Five guns erupted instantly outside, pumping wild, reflexive rounds into the pool hall, raking windows, walls and furnishings without a clear idea of who or where their human target was. Buckshot and revolver rounds were chewing up the tables, bar, the posters hanging on the dingy, unwashed walls.
To stand and fight was suicide, and Bolan, canny warrior that he was, had other plans.
He doubled back along the length of the room, running in a combat crouch. He held his fire, knowing he would need every round in the Beretta if his plan fell through, if they caught up with him in there or when he made it to the outside.
Bolan found the back door locked from the inside and he kicked his way through it and into the alleyway beyond. Turning right, he could see daylight half a block away. He broke for it, pounding along the alley, Beretta in his fist and ready to answer any challenge at a heartbeat's notice.
He heard the voices, scuffling footsteps on the gravel of the alley at his back, and knew that he would never reach the Firebird, waiting for him at the curb. They were already after him, the first wild rounds impacting on garbage cans and raising clouds of brick dust as they ricocheted off walls to either side.
A shotgun roared, and Bolan ducked instinctively behind a dumpster, nearly deafened as the trash container took the buckshot charge, reverberating like a huge bass drum next to his ear.
Another twenty feet across the no-man's land whistling with blistering rounds, and he would reach the street. There was a chance, a slim one, right, that they would hesitate to follow him out there into the daylight.
Knowing the overwhelming odds, Bolan felt he had no chance but to try. He broke from cover, sprinting for the alley's mouth, ready to receive the searing fusillade that would lift him off his feet and send him spinning into final darkness.
But his move apparently surprised the gunners. They were caught flat-footed, thinking he would stay behind the dumpster long enough for them to throw a tight perimeter around him. Now they began firing wildly.
Bolan reached the mouth of the alley, knowing that the sunlight made his silhouette a perfect target. He was weaving to the right and seeking cover when a fiery red convertible screeched up in front of him, almost knocking him back against the bricks.
A woman was sitting at the wheel, a stunning beauty — and it took no more than a second for the warrior to identify her as the one he had first seen in Tommy Drake's embrace.
She was dressed now, right, but still a dazzler. When she looked at him, the Executioner half expected her to open fire on him with hardware of her own.
Instead, she motioned to him and urgently called out in an excited voice.
"Get in! Please hurry!"
The big warrior quickly figured the odds. He might be leaping out of one fire square into another, but he had no options at the moment. And if Bolan had to take his chances with an enemy that afternoon, he would prefer a single woman to an armed platoon of Mafia hardmen anytime.
She floored the gas and dropped, the sportster into first, screeching out of there with rear tires smoking. Long before the troop of pistoleros reached the intersection, Bolan and the woman were turning north onto a major side street, the engine's whine a fading jeer at the frustrated gunmen.
Riding in the bucket seat beside her, Bolan let himself relax a notch. But he kept a firm grip on the hot Beretta, pointing it at the floorboard between his knees. He might have use of it again at any instant, and the Executioner was not taking anything on faith these days.
A death mask could be beautiful, damn right, and if he walked into a trap on this one, Bolan would be going with eyes wide open, primed to kill.
13
"You won't need that with me," the woman told him lightly, glancing down at the Beretta clutched in Bolan's fist.
The warrior hesitated for a moment, then slowly holstered the 93-R.
"I'll keep it all the same," he answered. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe."
"There's no such place."
"Perhaps. But I could not allow you to be killed back there."
The Executioner risked a cautious smile.
"I'm not complaining, just surprised," he said. "You don't hold any grudge for Tommy Drake?''
The young woman made a disgusted sound deep in her throat, and spat out the open window of the drop-top sportster.
"Drake was a pig!"
Mack Bolan raised an eyebrow, curious and surprised by her reaction.
"If you say so."
She read the unspoken question in the soldier's tone, but she was slow in answering. They were rolling along Northwest 103rd Street, heading toward the suburb of Miami Shores. Behind them, the Liberty City ghetto was an ugly fading memory.
They drove along another block or two before the young woman found her voice again.
"I do what must be done," she said, "like you, Matador."
Bolan felt the warning tingle at the base of his skull.
"Have we been introduced?" he asked her, trying to sound casual.
She flashed him a small secret smile.
"There is no need. You're as my sister said."
Bolan frowned, studying her face. And something did a slow rollover in the back of his mind, stirring sluggishly at first, all hazy from the passing years. There was something in her face, around the eyes...
"Your sister?"
"Margarita."
There was age-old sadness in the woman's voice, and the single word hit Bolan like a hard fist underneath the heart. He was silent for an endless moment, first watching her, then turning to regard the passing storefronts, staring through them without seeing anything.
In his mind he pictured Margarita, brave soldada of the exile cause. He saw her as she was when last he held her — lifeless, brutalized by mobsters who had tortured her in vain, attempting to find out Bolan's whereabouts. He had found her, found them all in time, and the hot flame of his vengeance had touched off the Miami massacre that followed.
Margarita.
Heaven keep her.
"She was a brave soldada," Bolan said, and knew that even as he spoke the words they sounded lame, inadequate.
A measure of the woman's sadness was replaced by pride as she responded.
"Si. I fight a different war against the animals who killed her needlessly.''
"You're undercover?''
She nodded.
"I was placed with Tommy Drake to gather information. He would have been indicted soon.''
"I couldn't wait,'' the warrior said.
"No matter. He did not deserve to live, and it was worth it to be present at his death.''
She spoke with an intensity that would have been disturbing had Bolan not understood its source and motivation. He could read the grim commitment in her tone. Everything about her bespoke determination, singleness of purpose.
Somesoldada in her own right, yeah.
The warrior cleared his throat and changed the subject.
"As long as you're intent on saving me, I ought to know your name."
She smiled at him, a lovely young-old smile.
"Evangelina."
Bolan answered with a small grin of his own.
"What now, Evangelina? You were seen back there — at least your car was seen — and now your cover's blown."
She shrugged.
"It's nothing. This is rented in a different name. I will check in with my control for relocation when we're finished."
"We?"
"I can help you," she told him, plainly reading the sudden distance in his voice.
Bolan shook his head, a firm emphatic negative.
"You've helped enough already. Thanks, but no thanks."
She hung in there, stubborn... like another Cuban tigress he had known. Her eyes flashed at him.
"You think I cannot fight because I am a woman."
"Not at all." He had a sudden flash of Margarita's face, contorted in an endless, soundless scream. "I think you've paid enough dues in a fight that
isn't yours."
"It is my fight. You think I am afraid of what they did to Margarita? No. I do this thing because of her."
"That was another time, Evangelina, and another war. The enemies are different now. The stakes are higher."
"These stakes... can they be higher than a life?" she asked him. "Higher than dignity?"
The Executioner reflected on that briefly, knowing what the lady meant, exactly how she felt... and wanting desperately to keep her out of it.
"You sound a lot like Margarita,'' he said at last.
"Then you know that I do not give up so easily.''
"Okay."
She hesitated, doubting the evidence of her own ears.
"You'll let me help?"
"First things first," he answered. "I lost my wheels back there. I've got a stop to make."
"Just tell me where you need to go. I'll take you there."
"Uh-huh."
He rattled off John Hannon's home address and she repeated it, committing it to memory. They drove awhile in silence, each one occupied with private thoughts, and Bolan felt a certain sense of guilt, a sadness, even, at the double cross he had in mind.
But he could live with guilt, with anger, sadness.
But he did not know if he could live with this one's blood upon his hands, his soul.
He had already cost her far too much. His war had robbed this woman of her family when she was a child. His fight had stripped her of her adolescence and propelled her headlong into danger, into actions that had chipped away her dignity and self-respect.
Mack Bolan did not think less of her because she used her body in pursuit of evidence to put the cannibals away. In fact, he admired her courage and determination. Any guilt was his, he knew, for costing this young one a life of her own, outside the combat zone. She could have been a new bride, settling down somewhere to start a family with a man who loved her. Instead, because of Bolan, she was driving through the streets of Miami with a fugitive, sporting a Mafia price on her head.
The soldier cursed his endless war for robbing this one of her past, and very possibly her future. There was nothing but the present left to reckon with, and he was damned if he would lead her out of danger into greater danger.
Evangelina's sister — brave soldada — hadpaid off the family's dues for generations yet unborn, and there would be no more down payments made to that account if Bolan had a thing to say about it.
If it took a double cross to put this woman-child in safe surroundings, he could live with it, damn right. His war was closing in, the falling numbers gathering momentum, but he would have to make the time to see her out of peril.
To a safe place, yeah.
Except there's no such place.
So, build one. Carve it out of living flesh and blood. The flesh and blood of cannibals and savages.
More than a destroyer, Bolan was a builder, piling clean new stones upon the ruins of the old, erecting something in the nature of a fortress to repel the next attack. Within the walls, at least, there could be safety and security. Outside...
He closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the sports car carry him away.
Outside, there would be Bolan.
14
John Hannon's house was modest, planted in the middle of a quiet residential street in a suburb north of Miami. Bolan had called ahead from a pay phone, and the former captain of detectives was expecting them. As Evangelina swung her convertible into the driveway, Bolan spotted Hannon waiting for them underneath a carport connected to the house.
Hannon greeted them affably, showing mild surprise at his first sight of Bolan's traveling companion. The ex-cop led them through a side entrance into a little family room where he motioned for them to be seated. As he pulled up a chair, Mack Bolan noted a short riot shotgun propped up in a corner, and he realized that Hannon was ready for trouble.
And he wondered if Hannon was ready enough.
"You've been a busy guy," the ex-detective said, settling into a lounger within arm's reach of the pump gun.
"I'm not half done," Bolan answered. "You hearing rumbles?"
Hannon snorted.
"Make that shock waves. They're breaking in on soap operas with news flashes, for heaven's sake. Film at eleven — the whole nine yards."
Bolan chuckled.
"Glad to hear it. I want the word to get around."
"It's getting there," the former cop assured him. "Did you come up with anything?"
Bolan hesitated, glancing at Evangelina. After a moment she got the message, excusing herself, getting directions from John Hannon to the bathroom. The detective watched her go, and Bolan saw him following the sway of her hips with his eyes, studying her appreciatively.
"Where'd you pick her up?"
"Outside Aiuppa's." Bolan saw Hannon's eyebrows raising. "And it was the other way around."
"What's her angle?" Hannon asked.
Bolan put it in a nutshell for him, anxious to make the best use of their dwindling time.
"Federal, undercover. She was working Tommy Drake."
"I'd say she's out of work." Hannon changed gears, shifting topics. "What have you got?"
"I'm working on your Cuban," Bolan told him. "Nothing solid yet, but I'm in touch with someone who may have a handle on him.''
Hannon frowned, the deep lines etched into his weathered face.
"Your someone wouldn't be a guy named Toro, would he?"
Bolan met the ex-detective's eyes directly, never flinching.
"You never know."
"It's funny," Hannon said reflectively. "Someone yanked him off the county farm this morning. Got away clean. They're beating every bush from here to Tallahassee."
Bolan remained silent, watching Hannon and waiting for him to continue. When he spoke again, the former captain of detectives' voice was slow, low pitched.
"I met him once, you know, when I was working Homicide. I had to ask him all about a wild-ass soldier who was shaking up the wise guys."
"Was he helpful?" Bolan asked.
"Like a stone. He told me everything I had to know, and never said a frigging word."
"The Cubans put a premium on loyalty."
"Some others, too, I guess."
Bolan spread his hands.
"There's no way for an Anglo to be inconspicuous among the exiles. If Toro can help me get where I need to go, I'll thank him for the ride."
Hannon's eyes flashed at him.
Bolan frowned. "What did your contacts have to say."
It took a while for Hannon to respond.
Bolan kept studying the man's face. Clearly, he was put off by the thought of breaking convicts out of prison. The guy had worked a lifetime trying hard to put them there and keep them there. It was entirely understandable, but it had no effect on Bolan's combat situation.
Hannon finally made a sour face before he answered Bolan's question.
"A lousy zero. Too damn many street names in the files for them to trace a Jose 99. I couldn't push too hard without inviting interference.''
"Never mind. It was a long shot, anyhow." Mack Bolan hesitated, reluctant to involve Hannon any deeper, yet unable to see any way around it. "I need a favor," the Executioner said at last.
"Shoot."
But there was caution in the tone, and Bolan knew that he was skating very near the edge of Hannon's trust, his patience.
Before he had a chance to answer, Evangelina returned from her visit to the washroom. Now her shoulder-length hair was neatly brushed back from her face, and Bolan was again struck by her resemblance to Margarita. He marveled that he had not seen it in her when they met the first time, despite the circumstances... and just as quickly, he wondered how much of it might be simply the product of his own imagination.
Either way, the lady was a living monument to something from the past, another stop along the hellfire trail of Bolan's private, endless war. A part of Margarita lived in her, through her, and he would do everything within his power to preserve
that vestige, let it blossom and grow into everything that it could be.
"Where are we going next?" she asked, addressing herself to both men at once, but focusing her main attention on the Executioner.
He looked her square in the eye before he answered.
"Not we, Evangelina... You'll be staying here awhile... for safety's sake."
He registered the startled glance from Hannon, but there was no time to ask the favor now. Bolan focused on the lady now, reading anger and betrayal in her face.
"Staying?" she asked incredulously. "No! I saved your life. I brought you here."
The soldier nodded.
"And I appreciate it. That's one reason why I can't risk taking you along."
There was a flicker of surprise beneath the brooding anger.
"One reason? What is the other?''
"I move better on my own. You'd slow me down, get one or both of us killed."
The lady looked a little hurt at first, but she recovered swiftly, temper and a flaring irritation taking over from the wounded pride.
"I can protect myself, senor. I am a warrior, una soldada— like you."
"Oh, no, you're not." Bolan rose from his chair, advancing on her, pleased that she did not flinch away from him. "You're not like me at all, Evangelina. When was the last time you killed a man? Can you remember how the blood smelled? How his brains looked when you held the gun against his head and dropped the hammer?''
As he spoke the soldier aimed an index finger at her pretty face, the fingertip coming to rest between her eyes.
She shivered at his touch but did not pull away.
Bolan bored in, unrelenting, hating the hurt he had put in her eyes, knowing there was no soft way around the obstacle.
"You ever slit a throat, Evangelina? Do you know the way it feels to saw through flesh and gristle like you're carving a roast, except the roast's still fighting for its life?"
A single tear made a glistening track across one cheek.
"I've never killed a man," she said, the voice soft, shaking. "But I could. I know it."
"Don't be eager," Bolan told her, letting softness creep into his voice now.
Blood Dues te-71 Page 8
