missing DIA agents,” Grimaldi added.
“Right,” Bolan said. “Seeing as Waterston was charged with finding this alleged ELN training camp, I’m betting someone in Havana Five cut a deal with Stein and Crosse, then backed out at the last minute.”
“But why kill Colonel Waterston?” Encizo asked.
“I think Stein and Crosse panicked. I think they killed Waterston to keep him from disclosing their deal with a Cuban criminal organization, one that would clearly violate half a dozen laws if it went public, and they killed him to prevent that from happening.”
“I see where you’re going,” Encizo said. “Then Havana Five scrubs the deal and now Stein and Crosse are running for their lives. So, if we find our two DIA boys, they should lead us to the head of the operation.”
Bolan nodded. “Right.”
“Pretty sharp, Sarge,” Grimaldi said.
Encizo turned down an unpaved, nondescript street and pulled up in front of a single-story, adobe-style building. Roof support poles of rough, unfinished wood protruded from the front of the building. Visible cracks cut spiderweb patterns through the front facade, which was painted brown and olive drab. The faded outline of a shield filled with blue, red and yellow markings—the symbol of the Cuban police—covered the windowless front of the building.
Bolan looked at Encizo. “Police station?”
“Substation, actually,” Encizo said. “I spotted a sign on the main road back there and decided to take my chances. There aren’t that many fully equipped jails in the area. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Better we should wait out here?” Grimaldi asked.
“Yeah. It’ll look much less suspicious if I’m alone.”
As Encizo started to get out of the car, Bolan said, “Watch your back, Rafe.”
He nodded, asked for five minutes, then got out. The Cuban straightened his clothes and ran his fingers through his freshly greased hair as he climbed the three steps. He looked back at Bolan and Grimaldi with a wink before he pushed through the flimsy screen door. Bolan watched as he entered and then turned his attention to keeping vigil on the street, with instructions to Grimaldi to do the same.
If trouble came knocking, they would be ready.
CHAPTER FOUR
The acrid smell of burned fiber filled the cramped bathroom of the run-down motel, the result of a smoldering cigarette butt between Leslie Crosse’s fingers.
Crosse could barely stand this wretched humidity. It sure was a hell of a lot hotter here than in Washington, and for a moment, he wished he were back there now. This hadn’t turned out as they’d planned. He and Stein had gotten to Cuba as planned, but that’s when it all went very wrong. Andres advised them that Inez Fuego didn’t want to see them—something about their being sloppy and careless—and next thing he knew, he and Stein were running for their lives.
Stein believed Andres to be at the heart of the betrayal, but Crosse didn’t agree. This went well beyond him; Andres was nothing more than a lackey. Fuego had either come to this decision on her own or someone made it for her. There couldn’t be another explanation. At least, that’s what Crosse kept telling himself. It didn’t matter much either way, since they could now write off any hope of finding the ELN terrorist training camp.
“¡Andele!” a deep voice boomed just outside the door, followed by a mad thumping on it.
Crosse jumped, woken from his daydreaming. He rose from the toilet seat, took another drag off the cigarette, screwed his face with the taste, then tossed it in the bowl and flushed. He hadn’t even bothered to take a dump, since he’d been so preoccupied with their present situation. Well, he was experiencing constipation anyway by refusing to drink tap water, and the cops wouldn’t buy them any bottled, goddammit. He and Stein managed to come up with about seventeen hundred in cash between them; not enough for a get out of jail free card, but damn sure enough to bribe the local yokels into letting them wait out a few days in a hotel.
Crosse opened the door and found himself face-to-chest with the biggest of their trio of guards. The guy’s shirt was about two sizes too small for him in the sleeves and his muscular arms threatened to rip the seams. He had unkempt, rather long hair, and his teeth were dark and stained from too much booze and cigarettes and not enough brushing. Not that Crosse intended to point that out.
The man gave him a studious look, his face hard and unyielding, and then his eyes softened a bit and he jerked his head in the direction of the couch. Basically, they had made their prisoners eat, sleep and sit on that damn couch while the three guards spelled each other for trips to the single bedroom with a queen-size mattress. Craftsmen had obviously made that couch from splintered wood and old springs, and then covered it in the roughest fabric known to man.
“What gives with Gorilla Face?” Stein asked Crosse, using the nickname they’d dubbed for the big cop.
The fact none of the guards seemed to speak English made it simpler for them to communicate freely. They agreed not to make mention of very specific things, but general conversation didn’t seem of much consequence to the guards, and they usually reserved any more secretive talks until night fell and the guards all went to sleep—even the ones who were supposed to be out watching in the front room during their shift. Stein had quipped how the lack of discipline really disappointed him, how he’d expected more from Cuba’s finest.
“Aw, I don’t know. He’s got a stick up his ass or something,” Crosse replied.
“When do you think we’re going to get out of here?”
Crosse shrugged dejectedly. “How the fuck should I know? I look like some kind of Oracle to you or something?”
Stein shrugged. “Just wondered if maybe you had an idea.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
Crosse let the silence lapse between them awhile. He really admired Stein in a lot of ways, but sometimes—as a partner quite often does—Stein irritated the living shit out of him. He felt bad taking his foul mood out on the guy, the one guy who had stuck with him for the past ten years. No matter what happened, no matter what kind of shit went down, Stein had been there. Stein backed him when the ethics committee questioned him during a shooting board inquiry, and again one other time when his superiors questioned him about missing drug evidence. In both cases, Crosse had actually been clean. In fact, Crosse had never accepted graft, never brutalized a suspect—at least not that any cop would have considered justifiable. And while he’d bent a few rules, he couldn’t ever remember having abused his authority.
But now he couldn’t help the uncertainty and irritation of knowing he’d crossed the line; not once but three times in the past twenty-four hours. They had made a deal with a known criminal in a foreign country, killed an American military officer and stolen top-secret documents belonging to the government. Now, to rub salt in the wound, they had to remain cooped up in this stinking hell-hole with these goat farmers.
“Sorry,” he muttered after a time. “I’m a little bent about this shit.”
“Forget
