Blood Dues
( The Executioner - 71 )
Don Pendleton
Rumors and rumbles of a Cuban exile connection with the Mafia crime machine in Miami have come to Bolans ears.
The Executioner enters an old battleground, only to find hordes of Cuban outcasts crowding the city center, and the teeming core of Miami pulsing to a new Latin death song.
Grim specters and faithful friends of a former life weave a deja vu tapestry as Bolan hits both the Mob and an exile splinter movement.
Clouds of terror hang low over Americas southern ocean playground. The rumbles are turning to thunder. Unless Bolan can stop the Havana hurricane, Miami and its beaches will be awash in blood!
Don Pendleton
Blood Dues
If you want to serve God, you have to take on His attributes. That includes the heavy responsibility of exercising vengeance.
Norman Mailer
Some call the Mafia a second government. Right. Well, if that's the case, there's going to be a second Civil War — The Executioner vs the Mob.
Mack Bolan
Prologue
The warrior was at home in darkness, comfortable in a world of gliding shadows. Motionless, he listened to the night noises all around him, picking out the sounds of insects, night birds, an alligator rumbling for its mate across the marshy hummocks. The soldier melded with the environment of the steaming Everglades, a predator like those around him, seeking prey in the gloom.
But he would not find it there.
The jungle compound was long abandoned. Weeds and clinging vines had overgrown the clapboard barracks structures, creepers tangling in the uprights of the one remaining lookout tower. Barbed-wire fencing, collapsed and rotted through in spots to grant him easy access, had become a rusty trellis for the climbing undergrowth.
The compound was deserted, yes, but it was still alive. The weathered buildings were infested now by furtive, creeping things, and swamp birds roosted in the sole surviving tower. Man had given way to the relentless march of Mother Nature there, but he had also left his brand upon the Everglades.
And there were ghosts.
The warrior felt them as he passed inside the fence, encroaching on their territory. If he closed his eyes, it almost seemed that he might see them, moving in and out around the barracks, standing their eternal watch along the overgrown perimeter.
He heard their voices whispering to him on the night wind, here disguised as rustling leaves, there the gentle creaking of intertwined trunks of swamp trees. They spoke to him in urgent terms; of honor, duty, vengeance, calling him by name.
The warrior answered them, and stilled their soft demanding voices with a promise.
Soon, soldados.
He was home again, among the ghosts, and there were dues to pay.
In blood.
1
The meet was on. John Hannon had been working toward it now for six long weeks, and he could not deny the tingle of excitement at knowing it was really set. With any luck, he would have enough to put the whole thing under wraps tonight. Enough, perhaps, to get the D. A. off his ass and into action.
Waiting for the elevator, Hannon impatiently checked his digital Timex again. Five minutes later than the last time and two hours left to kill. The drive would use up half of that, and he could find a restaurant along the way to kill the other hour.
It occurred to Hannon that he had not eaten well in several days, but he would make up for it soon. The old excitement of the hunt was bringing back his appetite.
It was like old times — well, almost — fitting all the scrambled pieces into place and making sense of jumbled, fragmentary leads. So different from the routine background checks and tawdry marital investigations that had largely occupied his days since he retired from Homicide.
This time, it seemed to count for something.
He had never met the Cuban, never even heard his voice before the call came in that afternoon, but he had instantly agreed to a meeting. The risk was there, of course — there was enough of the policeman left in Hannon to prepare him for the worst — but he was too damned close to pass.
At last the elevator came, and Hannon rode the five floors down alone. Inside the office building's basement parking lot, the atmosphere was stale; it smelled of gasoline and motor oil. Alighting from the elevator. Hannon glanced both ways, saw nothing out of place, and moved out briskly toward his Buick three aisles over.
He had reached the car, his key in the lock, before he felt the enemy behind him. There was something, like the prickling of gooseflesh on his back, that signaled danger close at hand. He suddenly felt cornered in the parking stall. He was half prepared to turn when polished steel was pressed against the back of his skull.
John Hannon recognized the feel of gunmetal and he froze. The subterranean garage no longer smelled like stale exhaust; instead, he thought it smelled of death.
"You know the drill," a husky voice informed him.
Hannon knew the drill, all right. He had been on the other end of it perhaps a thousand times. Both hands upon the Buick's roof, his feet well back and shoulder width apart. A pair of hands explored him expertly, relieving him of the two-inch .38 he carried on his hip, and still the pistol pressed against his skull.
So there were two of them.
"He's clean," a second voice announced.
A strong hand on his shoulder spun him around, then shoved him back against the Buick. There were two of them, like lethal bookends in their carbon-copy suits and modish haircuts. Hannon recognized the older of the two — his name was Joey something — but his effort to recall the rest of it was hampered by their weapons.
Joey Something held a Smith and Wesson .357 leveled at his chest. His partner clutched the snubby Colt that he had lifted out of Hannon's holster. At that range, Hannon realized, it would not matter which they used.
"We're going for a ride," the older gunman told him. "You're driving."
Hannon nodded.
"Get behind the wheel and don't try any hero bullshit."
Hannon did as he was told, aware that he was momentarily in a no-win situation. If he tried to flee on foot, or to start the engine prematurely, they would have him in a deadly cross fire. He would never stand a chance.
The older gunman's name was still elusive, but some fragments of his rap sheet had been filtering back. Extortion ... arson... murder.
He was Mafia, a "made guy," right.
It figured.
Joey Something crawled in on the passenger's side, while his companion settled in the back seat, covering Hannon from behind.
"Where to?"
"I'll let you know," the front-seat gunner told him. "Get on Seventh, going south. And take it easy."
Hannon got the Buick rolling, followed orders as he pulled out of the garage, merging with the traffic. A sleek black Firebird almost cut him off, but Hannon forged ahead, refusing to be buffaloed. The sportster fell in line behind him, any parting gesture from its driver hidden by the tinted windshield.
Bearing south, they passed the twenty-story Omni, new Miami's unofficial centerpiece. The shotgun rider guided him beneath the 395 interchange and past the gently rolling greenery of Bicentennial Park, the ocean on their left now.
A group of tanned, bikini-clad girls were playing Frisbee on the grass, and Hannon felt a pang that pierced him like a knife. It struck him as obscene that children should be playing games while he was on his way to die.
The gunners meant to kill him, Hannon was certain. This had all the earmarks of a classic one-way ride, its only consolation being final proof that he was getting close. So close...
Survival was the first priority, and Hannon's mind was occupied with the mechanics of escape. They'd be he
ading out of town — away from any crowds — and there was a chance that he could get away when they cleared the heavy downtown traffic. He could bail out, risking any oncoming vehicles. There was a chance, if he could take the mafiosi by surprise.
If their reaction time was slow enough to let him leave the speeding car alive.
If no one driving home from work plowed him under like a rabbit on the highway.
The grim alternative was certain death, and Hannon had already come to terms with that reality. If all else failed, he was determined now to take the gunmen with him. He would smash the Buick into anything available — a bridge abutment or a semirig — before he let them lead him like a lamb to slaughter.
Suddenly it came to him.
The gunner's name was Joey Stompanato.
Hannon's memories were flooding back as if the file lay open on a desk in front of him. They called him Joey Stomps, a nickname dating back to when he used to muscle for the local shylocks, breaking legs and skulls as an enforcer for the mob's elite collection agency. He was suspected of a dozen homicides in Florida alone, but Stompanato's only time inside had been the thirty days he served for battery in the sixties.
Joey Stomps was lethal, right. And at the moment, he belonged to Tommy Drake.
That told the ex-detective everything he had to know, and it increased his grim resolve to take the killers with him as a last resort.
They were merging onto Flagler, running to the west, when Hannon spied the tail. His back-seat passenger had shifted, and Hannon saw the Firebird shadowing them. It might have been coincidence, or Stompanato was professional enough to bring a backup team, in case of some mishap. If there were other guns behind them, then his freedom leap was doomed before he made the effort. Even if the crash got Stompanato and his sidekick, number two would swerve and crush the life from Hannon as he bounced across the street.
Okay. The enemy was closing out his options, leaving him with only one alternative.
The traffic started thinning out, and Hannon took advantage of it, tromping on the accelerator. Stompanato jammed the .357 Magnum hard against the ex-detective's ribs, thumbing back the hammer.
"Slow down, goddammit! We're not taking any tickets."
Hannon grinned and kept the pedal down. Don't worry, Stomps, you bought your ticket when you came aboard. One-way, to the end of the line.
Hannon could feel the muzzle of his own Colt still jammed between his shoulders from behind, and he braced himself to take the bullet.
"Ease off, you bastard!"
Hannon laughed at Stompanato, recognized the crackle of incipient hysteria in his voice.
Stompanato's sidekick had the rearview mirror blocked, his face a twisted panic mask, but Hannon caught the Firebird in the side mirror now, approaching and about to overtake them on the left.
The starboard window powered down, and Hannon glimpsed a flash of steel inside as a pistol leveled into target acquisition. The ex-cop had a flash impression of a single, solemn face, a spill of raven hair across the forehead as the driver sighted down the barrel.
Stompanato's backup was alone, and even as Hannon registered the oddity of that, he pushed the riddle from his mind. A quarter mile ahead of them, a freeway overpass provided him with what he needed, massive concrete pylons waiting to receive the hurtling Buick.
Hannon hunched his shoulders, leaning toward the steering wheel as if his posture might extract another mile or two per hour from the straining engine. He never really felt the blow that Stompanato landed on his ribs.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Firebird's sleek nose lining up with the Buick's, and he waited for the bullet to core his skull. The backup man would panic, try to stop him with a flying shot, and the ex-policeman was gratified to know it would not matter in the least. When he died, the Buick would continue on for a hundred yards or so before his dead weight locked the steering wheel and sent them over in a devastating barrel roll.
All that flashed through Hannon's mind within a heartbeat, vividly emblazoned on the mental viewing screen — and none of it took place.
There was no shot. Instead the Firebird pulled away, outdistancing the Buick and leaving them behind.
Abruptly, up ahead, the sportster cut in front of him, its brake lights winking on. Instinctively, John Hannon hit the brakes and cranked the wheel around to avoid the collision, veering right and off the pavement. They plowed across the shoulder, and a grassy bank was looming up ahead of them before he had a chance to realize that he was losing it.
The Buick started climbing, drive wheels chewing turf and spitting gravel. They were drifting, sliding, slowly losing ground, the engine choking, stalling out.
They had him.
Hannon knew it, and something snapped inside of him. He lashed at Stompanato with a backhand, ripping his knuckles on the gunner's teeth. Then the ex-cop found the door latch, wrenching at it, spilling out onto the grass.
The Smith & Wesson roared behind him, and he felt its fiery breath against his cheek before he tumbled momentarily out of range. The heavy bullet pushed its shock waves past his face.
And he was scrambling on his hands and knees now, struggling to gain his feet and knowing if he did that he would make a perfect target for the pistoleros.
In his panic, Hannon saw the third man only as a shadow, moving up the bank with loping strides. The ex-detective tried to veer away and lost his balance, sprawling, rolling over on his back.
The new arrival reached him, passed him, breaking for the Buick with an autoloading pistol in his fist. Beyond him, Joey Stompanato was a hulking silhouette emerging from the driver's door, his Magnum probing emptying air.
The newcomer hit a crouch and snapped his automatic out to full arm's length, the weapon's silencer emitting muffled popping sounds. The Stomper crumpled backward, streaming liquid traces of himself across the inside of the windshield.
The stranger pivoted, acquiring target number two before the back-seat gunner realized exactly what was happening. A single bullet struck the Buick's window, drilled on through and pulped the hit man's face. He disappeared without a sound.
The sole surviving shooter doubled back, already holstering the autoloader underneath his jacket.
"Time to go," he said. "You ready, Hannon?"
2
"Do we know each other?"
Mack Bolan, in the driver's seat, glanced over at his passenger.
"We've never met," he answered.
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 a
head 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."
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