Crisis Nation. Don Pendleton

was storing nuclear weapons on the island. Political activists had begun protesting outside U.S. military bases and Puerto Rican police stations. The actions by military policemen to round them up and take them away from the bases had made news worldwide. When a protestor had been shot trying to break into Fort Buchanan, the protests had broken out into street-rioting in the capital. Tear gas and rubber bullets had been used and the rioting and looting had gotten worse.

      Then people had started to die in earnest.

      Anyone who opposed the closing of the bases or independence for Puerto Rico was branded a traitor. There had been a number of high-profile kidnappings, and street violence disguised as political statement had become endemic in the capital and was spilling out into the countryside. Police had become a popular target, and it was common knowledge that many Puerto Rican police were sympathetic and were not prosecuting or investigating to the best of their abilities. The United States was loath to send in armed troops or hordes of federal police. The Puerto Rican governor had called out the National Guard, and many of them were very reluctant to take action against rioters or demonstrators. Many had thrown down their weapons and joined them.

      There were many in the U.S. congress and senate who believed that the U.S. should wash its hands and let the island commonwealth go. The FBI had very strong leads that Puerto Rican organized crime had a very strong hand in everything going on, but when a car bomb had gone off outside their San Juan office and two of their agents had been killed, they had been forced to admit there wasn’t much they could do about it without massive reinforcement.

      Puerto Rico was turning into a powder keg, and it was almost to the point of being a “retake the island or let it go” situation. The President was willing to consider Puerto Rican independence, but had stated categorically to his cabinet he would not allow the U.S. and Puerto Rico’s long association to be severed by the sword of domestic terrorism rather than the ballot box.

      He was unwilling to send in the 101st Airborne Division. Instead he fell back on the services of a patriotic American.

      Mack Bolan had boarded a plane.

      He turned and sized up the man beside him. Puerto Rico might be a commonwealth of the United States, but it was also a Caribbean island with an overwhelmingly Latin culture. Corruption among the police was endemic. Inspector Noah Constante had a reputation as an ass-kicker. He had a lot of arrests, a lot of convictions and a sleepy aura of relaxed violence about him. Bolan suspected that if Constante had been a cop on the mainland he would probably have been brought up on police brutality charges dozens of times. He was a man who got things done and specialized in homicide. That told Bolan that if Constante was corrupt, the inspector was much more likely to receive favors and bribes from local businessmen and politicians rather than criminals. That was one reason why Bolan had requested him.

      “Beheadings say gangsters. I think gangsters did this,” Bolan said.

      “Well,” Constante said, giving a very Latin shrug, “there is no reason why a man cannot be a gangster and a patriot.”

      Bolan tilted his head at the bodies. “You consider whoever did that a patriot?”

      “Whoever did that is murdering, rapist scum.” Constante’s black eyes stared long and hard at the dead military policewoman’s corpse. “I happened to have known Miss Corporal Carson. She was a good cop. I am afraid I cannot let this stand.”

      “So tell me, who’s the most powerful gang in Puerto Rico?” Bolan knew the answer, but he wanted to gauge Constante.

      “That’s easy.” The inspector shrugged again. “That would be La Neta, which means the truth. They formed in Río Piedras Prison in 1970, supposedly to stop violence between inmates and promote solidarity between the Puerto Rican gangs, but they have since, how would you say…evolved, beyond their original charter.”

      “What else can you tell me about them?” Bolan asked.

      “They often promote themselves as a cultural group. Since their inception they have always promoted independence for the island. Like all successful prison gangs, they spread out beyond the prison walls. They have taken over many of the street gangs and established ties with others. They have always had a reputation of silencio.”

      Bolan raised an eyebrow. “Silence?”

      Constante frowned. “Not exactly.” The inspector sought for a translation. “It is not the word they would use, but you would understand their reputation much more as tranquilidad.”

      “Quiet,” Bolan said.

      “Yes, quiet. Make no mistake, La Neta is a violent street gang. Disrespect or action taken against one of their members or affiliates is seen as an attack on all members, and they will violently defend their turf. However, they have established the unusual tactic of not drawing attention to themselves, and when they do, it is as a patriotic organization—Puerto Rico for Puerto Ricans. Often they put money into their local barrios, in community projects. They will provide beer and food at fiestas and march in parades wrapped in the Puerto Rican flags. They let other gangs draw attention to themselves as gangsters, they let others establish reputations for violence and killings, for being bad men, and when the inevitable crackdown comes? La Neta is waiting, in silencio, to move in and take over their turf or swallow up their organization.”

      Bolan eyed the inspector shrewdly. “What about ties to political groups?”

      “As I have said, señor, La Neta is strongly patriotic. They have long associated themselves with the Los Macheteros revolutionary group.”

      Bolan had read a dossier on “The Machete Men.” For years they had been on the violent, extremist end of the independence movement. Bolan surveyed the headless corpses. “That look like machete work to you?”

      “Indeed.” Constante sighed. “However, I must say that is a tenuous, indeed, metaphoric lead at best.”

      The inspector had a bit of the poet about him. Bolan found himself liking the man but not immediately trusting him. “Like I said, this looks like gangster work, parading as politics, and that’s where I’m going to start my way up the food chain.”

      “You know much about gangsters, then?”

      Bolan played a card and posed a question of his own. “Tell me, Inspector, did you ever see the movie The Untouchables?”

      “‘They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue.’” Constante quoted. His teeth were neither particularly even nor straight, but they flashed blindingly white out of his face.

      “And there endeth the lesson,” Bolan concluded. “You in?”

      “Oh, well, how may I be of assistance to…” He gazed at Bolan in open, smiling suspicion. “The United States Department of Justice?”

      Bolan and Constante understood each other. The soldier had been sent under the umbrella of the United States Department of Justice as Agent Matthew Cooper, a DOJ “observer” of the current political crisis. However, if that were true he would be spending his time with diplomats, politicians and lawyers rather than standing ankle-deep in the silt of the Laguna San José with a lowly homicide inspector. The title and the job description were phony and both men knew it. All Constante knew was that the Man had come to his island, and apparently the inspector thought it was about time.

      “Give me a name,” Bolan said.

      “What kind of name, señor?” The inspector asked innocently.

      “Why, the name of the worst son of a bitch in San Juan.”

      “Oh!” Constante brightened. “That is easy. The name you want is Yotuel d’Nico.”

      “I think I’ll go have a talk with this Yotuel.”

      Constante grinned happily. “I will light a candle for you.”

      2

      “So who’s this Yotuel, anyway?” Bolan asked.