Valdez circled the deck of the Hatteras, dumping chum into the water and watching as more dorsal fins appeared in the distance. Excitement gleamed from the eyes of Castillo and the other men as they pulled assault rifles from hard cases and waited as the sharks neared the bait.

  The little Cuban descended the steps to the galley and opened the steaming iron pot of paella that the lodge chef had prepared for the trip. When he'd ladled out five dishes of the saffron-seasoned fish and rice, he pulled a small vial from his khaki pants.

  "A little extra seasoning, perhaps, Raul?" he said under his breath. "Yes? Good. You'll enjoy it. It's very relaxing. At first."

  Valdez poured ground Valium tablets onto each of the five plates and mixed the powder in with the food. The Valium wasn't tasteless, but the saffron would easily mask its bitterness.

  Overhead he heard the first shots ring out. Valdez shook his head. It was senseless, a waste. Killing for mere pleasure was foreign to him.

  Killing for a purpose — that was another story.

  The mass destruction of sharks for sport was a grand example of the way these men had run Cuba since the revolution.

  Life, of all types, was cheap.

  Valdez placed the metal covers over the plates before carrying them topside. When he reached the deck, he was met by five grinning faces, relaxing and chatting while they reloaded their weapons.

  "Martinez!" the fat bodyguard commanded. "More chum."

  Valdez lowered his head in subservience. "Pardon, sir," he said. "But the sharks themselves are now chum. Others will come to feed off them."

  The fat bodyguard's chest puffed out in embarrassment. Valdez laughed to himself. This type of man never minded being wrong — as long as no one noticed.

  Valdez spoke quickly to change the subject. "Perhaps you would like to dine now," he said. "The sharks will be here long after we are gone. But the paella will soon be cold."

  The fat man's eyes filled with greed as the five men gathered around the deck table, waiting for Castillo to sit.

  Valdez set a plate in front of each man and removed the cover before going below to one of the staterooms. He lowered himself on one of the berths and pulled a whetstone from his back pocket. He pulled the long Bowie knife from the sheath on his belt and slid it over the coarse edge.

  It should take no longer than a few minutes. Depending on how fast they ate, and each individual's size, the men should soon be sleeping.

  The fat one might take longer, Valdez thought. But he'd probably eat more, and faster than the rest, compensating for any advantage his lard might give him.

  Valdez felt the nausea rise in his belly as he pictured the scene that was about to unfold. It was terrible beyond belief. Sometimes he was ashamed that such plans even occurred to him.

  Then the poetic justice of the thing swept over him, and the little Cuban realized nothing he could do would ever outweigh the crimes these men had committed.

  Predators should fall to other predators.

  Through the hatch, Valdez heard a body hit the deck. Anxious speech drifted downward to the stateroom and then a weak voice called, "Martinez… you…"

  Valdez closed and locked the door to the stateroom. He moved against the wall behind the bed, the Bowie knife gripped by the blade, ready to be hurled at any of the men who might still be able to enter the room.

  No one came.

  The little Cuban waited until he was sure the Valium had taken effect before climbing the ladder.

  Raul Castillo and the four other Cubans lay unconscious on the deck. The fat bodyguard had gotten his .357 halfway out of the holster. Valdez took the revolver and searched the other men, taking their weapons and tossing them into a pile by the hatch. In the pocket of a guard with a thick, drooping mustache, he found a North American Arms .22 Magnum minirevolver. He stuck it into his waistband.

  He went below and opened the refrigerator door, removing a hypodermic needle and several vials of liquid.

  The cartel resort's manager had a heart condition, and it had been one of Valdez's duties to make certain that an adequate supply of adrenaline was always on board.

  It had been irritating to the little Cuban, just another case of the peón serving the padrón. But it would come in handy now, and he wouldn't have to wait for the Valium to wear off.

  Grabbing a roll of wire, Valdez returned to the deck and bound each man's wrists and ankles. Tiny trickles of blood seeped from the spots where the thin wire sliced into their flesh. He dragged each sleeping body to the rail before injecting the men with adrenaline. Valdez moved to one of the benches on the foredeck and waited as, one by one, the men opened their eyes.

  "Martinez?" the fat man said. "What's happening?"

  Valdez stood and walked to the man. Then, with surprising strength, the little Cuban grasped the fat man's belt and lifted him over the rail.

  He dumped the bloody contents of another chum bucket after the man. Seconds later, the blue water turned crimson as two sharks fought over the screaming Cuban bodyguard.

  Then the screams ended.

  Valdez stared into the horrified eyes of the next man at the rail. "For crimes against the people of Cuba," he said, "I sentence you to death." He lifted the second man, screaming and kicking, and cast him into the water.

  The sharks left what remained of the fat bodyguard, sinking their three-inch teeth into the fresh meat.

  Valdez turned to Castillo, who sat bound at the end of the line. "I want you to see it all," he sneered at the man. "Watch carefully. Each one is different, and who knows? Perhaps the stomachs of our finned friends will be full when your turn comes."

  The minister of defense's face had turned a pale gray. "You're not Mexican," he whispered.

  "No."

  "Cuban?"

  Valdez didn't bother to answer. He lifted another bucket of blood and fish over the rail and smiled when a dozen more fins approached the boat. "They are hungry, no? Like the people of Cuba."

  Tears and mucus had dripped from the nostrils of the mustachioed man, and for a brief moment, Valdez pitied him. Then he pushed such thoughts from his mind.

  He glanced at the waters below the boat. They had calmed once more as the sharks finished off whatever flesh was left.

  Valdez hurled the man with the mustache after his partners, and suddenly the sea was alive again in a flurry of water and blood.

  The last bodyguard screamed, and tried to kick at Valdez with his bound ankles.

  The little Cuban stepped back and laughed. "Why not? Why not try? What can I do? Throw you to the sharks?"

  "Have mercy!" the kicking man begged, his eyes closed tightly against the future.

  Valdez grinned- "Mercy?" he said. "No, friend. Did Raul Castillo have mercy on my father? My sister?" He grasped the legs of the final bodyguard and flipped him over the rail to the flashing teeth below.

  The little Cuban turned to the minister, who was whimpering at the boat's bow. He made a futile attempt to cross himself with his wire-bound hands.

  "Ah, do you believe that God will save you now?" Valdez taunted. "Is God a member of the Party?" He grabbed Castillo under the armpits and hauled him to his feet, forcing his head over the rail. The sharks had finished devouring the bodyguards and were turning on one another as new dorsal fins continued to appear on every side of the Hatteras.

  A high-pitched squeal erupted from the minister's lips.

  Laughing, the little Cuban shoved him to the deck on his back. "I have other plans for you," he spit. He watched as his victim's chest heaved in fear.

  Raul Castillo looked up into Valdez's eyes, his face a mask of terror. He took another deep breath, then said, "Nothing will come of this. Nothing except your death, Martinez."

  Valdez snorted. He removed his sweat-soaked bandanna and wrung it out over the rail before replacing the damp band on his forehead. He listened to the fishing boat's big engine, the steady rumble calming him as it guided them across the Gulf of California toward Mazatlán.

  The little Cuban gathered the bodyguard's weapons into his arms. "My name isn't Martinez," he said.

  The CIA faction that advised and aided Alpha 66 was good. The documents they had provided three years ago had stood the inspection of the cartel.

  But while the CIA was good, it wasn't perfect. The Mexican passport and other papers hadn't been recalled when he was banished from Alpha 66, and along with his obvious knowledge of fishing and boats, had secured him the trusted position of captain on the cartel lodge's fishing boat.

  "Jorge Martinez" had even been trusted with Fidel Castro's right-hand man.

  Valdez went below and dropped the guns on the galley table. One of the men had carried a Heckler & Koch 9 mm "squeeze cocker," and Valdez felt the comforting weight as he slid the pancake holster onto his belt.

  The little Cuban pulled the .22 minirevolver from his pocket, thumbed the hammer to half cock and removed the cylinder. The weapon held five rimfire Magnums. Valdez reassembled the tiny pistol and stuck it back into his waistband. It would be easier to conceal than a larger gun once they arrived at Mazatlán, and who knew when it might come in handy?

  Castillo had regained some of his composure by the time Valdez returned to deck. "So, if your name isn't Martinez," he said, "what is it?"

  Valdez stared into the other man's eyes. "You'll find out soon enough."

  "There's a saying amongst your American friends," the minister said. "Let's cut through the bullshit. My premier will reward you handsomely for my return."

  The little Cuban snorted. "Yes, perhaps I should change course immediately for Cuba. I would receive a warm welcome, no doubt. Perhaps I could be honored as a hero of the revolution?" His light tone changed suddenly to a snarl. "Now, keep quiet unless you are spoken to. It is I who am dictator on this boat."

  Valdez took a seat on the foredeck and pulled the whetstone from his back pocket. He stroked the Bowie knife along the top. The blade already carried a razor's edge, but the movement relaxed him. He had a great deal yet to do, and he knew he would have to stay calm, would have to keep occupied, to keep from letting his emotions take over. He would have to work at relaxing.

  The little Cuban's mind drifted briefly to the only era in his life when he hadn't had to work at relaxing — his childhood in Havana.

  He'd practically grown up on his father's fishing boat. Carlos Valdez had been both father and mother to him and his sister. Then the change had come, change in the form of this man's boss, Fidel; change in the form of communism.

  As he ran the blade back and forth across the stone, Valdez watched Castillo squinting painfully against the hot sun.

  On Valdez's twelfth birthday, he'd arrived at the docks to find his father's boat in the hands of the revolutionaries. He'd never forget the men in green fatigues dragging Carlos Valdez to the jeep and driving away.

  He never saw his father again.

  The merc wiped the grit from the Bowie blade onto his pants leg. He and his fifteen-year-old sister had joined the ranks of the other war orphans who roamed the streets of Havana, surviving as best they could in the chaos that followed.

  Then his sister had found another way to survive.

  The hatred and anger he'd carried for more than twenty years filled the little Cuban's heart. He stared at the exposed throat of the man on the deck.

  No, not yet. There was more at stake than his own pride, more to be gained than the simple revenge he was owed by this man.

  Valdez walked back to the rail and gazed out across the open water. Delivering the chief henchman of the Western Hemisphere's most hated dictator would mean his return to Alpha 66 and the cause that had become his sole reason for living. His past sins would be forgiven.

  This devil would be his savior.

  Behind him, Valdez heard the minister shift positions, then grunt.

  Good. That was what pigs did. Grunt.

  "My circulation has stopped," Castillo called.

  "Good."

  "But the wires are cutting my wrists. Will you loosen them?"

  "No." Valdez continued to stare at the ocean.

  "Tell me," the voice continued. "How did you leave Cuba? Were you among the criminals and mental patients my premier gave the United States a few years ago?"

  Valdez looked back over his shoulder and smiled. "No. When I was seventeen I stole a fishing boat. Your harbor police and shore patrol aren't as clever as you would like to believe."

  The merc turned to face his captive. "Do you remember a housekeeper you once had?" he asked.

  The man on the deck snorted. "I have had many housekeepers over the years."

  "Yes, I'm aware of that. It was quite a joke on the streets of Havana. 'The premier's best friend has another new housekeeper. Or secretary. Or cook. Always said with a smile. Usually followed by 'And she is even younger than the last. Or if a family member was present, some attempt at consolation. Such as how much better it was than resorting to the common prostitution many young girls were forced into in those days." Valdez paused, then said quietly, "Her name was Evangelina. She was one of your many housekeepers who also served as your whore."

  A leer crossed the captor's face. "As I said, there have been many."

  "There will be no more."

  "We will see."

  Slowly Valdez crossed the deck and slid into the seat above where Castillo lay. He grasped the man by the hair and pulled the face up to his. Methodically Valdez backhanded the man until a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of the minister's mouth. "My name is Felipe Valdez," he gritted. "Evangelina Valdez was my sister."

  A new concern came into the captive's eyes. "Yes," he said. "I remember her, now." He paused, frowning and squinting, and Valdez could see he was considering his next words carefully. "I… loved her very much," he finally said. He watched Valdez anxiously.

  The little Cuban felt the hatred and frustration of twenty years suddenly centralize in his chest. He backhanded his captive again, the force of the blow knocking the man from his grasp and back to the deck. Hand trembling, the little Cuban drew the Bowie knife and knelt astride the man's chest. He brought the point of the blade to the minister's throat.

  "Don't insult my intelligence," he growled, tears forming in his eyes.

  "No," Castillo whimpered. "You must believe me… she escaped."

  Valdez grasped the crotch of the minister of defense's baggy fishing pants. Slowly he sliced open the light cotton material. He did the same with the underwear he found below.

  With the Bowie's false edge, the little Cuban gently hefted a testicle. He heard Castillo suck in a lungful of air. "Was she good, my sister?" he asked softly. "Did you enjoy her?

  "Tell me, what will it be like when you return to Cuba as a eunuch?" Valdez threw back his head, laughing as the wind hit him in the face.

  He lifted the other testicle with the knife and leaned forward, staring down at his horrified captive. Castillo's heavy breathing sent the rich odor of a recently smoked Havana cigar to his nostrils and with it the reminder of all this man and his premier had stolen, not just from him, but from all the people of Cuba. Valdez shook his head.

  "No!" Castillo screamed. "Your sister is free… she escaped!"

  Valdez leaned slightly into the blade and saw a few drops of blood shine in the sunlight on the stainless steel of the Bowie knife. "She did not escape," he whispered.

  "Yes!" the minister pleaded. "We received intelligence reports later. She was smuggled on board a French freighter… she's free."

  Valdez gazed into the terrified eyes below him. They seemed to be somewhere far away, at the end of a long tunnel. The little Cuban felt as if some outside force were guiding his arm as he shifted the Bowie to an ice pick grip and raised it slowly over his head. "There was a hurricane. The ship was lost," he heard himself say.

  Like their father before her, his sister had simply vanished.

  "No!" the man screamed as the knife descended.

  It passed a centimeter from his left ear and wedged in the deck of the Hatteras.

  Raul Castillo's eyes were still closed when Valdez wrenched the Bowie from the deck and stood. He took a step away from the cringing man then sent a vicious kick into his exposed groin. The minister screamed again and opened his eyes.

  "You will die, you son of a bitch," Valdez promised. "But not yet. You are about to meet some friends of mine. Perhaps you have heard of them. They call themselves Alpha 66."

  A new panic covered the face of the man on the deck. He shook his head violently. "Kill me now," he begged.

  Valdez chuckled. "It's difficult not to honor your request." He replaced the Bowie in the sheath. "But you will serve certain purposes before you die."

  He looked down at the broken man now huddled in a fetal position as he attempted to protect his genitals. He stepped forward and brought his right foot back to kick again, then stopped.

  Felipe Valdez walked to the rail and stared vacantly past the bow at the endless miles of water in front of him.

  Ahead lay Mazatlán. Then they would fly over the Mexican mainland, before reaching another gulf with waves that rolled very much like the ones he saw before him now.

  And somewhere beneath those rolling waves of the Gulf of Mexico, his sister, Evangelina, was finally at peace.

  7

  The Executioner had no time to linger over the broken body on the runway. Automatic gunfire rang out from both sides of the jeep. Bolan felt the compressed energy as bullets blew past his face. He floored the accelerator and cut the jeep's steering wheel hard to the left.

  As he neared the airport's main gate, four regular army vehicles and a dozen Colombian police cars sped up the road to block him off. Bolan hit the brake and skidded the jeep at a forty-five-degree angle. He turned toward the next gate, away from the oncoming militia.

  Several more police cars barred his exit.

  He cut the wheel again as the closest policemen opened fire. One round struck the steering wheel, shattering the hard plastic. The right half of the wheel crumbled beneath his hand.

  He gripped down hard on what was left of the guiding device, forcing the jeep into a sliding U-turn. Stomping hard on the pedal again, the Executioner raced back across the runway toward the opposite side of the field.

 

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