Blood Dues te-71

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan knew that if the terrorists gained a beachhead on Biscayne, there would be no stopping them before they had a chance to wreak their vengeance on a sleepy populace.

  If possible, Bolan and the troops that Toro might be able to recruit had to stop the juggernaut before it started bearing down upon its target.

  So far, the Executioner was hampered by a lack of battlefield intel. He did not know the number of his enemies, their firepower or their precise location. Every piece of information that he lacked made it more likely that the small defensive force would fail.

  But the very things that made Biscayne a tempting target also worked in Bolan's favor. Using trucks for transport, the invaders were restricted to a single avenue of entry to the island: over Rickenbacker Causeway to Virginia Key, then over Bear Cut Causeway to the killing ground itself on Key Biscayne. With that in mind, Mack Bolan could map out the different approaches to the causeway, narrow down the hostiles' route to half a dozen possibilities.

  And then what?

  By himself or with Grimaldi flying cover, even with the guns that Toro might be able to recruit, he could not cover all of the approaches with sufficient force to turn an armed brigade around. The roadblock must be inconspicuous enough to slip past the notice of police, yet strong enough to stop the killer convoy cold, without allowing even one of them to reach the target zone.

  Clearly, Bolan needed reinforcements in a hurry.

  The sudden inspiration struck him, and it was simplicity itself.

  Suddenly he knew exactly what he had to do and where to find the reinforcements that he needed. It would require audacity and nerve — two qualities the Executioner possessed in abundance — but if Bolan could pull it off he might be able to bring down two vultures with a single shot.

  All he had to do was change identities again in mid-stride, without losing his momentum. Just a simple probe inside the enemy encampment, right.

  That, and then get out again intact, with time to spare before he had to meet the final strike on Key Biscayne.

  A simple matter, right.

  No sweat.

  Except that he could lose it anywhere along the way, with one false step.

  And if he lost it... then he would die along with others, and the savages would breeze through unobstructed to their target area. There would be hours or days of mayhem.

  Mac Bolan pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on his actions of the next few moments.

  Defeat was not an acceptable alternative.

  He would have victory, or death in the attempt. And if he died, a lot of savage souls were going with him.

  21

  Phillip Sacco did not have his usual nightmare on the night after Omega's visit. You have to sleep in order to have nightmares, and for the aging capo, sleep was suddenly in very short supply. For the first time in his adult life he doubted his ability to control his own environment.

  And it was a frightening sensation.

  After twenty-four hours he still hadn't been able to get a line on Tommy Drake's assassins. Omega was out there, but Sacco's calls to New York City, Chicago and the West Coast had been unable to confirm or deny the black ace's standing with La Commissione. And worst of all, Sacco's town was blowing up around him, dreadful rumors circulating.

  Rumors about marksman's medals, damn right, and stories that Mack The Bastard Bolan might be back in town, goddamnit.

  Now there was a recurring nightmare — one that Sacco could not seem to wake himself up from no matter how he tried.

  Phil Sacco had been convinced, like all of his amid in the honored society of Mafia, that Bolan had finally died in his New York flame-out some time back. It had not been smooth sailing with him gone, of course; he left the brotherhood in an unholy shambles when he faded from the scene, and there had been a recent wave of state and federal offensives — but anything was better than going to bed with the fear that you might not wake up in the morning.

  Anything was better, sure, than jumping every time a shadow moved around you, any time a man in black might cross your path.

  Anything, yeah, except maybe not sleeping at all.

  If Mack Bolan was back, Sacco told himself, the frigging guy had made a critical mistake by coming back to southern Florida right now.

  Phil Sacco meant to see that Bolan paid for this mistake with his life.

  The telephone in his study started ringing, but Sacco did not answer it. He waited while Solly Cusamano, the houseman, took care of it, picking it up on the third ring.

  Sacco figured that any call at this hour of the night just had to be bad news — unless, perhaps, it might be one of his hunter crews reporting with information on the bums who took down Tommy Drake.

  There was a long moment's delay, then Solly knocked on the door of his study, poking his head in at Sacco's summons. Cusamano looked worried and apologetic.

  "It's that Omega, boss. You wanna talk to him?"

  Sacco stared at the silent telephone for a moment, allowing himself the luxury of pretending that he had a choice.

  "I'll take it, yeah. Thanks, Solly."

  Cusamano ducked back out and closed the door behind him. Sacco lifted the telephone receiver, listening silently until the houseman hung up on the other extension.

  "Okay."

  The black ace's voice came back at him across the line, deep and graveyard cold.

  "I'm glad to hear your voice, Phil."

  "Yeah?"

  Omega chuckled, making a reptilian hissing sound.

  "I had an idea I might be too late."

  "Too late for what?"

  Sacco did not try to hide the irritation that was slowly creeping into his voice.

  "To say goodbye," the ace responded.

  Irritation blossomed into full-blown anger now.

  "It's too damned late for playing games," the capo snapped.

  "You're wising up."

  "Goddammit..."

  Omega did not raise his voice, but still his words managed to override Sacco's outburst.

  "Tommy Drake was pissing on you, Phil. He was setting you up."

  "That's bullshit."

  But the doubt was planted in his mind now. Sacco had lived too long in the Mafia's paranoid jungle to automatically rule out any treason, any treachery.

  "You know he was connected with the Cubans," Omega responded, sounding almost disinterested. "Do you know what they were working on?"

  "Of course, I knew," he blustered, bluffing. "What kind of question..."

  "Then you know about the move on Key Biscayne."

  There was momentary silence on both ends of the line, Sacco racking his brain, loathe to admit ignorance, but coming up with nothing that made sense.

  Omega went ahead without his answer, reading everything he had to know into the capo's strained silence.

  "It's a psycho proposition, Phil. The feeling is your boy came up with it to pacify the Cubans. On the side, he's had them laying trails that lead right back to you."

  Sacco's hand was white-knuckled now on the receiver, so tight his hand was shaking.

  "I... guess I don't know what you mean."

  And Omega told him a horror story, speaking in dry, clipped tones, the weight of his words bearing down into the leather-upholstered cushions of his easy chair. When he heard it all, Omega offered him an out, explained how he could save it — part of it, at any rate — if he moved quickly and decisively enough.

  "You think that you can handle all that, Phil?''

  Sacco scowled at the receiver in his hand, hating the man at the other end, hating Tommy Drake for putting him in this untenable position.

  "I'll handle it, all right."

  "I hope so. Everybody's counting on you."

  Sacco stiffened, knowing the reverse side of the coin. Everybody's waiting to see you screw up; waiting to divide your operations when you 're dead and buried.

  "Tell them that it's in the bag."

  Omega hung up on him without another word, and
Sacco cradled the receiver briefly, glaring at it, not moving his hand. Then he lifted it again and started dialing rapidly.

  Sacco was calling in the troops, damn right.

  And the capo mafioso of Miami did not have a lot of time to lose.

  * * *

  Captain Robert Wilson drained the last few dregs of coffee from his mug and pushed it away from him across the cluttered desk. He rocked back in his swivel chair, stretching, deliberately closing his eyes as he turned toward the clock on the wall, refusing to acknowledge the hour and how little he had achieved this night in concrete terms.

  Beyond the glass partition that contained his private office, a skeleton crew was manning the Homicide squad room on the graveyard shift. The hackneyed gag was often used to get a laugh from officers in Homicide, but Wilson did not feel a bit like laughing at the moment.

  The first reports of Hannon's death were open on the desk in front of him. He could recite them almost word for word by now and still they told him nothing.

  Everything was there, of course, in terms of the procedures. Ballistics and trajectories, points of entry and exit. Wilson knew precisely how John Hannon died, and he had a fair idea of who was responsible... but none of it had put him any closer to solution of the crime.

  He had pursued LaMancha's lead on the dead girl and struck surprising pay dirt at the federal building. Her name had been Evangelina, and her file at Justice had included information on familial relations — on a sister, in particular.

  Deceased.

  And that had been a shocker, goddamned right. It raised some ghosts for Wilson, dating back to other days when Hannon was the captain, and a soldier newly home from Vietnam was settling a family score against the Mafia. The Bolan hunt had been an education in itself; it showed Robert Wilson a side of Hannon — and a side of himself — that he had never quite suspected.

  A side that, yeah, could be damned frightening at times.

  And Wilson had not overlooked the ominous parallels between that other time of killing and his present situation.

  One sister, Margarita, murdered by the syndicate the first time Bolan was in town; the other ambushed now, with Hannon, just when someone had been knocking over mob concessions, leaving marksman's medals as a calling card.

  Not someone, Bob Wilson corrected himself. It was Mack Bolan. He was still alive, somehow, against the odds. It was confirmed by FBI and press reports.

  The bastard was alive and he was back, no doubt about it. And he was Wilson's responsibility this time.

  The telephone jangled on his desk and Wilson grabbed for it absentmindedly, his thoughts still focused on his problem of the moment as he answered.

  "Captain Wilson, Homicide."

  "You're working late.''

  He recognized Frank LaMancha's voice although they had spoken only once before. There was something in the tonal quality that sent a little chill along his spine.

  "I've got a lot to do," he answered.

  "You'd better wrap it up. The curtain's coming down.''

  "That right?"

  There was skepticism in the homicide detective's voice, but he tempered it with caution.

  "Bet on it. Sacco and Ornelas are about to tangle. You'll want to be there.''

  Wilson searched around in the debris heaped upon his desk, finally coming up with a pencil and note pad.

  "Where and when?"

  "Not yet," LaMancha told him. "We need to let this run its course."

  "I see."

  The image in his mind was grisly, littered with the dead and dying.

  "You're telling me a shooting war's about to break, and asking me to sit on it."

  "You won't be missing anything, unless you try to put the lid on prematurely.''

  "Better I should wait until the county morgue is standing room only? It doesn't work that way around Miami, mister."

  "Easy, Captain. All I'm saying is that you could blow it if you get too eager.''

  "Maybe that's a chance I'll have to take."

  "I don't. Goodbye."

  Wilson felt a sudden rush, akin to panic, as he saw his chance begin to slip away.

  "Hold on there, dammit! I'm still listening."

  The "federal agent's" voice was cautious in its own right now.

  "No specifics yet. You'll have to trust me."

  "That's a rare commodity." Wilson hesitated, thinking it over briefly. "I'd like to take a look at what I'm walking into."

  "Fair enough."

  LaMancha briefed him quickly, sticking to the basics, but it was enough to put a sour taste in Wilson's mouth and set his stomach rolling. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, he had a hunch that blossomed into inspiration, revelation.

  LaMancha was about to hang up, and the captain blurted out, "Hey, Mack!"

  A heartbeat's hesitation, barely noticeable, on the other end of the line.

  "The name's still Frank."

  "Oh... right." Wilson suddenly felt foolish, asinine. "Uh... listen... thanks for the tip, okay?"

  "No sweat. Just don't be late."

  The line went dead and Wilson cradled his receiver, puzzling over his hunch for a moment, finally dismissing it. He set about his business, waking people and making sure they would be exactly where he needed them, precisely when their services were called for.

  Like Phil Sacco on the other side of town, Bob Wilson was calling in his forces, right, preparing for a good old-fashioned shooting war.

  * * *

  Toro's driver braked the Cadillac beneath some trees, partially sheltering the car from the nearest streetlight. Inside the car the faces of his troops were lost in shadows.

  It was almost dawn, and yet the sunrise had not touched the northern part of Miami. It lingered on the ocean, painting beaches gray, then pink and gold, finally creeping in past the beachfront hotels, and only then descending on the residential districts with its warming touch, bringing the world to life.

  This morning, in the vanguard of the dawn, Toro and his men had come not with life, but with death in their hearts. They were on a military mission and the setting made no difference, tactically, to their procedures or their goals.

  They had come for Raoul Ornelas, and they would have him, or all six of them would die in the attempt.

  The target was a ranch-style home in a fashionable part of the North Miami suburb. Sitting in the Caddy with a weapon in his lap, Toro reflected bitterly that Ornelas had not only betrayed the cause but he had also physically deserted his people, putting himself beyond their reach from the stews of Little Havana. Ornelas was a man apart, attempting to eke out a place for himself above the battle.

  But this day, El Toro meant to bring him down.

  The place was built for status and appearances instead of defense. A six-foot decorative wall surrounded the acre of grounds, and the house was set well back behind a manicured lawn, partially screened by trees. But this was not a fortress. They could encounter danger there, even death, but not before they made their way inside.

  In seconds, all of them had left the Cadillac and scaled the wall, regrouping in the shadows and waiting for instructions from their leader. Toro went through all of it again, to be on the safe side, substituting hand gestures for words whenever possible, keeping his eyes and ears alert for the danger of dogs or watchmen.

  He had deliberately timed the raid to coincide with sunrise, from knowledge of Ornelas's plans for the morning, and because the early morning brought a natural sluggishness to men on watch. A sentry's natural defenses lagged at sunrise, and with his meager force behind him, Toro knew he could use every single advantage available.

  Ornelas had sentries posted, but they were all immediately around the house, and they were not alert enough to save themselves from death as it came creeping toward them through the morning mist.

  Toro and his five warriors fanned out, moving low and fast across the lawn like silent shadows, gliding in the face of sunrise, closing on the house with lightning strides.

  Emilia
no took one sentry with his silenced Ruger automatic. One shot, with the bulky suppressor almost touching the base of the target's skull, and the little .22-caliber round cored through bone and muscle, clipping the stem of the brain.

  Toro made the second kill himself, slipping a noose of piano wire over a young man's head and bringing it tight around his throat. The wire bit deep, cutting off his wind and releasing a Niagara of blood as the soldier struggled briefly in Toro's grasp, finally relaxing into death.

  Toro's group circled back around the house, encountering no more resistance, and they found a service entrance in the rear. Ornelas was coming up in the world, the Cuban warrior thought. High time that someone put him back in touch with the grim realities of their unending war for freedom.

  In a war you executed traitors, yes. But sometimes, given opportunity, a trial could be instructive.

  They pushed on through the service entrance, barging into a combination kitchen and pantry with Juanito leading, his Uzi probing out ahead of him and seeking targets. He found them in the kitchen, three more pistoleros, chowing down on breakfast prior to relieving their comrades on the outside watch.

  In the heartbeat before everything exploded into chaos, Toro recognized one of the men, a former follower who had defected to Ornelas, seduced by his promises of action and material rewards.

  The guards were digging for sidearms, fanning out quickly, professionally. Juanito snarled and held the trigger down on his little Israeli stuttergun, raking the kitchen from left to right and back again, riddling pots and pans, puncturing the microwave oven and refrigerator with 9mm parabellum rounds.

  He caught one of the guards retreating through a connecting doorway, helped him get there with a blazing figure eight that split his spine and blew him away. A second figure was peeling off to the left, crouching behind the dining table as he brought a gun to bear upon the small invasion force, but he was not quite fast enough. Another Uzi burst removed his face with something less than surgical precision, scattering his brains across a wall.

  The third man actually got a shot off before the weapons of all six invaders bore down on him, opening fire as one and blowing him backward, a riddled, leaking straw man suddenly devoid of any life.