Miami Massacre (7 page)

He scanned the list of names and room numbers — obtained, he was sure, from a girl-assignment roster, if it were valid. That was the big question. Was it a valid list? Well, he reasoned, one way or another that list was his ticket to an audience with
Mafiosi.
Trap or not, it was what he was here for.

He went to his suitcase and put on his shoulder harness, inspected the Luger and shoved in a fresh clip, then affixed the silencer. The list went into his coat pocket and the Luger into the side leather, two extra clips in the reserve pocket.

The Tidewater Plaza was a large squared horseshoe, four stories high, with gardens, patios, and pools inside the horseshoe at ground level. All rooms boasted an outside exposure via glass doors opening onto private patios or balconies. The winter season boom had not fully descended upon the Plaza, and at this hour of the afternoon the main lobby was quiet, the lounge all but deserted. Outside, around the pool, no more than ten tables were occupied. Several shapely young women were cavorting in the water. A middle-aged woman who already bore evidence of having defected to a darker race lay on a sunning board and watched Bolan with frank interest as he crossed the patio. He winked at her and she winked back and sat up quickly. Bolan grinned and went on into the other wing of the building, then ascended the stairway to the third floor.

He briefly consulted his list and proceeded directly to the fourth door beyond the stairwell, gripped the Luger, and pushed the doorbuzzer. A deep voice beyond the door replied with a bored, "Yeah?"

Bolan buzzed again and said, "Ay, Al, come on, open up."

The door cracked open, the chainlock remaining intact, to reveal an eye and a sliver of face. The surly voice demanded, "Who the hell is that?"

The Luger phutted into the crack and the face rapidly receded with a dying grunt, a glass hit the floor just inside and liquids sloshed through the crack, then a heavy weight clicked the door fully shut.

Bolan walked up the hallway and around the curve, then stopped to press another doorbuzzer. The door opened at the first summons and a disinterested man of about 25 said, "Oh, I thought you was room service."

Bolan told him, "I was just over to Al's," and pushed on inside. A television was blaring unattended. On the balcony overlooking the pool, two other men sat at a small table, drinks and cards in front of them. "Hey, deal me in," Bolan told the man who had opened the door.

The man was looking him over with casual interest. "I know th' face," he said, "but I can't get th' name. Let's see now, don't tell me, waitaminnit, we oughta hold these get-togethers more often, eh? Let's see, uh, it's . . ."

"Bolan."

"Huh?"

Bolan's hand and the Luger were sliding into view. The
Mafioso
reacted then, whirling toward an open closet, his hand scrabbling along an overhead shelf. The Luger whispered and its issue splatted into the base of the man's skull, sending him spinning on into the closet.

The two men on the balcony, less than 20 feet away, were fighting clear of the table and trying to come to their feet, one of them tugging at something in the waistband of his trousers. The Luger arced into the new target area, phutted twice in rapid fire, and the tugger lurched onto the table, overturning it with a crash of glass and metal. The other man was making a dive for the balcony railing. The Luger's silent chasers overtook him, doubled him into a convulsive knot poised for a frozen instant above the railing, and then he was over and gone. A horrified shriek immediately arose from the patio.

Bolan knelt into the closet and pinned a marksman's medal to the seat of his first victim's trousers, then quickly withdrew.

He went to the fourth floor and jogged on around the horseshoe bend, reaching his next stop in a matter of seconds. He did not bother with the buzzer but rapid-fired three rounds of his new clip into the door mechanism, following immediately with a crashing kick. The door bounded open and Bolan was inside before the vibrations of the assault had subsided. A nude man was on the dishevelled bed, on his back and raised to both elbows, glaring at the intruder in startled anger. A girl stood just outside the doorway to the balcony, her back to Bolan. She was nude also, but dangling a large towel in front of her from the shoulders and obviously trying to peer down onto the patio below without exposing herself. She jumped visibly upon noting Bolan's presence and whirled about with a frightened scowl, the towel flying high and defeating its purpose. In a confused voice, she announced, "Somebody just fell off a balcony over there, I think."

The outraged man on the bed was picking up on his delayed reflexes. He snarled, "You got no right bustin' in here like that! You got a warrant? Lemme see your warrant!"

Bolan stepped to the foor of the bed, said, "Sure, Julio, here you go," extended the Luger at arm's length, and gave the
Mafioso
his last rites.

The girl stumbled into the room, the towel dropped and forgotten, and gave Bolan the silent horror treatment. He assured her, "I'm not going to hurt you. Get your clothes on and get out of here. Quick!"

She murmured, "Ohgodohgod," and staggered on into the bathroom.

Bolan reached the hallway with his list in his hand. He consulted his, wristwatch, wavered momentarily, then ran along to the stairway and headed for the floor above and his final call at Tidewater Plaza.

Lt. Wilson panted down the stone steps and flung himself into the waiting vehicle. The car was screeching forward before his door was fully closed. He glanced at the driver, then swiveled about to regard Captain Harmon who shared the rear seat with another member of the Dade Force. "I got no details," Wilson puffed. "What's up?"

Hannon replied, "Something's going on down at the Tidewater Plaza. Sounds like a possible Bolan hit."

Wilson nodded and settled into his seat, nervously dug for a cigarette, and commented, "Isn't the Tidewater on that list of Mafia tie-ins?"

The captain's reply was lost as the car squealed onto the beach drive, heeling and swaying in the abrupt turn as a marked patrol car leapt alongside then powered smoothly into the lead, beacon flashing and siren screaming. Hannon snapped, "Mike!" and extended a hand into the front seat. Wilson passed the radio microphone back and watched the captain through narrowed eyes as the leader of the Dade Force passed instructions into the command net. "No sirens! Marked cars form a perimeter of standard containment and hold all traffic. Dade Specials form on me, outside front, and await further."

The clipped tones of the special dispatcher immediately began relaying the instructions and assigning stations. Hannon turned the microphone over to Wilson. "They're sending a couple of boats down, also. If that character is in there, maybe our problem is smaller than we thought."

"And what if he's not?" Wilson muttered.

"Then we're already treading deeper water than I enjoy. Tallahassee is in the act already, bunch from the attorney general's office on the way down. And the governor's office has been on the horn. Plus, Dunlap tells me that this Brognola fella is being flown here in a government jet."

"Aw, piss," Wilson commented dismally.

"Well, maybe we'll have our turkey on ice by the time the congregation arrives," Hannon said.

"I'll buy that," Wilson said. He took out his revolver and checked it, sighed, and added, "They say this guy has several faces. How do we know which one to look for?"

"Just look for a big graceful cat with graveyard eyes. All the pictures and sketches I've seen of this youngster have that one thing in common. Those eyes. You noticed?"

Wilson nodded, twirled the cylinder of his revolver and replaced it in the leather. "I noticed."

"Just ahead, cap'n," the driver advised.

"All right, let's get set," Hannon commanded, his voice tightening. "A lot of people have left this world with that vision carrying them out."

"
What
vision?" asked the detective.

"Those eyes, Sergeant. Those graveyard eyes."

The "big graceful cat" had stumbled into a full nest, obviously a honcho's pad, in the fifth floor penthouse — and a firefight was in hot progress. Three semi-nude women were racing across the roof sundeck and screaming at the limit of their lungs; two others lay in petrified curls beside a shattered plate-glass window, another was having a loud nervous breakdown in one of the bedrooms, a blood-spattered companion pinning her to the bed beneath his lifeless bulk. Four men — two in bathing trunks, one in flowered shorts, one fully dressed — sprawled in various poses of death about the apartment.

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 fast-moving 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 directly 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.