'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.
