Bolan had run out of ammo for the Luger, and had abandoned it. A snubnosed .32 was in one hand, a .45 automatic in the other, both acquired during the course of the battle. He was bleeding slightly from the right hand, where a sliver of flying glass had nicked him, and he was surveying the carnage from behind the cover of an overturned couch, seeking another live target. A man in a white suit broke from a doorway across the room and made a run for the front door, firing wildly toward the couch as he ran. Bolan raised up and fired both guns simultaneously. The man broke stride and fell in a twisting crumble.
The Executioner was well aware that he had pushed his luck a bit too far. The thunder of a firefight he had not desired, and his timing had suffered grievously from being pinned down too long in the penthouse. He tossed the .45 across the room, retrieved his Luger and jammed it into the sideleather, and dropped the .32 into the pocket of his coat. The girl in the bedroom was running out of breath and had wound down to a rhythmic moaning.
Bolan hesitated, then stepped inside the bedroom and pulled her to her feet, stood her against the wall, and began gently working her over with methodical slaps to the face. Her eyes rolled down almost immediately and the glaze disappeared from them. He muttered, “Sorry, kid. Your bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Grab your clothes and beat it.”
She nodded her head in understanding. Satisfied that she was in control, Bolan released her and moved quickly through to the living room. The girls by the window were beginning to lift themselves up and look around. At Bolan’s reappearance, they again dropped quickly to the floor. He went on out, entering the penthouse foyer with senses quiveringly alert, and ran down the winding stairway to the fourth level hallway. A window there overlooked the front grounds, revealing a scene of considerable activity below. Vehicles were entering the circular drive from both directions; others had already reached the portico and men were spilling from them. In the distance he could see two police cruisers pulled broadside across the beach drive, beacons flashing.
Bolan came to a quick decision and descended quickly to the ground level, passing into the now very much alive lobby at the same moment that a group of grimfaced men came through the main entrance. He quickly stepped into the lounge. The bartender was hovering just inside the doorway, anxiously peering into the lobby. Bolan said, “What the hell is going on around here?”
The bartender replied, “Christ, I don’t know. Th’ house dicks are running around like wild men, and it looks like the cops just made the scene. I heard explosions. I dunno, maybe we’re on fire.”
Bolan said, “Oh,” and went out the other door, along the hallway, and to his room.
He knew that he had a visitor even before he closed the door. The .32 cleared his pocket in a lightening sweep, the small hairs at the back of his neck stiffening in the automatic reflex, then relaxing in the instant recognition of his visitor. Bolan kept the little .32 steady and said, “Naughty, naughty. What did you teach in Cuba, breaking and entering?”
The bellman, now wearing swim trunks beneath a short terrycloth robe, smiled and replied, “Relax, Senor Bolan. I am your friend.”
“How does Blanski come out Bolan?” The Executioner inquired, though well aware that his cover had been penetrated.
“I have followed your campaigns with great admiration,” the Cuban said, ignoring the question. He waved his arm in the direction of a chair, on which were draped swim trunks and a robe similar to his. “Right now we must get you out. I will explain while you change, but you must hurry.”
Bolan had never been noted for indecision. His mind examined the situation in a quick scan and he immediately began undressing.
“You may call me Toro,” the Cuban told him. “And that is the Spanish bull, not the Italian. Not that I have anything at all against the Italians, but just to clear your own mind.”
Bolan was kicking off his jockeys. He stepped into the trunks and said, “Okay, Toro the Spanish bull. What’s the plan?”
“The plan is escape, and the via is the sea. We Cubans are noted masters of such an event.”
Bolan smiled and adjusted the trunks to his crotch. “So all we have to do is find the sea. Great.” He shrugged into the robe. “Do you have a magic carpet?”
Toro smiled broadly. “Si, maybe. But you must leave your possessions behind.”
“I’ve done that before, too,” Bolan replied. “Nothing here I can’t replace.” He gazed regretfully at the Luger, then wrapped it carefully and stowed it in the suitcase.
The Cuban said, “Maybe you can return for it later.” He pulled a chair into position beneath a ceiling grating, stood on it, and carefully elevated the metal screen. “Air conditioning shaft,” he explained, smiling at Bolan. “Remain at my very feet and make not a sound.”
Bolan nodded, jammed the .32 into the waistband of his trunks, and followed Toro into the shaft. It was cramped and dark, but delightfully cool. Bolan replaced the grating and snaked along in pursuit of the fastmoving Cuban.
The shaft obviously traversed the entire length of that wing of the building, with periodic offshoots to the upper floors. They moved warily across a dozen gratings opening into rooms below; once Bolan passed direcly above a nude couple, entertwined and apparently asleep on a bed. He made a mental note for future reference to avoid hotel rooms with overhead air-conditioning, and quietly passed on. After a long period of uncomfortable slithering along the narrow shaft, his guide halted and signalled Bolan. They lay still for a long moment, then a crack of light ahead momentarily blinded Bolan. Another quiet wait, then the crack suddenly became a wide rectangle and Toro was again moving forward. Then he was gone from sight and whispering urgently, “Quickly, senor, swing down.”
Bolan found the hand rail and tumbled through the access hatch. He performed a somersault and landed on his feet in soft sand. They were at the end of the horseshoe and one low wall removed from open beach. Toro was scrambling over the wall. Bolan quickly followed and glanced about for a quick recon. Few bathers were present, though there was fresh evidence of a recent crowd in the vicinity. Bolan presumed that they had been drawn back to the hotel by the ruckus. A man lying beneath a beach umbrella stared at them curiously as they walked by.
The Cuban had begun to dance about in the sand and laugh loudly, as though Bolan had said something funny, which he had not. Bolan picked it up, talking and laughing in a loud voice. They were approaching the center of the hotel’s private section of the beach. Three very obvious policemen in plainclothes, standing stiffly near the wall in an attitude of tense watchfulness, gave the merrymakers an intent scrutiny. One of the officers shifted his weight in a half-pivot and seemed to be about to step into their path. Toro whipped off his robe and danced wildly around Bolan as he wadded the robe into a ball, then he threw it into Bolan’s face with a wild shriek and raced toward the water.
Bolan yelled, “Okay, buddy, you asked for it!”—and chased after Toro, removing his own robe on the run. He hit the surf in an arching dive. The .32 left him under the onslaught of the foaming water. Bolan let it go and threshed on in pursuit of the Cuban. A glance over his shoulder showed that the policemen had bought the act. They were splitting up and moving toward the ends of the building.
Toro was floating and getting his breath beyond the rollers when Bolan reached him. “Some carpet,” Bolan panted. “And some act. Now I know what you taught. Drama, right?”
Toro grinned. “We will work slowly and casually northward. A boat awaits us. Or if you become too tired, senor, we can go ashore farther on and walk a little.”
Bolan was gazing toward the open sea. “Couple of boats right out there,” he observed.
“Si, and they await you also. Police boats, Senor Bolan.”
“How do you know so much?” Bolan asked, though not really expecting an answer. He flipped onto his back and idled northward with his guide who, incidentally, Bolan was now certain was something more than a hotel bellman. Just how much more, Bolan was equally certain
that he would soon learn. For the moment, he was only grateful for the strange twist of destiny that had placed him in the hands of Toro, the Spanish bull. He hoped that they would continue to be friendly hands. He liked the little Cuban; more, he respected him. Also, in some dark instinctive corner of his mind, he feared him. Bolan paddled on, watching the luxury hotels slipping slowly past, and found the entire scene suddenly incredible. He had just slain a dozen men. And now he was lolling in the warm Miami currents, lazily making his way “northward,” guided by an unknown entity and to an unimaginable destination.
Yes, it was incredible. Very well. Bolan accepted the incredible. His entire life, since returning from Vietnam, had been woven of same threads.
He smiled and caught Toro’s eye. “By the way, thanks,” he said.
“My pleasure, senor, to work with a man of your accomplishments.”
Bolan said, “I had a flanker like you once,” in his own mind paying the man a huge tribute. “He died in a place called Balboa.”
“Si, I read of that tragedy.”
“You seem to know a lot more about me than I know about you,” Bolan observed.
“In time,” Toro replied, smiling, “that will not be so. For now, know this. When this flanker dies, he hopes it to be in a place called Cuba.”
Bolan said nothing. He was beginning to understand the new friendship. Impossible causes, he was thinking, had a way of branding their champions—brands which made brothers of the bearers, regardless of their other differences. Their eyes met and the unspoken understanding passed between them. “It must be very lonely to be an exile,” Bolan murmured.
“Can you not answer that for yourself, senor?” Toro replied quietly.
“Yes, I suppose I can.” Bolan turned his face toward the line of hotels, and the two exiles paddled on northward.
Chapter Ten
EL MATADOR
John Hannon stood broodingly in the doorway of the manager’s office at the Tidewater Plaza, watching the approach of the Homicide lieutenant. Wilson’s face showed no evidence of impending good news. Hannon dug into a pocket for his pipe, clamped it between his teeth, and waited the report.
Wilson shook his head and said, “I don’t know, cap’n. This place is like a small city. Over 500 rooms, barber shops, clothiers, restaurants, bars, the whole bit.”
“You’re saying we’re not going to find him,” Hannon snapped.
“No sir, it’s too soon to say that. I just want you to know that it’s going to take a while for a thorough shake. We’re still finding victims. The count is now up to ten.”
“How about the young women? They have anything to offer?”
The detective grinned. “Yes sir, but not while I’m on duty.”
“Cut it out,” Hannon growled. “I’m in no mood for wisecracks.”
Wilson sobbered. “Uh, every one of them gave a different description of the assailant. They can’t even agree on how many. You know how numbing it can be when hell explodes right out of the blue. One of the girls is under sedation. The others are still shaking. I belive we’ll get better accounts after they’ve settled down some.”
“In the meantime,” the captain fumed, “we’re getting no closer at all to Bolan.”
“One very stark picture does emerge,” Wilson thoughtfully pointed out. “Bolan hits fast and hard. He comes in like a lightning bolt and leaves in a clap of thunder—and when it’s over, those left alive are sitting around wondering just what the hell happened.”
Hannon nodded and started to comment, then checked himself as a telephone rang behind him. He stepped into the office, conversed briefly on the phone, then returned to the doorway. “Another stiff,” he told Wilson, sighing. “Room 342. Better get up there and look it over. Wait … I’ll go with you.” He caught the attention of a uniformed officer and called him over. “Watch the phone,” Hannon ordered. “Relay anything for me to 342.”
The patrolman murmured his understanding and went into the office. As the two detectives walked to the elevator, Hannon said, “Somehow Bolan penetrated their security—obviously knew precisely where they were quartered. I don’t know how, yet … but I guess we better try to find out. It might be our only finger on him. This deal up in 342, now there’s a case in point.”
“What point?” Wilson asked.
“Bolan had ’em fingered. Peters says the victim was crumpled against the door, inside the room. Chainlock still intact. Got it right in the face. Cracked the door, see, left the chain on, looked out to see who was calling. Then splat, a bullet up the nose. Guy had a drink in his hand, half-undressed, television turned on … all relaxed, see? A .38 revolver lying on his dresser, didn’t even take it to the door with him, took his drink instead. Suspected nothing, felt safe and secure. The door chain was a normal caution, I’d do it that way myself. Then splat, right up the nose.”
Wilson was frowning as he stepped into the elevator car. “He’s just hunting them down, then, and Killing them on sight,” he commented, a growl in his voice. “Look, I don’t like these people myself … but I can’t buy that kind of shit. The guy’s an animal, cap’n. An animal with a strong smell for blood.”
Hannon was grimacing in deep thought. “I don’t think so, Bob,” he muttered. “Is that the way you’d describe our boys in Vietnam? As bloodthirsty animals?”
“That’s different,” Wilson replied.
The car eased to a smooth halt and the door slid open. The two men stepped out, paused to check the directions on the wall, then strode along the carpeted hallway as the captain picked up the conversation. “It’s different only because of time and place,” he argued. “These are the rules of combat, the new rules, as prescribed for Vietnam. It’s a hunt and kill war over there, Bob. These young fellas are taught to fight that way. The enemy is something to track down and exterminate. Bolan’s been through several years of that hell, and I guess he learned his lessons well. Now he’s fighting the same kind of war, right here in our town. We don’t want to hate the kid, Bob. We want to try to understand him. Otherwise, I’m getting the feeling that we’ll never nail him.”
“He’s no kid,” Wilson sniffed. “Not unless I am too.”
The veteran cop chuckled. “You’re both kids to me, lieutenant. Here we are. The scene is undisturbed … we’ll have to climb the balcony.”
A uniformed officer stood in the open doorway of room 340. He touched his cap respectfully and said, “340 is unoccupied, sir. Go through to the terrace and over the wall to your right.”
The detectives went on through without a word. As Wilson was hoisting himself over the dividing wall, he muttered, “Goddamn war anyhow, sending these guys back with blood in their nose.”
The captain did not comment on that until they were standing over the bloodied remains of Al Capistrano, an enforcer in the Philadelphia family of Ralph The Barber Calipatria. He sighed and said, “They don’t all come back with this big a hard-on, lieutenant. We’ve got to get this boy. We have got to get him quick.” He dropped to his knees for a closer look.
“I’ll buy that,” Wilson replied.
The captain rose hastily to his feet and passed a hand wearily across his face. “I just hope you can, lieutenant … and that the price won’t be too high. How many victims does this make today?”
Wilson performed a quick mental calculation and replied, “Thirteen that we know of.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I guess the massacre is on. We won’t find Bolan at the Tidewater Plaza, I’m sure of that now. He isn’t hanging around waiting for us to seal him in. I’d say he’s a perfectionist. Knows precisely what he is doing, every step of the way. In matters of war, that is.”
“So which way do we go from here?”
Hannon sighed. “You go down and take the seal off, it’s a useless exercise. I’m going to stay up here for a while. I feel very close to that boy right now, I could almost touch him. I’m getting his feel and his smell.”
Wilson went back out the way he’d come, nodded to t
he patrolman, and headed for the elevator. If the captain wanted to sit in that death room and think, then Bob Wilson allowed that this was the captain’s own business. But Wilson had just remembered something regarding the tough old chief of the Dade Force. Hannon’s only son had died in Vietnam, torn to bits when he stepped on a land mine. The lieutenant was hoping that the captain was not becoming confused as to the identity of The Executioner. The name was Mack Bolan—not John Hannon, Jr. And a guy had to know when to stop being a war hero. Bolan was no hero in Miami. He was the same as any other killer, and he was going to meet a killer’s fate in Miami. Lt. Wilson had already bought that fact. And no cost would prove too high.
Wilson felt, moreover, that this was no case for the silk gloves, VIP handling of the Dade Force. It was a homicide matter, and only homicide routines would tip the balance of advantage away from Bolan. Let Hannon sit in a death room and ponder M.O. The homicide cop would conduct a standard investigation. He would begin with the hotel staff, and he’d milk them dry of all they could possibly offer. He’d backtrack on Bolan’s trail and sift through it all again. He’d call in every informant in town and he’d comb the city for every presence of the Mafia and he’d, by god, meet Bolan on Bolan’s own ground. What was more, he would gun the son of a bitch down without once thinking of all those glory medals from Vietnam.
Hate the kid? Wilson’s lips twisted in a rueful smile. Hell no, he didn’t hate him. But he hated what he stood for, he hated the idea that some combat-crazy sergeant could forget what it had all been about, and come back to destroy the very thing he had fought to preserve.
After all, Wilson had put in his share of military service, too. If Hannon wanted to “understand the kid,” he should ask a … Wilson stood stockstill in the elevator doorway, gripping his hands together tightly in the sudden “revelation.” Of course! The military mind was …
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