The worst had come to pass. Two more lives on Bolan's soul, joining the others that dated back into the infancy of his private war against the Mafia. Two sisters now, and Bolan knew with agonizing certainty that he would never wipe their faces from his memory, not if he lived a thousand years.
And it was time for him to spread a little of the agony, the hell, around Miami, right. Sharing time for damn sure.
The Executioner had a list in mind, and someone on that roster knew precisely what had happened here today and why. Mack Bolan had to have that knowledge, now, before his campaign could proceed another step toward resolution.
There would be time enough for getting even when he had the targets sorted out and cataloged, all neatly organized for mass destruction.
He was looking forward to the coming judgment day, right.
But first he had to get in touch with Toro.
If it was not too late already.
19
Bolan pulled his car into a scenic turnout off Ocean Drive and parked facing the Atlantic. Out beyond the beach the water was already dark, forbidding in its vastness. At his back, behind the skyline of Miami, a tropical sunset was burning out in hues of pink and lavender. In his rearview mirror, the dying rays glinted off the hustling cars that flowed along the drive.
He sat there, smoking, glancing frequently at his wristwatch, a loaded Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun on the seat beside him. There was no such thing, he knew, as being overcautious these days in Miami. Not when half the underworld was working overtime to find and kill you.
The Executioner was more than ready when the Cadillac turned off, separating smoothly from the flow of traffic, headlights dancing as the driver guided her carefully over a series of speed bumps. The glare of headlights momentarily filled his rearview and Bolan averted his eyes, concentrating on the side mirror now. He stubbed out his smoke in the dashboard ashtray, then casually reached for the Ingram, lifting it into his lap. He kept one hand around the stubby weapon's pistol grip and watched as the Caddy rolled into an empty parking space beside him on the passenger's side.
The other driver killed his lights and engine, remained seated behind the wheel and stared straight ahead. Inside the Caddy other faces were turning to examine Bolan now, checking out his car and the surroundings, hesitant, cautious.
The car was ten years old, reminiscent of a bygone era. Somehow it seemed to fit its occupants that way. They, too, were out of sync with history, living anachronisms who refused to compromise with changing times. They reminded Bolan of the samurai, devoted to a code of honor; a military life-style that had become passe to everyone around them.
Still they carried on the fight and Bolan felt for them, aware in his heart that their own unending battle was as hopeless as his own.
It had taken several calls to make connections with El Toro and arrange the meeting.
A back door on the Caddy opened, and one of the gunners inside covered the dome light with his palm as Toro climbed out. Glancing around at the night, he crossed to Bolan's car and got in, sparing a look for the Ingram clutched in the Executioner's lap. Toro settled into the passenger seat and closed the door behind him.
"How goes the rattling of cages?" he asked.
"It goes. And you?"
"I traced Raoul's lieutenant." Toro flashed a little conspiratorial smile. "He was reluctant to confide in me at first. I had to be quite harsh with him."
Mack Bolan knew how harsh the Latin soldado could be, and he could almost sympathize with Ornelas's second-in-command. Almost, right, but not quite. He waited silently for Toro to continue in his own way and time.
"You still have interest in this Jose 99?"
Mack Bolan felt the involuntary prickling of his scalp.
"I do."
Toro paused briefly, then said, "He is Raoul."
And Bolan saw a couple of the pieces fall together, snapping soundly into place. He recalled the words of Captain Wilson as they stood together at the scene of Hannon and Evangelina's murder.
"The FBI says it has something on him from a routine wiretap on the Cuban embassy. He calls the cultural attache there from time to time."
Then Bolan replied, "I see."
The Cuban raised an eyebrow.
"You are not surprised?"
"Let's say it fits."
He briefed Toro quickly on what Wilson had told him, and the Cuban's face was going through some changes of its own as he digested Bolan's words. When the Executioner had finished speaking Toro made a disgusted face.
"I underestimated this one's treachery," he said.
He spent a moment staring out across the beach at darkened water, watching the moon rise.
"This cultural attache that you speak of, Jorge Ybarra, he is DGI."
Bolan stiffened even though he wasn't surprised to hear what he had already begun to suspect. Still, he was angry at himself for not putting the pieces together sooner, in time to save a few good lives along the way.
The DGI, of course. Castro's secret service — basically a Spanish-speaking adjunct of the KGB.
It fit, damn right.
It fit too well.
"Raoul has the trucks and weapons that your friend is looking for," Toro said absently. "Raoul is responsible for stealing them."
Bolan resisted an urge to put John Hannon in the past tense, to tell Toro all about Evangelina. They were running on the numbers, and every second counted now. There was no time to waste in agonizing over battle casualties.
"For weeks now," Toro continued, "this pendejo has recruited gunmen. Omega 7 hides them, but they have a special mission. I believed it was Raoul, but now I see that there is more."
"What mission?" Bolan prodded.
"Key Biscayne."
Something turned over sluggishly in Bolan's gut, but he held himself in check, waiting for Toro to continue.
When the Cuban spoke again his voice was emotionless as he began to spell it out.
"One truck filled with explosives, to blow the causeway, si? Three, four others with the marielistas, weapons. All in position early while the people are asleep."
And Toro did not have to say any more. Mack Bolan had the picture clearly in his mind, and any way he looked at it, it came out as a bloodbath in the streets.
"When do they move?"
"Tomorrow. Dawn."
The warrior felt a headache start to throb behind his eyes and raised one hand briefly to massage his temples, clearing his mind for what lay ahead.
"We've got a lot to do," he said simply.
Toro turned to face him, his features lost in shadow inside the sedan's darkened interior. His deep voice seemed to emerge from a bottomless pit.
"My men are working on Raoul," he said. "I'll have him soon, I think."
Bolan nodded curtly.
"Okay. He's yours. I have some stops to make. We'd better synchronize."
"Agreed."
They spent the next quarter hour laying plans for the approaching battle. It was completely dark by the time they went their different ways. A darkness of the soul as much as anything.
It captured Bolan's killing mood precisely, as he pushed the rental car through Stygian blackness, following the coastline, with the wild, untameable Atlantic on his right-hand side.
In his heart the warrior knew that the only way to drive the darkness back was with a purifying flame, bright and fiercely hot enough to send the cannibals scuttling back underground where they belonged.
He had the fire inside him now, and he was primed to let it out, to strike a spark that might consume Miami in the end, before it burned away to ashes.