And in Omega's absence, Sacco willed his muscles to relax, returning to the wet bar for another whiskey. Too damned early to be drinking, but hell, it wasn't every day an ace dropped by to threaten you and everything you had.
And it was a threat. All that talk about his friends up north, the Cubans, termites in the walls — he read it loud and clear.
Sacco had a budding revolution on his hands, and Tommy Drake was probably the first in line to fall. New York knew all about it — or enough, at any rate, to send their bloodhound sniffing — and the fact of Sacco's obvious ignorance marked him as a careless capo, one who might be easily unseated.
Well, the bastards had a fat surprise in store for them if they believed Miami would be easy pickings. Tommy Drake had bitten off a wad he could not chew, but Sacco had the muscle to avenge his first lieutenant.
He would find out what the hell was going on — among the Cubans or the Haitians, in his own damn family if it came to that — and he would put his foot down. Right on someone's throat.
As for this Jose 99 — he might be anybody. That was fine with Philip Sacco. He was smart enough and strong enough to root out anyone in southern Florida. It was a relatively simple job of pulling strings and pushing proper buttons.
Right.
And you could can that crap about an open city in Miami. All it meant for Sacco was an open grave.
His "friends" up north were looking for a sign? Okay. Sacco had one ready for them.
It would read No Trespassing.
And anyone who crossed the boundary uninvited would be leaving in a body bag.
6
Mack Bolan — alias Omega — parked his rental car outside the storm fence of the medium-security detention camp. It was early yet for visitors, and Bolan knew the other vehicles in the parking lot would all belong to prison personnel. His four-door Dodge, the Firebird's temporary stand-in, made a perfect match for all the other family sedans around him.
As the vehicle had changed, so had Mack Bolan. He no longer wore the custom-tailored suit expected of a Mafia ace. Instead, a cheaper model, clearly purchased off the rack, would help him merge with lawmen who had seen more hours than income on the job. The only constant was his sleek Beretta automatic, minus its suppressor, tucked away in leather underneath his arm.
The warrior was a master of role camouflage, adept at changing his identity without elaborate disguise. Experience had taught him that the human mind most often saw what was expected, ordinary. The art of observation was neglected, often totally ignored.
The persona of a black ace was ideal for Bolan — shrouded as the Mafia's gestapo was in mystery, invested as it was with such a fearsome reputation that the doubters seldom voiced their questions openly. "Omega" had been serving him from early in his war against the Mob, and he had served to rattle Philip Sacco — but for now, another face was needed.
Exit one Omega.
Enter Frank LaMancha, federal officer.
Bolan moved along a barbed-wire runway, mounting steps to enter the encampment's small reception building. At the desk, a beefy sergeant looked up from the newspaper he was reading, frowning at the new arrival.
"Early," he remarked. "No visitors till one o'clock."
Bolan kept it deadpan, slid his wallet with the fake ID across the desk top.
"I'm here to see Antonio Esparza."
"Nobody told me anything about it," the sergeant said irritably.
"Why don't you check it out? I haven't got all day."
A spark of anger in the washed-out eyes, and there was color rising in the oval face. A massive hand searched briefly for the telephone and found it.
"Hold your water, buddy. This could take a while."
The sergeant's call produced a neatly pressed lieutenant who examined Bolan's papers, finally returning them.
"We usually get a call," the slim lieutenant said.
"It came up overnight, but if you wanna check it out..."
The watch commander hesitated, finally shook his head.
"Guess not. What is it you want from Toro, anyway?"
"We're checking out his group for terrorist connections interstate. My boss thinks we can turn him."
The lieutenant chuckled to himself.
"Good luck. The bastard's hard as nails."
Bolan followed the lieutenant through a set of double gates and down a narrow corridor. A guard and more iron gates were waiting for them at the other end.
"You packing?" the lieutenant asked.
Bolan nodded, slipped the spare Detective Special from its holster on his belt and handed it across. The gate man locked it in his desk; they did not search Bolan for any other weapons.
They walked through the final gates and out across a kind of grassy courtyard ringed by prison buildings. Bolan recognized the mess hall, laundry, workshops. Barracks ranged behind the central buildings and beyond them, men in faded uniforms were working in the cultivated fields, observed by mounted guards.
He followed the lieutenant to a squarish blockhouse, and they went inside. The sterile lobby, with more small rooms opening on either side, revealed it as the visitation building. The lieutenant flagged a guard and issued curt instructions.
"Bring up Esparza, number 41577."
"Yessir."
Bolan trailed his guide into the nearest conference room, finished with a simple wooden table and a pair of folding chairs.
"They'll bring him up directly," the lieutenant said. "And if there's anything you need..."
"Just Toro," Bolan told him. "And some privacy."
A few minutes later a shadow filled the narrow doorway. Bolan's chair scraped concrete as he rose and turned to face the man he knew as Toro.
Time had changed Antonio Esparza, lined his face around the mouth and eyes, but Bolan recognized him instantly. The hair was still jet black, the eyes still level, hard, the jaw still firm. In prison whites, the olive of Esparza's skin appeared to be a deep suntan.
And the man still moved like the commander he had been, with back straight, shoulders squared. The prison had not broken him; it never would, no more than Castro's jails had broken him in younger days.
El Toro was a fighter. Hard as nails, the young lieutenant said. Damn right.
But there was something new about the man that Bolan had not seen before. An edge of bitterness, perhaps. An anger simmering in the cauldron of his soul.
The Executioner offered him a hand and Toro brushed on past him, homing on an empty chair across the narrow table from him. Bolan nodded at an escort guard and he retreated, locked the door behind him, leaving them alone. Bolan sat down opposite the Cuban, watching him in silence for a moment prior to speaking.
"Do they bug these rooms?" he asked.
The Cuban raised an eyebrow, finally shook his head.
"No more. The civil-liberties attorneys threaten lawsuits."
Bolan took a chance.
"It's been a long time, Toro."
His companion's face was changing, melting into a reflective frown, his dark brows knitting. He was studying the Executioner, examining the altered face that he had never seen, as if to look behind the flesh and into Bolan's mind. Another moment, and the Cuban seemed to come to some conclusion.
"A face may change," he said at last, "but not the eyes, the soul. I hear that you are dead."
The warrior grinned, beginning to relax a fraction.
"That's a small exaggeration. Maybe wishful thinking."
"And the war?"
"Today it's in Miami."
"It was always here."
The soldier nodded, glanced around at their surroundings.
"Hard to carry off the fight from here. What happened?"
Bolan knew the answers, or a part of it, but he was interested in Toro's version.
"Someone says I have explosives, guns."
"I see."
The Cuban frowned.
"You do not ask?"
"No need to."
Toro shook his head disgustedly.
"It is ironic, no? For years I handle weapons, smuggle refugees, strike blows for Cuba libre. Now, they say I hide explosives in my home, where any fool can find them. Esta loco."
"Someone set you up."
The Cuban spread his hands.
"Como no. Policemen come with warrants in the night. They know exactly where to look and what they may expect to find."
"You have a candidate?"
The freedom fighter's smile was unexpected and disarming.
"There is someone I suspect," he answered vaguely. "Ten months, perhaps a year, and I will visit him."
"You may not have the time to spare.''
The Cuban studied Bolan, frowning, finally rocked back in his metal folding chair.
"Explain."
The soldier gave it to him, fragmentary as it was — the stolen trucks and arms, the rumbles of a Cuban exile tie-in with the Mafia drug machine, and the attempt upon John Hannon. When he finished laying out the scrambled jigsaw pieces, Bolan waited, hoping that the Cuban might be able to make sense of them, provide him with a handle.
Toro's words were not encouraging.
"This Jose 99, he might belong to anyone. Your friend — the captain — is he certain his informer was a Cuban?"
The warrior nodded.
"Sure as he can be. They never met."
El Toro leaned across the table, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"You have to understand, amigo... the intrigue... it has become a way of life... a cause unto itself. For twenty years, we fight to free our homeland. First, your government supports us — then it tells us to be patient, wait until manana. The CIA recruits our people, trains them... and it introduces them to leaders of the Mafia. Then come the marielistas and their drugs...."
Bolan felt him winding down.
"I need a handle, Toro. Anything at all."
The Cuban hesitated, finally spoke.
"There may be something I can do," he said. "But from in here..."
His shrug was eloquent, and Bolan got the message. Loud and clear. He scanned the possibilities in something like a second flat, arriving at a swift decision.
"We can work it out," he said.