Havana Five. Don Pendleton
toward their final destination in accordance with Bolan’s instructions. Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man’s ace pilot, had been a part of the Executioner’s War Everlasting from nearly the beginning.
The intense-looking man accompanying Grimaldi on the mission had quite a different history to tell. Quite a while had passed since Rafael Encizo last walked on the soil of his birth country. While Encizo had always taken pride in his Cuban heritage, he owed his life and career to Stony Man. A member of Phoenix Force, one of America’s elite antiterrorist teams, Encizo possessed deadly skills as a knife-fighter, demolitions expert and tactician in jungle warfare.
Encizo had passed on the rental car in favor of borrowing a loaner from a local contact. He told Grimaldi, “Rental plates will draw attention. Something we definitely don’t want.”
Grimaldi nodded. “It’s your show, Rafe.”
The men also retrieved the provisions left in the trunk by a Stony Man contact, which included a SIG P-239 for Grimaldi, a Glock Model 21 as favored by Encizo and a pair of MP-5 SD-6 submachine guns. They also had a second Beretta 93-R and an FN FNC carbine assault rifle for delivery to the Executioner upon their rendezvous. Stony Man had even included a satchel filled with enough C-4 to level a small house. The men donned their respective sidearms and concealed them in shoulder holsters before embarking on their journey to Matanzas.
Encizo took the wheel, given his familiarity with the country. Grimaldi settled into his role as shotgun and soon the two were out of Havana on a secondary road to Matanzas. Encizo gave Grimaldi a highlighted route on a comprehensive map supplied by Stony Man computers, and the pilot navigated for his comrade. Once they were away from Havana, Grimaldi rolled down the window and broke out a Cuban cigar he’d purchased at the airport. He lit the stogie, pulled it from his mouth with an admiring look and then gazed at Encizo.
“How long is it to Matanzas?”
Encizo shrugged, appeared to give it some thought, then said, “Well, I decided to take the back roads, so it’ll be about two-and-a-half to three hours.”
Grimaldi nodded. “I really got scant information from Hal and Barb on this mission,” he commented. “What’s the deal?”
The Cuban chuckled. “Join the club. From what little they said to me at the Farm, I don’t think they’ve got a whole lot to go on. Apparently they sent Striker to Gitmo to question some Cuban national about an ELN terrorist training camp somewhere inside Cuba, and then someone killed the informant and tried to punch Striker’s ticket, as well.”
Grimaldi let out a low whistle. “Sounds about like the kind of situation the Sarge would get himself into.”
“Yeah,” Encizo said with another easy laugh. “And us, too.”
“So do we know where we’re going to meet him?”
“Well, he told the Farm he’d manage on his own getting off the base. Apparently he didn’t want to raise eyebrows with official paperwork. His only lead is some jail on the outskirts of Matanzas. Since he wasn’t all that familiar with the area, he said he’d call once he got there and then the Farm would contact us.”
The beeps of a phone filled the interior of the small car, demanding attention.
“Speaking of which…” Grimaldi said. He reached to his belt and withdrew the phone.
Using a dedicated NSA satellite, Kurtzman’s team had arranged an effective communications system. Not only could they use it to track their team members—Price had arranged the installation of a microchip beneath the skin over the left shoulder blade of every member—but all voice and video communications took place through the bursting of encrypted digital data under a 448-bit cipher.
“Eagle, here,” Grimaldi said into the phone.
“How goes it?” Barbara Price replied.
“We’re in-country,” Grimaldi said. “Everything’s gone pretty smoothly so far. We’re on our way to the meeting place now.”
“Good. Striker called and we have a rendezvous point for you. It’s a place in the southern end of Matanzas called Las Cocinitas. It’s apparently a cantina or something. He said he’ll be waiting for you.”
Grimaldi repeated the name to Encizo, asked if he knew it, and the Cuban nodded with a comment that he knew the general area. “Okay, we’ll find it,” the pilot said. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” Price said. “He also said to tell you guys to watch yourselves, since whoever’s onto him may very well be onto you, also.”
“Oh, don’t worry. We’ll keep our eyes open.”
“Good luck, guys.”
Grimaldi broke the connection and replaced the phone. He took another puff from the cigar and said, “Barb says the Sarge is concerned we could be compromised since he’s already had hostile contact.”
“It’s a strong possibility,” Encizo said. “I’ve learned Striker’s intuition on these things is almost uncanny. If he says we should stay vigilant, I’d listen to him.”
MACK BOLAN COULD HARDLY say he felt in his element.
The din of Cuban music blaring from the antiquated jukebox and shouts of drunken men ogling the dayshift of house girls had left him with a slight headache. He’d reached Matanzas very early in the morning and had the good fortune to find a local clothing shop along a deserted street. Bolan paid three times the asking price for a change of clothes—he and the shopkeeper both knowing part of the exorbitant sum would buy the man’s silence about seeing a North American inside Cuba—and then he changed in an alley.
Nobody in the cantina had spared him a second glance. Bolan used his limited knowledge of Spanish to order a meal of beans over a tortilla topped with red and green chilies and rice. He also purchased bottled water, not unusual in Cuba, even for the locals, and coffee.
Bolan left for a time and found a pay phone. He contacted Stony Man, gave them a cryptic message about the cantina Las Cocinitas, and then spent the remainder of the morning walking the streets before returning to the rendezvous point an hour or two later. The big American kept his head down and his body hunched to detract from his height. He was nursing his second bottle of beer when two men entered the cantina.
Bolan made a barely imperceptible gesture, but one the pair recognized; they walked casually to his table. The place seemed pretty crowded with very few seats, so Encizo asked politely to join him. Bolan nodded and they sat. A waitress came a few minutes later, took their drink and food orders without any apparent real interest in them, and was gone again in minutes.
Encizo leaned in so only Bolan and Grimaldi could hear and asked, “You okay?”
Bolan nodded. “I’m fine. Thanks for showing up.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Grimaldi replied with a grin.
“Where are things at?” Encizo asked.
“Not here,” Bolan said. “You brought wheels?”
Encizo and Grimaldi nodded. “Finish your lunch, then leave before me and pull around back. We shouldn’t leave together.”
The food and drinks came. Encizo and Grimaldi ate mechanically and didn’t say another word to Bolan. Within twenty minutes of their arrival, they paid their tab and left. The place had really filled up with the afternoon crowds who were obviously looking to escape the heat. Bolan even spotted some European tourists. Nobody paid attention to him, and he waited a full ten minutes before leaving. Grimaldi and Encizo waited in a two-door sedan that ran parallel to the alleyway. The pilot sat in back and Bolan took shotgun.
Encizo put the stick shift in gear and sped down the alleyway. He maneuvered the car onto the street, followed that road for two short blocks, then turned onto another street. For the next few minutes Encizo made a series of different turns, twice even pulling to the curb. All three men studied the mirrors and looked out windows to see