Havana Five. Don Pendleton

      THE EVER SO PERCEPTIBLE PUFF of smoke from the tailpipe of the sedan stood as the only clue to Bolan the crew planned to make a move. In that brief lull between the decision and action of their enemy, Bolan instructed Grimaldi to go inside and alert Encizo. The sedan suddenly lurched from the curb just as the soldier had expected. Sunlight glinted on the muzzles of automatic weapons protruding from the passenger windows.

      Bolan had set the door ajar a minute earlier, anticipating that kind of move, and his forethought prevented the aggressors from perforating him with a hail of bullets. He rolled out of the vehicle and went prone on the sidewalk, rolling onto his back long enough to slide both Beretta 93-Rs from beneath the folds of the thin, tattered poncho he’d purchased that morning.

      Slugs whizzed overhead and ricocheted off the buildings, while others audibly slapped the driver’s side of Encizo’s borrowed jalopy with metallic plinks. Bolan waited until he heard the squeal of tires and opening of doors before he dropped to one knee behind the solid, metal body of the old clunker. Bolan braced his forearms over the trunk of the car, took aim at the gunners as they went EVA, and squeezed the triggers simultaneously.

      The Berettas were both set to 3-shot mode, which in the hands of the Executioner were as effective as the submachine guns being toted by his enemies. A trio of 9 mm Parabellum rounds took the first unlucky gunner in the chest, punching red holes in his sternum, exiting out his back, leaving a crimson spray on the door. The impact sent him spinning and dumped him face-first on the rough pavement. The other burst of rounds shattered the back window and sent the others racing for cover to avoid the deadly glass shards.

      In his periphery, Bolan saw his allies join him. Encizo fired from a standing position above the roof of the car and took out his man with a head shot over the roof of the enemy’s sedan. The remaining gunner tried to move away from the vehicle and make a beeline for cover, but Bolan and Encizo caught him simultaneously with unerring accuracy. The man danced under the onslaught as slugs drilled through his stomach and chest. Encizo finished it with a round to the neck. Hot blood and tissue erupted from the wound and left a gaping hole where the throat had been. The man toppled to the ground.

      Grimaldi focused his attention on the driver. The windshield splintered under the first two rounds, a large part broke away on number three, and two more succeeded in finishing the job. A geyser of blood and brain matter splattered the dash and side window as the driver’s head exploded. The echo of gunfire died and in the near distance the wail of sirens signaled the approach of the Cuban police.

      “Looks like the commandant got to a phone,” Encizo told Bolan as he reached inside the vehicle from the passenger side and popped the trunk.

      “I’ll fret later,” Bolan replied. He jerked his thumb at the car. “Better not to take this. It’ll draw too much attention.”

      “Or this,” he said, holding up the satchel filled with C-4 plastique with all the trimmings. “We should be able to lose them on foot.”

      Once they made some distance, Bolan asked, “You get a location on Stein and Crosse?”

      “Yeah,” Encizo said with a nod. “They’re holed up in a motel not too far from here.”

      “They’re under guard, I assume.”

      “Of course.”

      Grimaldi shook his head and groaned. “Our luck just keeps getting better.”

      “I suppose you realize that commandant will call in reinforcements to ambush us at the motel,” Encizo said.

      A ghost of a smile crossed Bolan’s face. “I’m counting on it.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Hal Brognola sat in his office and tried to maintain his cool.

      It wasn’t often the President of the United States decided to call a personal meet, and particularly not on Stony Man’s home turf. The Farmhouse and Annex remained top secret, their locations known by a select few, and the Man rarely opted to pay them a personal visit. With the press and staff constantly nipping at his heels, such a request could compromise the Farm’s security.

      On this occasion, however, the President had informed Brognola he’d be traveling incognito and even the Secret Service wouldn’t accompany him. This didn’t worry the head Fed any, since he knew the President came under escort of three of the most capable warriors ever fashioned by hellfire: together they formed the urban Able Team. The President’s unconventional request worried Brognola simply because he knew him to be a pragmatist. If he was requesting a personal meeting, then that meant it was damned important.

      Brognola left his office and climbed the old secret stairwell that led to the first floor of the farmhouse. Maybe a brisk walk around the grounds would take his mind off the upcoming meet. Beside the fact, more pressing matters on Striker’s mission—a mission he was sure had prompted the Man’s request for a personal meeting—demanded his immediate attention.

      So far, they didn’t have much to go on. The fact someone had tried to terminate the Executioner within hours of his arrival at Guantánamo Bay perplexed the Stony Man chief most of all. Nobody outside of immediate personnel knew Brognola had contacted Bolan about the potential troubles brewing in Cuba, let alone they would have gathered enough details to pick up Bolan’s scent, track him to a secured U.S. naval installation and then kill him. That left only one possible answer: somebody on the inside of the military prison at Gitmo knew Bolan had questioned Melendez and decided to make sure the Executioner took that information to the grave.

      But who and why? Those were two questions for which Brognola didn’t have answers. Even Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman had been left at a loss for suggestions. Well,