Miami Massacre (8 page)

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.

John Harmon 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 believe 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 the 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 . . .

The Lieutenant was mentally chastising himself — had he so easily forgotten all of
his
war training? The success of every commando-like strike was geared to the
intelligence
factor! So where was Bolan getting his intelligence? From a beautiful whore in a flowered bikini? Was Jean Kirkpatrick an innocent witness . . . or was she an accomplice to a killer?

Bolan
had
to have an accomplice! Those lightning strikes didn't just materialize spontaneously! They were planned to the closest detail, and executed with military precision!

Wilson punched the elevator button and, in the same motion, made a grab into his breast pocket for his notebook and hurriedly flipped the pages to his notes of the Sandbank investigation. Uh-huh, there she was. 2015 Palmetto Lane. There was the start . . . and maybe the ending.

The boat had picked them up at the north end of Miami Beach and then headed south, backtracking along their earlier route, past the seaquarium and across Biscayne Bay. Then Bolan was outfitted in ragged jeans which were several inches too short and thonged sandals, also too small. It was at this point that Toro had apologetically applied the blindfold, explaining while not explaining, "You understand,
amigo,
the necessity for secrecy."

Some time later they bumped ashore and Bolan was guided up over the bow and into grassy marshland. After a twenty minute hike with difficult footing, Bolan's blindfold was removed. They were in rough country and quite removed from the water. Bolan oriented his directions by the setting sun, but could arrive at no meaningful analysis of their course. They seemed to be zig-zagging, travelling on first one heading and then another. In the last faint light of dusk they emerged from thick underbrush onto a narrow dirt lane and a waiting jeep. A pretty
senorita
sat behind the wheel. She was clad in tight-fitting combat fatigues and wore a U.S. Army .45 in a flap holster. A field hat with the brim snapped up did little to imprison a thick sheen of luxurious raven hair.

Toro performed a quiet introduction. Her name was Margarita, and the lustrous dark eyes did not miss a detail of Bolan's physical presence. He became awkwardly aware of his ill-fitting jeans and dust-sweat-caked torso, mumbling an acknowledgement of the introduction as he slid onto the rear seat of the jeep. Toro climbed in beside the girl and they conversed in rapid Spanish as the vehicle sped along the lane at suicidal speeds — or so it seemed to Bolan, considering the terrain. The girl's statements at times took on an agitated quality and she would toss her head angrily with an occasional quick snap toward their visitor. Bolan began to feel like an unwelcome dinner guest.

The night had firmly settled in when they reached the compound, and a chill was falling upon the air. As the jeep bounced to a halt, Toro stood on the floor and hurled an authoritative string of Spanish phrases toward a guard tower, high above them. A floodlight flashed on and washed the jeep with a brilliant glare. Bolan closed his eyes but kept his face elevated, in his mind visualizing an armed camp with machine-gun towers, barbed wire, and nervous sentries with willing fingers. Someone opened a gate, Toro sat down, the floodlight went off, and the jeep went in.

Bolan experienced a surge of uneasiness as the gate closed behind him. He had played a hunch and ridden it to the bitter end . . . but what if his instincts had gone awry? How did he know that Toro was a friend . . . or a militant exile . . . or even a Cuban? And even if it were all true, the Cuban bit and all, how could Bolan be sure that the Mafia cancer had not spread to include such groups for one purpose or another? He discovered that he was breathing too shallow, his stomach tight and queasy. He forced himself to relax and to still the disquieting doubts. They were speeding along a smoother road, headlamps extinguished, and with a total cessation of conversation in the front seat.

A dip, a wild turn, then an abrupt climb and they broke into a large clearing. Dismal yellow light seeped from the open windows of a dozen or more long and lowslung barracks-type wooden buildings. Somewhere a man was strumming a guitar and singing in soft Spanish. The jeep slowed and swerved between several buildings, then again broke open ground and jounced to a halt in front of a crumbling stucco house. A number of men in varying styles of dress filed out through the wide doorway and lined the rail of the veranda, staring quietly at the new arrivals.

The girl leapt from the jeep and went into the house without a backward look. Toro showed Bolan a flashing smile, then stepped to the ground and delivered a flourishing statement in Spanish to the men on the veranda.

Bolan caught only the last few words, ". . .
Senor
Mack Bolan,
El Matador!
"

The announcement produced a startled reaction from the men on the porch. Then they made a rush for the jeep. A fat man with a cigar clenched between his teeth grabbed Bolan's hand and helped him to the ground. The others milled about, exclaiming excitedly in hushed Spanish, and pressing warm handshakes upon the surprised visitor.

Toro caught Bolan's amazed reaction and quietly extricated him from the welcoming, moving him insistently toward the house. "Is it so surprising,
Senor
Bolan," he said, grinning, "that courage and daring is admired in this place?"

"I guess not," Bolan replied. His doubts had left him.
El Matador,
he was certain, was in the very best of hands.