LITMIR.BIZ

      BOLAN IGNORED THE PROTESTS of Stein and Crosse who continued to demand answers where he had no time to give them. The Executioner gritted his teeth. He had conducted many a rescue mission, and he couldn’t remember playing nursemaid to a bigger pair of whiners than these two.

      Locating the stairwell, he descended three at a time and stopped once to check the progress of his charges. Bolan watched with mild amusement as the pair stumble-bummed their way down the steps like a comedy team duo. When they caught up to him, Bolan continued the remainder of the way and stopped short at the rear exit. A heavy chain with a padlock secured the door.

      “What the fu—?” Crosse began.

      “That violates the fire code!” Stein sputtered.

      Bolan looked at the pair disbelievingly. “Well, maybe we should stop at the front desk and complain.”

      The sound of the second-floor door opening could barely be heard above the rush of footfalls coming toward the rear hallway running the length of the building. A quartet of Cuban officers raced around the corner at the far end. Bolan fired several warning shots above their heads, causing them to scatter for cover, then drove the butt of the pistol against the padlock several times to break it. Bolan disengaged the chain and pushed open the door, then waved the DIA agents through.

      As Stein and Crosse passed, Bolan looked back to see the sentry he’d knocked out staggering down the steps, a machine pistol in his grip. The Executioner didn’t know where the guy had managed to get such a weapon on short notice, but he didn’t have to guess how he planned to use it from his expression. Even as the Cuban police fired on him, Bolan thumbed the Beretta to 3-shot mode and squeezed the trigger. A trio of 9 mm Parabellum slugs punched through the submachine gunner’s chest and lifted him off his feet. His back struck the wall and he left a bloody streak against it before he tumbled down the steps. Bolan was out the door before the man’s corpse hit the floor.

      The Executioner, less than two steps behind Stein and Crosse, looked up the alleyway and saw more troubles headed toward the waiting Oldsmobile. Bless Encizo and Grimaldi for sticking to the plan. One of the cops had to have leaned out the window and triggered a blast of autofire because the rear-door window shattered as Crosse opened it and leaped inside. One of the rounds ricocheted and struck Stein in the meaty part of the shoulder.

      The agent yipped like a dog. Bolan shoved him inside the relative safety of the vehicle and then followed. “Go!”

      Encizo, the gearshift already in Reverse, tromped the accelerator before Bolan could close his door. A retaining wall smashed into the door and nearly knocked it from its hinges. Thankfully, the solid metal body held under the torsion and it only managed to rip away a good part of the vinyl interior panel. Bolan got a viselike grip on the door, ignoring the shards of broken glass that bit into his callused hand, and yanked it close.

      “Sorry…” Encizo said, head over shoulder, eyes glued to the rear window.

      “Let’s try shooting out their tires!” Grimaldi suggested.

      Bolan shook his head. “No. We might hit one of them.”

      “Who the hell are you guys?” Crosse finally demanded.

      “Later,” Bolan said as he pulled a thick gauze pad from one of the slit pockets of his blacksuit and slapped it on Stein’s bloody shoulder wound. He instructed Crosse to apply pressure, then pulled out a second one and wrapped his own hand.

      “Well, if anyone’s got an idea, now would be the time to speak up,” Encizo said.