Cutting Edge, page 18
part #139 of The Executioner Series
"My 'rescuer' is already here," Bolan said. Dropping one arm from the shoulder strap, he swung the backpack around to his chest before setting it on the grass at Castro's feet. Dancing flames reflected off the shiny metal as he unzipped the canvas cover.
Castro's eyes widened, the whites gleaming as he recognized the object.
"You're familiar with the SADM, I imagine," Bolan said. "That's the Special Atomic Demolition Munition. Commonly called the 'backpack' nuke. It's not big — at least not as nuclear weapons go. About half a kiloton. But I can promise you it'll get rid of the cane stalks a lot faster than your fires." Bolan pulled the control from his pocket and held it up for Castro to see in the firelight. "The warhead's only fifty-six pounds," he continued. "I doubt it will reach Havana, so there'll still be something left for whoever takes your place." He paused, watching hatred replace the sudden fear that had overtaken Castro's face.
The old man turned to the soldiers on the roof. "Evaristo," he called to one of the snipers. "Can you hit the correct part of the American swine's brain to prevent his finger from pushing the button as he dies?"
"Yes, sir," came a voice from the roof. "Easily from here. It's in my cross hairs now. I wait only your order."
Montoya laughed. "It seems your bluff is about to be called," he said to Bolan. "Are you certain you are prepared to die?"
Bolan shrugged. "For years, now, Montoya. How about you?" He watched as Montoya chewed on his bottom lip, leaning back slightly, away from the bomb.
The Executioner turned back to Castro. "Tell your man on the roof to go ahead," he said. "But a second after he pulls the trigger, the bomb will be detonated from the ship, and this end of Cuba will join Atlantis somewhere at the bottom of the sea."
The ship's horn answered again, the slow, haunting sound drifting across the waves of the Bahia de Nipe.
The veins in Castro's neck stood out as blood raced to his face, transforming it into a loathsome, grotesque mask. He turned to the general, ripped the CZ-75 from his holster and shoved the barrel toward Bolan.
"I have given Juan Montoya my word that you will not take him from Cuba against his will," he screamed into the warrior's face.
Then slowly, the dictator's features softened, and a grin began to break around the corners of his mouth. Draping his left arm around Montoya's shoulders, he said, "And I will keep my promise."
Montoya smiled weakly. "Thank you, my friend," he said.
Castro nodded.
Then in one sudden movement, he grabbed Montoya's hair, shoved the gun under the Colombian's chin and fired.
The speeding 9 mm round entered Montoya's throat and traveled up into the brain, exiting through the top of his skull.
"You're welcome," Castro replied.
The man who had been the leader of one of the most powerful drug cartels fell forward onto the grass, the crown of his head a mass of bone fragments and blood.
Fidel Castro coughed, spit phlegm onto Montoya's body and turned to Bolan. "American agents will never operate on Cuban soil," he said, his face a savage veil of fury. He draped an arm around Raul's shoulders and turned away.
Bolan watched as the raging old man, his friend and the general walked back toward the house.
Castro stopped abruptly as he reached the porch. Slowly he turned back to face the Executioner. "In the words of an old comrade," he said. "'We will bury you. "
Bolan stared at the gray-bearded dictator who stood framed by the other two men, his eyes glowing embers of hatred as hot as the fires of hell.
"Don't count on it," the Executioner told him.
Throwing the backpack over his shoulders, Bolan made his way between the walls of fire to the cliffs.
The head of the most ruthless drug smuggling organization in the world was dead. The deaths of Janie, the members of the SEAL team, and the others who had died in the process had been avenged.
But Mack Bolan harbored no misconceptions about the future of the cocaine trade. The Colombians would reorganize. Someone would rise to take the place of the fallen king.
The white plague of cocaine that ate at the very soul of America had been slowed — not eradicated, Bolan knew, as he made his way back down the cliffs to the beach.
There would be more wars, and more lives would be given before the drug problem was stamped out.
It wouldn't just disappear.
Don Pendleton, Cutting Edge
