Don Pendleton: Havana Five

The President went on, “And I appreciate your candor. But under the circumstances, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to provide me with as many details as possible as soon as you get them, confirmed or unconfirmed.”

“Of course, sir,” Brognola replied. “Would it be terribly out of line if I asked why?”

The President appeared to consider Brognola’s request a moment and then replied, “I suppose that’s a fair question. You must understand that under no circumstances will I permit the outbreak of a full civil war in Cuba without taking significant action. And when I say action, I mean the full-scale military kind. If such hostilities were to ensue and we had exhausted every political remedy to abate them, I would be forced to order the U.S. Marines at Guantanamo to do whatever it took to protect the U.S. and its boundaries.”

“War?” Brognola asked. “With Cuba?”

“If necessary, yes.”

Mack Bolan ®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.

In revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.

—Friedrich Nietzsche, 1844–1900

When revenge steers a person toward murder and deceit, I’ll be there to strike a blow for justice.

—Mack Bolan

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

Gulf of Mexico

Two men wrestled the body from beneath the top deck of the small yacht anchored forty nautical miles north of the Cuban coast.

“This wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan,” Dominic Stein said.

Stein groaned under the deadweight of his load as if to emphasize the point, but his partner took no interest in the conversation. Not surprising, since Leslie Crosse did everything he could to avoid talk of grisly topics. The guy wouldn’t even go to a slasher film, although it hadn’t seemed to bother him when he’d shot their burden through the head with a silenced .380-caliber pistol.

“At least I bought us some time,” Crosse replied.

Stein had to concede that particular point. They certainly hadn’t planned on Mackenzie Waterston returning to his Pentagon office minutes after Stein and Crosse picked the lock, broke into Waterston’s files, and pilfered every document and data CD they could find on Operation Gridlock. Nobody outside of the Oval Office should have even known about the President’s initiative. The U.S. State Department’s Plan Colombia had included covert military actions by specialized units based out of Guantánamo Bay designed to neutralize training camps for the National Liberation Army, aka the ELN. Such operations were particularly lucrative for certain individuals in the array of criminal trades across Cuba and the better part of South America. Drugs were only the tip the iceberg. Precious stones, counterfeit bills and import contraband of every kind were also profitable for a group of fabled crime lords known as Havana Five.

“Okay, so we had to do it,” Stein said. “But that sure as hell doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Quit bitching and keep moving,” Crosse muttered. The flash in his eyes served as a warning he’d about had his fill.

Stein wouldn’t have taken that kind of mouth off just anyone; Crosse wasn’t just anyone, however, he was Stein’s best friend. They had served side by side in the DIA for more than a decade. As luck would have it, their long-term partnership had somehow slipped through the cracks of the DIA bureaucrats—there were rules about the length of time personnel could serve together—and the pair had simply decided to keep their mouths shut about that fact. It turned out fortuitously when an irresistible offer practically dropped into their laps.

“Fine, fine,” Stein said. “I just hope to high hell this’ll be worth it.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

They finally managed to get Waterston’s body to the top deck and dragged it over to the polished wood banister before Stein dropped his end. The sudden change in weight distribution nearly caused his partner to fall onto the corpse, but Crosse managed to regain his balance. He cursed under his breath but said nothing directly to Stein.

Crosse nodded in the direction of the long metal crate in the aft of the boat as his chest heaved with exertion. Stein took the cue and moved to retrieve the crate. He dragged it over to where his friend waited with the corpse and opened the lid. Several rows of silver-dollar-size holes ran along the sides and end of the crate, and after closer inspection Stein realized it was a crab cage. On a three-count, the men hauled the corpse into the cage, closed the lid and then swung the cargo winch into place.

Crosse sat back on a nearby fishing seat while Stein attached a chained hook through a large alloy hole in the top of the crate and winched it up. Stein looked at Crosse who lit a cigarette, dragged deeply on it, then nodded through the cloud of exhaled smoke. Stein swung the winch over the water and engaged the release. The crate hit the water with a splash and immediately sank.

“That should keep his body from ever floating to the surface. Huh?” Stein inquired.

Crosse nodded. “And by the time anybody does find it, we’ll have long passed from this hell into the next one, partner.”

Stein shrugged and looked uncomfortably at the deck. “Yeah, I’m sorry it went down this way for ya, Les.”

“Forget it.”

Stein thought about that for a time and then pulled a flask from the back pocket of his slacks. He took a long drink and then passed it to Crosse, who snatched it without hesitation and partook of a couple of long pulls himself. He wiped his mouth, popped in the cigarette and then handed the uncapped flask to his partner. Stein took another swig before capping the flask and pocketing it.

“What now?”

“Now we wait.”

They didn’t wait long, maybe fifteen minutes, before they heard the sound of an outboard motor buzz in the distance. At first the men didn’t see anything and both drew their government-issue Glock 21 pistols. As the seconds ticked by and the drone of the motor grew closer, Stein wondered if this part of their plan had been such a good idea, after all. He voiced his concerns.

“What are you squawking about now?” Crosse asked. “I swear to God, Dom, there’s times I think you’re paranoid or something.”

“Listen, I don’t much like these Cubans. I don’t trust them.”

“Then you should have thought about that before taking this deal. Beside, we’re doing what’s best for our country. You think those peckerless suits back in Washington would have the guts to do something like this? Now just keep quiet and everything will be fine. Let me do the talking. Okay?”

Stein wanted to protest but thought better of it and clammed up with a nod.

The source of the outboard motor became visible. Right at that moment Stein became more alert to all the sights and sounds around him. The salty smell of the Gulf waters seemed stronger and the cloak of humidity more intense than it had before now. At first he thought maybe the bourbon had started to work on him, but the sudden rise of bile, the churning in his stomach, the hammering of his heart in his chest and ears told him the many sensations were the culmination of one. Fear.