Toro shrugged again. “Perhaps. Did this someone also mention the name of this boat, senor?”
“Yes, but I guess I wasn’t paying enough attention.” He shook his head, then snatched up the suitcases and headed for the door, Toro followed closely. “I have to get moving, amigo. You’ll never know how much you’ve helped me. In many ways.”
They went on out to the car. Bolan put the luggage in the rear seat. Toro seemed uncomfortable. Bolan hoped he wasn’t about to bring up the money. He closed the gap of silence with, “You going to let me out of here without a blindfold?”
Toro grabbed Bolan and embraced him, saying, “Para siempre hermanos—brothers forever, yes?”
“Siempre,” Bolan soberly repeated. Then he smiled and added, “Does that mean no blindfold?”
Toro’s eyes were watery. He shook his head. “No blindfold for our Senor El Matador. God walk with you, Mack Bolan.”
The emotion embarrassed Bolan. He opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel. Then he noticed the brown satchel on the floorboards, and he understood why Toro had made no further mention of the money. He sighed and picked up the satchel and dropped it through the window onto the ground.
The Cuban said, “Amigo, it is too much. We cannot accept your own war chest.”
“It’s a revolving fund, Toro. There’s plenty more where that came from, just waiting to be picked up. You get yourself some weapons, amigo, and you walk the length and breadth of your Cuba with them. Which way to Miami, hermano?”
Toro’s face was a study in restrained emotion. The eyes were watering freely and the lips trembled between a smile and a frown. He swung his gaze toward the veranda and a small figure detached itself from a chair in the shadows and stepped into the dim nightlight. It was Margarita, once more in the tight fatigues and with the businesslike .45 strapped to her waist. Toro leaned into Bolan’s window and said quietly, “Margarita demands the right of guide, or I would lead you myself. Follow her, Matador, she will take you to the highway. And Mack, in god’s name, take care. Do not die in Miami for the sake of nothing.”
A final clasp of hands and then Mack Bolan, now El Matador del Causa de Cuba, was following the jeep back across the darkened compound, silent men lining the roadway and waving a quiet farewell. They were passed through the gate without a challenge, and some twenty minutes later the jeep executed an arc in front of Bolan and halted, facing back the way they’d come. Bolan pulled alongside and reached into the jeep to squeeze the girl’s hand. “Gracias, soldada,” he said soberly.
She stretched up and leaned into his vehicle to place a warm kiss on his lips. “Va ya con dios, Matador,” she whispered.
Bolan swiped at his eyes and went on to the highway junction, several hundred feet beyond. He stopped there to unbutton his shirt and withdraw the Luger, performed a final inspection, then replaced the gun in the sideleather and eased onto the highway. The glow of Miami was in the sky, far ahead. He tossed a final look behind him, to a place where he had found friendship … for so brief a time.
“I go now with death, soldada,” he muttered, and sent the Chevy hurtling back toward the battle line.
Preoccupied with what lay ahead, he did not see the small vehicle without lights that pulled onto the highway behind him. He went, also, with Margarita.
Chapter Fourteen
OF DEATH TRAPS
Captain Hannon rose ominously from his desk and fixed Stewart Dunlap with an angry gaze. “What the hell do you mean, lay off?” he asked in a thick voice.
The Justice agent’s ever-present smile hung on as he explained, “I’m just passing the word, captain—relax. The official request is coming down through channels. I just thought you’d like to—”
“Well you can think again,” Hannon rumbled. “The Dade Force is not laying off.” He grabbed for his pipe and thrust it between his teeth, then pulled it out and jabbed it toward his visitor. “Wholesale murder has been done in this town, Dunlap, and no self-respecting cop can turn away from something like that. Our chief, by the way, is a highly self-respecting cop.”
Dunlap shrugged and said, “It’s not for Bolan’s benefit, John. There’s a hell of a delicate angle to this thing, and we …”
“I’m listening,” Hannon prompted him.
Dunlap’s smile lost the battle. He dropped into a chair and soberly inspected his fingernails. “A five-year undercover operation may be at stake. Brognola says he’ll get cooperation if he has to go clear to the President.”
“Uh-huh, Brognola’s behind it,” Hannon observed. “Okay, so now you’re going to tell me that Bolan has a CIA license or something.”
The agent doggedly shook his head. “Hell, no, I told you this wasn’t for Bolan’s benefit. But we’ve got a man in there, inside La Cosa Nostra, John. We’re just trying to protect him. Wouldn’t you?”
“The best way to do that would be to apprehend Bolan, wouldn’t it? Does Bolan know who this guy is?”
Dunlap’s frown deepened. “He does and he doesn’t. I mean, if he meets him face to face, yes, he’ll recognize him. We’re not afraid of our man holding his own against Bolan. We’re afraid of him getting pinned into a Bolan-police firefight.”
“Who’s been telling me,” Hannon asked sarcastically, “that Bolan never shoots at cops?”
“He hasn’t in the past,” Dunlap quietly replied. “In a fire fight, though, one guy looks pretty much like another. You go busting into Bolan’s war, especially with a bunch of non-uniformed officers, most anything could happen.”
“Well,” Hannon said, sighing, “you’re talking to the wrong man anyway. I don’t make these decisions.”
“I know that, John. I was just advancing the word.”
“If the chief says lay off, I’ll have to lay off. If he doesn’t, I’ll be going in with everything I’ve got.”
“Yes, I know that, too.”
“How high up is this inside man of yours?”
“He has Family rank.”
“What Family?”
Dunlap sighed. “You know I can’t tell you that. He has an Eastern territory, I’ll tell you that much. And, listen, you’ve seen the success we’ve been having up in that area. We’ve been setting them up and knocking them down just like—”
“Okay, okay,” Hannon said heavily. “So what’s this Brognola doing besides talking to the President?”
“He’s trying to contact our man.”
“To what effect?”
“To get him out of there, as gracefully as possible, until things quieten down.”
“I’ll make a deal,” Hannon quickly declared.
“What kind of a deal?”
“I’ll hold off the Dade Force until Brognola gets your man out. If … if, Dunlap, you turn right around and scratch our back.”
Dunlap said uncomfortably, “Damn, you do think like a cop, don’t you. I know what you want, but go ahead and get it in the record. What sort of a back scratcher do we have to have, John?”
“I want to know where they are, all of them. A complete list, any place where Bolan might launch a hit. Now isn’t that painless? Who could ask for a better deal than that?”
Dunlap was chewing it. He said, “I’ll have to talk it up. I don’t know. Anything that jeopardizes our man’s cover is no deal at all. We go passing out intel like that … Look, John, we don’t gain anything by busting these people, and you know it. Their attorneys are downtown with writs before we can get the cell doors closed. We’re building cases, John, not harassment proceedings. Bolan’s been a great help in that area, also. They’re all so jittery, they’re making mistakes. Like—”
“Well, you go talk it up, Dunlap. We’re almost ready to roll. With or without your help, see, we know a few places where Bolan might show up.”
“The Kirkpatrick woman?”
Hannon nodded. “When she busted, she busted all over the place. Admitted that Bolan had visited her and that she fed him information.”
“Got her locked up?”
“Nope. Made a deal with her, too. We turn our back on her, uh, delicate indiscretions, also take her word that she spoke to Bolan only after the Sandbank hit and under duress.”
“You could hold her,” Dunlap pointed out, “as an accessory to the Plaza job.”
“Sure, but for what gain? Hell, I believe her story. She gave us what we wanted, we gave her what she wanted. No booking. no notoriety, and she gets out of Miami on the first available flight.”
“You’re not even interested in her as a material witness,” Dunlap observed. “That says plenty right there. You don’t expect to take Bolan alive.”
Hannon’s gaze wavered and broke. “You don’t really believe that boy will throw down his gun and let us take him,” he stated quietly.
“I believe he’ll fight you only if forced to,” the agent replied evenly. He got to his feet. “No deal, Hannon. I don’t barter a man’s life away.”
“Not even for the life of your own Mafioso?”
Dunlap said, “Get screwed, Hannon,” and quietly walked out.
The captain stared morosely at the vacant doorway, then dropped into his chair and swiveled about to gaze through the window, his face a study in frustration. He placed the pipe in his mouth and bit down savagely, winced, then removed it and depressed a button on his intercom. “Tell Lt. Wilson I want him in here double quick,” he snapped.
The report came back, “He checked out, captain. Said he’d be gone about thirty minutes.”
“Say where he’s going?”
“I believe he’s taking the Kirkpatrick woman home. Want me to try a radio contact?”
Hannon scowled at the clock. “Give him until eleven o’clock. If he isn’t back by then, get him if you have to put out an all-points.”
He flipped off the intercom and turned back to the window. Barter a life away, eh? What the hell did Stewart Dunlap know about bartering lives? For the first time in a long time, Captain Hannon seriously began to think about his retirement. He wanted out of it, he decided. He wanted out of the whole rotten mess. Stoolies, junkies, hookers, punks, muggers, rapists—what a hell of a parade for a man’s life sum. And what made a cop an annointed executioner? In whose name did an officer of the law take to the streets to gun down society’s misfits? By whose order and by what convention did John Hannon, 35-year veteran of law and order, calmly and precisely plot the death of a confused kid from Vietnam?
Executioner? Hannon sighed. The world was filled with executioners. Some were sanctioned, some not. Who decided, in the ultimate court of all the courts, which were and which were not?
Hannon placed the pipe carefully upon his desk and went to the window. Retire to what? There was no one in John Hannon’s life now but stoolies, junkies, hookers, muggers … And an executioner. A 30-year-old kid fresh from the blood puddles of Southeast Asia … an executioner.
He went back to the desk, put on his coat, grabbed his hat, and went out. Captain John Hannon was not retired yet. He was still very much a cop. And it was time to begin the construction of a death trap … for an executioner.
The “confused kid” from Vietnam did not feel at all confused at the moment. He knew precisely what he was doing. Before the hell broke, he needed a name … the name of a boat which sometimes hosted parties for visiting Mafia dignitaries. There would not be time, once the assault was underway, to run about seeking directions to the next front. He left his car discreetly parked one street over from Jean Kirkpatrick’s place on Palmetto Lane and, stripped to the night suit, made his way quietly between the neat stucco houses, across the alleyway, and over the fence into the Kirkpatrick rear yard.
Keeping to the shadows, he followed the fence to the side of the house in a soft reconnoiter, then circled cautiously to the other side. The house was darkened and showed no signs whatever of a living presence. He found an open window near the front and crouched beneath it, breathing as softly as possible in a timed “audio” recon.
Just as he had decided that the house was secure, he heard a faint scratching sound followed immediately by the flare of a match just beyond the window. A gruff male voice quietly announced, “Kiss my ass, Tommy, you’re gonna smoke yourself to death. Christ, you—”
“Aw shut up,” came the response. “You’re worse than the fuckin tv commercials. If I wanna smoke, goddammit, I’ll smoke, so fuckya.”
Bolan quietly released his Luger and got it ready. After a brief silence, the first man said, “Christ, I’m gonna go to sleep if this broad don’t get home.”
“Might as well. She’s probably out sellin’ her ass somewheres, no tellin’ where she’s spending the night.”
“Go ask Willie if he can’t get along without us. How many guys does it take to bring in one little broad, huh?”
“Fuck you, ask him yourself. I ain’t askin’ Willie nothing. You know how th’ brothers get when they got their ass up.”
“Askin’ Willie ain’t askin’ the brothers, Tommy.”
“Then ask him yourself. Whatsamatter, your ass hot or something?”
Bolan’s eyes flared at the casual mention of “the brothers.” He had already written off the mission as unworthy of the risks involved, but a new value had been added to the equation. He retreated quickly but cautious to the rear, again following the shadows of the fence. Something moved ahead of him. He halted and listened, his grip tensing about the Luger, then carefully moved on. Another motion as he reached the alley attracted his quivering senses. Again he halted. Something was moving along the pitch dark alleyway, but it was moving away from him. Perhaps a dog or a cat, he decided. He moved in the other direction, passed several houses above Kirkpatrick’s, then circled back to Palmetto Lane, moving between the houses and into the shadow of a palm tree in the front yard for surveillance of the street.
A car was parked at the curb, some distance away. At first it appeared to be deserted, then the glow of a cigarette belied that. Again he returned to the alley and repeated the recon to the other side of the Kirkpatrick bungalow. There was another vehicle, opposite side of the street, also occupied.
It was a full set. Bolan pondered the significance of this. The Taliferos were known to be very thorough, but wasn’t this pushing things a bit far? Either they were running scared, or … Or someone had set a …
Toro? Bolan shook his head. That would not make sense. He had been at Toro’s mercy and had walked out of it with love and kisses. So. How about cops? A double set. Mafiosi inside, cops outside?
Bolan merged with and then melted into the night and found himself a point-blank surveillance drop, directly across from the stake-out vehicle. Huh-uh, he decided, not cops. So Mack Bolan was getting a persecution complex. The brothers had simply decided that Jean Kirkpatrick possessed important information, and they had sent for her. The full set would be typical of those under Talifero orders. No one in the Talifero clan made two goofs. He wouldn’t be around for that second one. So, went the legend, Taliferi took great pains to avoid that first one.
Every instinct at Bolan’s command screamed at him to get away from there, to break off, retreat, and to let the brothers have their way. He could not do so. The image of a frightened girl and the quiet declaration, “I guess I’ve been dead a long time already,” presented an insistent rebuttal to his instincts. She had asked how much deader could she get, and Bolan had not replied. The Taliferi would reply, and it could be a long drawn out and hideously uncomfortable statement of final truth. Possibly, argued his weaker side, the brothers merely wanted to question her about the Sandbank shooting … an eyewitness account. Possibly, added that argument, they would find her harmless and blameless and would not harm her in any way.
Bolan firmly squelched the argument and stealthily returned to the Kirkpatrick house. The two talkers had been in the front bedroom. Where was “Willie?” In one of the cars? In another room of the house? Bolan could not risk exposing his presence until he knew exactly where lay the enemy.
This time he climbed the fence near
the rear of the house and sprang lightly to the roof of a low back porch, then slid quietly over the stucco parapet and onto the flat roof of the house proper. He went to the front and crouched in the shadows of the parapet, alert to every sound and movement in the neighborhood, straining even into an extrasensory “feel” of the atmospheric vibrations. He thought he heard a rustling movement in the rear yard and, moments later, something again moving quietly through the alley. As he debated whether or not to check it out, a car swept around the corner to Bolan’s left and proceeded swiftly along the street.
The car slowed and slightly overshot the Kirkpatrick house, then went into reverse and backed to the curb slightly downrange from Bolan. A rustle of sound came from the house below, heavy feet moving rapidly. Bolan exposed himself momentarily to examine the car at the curb, and then his heart fell into his stomach. A police car!
The door on the passenger side had opened and Jean Kirkpatrick was stepping onto the sidewalk. Bolan swore beneath his breath as the young cop he had spotted earlier that day at the Sandbank climbed out of the other side and walked around to join the woman.
Bolan could feel the agonized reaction within the house. If that cop tried to walk through that door with Jean Kirkpatrick, there was going to be a shootout—and it would be a dead drop.
They were slowly walking across the lawn and the woman was saying something in a bantering tone to the cop. His voice drifted up, in reply, “I’d take a cup of coffee, though.”
Bolan made his decision. He vaulted over the parapet, Luger in hand, yelling, “Ambush! Scatter!”—and impacted directly between the two, sending both sprawling to the ground. Bolan was rolling across the lawn and trying to orient himself; from the corner of an eye, he saw the cop coming to one knee and digging for hardware. Streaks of flame lanced out of the front windows with roaring accompaniment, angry hornets zipped past Bolan from several directions, and his Luger was spontaneously answering back before his thinking mind was aware of it.
Firing on the roll, he saw the cop topple backwards—even so, the long-barreled police .38 was up and voicing its parts in the firefight. A body crashed through onto the porch, and the other sounds were being added to the uproar. A man was swearing loudly and painfully from somewhere inside the house; a door banged and running feet thudded closeby. The Luger swung and spit and the thudding feet became a falling body.
Miami Massacre Page 11
