Miami Massacre

Bolan said, 'Where the hell do you think I get mine?'

They laughed together, then Toro hefted the 16-79 configuration, gave Bolan a pleased nod, and said, regretfully, 'Such weapons, I am certain, are beyond our limited means, Matador. But we thank you for the instruction. We will add it to our dream mountain.'

Bolan muttered, 'Well, there is one other thing, Toro.' He made another trip to the car, returning this time with a leather satchel. He opened it, extracted a package of U.S. currency, riffled the edges of the packet with a thumb, then stuffed it into the waistband of his swim trunks.

Toro was watching him with puzzled eyes. Bolan closed the satchel and soberly passed it over. 'El Matador's contribution, Toro the Spanish bull, to La Causa de Cuba. You will buy some snake-stompers, no?'

Toro's face was split from ear to ear in a delighted grin. He cried, 'We will buy the snake-stompers, si! Senor Bolan, I do not know how to thank-'

'Hell, you already did,' Bolan assured him.

The Cuban could contain himself no longer. He turned to the other men with an excited rattling speech.

'No! No!'

'Si! Si!' Toro was digging into the satchel and throwing out packets of currency. 'Yanqui dollars, muchos muchos dinero, amigos, para la causa . . . .'

Bolan was quietly putting away his weapon. He dropped the packet of retained money into the golf bag and restored the snood, then replaced the bag in the Chevy's trunk, wrestled the Honeywell ammo cases to the ground, took his luggage from the rear seat, and passed back into the house, pushing his way through a growing crowd of excited insurgents. Margarita made way for him at the door, regarding him with glowing eyes. He went on through and into a small bedroom, dropped his bags to the floor, and immediately sprawled out across the bed. He was bone weary. Also uncomfortable. The swim trunks were too tight, and briny from the swim in the ocean. He struggled to his feet and took them off, then lay down naked and passed almost immediately into an alert combat sleep.

There was no sensation of a passage of time, but he awoke with a start and the realization that he had slept for some time. The house was still, as though deliberately quietened for his benefit — but also there was another presence in the darkened room, a most distinctive presence which was hovering above and very near. Recognition beat reaction by one flashing synapse and his instinctive lunge into the attack was quickly converted into a soft embrace of delicately scented and delightfully resilient flesh.

'Margarita?' he whispered.

She came on down atop him then, wriggling into the embrace with a soft exhalation, the firm flesh of her chest spreading onto his in an electrifying merger. Her mouth covered his and she sighed into the union, her hips seeking an accomodation which was impossible to acquire in the existing arrangement.

Bolan rolled her to her side and dragged his lips regretfully clear. 'I'm not complaining,' he assured her in a soft whisper, '. . . but are you sure this doesn't exceed Toro's sense of hospitality?'

Perhaps the only word she understood was Toro. In struggling English, she told Bolan, 'Toro no . . . habla?. . . no say thees. Margarita say thees.' She sighed and nuzzled his ear. ''Ees soldado, no? Ees time, R and R, no? El Matador say yes?'

Bolan rubbed her hip then pushed her onto her back and kissed her throat. 'Hell, yes,' he sighed.

She laughed lightly and wriggled back to her side, tossing a leg nonchalantly across his hips. 'No cansado?' she inquired, suddenly quite sober.

'No what? Tired? No, Margarita, not that you would notice.'

'Love me, Mock. Margarita esta soldada, tambien. Soldados R and R, yes, Mock?'

Bolan understood. They were soldiers together. Tomorrow perhaps each would die. Tonight, they would love, as only soldiers can. He gathered her into his arms and rolled to the edge of the bed, kicked his legs over the side, and sat up, cuddling her in his lap. She was clutching him fiercely and breathlessly moving her lips across his chest and moaning, 'Mock, Mock, Mock . . . .'

Soldados together, they lay back down and took a respite from their respective wars, joining forces in a most engaging act of love.

Chapter Thirteen And gone!

When Bolan next awakened he was alone on the bed and the yellow light of a kerosene lamp was dimly illuminating the room. Toro stood just inside the doorway. He said, 'It is nine o'clock, Matador.'

Bolan surged to his feet, unmindful of his nakedness, and went over to his luggage. A man with a huge smile moved into the room and helped Bolan transfer the two suitcases to the bed, then stepped back with arms folded across his chest and glowingly watched El Matador get dressed.

Bolan first selected a midnight skinsuit of fine woven, tough nylon and put it on. It fit like underwear, skin tight, with elastic cuffs at ankles and wrists.

The man with the big smile nudged Toro and said something in excitedly hushed Spanish as Bolan strapped the side leather on over the skin-suit. He tied the waist strap and inserted a fresh ammo clip into the Luger, then glanced at Toro and asked, 'What'd he say?'

'He was admiring your black costume, amigo. It is a psychology suit, no? To strike terror into the hearts of your enemies? This is what he asks me.'

Bolan grinned. 'I don't know about the psychology thing. I wear it because it blends beautifully into shadows and because it doesn't hang me up on doorknobs and fences and stuff. Sorry to spoil the illusion.'

Toro rattled an explanation to the third man.

Bolan began drawing on a shirt. 'So what'd you tell him?'

Toro laughed. 'I tell him yes, the suit strikes terror into the hearts of your enemies.'

Bolan chuckled and selected dark trousers, then canvas sneakers. As he finished dressing, he told his host, 'Something is on your mind, Toro.' 'Si.' He leaned against the wall and lit a cigar, then turned to say something to the other man. The man nodded, tossed Bolan a final face-splitting grin and left them alone. 'Your enemies begin a retrenchment, Matador,' Toro said soberly.

Bolan found a pack of Pall Malls in the suitcase, opened it, lit up, then turned to his friend with a frown. 'Just what are you calling a retrenchment?'

'They have been scattered about the Beach, no?'

Bolan nodded. 'I had that understanding.' 'Suddenly, senor, their scatterings are no more. They leave this place and that place, bag and . . .' 'Where are they going, Toro?'

The Cuban sighed heavily. 'Two large Beach hotels are suddenly in the midst of labor difficulties. All workers are pulled out, and these muy bueno haciendas are suddenly without service. Reservations are cancelled, and with mucho stirrings, registered guests are transferred to other establishments.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Si. But . . . other guests come quickly, amigo. Bringing with them their own service. Is this not strange?'

Bolan smiled. 'Yes, I'd call that a bit strange. Names, Toro.'

The Cuban sighed again, almost a moan. 'This would be most dangerous to attack these places,