Blood Dues

They had never met face to face, but in the early days of Bolan's war against the Mafia their paths had crossed. John Hannon was a captain of detectives then, determined to abort the latest efforts of a hellfire warrior who was taking on the Mob alone. The captain had led the riot squad, responding after Bolan had dropped in uninvited on a syndicate convention in Miami. But the police skipper had come too late, arriving just in time to help pick up the pieces from a strike that left the mafiosi reeling, locally and nationwide.

The man who sat beside Mack Bolan now was different, aged. It showed around his eyes, in graying hair and in the hard set of his mouth. He was a man with troubles, right, and Hannon's problems were a part of what had brought the Executioner back again to southern Florida.

'You saved my ass back there,' John Hannon said. 'I owe you one.'

'You owe me nothing.'

'Well, I'd like to shake your hand, at least.' They shook, and Hannon's grip was solid, firm. 'At the risk of sounding like an ingrate... why'd you do it? I mean, who the hell are you?''

Bolan had the answer ready. 'Frank LaMancha. And you seemed worth saving.'

'Are you federal?'

'Not exactly,' Bolan answered, skating in as close to candor as he dared. 'I think we have a common interest.'

Hannon chewed on that a moment staring out the window, finally deciding not to push it.

When he broke his silence Hannon said, 'I'll have to make a call about the shooting. Metro won't take long to trace my car.'

The Executioner was well ahead of him.

'I'll drop you at a pay phone, but we need to talk before you make that call.'

'That right?' The ex-detective's tone was skeptical.

'I'm interested in why those two gorillas took you for a ride.'

'Well, now, if you're not law enforcement...'

'Did I say that?'

Hannon looked confused.

'I asked... I mean...'

'It's off the record,' Bolan told him. 'Call it 'need to know.''

'I see.' The former homicide detective's intonation made it clear he did not see at all.

'You know those guys?'

'One of them,' Hannon answered, plainly hesitant. 'A shooter by the name of Joey Stompanato. He belongs — belonged — to Tommy Drake. That tell you anything.'

'It does.'

Mack Bolan riffled through his mental mug file, flashing up the entry on one Tommy Drake. He was a middle-ranking mafioso, risen through attrition to acquire preeminence in the chaotic drug trade. While not a boss, he had the capability of putting out a contract. But the question still remained of why he bothered with a former captain of detectives.

'What's the tie-in?'

Hannon spent another silent moment staring at the road before he answered.

'Since you know my name, you've got to know I used to be with the Miami Police Department.' He waited for the Executioner's confirming nod. 'I pulled the pin two years ago, and since then I've been mostly working private.'

'Something special in the wind?'

'It didn't start that way.' Another thoughtful pause. 'I handle some investigations for Miami Mutual — evaluating claims and checking into frauds, that kind of thing. About six weeks ago they put me on a theft of long- haul moving vans.'

The former captain of detectives shifted in his seat and cleared his throat before continuing.

'The vans were stolen from a single firm, but when I started checking into it, I learned they weren't the only ones. Turns out we've had a dozen moving vans and semirigs ripped off right here in Dade these past two months.'

'Is that unusual?' Bolan asked.

'Damn right. These rigs were empties, mind you, nothing worth a hijack, and they're too conspicuous to keep around for long. I mean, nobody goes for midnight joyrides in a semitractor.'

'Someone's moving contraband?'

'It reads that way, but all the major fences use commercial lines. It cuts the risk to zero.'

'So you're looking at a special cargo.''

'That's affirmative.' He shot a piercing glance at Bolan. 'Something like a load of stolen arms.'

'Speculation?'

Hannon shook his head.

'I wish it were. When I was checking out the vans, I sorted through all kinds of other theft reports — including ordnance from Camp Blanding, south of Jacksonville, and from the naval training station at Orlando. Both within the past eight weeks.'

Mack Bolan felt a tightness spreading in his gut.

'What kind of ordnance?'

'Name it. Small arms, ammunition, hand grenades and rocket launchers. Someone's sitting on enough hardware to start a private army.'

'You figure some connection with the trucks?'

Hannon frowned.

'The street talk here backs it up,' he said. 'There's a bottomless market for arms in south Florida — terrorists, drug runners, exiles from all over Central America. They're buying anything that shoots.'

'Okay. You're still a country mile from Tommy Drake.'

'Not necessarily. I was supposed to meet with an informant who could put it all together, but....' He checked his watch. 'Looks like I'm going to miss him.'

'Just as well,' the soldier told him. 'If he didn't set you up himself, he may be in the bag already. If he's clear...'

'He'll get in touch,' John Hannon finished for him. 'Yeah, I thought of that.''

They passed a small suburban shopping mall, and Bolan cut across the nearly empty parking lot, his sportster homing on a bank of pay phones next to the corner drugstore.

'This will have to do.'

'It's fine. I'll have somebody here inside of five.' He hesitated, halfway out the door, a frown carved deep into his honest face. And there was something going on behind his eyes.

'Your hardware... isn't that the new Beretta?'

Bolan felt the short hairs lifting on his neck. He nodded.

Hannon's frown was softening, becoming speculative.

'Fellow I used to know swore by the Luger.'

Bolan forced a smile.

'It's got the power, but the toggle's too exposed,' he said. 'It snags.'

'I guess my dope was secondhand. This fellow... well, we never really met.''

There was another pregnant pause, and Bolan waited for the other shoe to drop. When Hannon spoke again, his voice was softer, cautious.

'Guess I'd better make that call,' he said. He got out of the car, eyeing the phones, then he turned around to face the Executioner.

Bolan felt himself relaxing as the older man continued, smiling now.

'If I had some idea what you were looking for...'

'I'm not exactly sure myself,' the soldier answered truthfully.

'Well, if there's anything....'

'I've got your number,' Bolan told him.

'Mmm.' No real surprise. 'Well, thanks again.'

He slammed the door and Bolan took the Firebird out of there, John Hannon swiftly dwindling in the