At his approach, the captain turned, his reverie interrupted. He greeted the new arrival with a frown.
"Help you?"
Bolan waved the spurious credentials past his face and pocketed them again.
"Frank LaMancha, Justice."
Wilson's frown remained in place; if anything, it deepened.
"Bob Wilson, Metro," he replied. "Something here that interests you?"
"I caught the bulletin about your man."
When Wilson spoke again there was suppressed emotion in his voice.
"Not mine," he said at last. "He was retired."
"But working."
Wilson looked and sounded wary when he answered.
"Strictly private."
"Looks like someone made it public."
Wilson did not respond immediately. He was looking past Bolan now, back at the bullet-punctured car that had taken John Hannon on his last ride.
"I guess."
"You make the girl yet?" Bolan asked.
Wilson shook his head.
"Latino, probably a Cuban. Young. She had a gun, but no id. We're checking on it."
"Maybe you should try the federal building," Bolan told him.
The homicide detective raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What was she, an informer?"
"It's not for me to say. I'd ask for SOG."
Wilson's stern face registered an immediate reaction, quickly covered by the frown. It was obvious to Bolan that the captain was familiar with the federal Sensitive Operations Group. Once headed by Hal Brognola, it was still closely supervised by the big Fed from Washington Wonderland, dealing in cases too sensitive for other federal agencies to handle comfortably.
"So," Wilson said, "it's like that, is it?"
Bolan kept it cryptic.
"Could be."
"Is that your interest?"
"Oh, I'm interested in a lot of things — like trucks and guns." He paused, letting that sink in before" he dropped the second shoe. "Like Jose 99."
Another reaction from Wilson, this one harder to conceal.
"You know the name?" Bolan prodded.
"I've heard it."
It was obvious to Bolan that the officer was holding something back.
"Know where I can find him?" he asked, probing.
Wilson made a disgusted face.
"If I did, he'd be downtown right now." He hesitated, clearly reluctant to say more, but finally continued, as if against his own better judgment. "The FBI says it has something on him from a routine wiretap on the Cuban embassy. He calls the cultural attache there from time to time. They haven't traced him yet."
"You tie him in with this?" Bolan asked.
"I wouldn't rule it out," the homicide detective answered. He cast an almost wistful glance in the direction of the ambulance. "It looks like John was really onto something after all."
"He never knew the half of it," the Executioner said.
"And you do?"
"I'm getting there."
But even as he spoke, Bolan knew he was no closer to solving the puzzle now than when he had first started. So far all he had were scattered, scrambled pieces of the puzzle, and collecting them had proved a very costly process. Someone would have to pay dearly for Bolan to break even.
And he was looking forward now to the collection of that debt.
"You ready to coordinate?" the homicide detective asked him, breaking in on Bolan's train of thought.
"It's premature," he answered.
"I see." Bob Wilson stared at Bolan. "I don't take well to being frozen out, LaMancha. This one cuts too close to home."
Mack Bolan read the emotion in his voice and realized that it was genuine.
"If I were you," he said, "I'd take a look at Tommy Drake."
"You're late," the officer replied. "He's history."
"He had connections," Bolan responded. "Some of them were interested in Hannon's work."
"I know about the Stomper," Wilson said.
"Then you know that he was acting under orders."
Wilson feigned incredulity.
"Really? What was your first clue?"
"No offense, Captain. It never pays to overlook the obvious."
"We won't be overlooking anything," Wilson answered, but his voice and face were softening already.
Bolan shifted gears, taking off along another tack.
"You know a Cuban activist named Raoul Ornelas?"
Wilson raised an eyebrow at the change of pace.
"Everybody knows Ornelas. He's Omega 7. Are you connecting him to this?"
Bolan shrugged again. "Omega 7 needs the hardware. Hannon might have been too close."
Wilson shook his head, a discouraging expression on his face. "You're drifting. First the Mob, then Cuban exiles. What's the angle?"
"Sacco and the exiles go way back together. You know that as well as I do. They could be hand in glove."
"I thought about that, yeah," the officer conceded. "But what does Sacco need with military weapons?"
"It might be a favor for a friend."
Bolan realized how hollow his explanation sounded.
Wilson's skeptical expression showed the soldier that his doubts were much the same.
"I doubt if Sacco knows exactly who his friends are today."
Bolan smiled thinly.
"It's an occupational hazard."
"I guess. Where can I get in touch with you?"
"I'm in and out," the warrior told him vaguely. "I'll call you tomorrow if my people turn up something you could use."
"Appreciate it."
But Bob Wilson's tone conveyed a different feeling. Clearly, the detective still thought he was being frozen out of some clandestine operation at the federal level. He might well make a call to check it out, start probing on his own but it was a risk Mack Bolan would have to live with. In any case the worst that could happen would be Wilson's discovery that he was not, in fact, employed by Justice.
There were a host of other problems, each more pressing, on the soldier's mind and he dismissed the risk as minimal. His cover was expendable; its violation would not put the Metro man one step closer to caging the Executioner. If anything, it would only serve to deepen the confusion he was operating under now.
They shook hands grimly, mourners parting at the funeral of a mutual friend. As Bolan made his way back to the dark unmarked sedan he could feel Wilson's eyes following him across the grassy shoulder of the road and past the bullet-riddled Chevy that had been a coffin for Hannon and Evangelina moments earlier. By the time he reached the car and risked a backward glance, however, Wilson was deep in conversation with some of his officers.
Bolan fired the engine, powered out of there with gravel spitting from his tires. He put a mile behind him before he permitted his mind to attack the question of who had killed John Hannon and the woman.
It was a question he would have to answer in his own best interests if he planned to keep on breathing long enough to finish what he had started in Miami. He owed that much to Hannon, to the woman, yes, and he would see through what the two of them had begun before he arrived.
The worst had come to pass. Two more lives on Bolan's soul, joining the others that dated back into the infancy of his private war against the Mafia. Two sisters now, and Bolan knew with agonizing certainty that he would never wipe their faces from his memory, not if he lived a thousand years.
And it was time for him to spread a little of the agony, the hell, around Miami, right. Sharing time for damn sure.
The Executioner had a list in mind, and someone on that roster knew precisely what had happened here today and why. Mack Bolan had to have that knowledge, now, before his campaign could proceed another step toward resolution.
There would be time enough for getting even when he had the targets sorted out and cataloged, all neatly organized for mass destruction.
He was looking forward to the coming judgment day, right.
But first he had to get in touch with Toro.
If it was not too late already.
19
Bolan pulled his car into a scenic turnout off Ocean Drive and parked facing the Atlantic. Out beyond the beach the water was already dark, forbidding in its vastness. At his back, behind the skyline of Miami, a tropical sunset was burning out in hues of pink and lavender. In his rearview mirror, the dying rays glinted off the hustling cars that flowed along the drive.
He sat there, smoking, glancing frequently at his wristwatch, a loaded Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun on the seat beside him. There was no such thing, he knew, as being overcautious these days in Miami. Not when half the underworld was working overtime to find and kill you.
The Executioner was more than ready when the Cadillac turned off, separating smoothly from the flow of traffic, headlights dancing as the driver guided her carefully over a series of speed bumps. The glare of headlights momentarily filled his rearview and Bolan averted his eyes, concentrating on the side mirror now. He stubbed out his smoke in the dashboard ashtray, then casually reached for the Ingram, lifting it into his lap. He kept one hand around the stubby weapon's pistol grip and watched as the Caddy rolled into an empty parking space beside him on the passenger's side.
The other driver killed his lights and engine, remained seated behind the wheel and stared straight ahead. Inside the Caddy other faces were turning to examine Bolan now, checking out his car and the surroundings, hesitant, cautious.
The car was ten years old, reminiscent of a bygone era. Somehow it seemed to fit its occupants that way. They, too, were out of sync with history, living anachronisms who refused to compromise with changing times. They reminded Bolan of the samurai, devoted to a code of honor; a military life-style that had become passe to everyone around them.
Still they carried on the fight and Bolan felt for them, aware in his heart that their own unending battle was as hopeless as his own.
It had taken several calls to make connections with El Toro and arrange the meeting.
A back door on the Caddy opened, and one of the gunners inside covered the dome light with his palm as Toro climbed out. Glancing around at the night, he crossed to Bolan's car and got in, sparing a look for the Ingram clutched in the Executioner's lap. Toro settled into the passenger seat and closed the door behind him.
"How goes the rattling of cages?" he asked.
"It goes. And you?"
"I traced Raoul's lieutenant." Toro flashed a little conspiratorial smile. "He was reluctant to confide in me at first. I had to be quite harsh with him."
Mack Bolan knew how harsh the Latin soldado could be, and he could almost sympathize with Ornelas's second-in-command. Almost, right, but not quite. He waited silently for Toro to continue in his own way and time.
"You still have interest in this Jose 99?"
Mack Bolan felt the involuntary prickling of his scalp.
"I do."
Toro paused briefly, then said, "He is Raoul."
And Bolan saw a couple of the pieces fall together, snapping soundly into place. He recalled the words of Captain Wilson as they stood together at the scene of Hannon and Evangelina's murder.
"The FBI says it has something on him from a routine wiretap on the Cuban embassy. He calls the cultural attache there from time to time."
Then Bolan replied, "I see."
The Cuban raised an eyebrow.
"You are not surprised?"
"Let's say it fits."
He briefed Toro quickly on what Wilson had told him, and the Cuban's face was going through some changes of its own as he digested Bolan's words. When the Executioner had finished speaking Toro made a disgusted face.
"I underestimated this one's treachery," he said.
He spent a moment staring out across the beach at darkened water, watching the moon rise.
"This cultural attache that you speak of, Jorge Ybarra, he is DGI."
Bolan stiffened even though he wasn't surprised to hear what he had already begun to suspect. Still, he was angry at himself for not putting the pieces together sooner, in time to save a few good lives along the way.
The DGI, of course. Castro's secret service — basically a Spanish-speaking adjunct of the KGB.
It fit, damn right.
It fit too well.
"Raoul has the trucks and weapons that your friend is looking for," Toro said absently. "Raoul is responsible for stealing them."
Bolan resisted an urge to put John Hannon in the past tense, to tell Toro all about Evangelina. They were running on the numbers, and every second counted now. There was no time to waste in agonizing over battle casualties.
"For weeks now," Toro continued, "this pendejo has recruited gunmen. Omega 7 hides them, but they have a special mission. I believed it was Raoul, but now I see that there is more."
"What mission?" Bolan prodded.
"Key Biscayne."
Something turned over sluggishly in Bolan's gut, but he held himself in check, waiting for Toro to continue.
When the Cuban spoke again his voice was emotionless as he began to spell it out.
"One truck filled with explosives, to blow the causeway, si? Three, four others with the marielistas, weapons. All in position early while the people are asleep."
And Toro did not have to say any more. Mack Bolan had the picture clearly in his mind, and any way he looked at it, it came out as a bloodbath in the streets.
"When do they move?"
"Tomorrow. Dawn."
The warrior felt a headache start to throb behind his eyes and raised one hand briefly to massage his temples, clearing his mind for what lay ahead.
"We've got a lot to do," he said simply.
Toro turned to face him, his features lost in shadow inside the sedan's darkened interior. His deep voice seemed to emerge from a bottomless pit.
"My men are working on Raoul," he said. "I'll have him soon, I think."
Bolan nodded curtly.
"Okay. He's yours. I have some stops to make. We'd better synchronize."
"Agreed."
They spent the next quarter hour laying plans for the approaching battle. It was completely dark by the time they went their different ways. A darkness of the soul as much as anything.
It captured Bolan's killing mood precisely, as he pushed the rental car through Stygian blackness, following the coastline, with the wild, untameable Atlantic on his right-hand side.
In his heart the warrior knew that the only way to drive the darkness back was with a purifying flame, bright and fiercely hot enough to send the cannibals scuttling back underground where they belonged.
He had the fire inside him now, and he was primed to let it out, to strike a spark that might consume Miami in the end, before it burned away to ashes.
The Executioner was carrying his torch into the darkness.
20
The raid on Key Biscayne made ghoulish sense to Bolan. As a master tactician himself, he could appreciate the plotters' strategic perception. It was a tight plan, well-conceived, immensely practical despite its loony overtones.
Like something from a madman's nightmares, right. But this nightmare was coming true tomorrow in broad daylight.
The fact that it was clearly suicidal for the troops involved meant nothing. The planners would be counting on high casualties, and every man they lost before the final curtain would be one less talking mouth to help police backtrack along the bloody trail of conspiracy. Whatever happened to the shock troops once they were engaged, there would be time enough for them to wreak bloody havoc in the streets before the last of them could be eradicated by a counterforce.
Time enough to orchestrate a massacre, damned right, and throw Miami's affluent society into a screaming panic.
Hell, it was almost perfect.
Bolan did not spare more than a passing thought to motives in the plot. In the end, it mattered little whether Raoul Ornelas was an opportunist seeking ransom for himself, a dedicated rightist striking back somehow at Castro and America, or a turncoat working
hand in glove with Cuban agents. Whichever way it cut — a hostage situation or a random massacre — the end result, inevitably, had to be a bloodbath.
Ornelas was committing criminals and addicts, all the human dregs that he could muster, as his front-line troops. There was no way on earth that he could hope to rein them in once they had scented blood. Ornelas had to know that much, and from that grisly certainty, Mack Bolan knew a massacre was what Jose 99 had planned from the beginning.
The DGI and its controllers in the KGB would profit doubly from the holocaust. The chaos, killing, violence — the goals of global terrorism — all of these were ends in themselves, but there were greater potentials there.
Supposing that Ornelas was exposed, revealed in court and through the press as the mastermind of the plot, it would, if handled carefully, reflect upon the anti-Castro movement rather than upon the Communists who hatched the plot. The end result, disgrace for any Cuban exiles who were militant or even vocal in their opposition to the current Havana regime, would bring oppressive crackdowns at the state and federal level, doubling security for Castro at no expense to the Cuban government itself. Castro's chief enemies in the United States would be surveyed, perhaps incarcerated... and years would pass before the anti-Castro movement won back any small degree of visible respectability.
Mack Bolan, at the moment, had no interest in the politics involved. His mind was on the countless lives that would be lost unless he found a way to short-circuit the plan in its initial stages.
Geography and economics helped the terrorists select their target. Key Biscayne's sixty-three hundred affluent residents lived on an island barely four square miles in area. A former U.S. President maintained his winter White House there, but nowadays the majority of tourists headed straight for Bill Baggs Cape Florida State Park, to see the historic lighthouse. And they came in whopping numbers, right.
Key Biscayne connected to the mainland by a single causeway — and its demolition as described by Toro would destroy it, or at least render it impassable for hours, even days. With that route cut, relief would have to come by water or by air... and either way, relief troops would be landing in the face of hostile guns once terrorists controlled the island.
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