Miami Massacre

'Police boats?' Bolan yelled.

Toro shook his head, 'Not this far out, amigo. We have played the games with these ones many times also. These are your Coast Guard!' The PT was beginning to pick up speed again, and they were roaring along across the heavily troughing waters.

Bolan looked back to the Merry Drew. She was brightly lighted now by leaping flames which seemed to extend from bow to stern. A group of men were crowding about a boat davit, frantically trying to lower a lifeboat. Bolan found the scene holding less and less interest for him. He raised his gaze to the skies, now flashingly illuminated by both the flames from the Merry Drew and an almost continual display of heavenly fireworks.

'The storm has found us, Matador!'Toro shouted.

Bolan nodded, warmly patted the shoulders of his crewman, unhooked himself from the gun, and joined Toro at the conn. Toro was grinning into the pelting spray and pointing behind them. One of the cutters had apparently dropped off to assist the Merry Drew. The other was still behind the PT. Bolan asked, 'So what happens now, amigo?'

Men were moving about excitedly down below, in the cabin, and the Honeywell crew were calmly dismantling the weapon. Toro said, 'We play hide and seek with the radar, Matador. Maybe we will lose them in the storm, maybe they will run us out of fuel.' He shrugged. 'Do not worry, we will elude them, at least until we have gained the appearance of peaceful fishermen.'

Bolan was looking at his clothing.

Toro laughed and said, 'I do not think we can make you into a fisherman, Matador. We will run you ashore near Hollywood, my friend. You can make it safely from there, no?'

'I hate to leave you this way, Toro. Maybe we will meet again some day, and stomp snakes together.'

'This I would greatly like, Matador.'

Bolan went below then, and made his farewells to the rest of the soldados. This was a group he would never forget. He put a fresh bandage on his wound, had another quick cup of jolting rum, and returned topside to conn the ship with Toro the Spanish Bull. They had lived largely together. Now they stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, enmeshed in the atmosphere of that largeness. Some minutes later, when the boat had reached its nearest safe distance from the shore, they still had not spoken. Then Toro clasped his friend's hand and said, 'Adios, El Matador.'

'Adios, El Soldado Grande,' Bolan murmured, and then he stepped over the side and joined the seething waters, carrying with him large memories of a very large people.

Some ten minutes later, he floundered ashore and knelt there panting in the surf and in the presence of another type of large people. Bolan had crashed a skinnydipping party of young people, and a startled girl with blond braids and an entirely unembarassed smile exclaimed, 'Oh wow! This Aquarian makes it by land, sea, and air!'

Bolan was immediately surrounded by naked, curious youths. In the background, some distance inland, stadium-type lights melted the darkness and the crashing amplified sounds of mod music drifted across the intervening area to compete with the growing sounds of the storm coming in from the sea.

Bolan struggled to his feet and stood swayingly holding a burning arm tightly against him. Just as he was about to topple over, a nude boy with a luxurious beard stepped forward to support him and softly said, 'Sure man, I'll carry your bod.'

Epilogue

John Hannon knew with a certainty that he would never have all the details of that most fantastic day in Miami police history. What he did know was perhaps enough, he philosophized. A Mafia convention in his town had been busted, the county morgue was overflowing, and the police ward at the receiving hospital had been extended to cover two full floors. The surviving and the walking wounded, while probably in no danger of long-term incarceration, had at least suffered the embarrassment of arrest and exposure, and Hannon was thinking that there would be drifting snow upon Miami's beaches before the mob returned again. He had not caught so much as a glimpse of Bolan, of course, but there were some mysteries that a career cop enjoyed taking into his retirement, and Hannon would certainly have a lot of heady things to contemplate. In a secret corner of his mind, John Hannon was entirely satisfied with the way things had gone, massacre or not.

And, at this time, the Dade force skipper had not even been apprised of the Coast Guard report on one MV Merry Drew. According to this report, the cutter Oswego Bay had gone to the assistance of the cruise ship, finding her in flames and foundering in heavy seas. The ship's officers had insisted that the Merry Drew had been set afire by lightning, which had ignited a large case of fireworks brought aboard to entertain the passengers. The officers could not or would not explain the shrapnel and bullets found imbedded throughout the vessel's superstructure, nor could they explain the combat-type wounds of some 52 of her passengers.

A closely connected report, filed by the cutter Jarvis, indicated that a party of Cuban 'fishermen'

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Executioner would joint the international jet set. Maybe he would try a sweep through Europe.

The blond was gigglingly whispering into his ear. He patted her bare back and made room for her, and she crawled in beside him. The dirt floor of the tent was awash and her feet were muddy. A weird kid with a fright wig for hair was just across the tent, strumming a guitar and singing a mournful song about injustice in the world. Bolan relaxed and tried to forget the girl's muddy feet. From the beginning to the very end, it had been a most incredible day . . . as were most days in the life of The Executioner.