their ground. Then the first gunshots rang out. Bolan gunned the engine. The crowd seemed to sense his urgency, and the channel grew a little wider as panic sent adrenaline coursing through those closest on either side. The engine roared, and Bolan rode the brake. He could smell the burning shoes of the rear brakes, and the transmission's wild snarl sounded as if a beast were trapped under the front seat.
Bolan swung the wheel and headed straight for the platform. He'd have to rely on Rivera or Cruz to find him once he got close enough. More gunshots boomed, and several of the microphones were blasted to pieces, leaving brightly colored wires peeking out of the cable ends.
One of the blue feathers suddenly broke into the channel thirty yards ahead. Gesturing wildly to the left, Cruz jumped out of the way of a careening body, giving it a shove as it flew by. Then the mob closed around him again. Bolan lifted his foot off the brake, and the engine throbbed, set free once again. The throng dissipated as the big car roared straight head.
The blue feather bobbed into view again, and Bolan reached behind to make sure the rear door was open. Cruz struggled to stay on the leading edge of the crowd. The car slowed a little, and Cruz leaped onto the hood as Bolan went by. The scramble of limbs on the top of the car settled into a steady rhythm as Cruz pounded the roof to tell Bolan he was secure.
"Right, right, right," Cruz shouted. Bolan eased the wheel around, and the second blue feather bobbed into view. Bolan spotted it at the same instant Cruz shouted, "There he is!"
Rivera was grappling with two men, neither of whom seemed to be police. The general swung his fist and connected with one man, who stumbled backward. But the other took advantage of the distraction to grab Rivera in a headlock, knocking the hat away at the same time. The feather disappeared, and Bolan shouted, "Keep an eye on him, Joaquin."
Suddenly a circle appeared around Rivera, who was lying on the ground. The circle widened as Bolan watched, people on the perimeter backing away. Women covered their eyes and turned away. The men, their faces contorted, were screaming, but Bolan couldn't make out the words. As he nudged the car through the crowd, which was thinning again, two men stepped through the circle, automatic weapons in their hands. Bolan let the car go under a full head of steam. The roof above him vibrated as Cruz opened up with his Uzi. Using short, tight bursts to avoid the innocent byslanders, he got the attention of the two gunmen, who ignored the prostrate general to face this new and unexpected threat.
The men dropped into crouches, like armed bookends, and aimed their weapons at the car. Bolan floored it, charging straight at them. Cruz opened up again. The Uzi, braced on the roof, pounded on the metal as if it were trying to get in. One gunner went down, his weapon skidding away and into the crowd. The second man cut loose, and Bolan ducked under the dash, jerking the transmission into neutral at the same time.
A shower of broken glass cascaded over his head and shoulders, then Bolan heard a loud thump. Looking through the back window he saw Cruz slide off the roof and bounce once on the trunk before disappearing. The back window went out, too, and Bolan kicked at driver's door with both feet. Without power, the car was slowing down.
The door flew open, and the warrior rolled onto the pavement, unslinging his Uzi on the fly. The gunman was running sidewise, trying to ram another clip into his weapon. Bolan brought his Uzi to bear and let loose a tight stream of 9 mm parabellums. He nearly cut the gunman in two, catching him just above the bent knees and slicing across his midsection. The man folded like a ventriloquist's dummy and fell to the ground.
The crowd continued to back away as Bolan started to get up. Another burst of gunfire grabbed his attention, and he spotted Rivera, on his knees, trying to get up. Two men charged out of the mob toward the general, automatic rifles up and ready. Rivera weaved the Uzi left and right, holding the trigger down until the magazine was empty. One of the gunmen fell on his face, skidding a couple of yards until the friction caught him and he lay there, arms stretched like a man trying to surrender.
The second gunner fired a single shot from his AK-47. Bolan saw the spurt of blood where the slug struck Rivera high in the chest, and the old man fell over backward, the empty Uzi waving in the air like a black metal flower. Bolan stopped dead and stitched the advancing gunman from groin to chin. The guy staggered backward several paces then collapsed in a heap.
Bolan sprinted to Rivera, who lay on the ground moaning. By now people had begun to recognize the old man. The word spread, and the crowd started to surge back in, surrounding the general and cutting Bolan off as he tried to reach the man.
Even the weapon in Bolan's hand did nothing to deter them as they pressed forward. Using his size to advantage and rapping defenseless shoulders with the Uzi, the Executioner managed to clear a path.
The general lay on his back. His chest heaved, and with every breath a small bubble of bloody foam appeared and disappeared over the hole in his chest. A thin dribble of bloody water ran down his chin. Bolan could hear the hoarse breathing as he knelt beside the old man.
"We stopped them, eh, Mr. Belasko?"
"Yeah, general, we stopped
them."
"I think we got here in time. They took Ortega off. There was some shooting, but I don't know what happened."
"Save your strength. We have to get you out of here."
"Too late for that, my friend. I know about bullet wounds. I know which ones kill and which just look bad. I…" His words trailed away in a phlegmy cough, and more foam appeared at his lips. Rivera wiped his chin with the back of his hand, then looked at the bloody smear on the skin. He smiled weakly. "We stopped them, anyway. Better to lose like a decent man than to win like an animal. You remember that."
"I will, General. Don't talk. You have to save your strength."
Rivera put a finger to his lips. "I have nothing to say," he gasped. He closed his eyes just as the loudspeaker squawked into life. Bolan turned to see a man backing away from a newly installed microphone. Then a bushy head of black hair appeared behind it.
Rivera tried to sit up, pulling on Bolan's arm for support. "Pagan," he whispered, pointing. "Pagan…"
Bolan looked back at the podium and realized Rivera was right. Guillermo Pagan was on the platform, leaning toward the microphone. "Amigos y compadres," he began, raising his hands high over his head and urging the crowd to keep quiet. Feedback howled throughout the plaza, and Pagan covered the microphone. He turned to someone behind him.
"Don't let him speak, Mr. Belasko. Thousands of people will die for nothing. You can't let him speak."
But they were fifty yards away, and Bolan was alone in the middle of a terrified throng. He pressed Rivera back to the ground.
Someone knelt beside the general, and the warrior looked up to see Carlos Ingrazia leaning toward Rivera. The young man leaned forward, a cigarette between his lips trailing a thin stream of smoke into the sunlight. The public address system squawked again, and Guillermo Pagan again called for the attention of the crowd.
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