Miami Massacre

listen, you've seen the success we've been having up in that area. We've been setting them up and knocking them down just like-'

'Okay, okay,' Hannon said heavily. 'So what's this Brognola doing besides talking to the President?'

'He's trying to contact our man.'

'To what effect?'

'To get him out of there, as gracefully as possible, until things quieten down.'

'I'll make a deal,' Hannon quickly declared.

'What kind of a deal?'

'I'll hold off the Dade Force until Brognola gets your man out. If . . . if, Dunlap, you turn right around and scratch our back.'

Dunlap said uncomfortably, 'Damn, you do think like a cop, don't you. I know what you want, but go ahead and get it in the record. What sort of a back scratcher do we have to have, John?'

'I want to know where they are, all of them. A complete list, any place where Bolan might launch a hit. Now isn't that painless? Who could ask for a better deal than that?'

Dunlap was chewing it. He said, 'I'll have to talk it up. I don't know. Anything that jeopardizes our man's cover is no deal at all. We go passing out Intel like that. . . Look, John, we don't gain anything by busting these people, and you know it. Their attorneys are downtown with writs before we can get the cell doors closed. We're building cases, John, not harassment proceedings. Bolan's been a great help in that area, also. They're all so jittery, they're making mistakes. Like-'

'Well, you go talk it up, Dunlap. We're almost ready to roll. With or without your help, see, we know a few places where Bolan might show up.'

'The Kirkpatrick woman?'

Hannon nodded. 'When she busted, she busted all over the place. Admitted that Bolan had visited her and that she fed him information.' 'Got her locked up?'

'Nope. Made a deal with her, too. We turn our back on her, uh, delicate indiscretions, also take her word that she spoke to Bolan only after the Sandbank hit and under duress.'

'You could hold her,' Dunlap pointed out, 'as an accessory to the Plaza job.'

'Sure, but for what gain? Hell, I believe her story. She gave us what we wanted, we gave her what she wanted. No booking, no notoriety, and she gets out of Miami on the first available flight.'

'You're not even interested in her as a material witness,' Dunlap observed. 'That says plenty right there. You don't expect to take Bolan alive.'

Hannon's gaze wavered and broke. 'You don't really believe that boy will throw down his gun and let us take him,' he stated quietly.

'I believe he'll fight you only if forced to,' the agent replied evenly. He got to his feet. 'No deal, Hannon. I don't barter a man's life away.'

'Not even for the life of your own Mafioso?'

Dunlap said, 'Get screwed, Hannon,' and quietly walked out.

The captain stared morosely at the vacant doorway, then dropped into his chair and swiveled about to gaze through the window, his face a study in frustration. He placed the pipe in his mouth and bit down savagely, winced, then removed it and depressed a button on his intercom. 'Tell Lt. Wilson I want him in here double quick,' he snapped.

The report came back, 'He checked out, captain. Said he'd be gone about thirty minutes.'

'Say where he's going?'

'I believe he's taking the Kirkpatrick woman home. Want me to try a radio contact?'

Hannon scowled at the clock. 'Give him until eleven o'clock. If he isn't back by then, get him if you have to put out an all-points.'

He flipped off the intercom and turned back to the window. Barter a life away, eh? What the hell did Stewart Dunlap know about bartering lives? For the first time in a long time, Captain Hannon seriously began to think about his retirement. He wanted out of it, he decided. He wanted out of the whole rotten mess. Stoolies, junkies, hookers, punks, muggers, rapists — what a hell of a parade for a man's life sum. And what made a cop an anointed executioner? In whose name did an officer of the law take to the streets to gun down society's misfits? By whose order and by what convention did John Hannon, 35-year veteran of law and order, calmly and precisely plot the death of a confused kid from Vietnam?

Executioner? Hannon sighed. The world was filled with executioners. Some were sanctioned, some not. Who decided, in the ultimate court of all the courts, which were and which were not?

Hannon placed the pipe carefully upon his desk and went to the window. Retire to what? There was no one in John Hannon's life now but stoolies, junkies, hookers, muggers . . . And an executioner. A 30-year-old kid fresh from the blood puddles of Southeast Asia . . . an executioner.

He went back to the desk, put on his coat, grabbed his hat, and went out. Captain John Hannon was not retired yet. He was still very much a cop. And it was time to begin the construction of a death trap . . . for an executioner.

The 'confused kid' from Vietnam did not feel at all confused at the moment. He knew precisely what he was doing. Before the hell broke, he needed a name . . . the name of a boat which sometimes hosted parties for visiting Mafia dignitaries. There would not be time, once the assault was underway, to run about seeking directions to the next front. He left his car discreetly parked one street over from Jean Kirkpatrick's place on Palmetto Lane and, stripped to the night suit, made his way quietly between the neat stucco houses, across the alleyway, and over the fence into the Kirkpatrick rear yard.

Keeping to the shadows, he followed the fence to the side of the house in a soft reconnoiter, then circled cautiously to the other side. The house was darkened and showed no signs whatever of a living presence. He found an open window near the front and crouched beneath it, breathing as softly as possible in a timed 'audio' recon.

Just as he had decided that the house was secure, he heard a faint scratching sound followed immediately by the flare of a match just beyond the window. A gruff male voice quietly announced, 'Kiss my ass, Tommy, you're gonna smoke yourself to death. Christ, you-'

'Aw shut up,' came the response. 'You're worse than the fuckin tv commercials. If I wanna smoke, goddammit, I'll smoke, so fuckya.'

Bolan quietly released his Luger and got it ready. After a brief silence, the first man said, 'Christ, I'm gonna go to sleep if this broad don't get home.'

'Might as well. She's probably out sellin' her ass somewheres, no tellin' where she's spending the night.'

'Go ask Willie if he can't get along without us. How many guys does it take to bring in one little broad, huh?'

'Fuck you, ask him yourself. I ain't askin' Willie nothing. You know how th' brothers get when they got their ass up.'

'Askin' Willie ain't askin' the brothers, Tommy.'

'Then ask him yourself. Whatsamatter, your ass hot or something?'

Bolan's eyes flared at the casual mention of 'the brothers.' He had already written off the mission as unworthy of the risks involved, but a new value had been added to the equation. He retreated quickly but cautious to the rear, again following the shadows of the fence. Something moved ahead of him. He halted and listened, his grip tensing about the Luger, then carefully moved on. Another motion as he reached the alley attracted his quivering senses. Again he halted. Something was moving along the pitch dark alleyway, but it was moving away from him. Perhaps a dog or a cat, he decided. He moved in the other direction, passed several houses above Kirkpatrick's, then circled back to Palmetto Lane, moving between the houses and into the shadow of a palm tree in the front yard for surveillance of the street.

A car was parked at the curb, some distance away. At first it appeared to be deserted, then the glow of a cigarette belied that. Again he returned to the alley and repeated the recon to the other side of the Kirkpatrick bungalow. There was another vehicle, opposite side of the street, also occupied.

It was a full set. Bolan pondered the significance of this. The Taliferos were known to be very thorough, but wasn't this pushing things a bit far? Either they were running scared, or . . . Or someone had set a . . .