“Loss of faith could cause all-out civil war.”
“Destabilizing U.S. interests here,” Bolan concluded.
“Right,” Fonesca agreed. “That would also give the conservative elements in Washington ammunition to talk the President into adopting a military solution.”
That idea was unthinkable, although Bolan knew that a civil war in Puerto Rico would leave the Man no choice but to send military forces to restore law and order. The small National Guard presence on the island would never be enough to quench the fervor of an all-out armed conflict between civilians.
Civil war in Puerto Rico? America having to intervene with its own protectorate by means of military force? The end results of such a thing would be tragic and horrific, at best.
“I’ll start by sending a message to the Independents, letting them know if they are responsible this won’t go unchecked.”
“Fair enough,” Fonseca said. “What do you need from me?”
“A place to deliver it,” the Executioner replied.
Diplomacy Directive
Mack Bolan®
Don Pendleton
Though force can protect in an emergency, only justice, fairness, consideration and cooperation can finally lead men to the dawn of eternal peace.
—Dwight D. Eisenhower
1890–1969
My use of force is always as a last resort. Unfortunately, it’s the only thing that terrorists understand, and sometimes without it we can never know peace.
—Mack Bolan
CONTENTS
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
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Guadalupe La Costa knew a break when she saw it.
It wasn’t every day the director of the local Associated Press affiliate in Puerto Rico handed out juicy assignments to reporters—especially to a young woman who refused to sleep with him—let alone a rookie reporter with a penchant for being a might too ambitious. In any case, some might have viewed covering the upcoming election to appoint a new governor as one of the more mundane assignments. La Costa saw it as a challenge with a gem of a story behind it: a human interest story that focused on the two opponents.
The director had issued an order that La Costa not broach personal issues with the candidates, and keep the parameters of her story confined to the issues. La Costa got the gig, which would include a two-minute live segment on the nightly news channel feed out of Miami. And if she played her cards right, she’d get an exclusive with each of the candidates during the little soiree being held later that night. That last detail had cost her plenty, namely a Gucci leather handbag she was still sure was a knockoff and some very expensive French shoes. The gifts went to the respective PR chiefs of the two candidates, both of whom happened to be women, and felt like cutting a sister a break if it meant she could get ahead. They had required her to present her questions in advance, and to her surprise the candidates agreed. The campaign had become as much a race of personalities as it was one of competent leadership.
Then again, many elections founded on basic democratic principles were more of a popularity contest than about the election of someone who might actually be able to do the job.
La Costa shook her head every time she thought of that. Well, she didn’t give a rip who got elected. Her only connection to Puerto Rico was she’d been born there while her father, an American career diplomat, was assigned to the area. The family headed back to the States, and her father continued his career in various posts.
Securing a job with the Associated Press as a foreign affairs journalist posed no challenge. La Costa’s Masters in journalism certainly helped, and she hadn’t minded using her father’s connections, either.
The man seated next to her in the van didn’t come up quite the same way. No, definitely no silver spoon in Julio Parmahel’s past. Parmahel had been raised the hard way in Little Havana, scraping and fighting his way into a decent college where he could study photography. Journalistic photography had a limited scope, though, since most reporters were also expected to be decent photographers. With a lack of work, Parmahel turned to camera operations. It wasn’t his first love, but at least he got to use some of his creativity.
“Man, I am bored out my skull,” he said in his heavy, Cuban accent. He leaned back as best he could manage, given the size of the driver’s seat of a studio van. He yanked a toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at La Costa to make his point. “And sweet Mama, why do the nights always got to be so damn hot?”
La Costa shook her head and laughed. “Julio, I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question, since we’ve been together down here almost a year. I’d think you’d be used to it by now.”
“I’ll never be used to it. Guess I’m just homesick.”
The appearance of a sponsorship member
