Miami Massacre

to the hotel by the ruckus. A man lying beneath a beach umbrella stared at them curiously as they walked by.

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.

Chapter Ten El Matador

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.'