"Seriously. I'll be checking back — and not on business."
She showed him a frown, then dropped her eyes. "Just for the record, I didn't do it very often. You'd never believe it if I told you what a rotten jungle this modeling business is. A girl sort of loses her . . . sense of value."
Bolan bent over the bed and lightly kissed her lips. "Thanks for the information," he said.
"You threaten me and then thank me," she said, sighing. "Goodbye, killer."
"Executioner," he corrected her. "There is a difference."
"Sure, your difference is like my difference. But I'm just as ruined and you're just as bloody, difference or no."
Bolan patted her leg, replied, "I'd still like to discuss that with you some time," and then he went out of there. The "party" list in his pocket held portents of a party the likes of which Miami Beach had never hosted. He reminded himself that there was nothing personal in his war with the Mafia. He was a soldier doing a soldier's job. The chief difference between this war and the one in which he had learned his craft was a simple matter of geography. Miami was the new battleground, but his mission remained the same. Kill. Decimate the enemy. Fight the war of attrition until one side is down and out.
That word "difference" kept surfacing in his mind. The encounter with Jean Kirkpatrick had raised troublesome ghosts. As he cranked the engine of his car, the two little boys reappeared briefly and took imaginary shots at him, using fingers for guns. Bolan gazed at them for a moment then kicked the car into gear and put the scene behind him.
"Sure I'm wrong," he told his rearview mirror. "The difference, Miss Kirkpatrick, is that I'm not quite as wrong as they are." A wan smile played briefly upon his lips. The girl had been correct, of course. It takes a killer to kill. The difference, as Bolan tried to see it, lay in motive. What motivated Mack Bolan to kill? His smile disappeared and was replaced by a brooding frown. Wasn't that question asked repeatedly by every soldier who'd ever found himself in a combat situation? What am I here for?
He lit a cigarette, set his course for the beach drive, then pulled out his party list for a quick inspection. Bolan knew damn well why he was in Miami. He'd come to crash a party. From the looks of the list, his task was mushrooming. How many parties could he "crash" before one of them rolled over atop him? He sighed. It was the same old story. The rules of warfare for an inferior force would always remain the same. Kill quicker than the other side. Hit and fade. Find another weak spot and kill again, then quickly withdraw. Maintain mobility and audacity and the will to kill. Forget philosophies, moralisms, and the accusing eyes of a frightened young woman.
Bolan's lips were clamped grimly upon the cigarette. A long ash fell into his lap. He brushed it away and, in that same motion, the girl also. Bolan had not come to Miami to examine his soul. He had come to dispatch a number of others. And the dispatcher had a busy schedule. Miami Beach was about to become a battleground. He had to hit again, and quickly, and keep hitting until they were falling apart and breaking ranks and fleeing into their sanctuaries — and The Executioner observed no rules of sanction, there would be no sanctuaries for the mob in Miami.
Chapter Eight
Channel deep and swift
Captain John Hannon had wasted no time in gearing the police machinery to the emergency. Queries had gone to every section of the nation which had experienced the private war of Mack Bolan, and every law office contacted to the effect of acquiring all available information which could be used to avert a Miami explosion. For several years the veteran policeman had headed a special unit which was designed to cope with the extraordinary situations in the Miami area, such as security for vacationing and transiting VIPs, providing intelligence for civil unrest and disturbance cases, and various other problems not usually associated with normal police routines. Referred to officially as "the Dade Force," the special unit was staffed by members of various police agencies in Dade County and held jurisdiction which crossed all law agencies in that area.
Robert Wilson, Lieutenant, Homicide, had worked on infrequent occasions with the special force. As investigating officer in the Sandbank incident, he had been assigned as direct liaison officer between the Dade Force and the metropolitan homicide division.
Assigned as a special advisor to the group was Stewart Dunlap of the U.S. Justice Department's Racketeering Investigative Branch, Miami Field Office. Dunlap was a regular member of the Dade Force, but on a standby basis only. He was known to have a strong interest in the Bolan case.
These three officers were sifting through the accumulation of joint data which had been developed during the short few hours of the Miami chapter of the Bolan story. Dunlap rubbed his chin reflectively and said, "I believe you have a bad situation here, John. Bolan is very obviously in town, and it just doesn't seem to be his way to go chasing specific targets around the country. He is just as obviously on the offensive . . . not running, I mean. I'd have to say that he's here for something big."
Hannon was studying an intelligence report from the metropolitan vice division. "You're probably right," he murmured. "According to the dossier on Balderone, he was Ciro Lavangetta's field man for the Miami area. If I could just tie this all together . . ."
Lt. Wilson commented, "I thought Lavangetta was Portocci's boss back in Arizona."
"That's true," Dunlap said. "But the Cosa Nostra isn't all that geographically oriented. Each family has a territory, right. But major resort centers have traditionally been regarded as open to all the families. Las Vegas, for instance, and Miami Beach. Some of the families are quite active in Miami, others have no interest whatever in the action here. It depends on their ties. Apparently the Arizona faction has very strong ties in this area." He smiled. "As a matter of fact, Justice has been watching them with great interest, and for some time."
"Just what was Balderone's function?" Wilson asked.
"Sort of ambassadorial," the federal man replied. "You might think of him as Chief of the Arizona Embassy in Miami. He made business contacts, arranged deals, kept the trade lanes open to the Caribbean and South America."
"What sort of trade lanes?"
"Just name it, you've hit it. Narcotics, illegal booze, hot money, gambling, any channel where the bucks run fast. He also, incidentally, had quite a reputation as a dealer in women."
"White slavery?"
Dunlap smiled and shook his head. "Not that we're aware of. No, that was part of his public relations routine. He wined, dined, and bedded his visiting royalty in a truly regal manner, and he had quite a discerning eye for feminine beauty. According to a couple of phone conversations we tapped into last year, he was quite proud of his hostly image. Liked to brag that he had the hottest stable in the country."
"The young woman, Jean Kirkpatrick," Wilson mused, ". . . chances are pretty good, then, that she was part of Balderone's girl operation, right?"
"Your report states that she was there to model swimwear," Hannon said, looking up quickly. "Did you check that out thoroughly?"
Wilson nodded. "Yes, sir, I did. The boutique shop in the lobby confirmed her story. She was wearing one of their suits when the shooting occurred. But it's starting to smell. With Balderone straddling both worlds . . ." He sighed. "Such a beautiful kid. Dammit. I guess I better question her again."
"It can keep," the captain said. "Right now we'd better start trying to get a line on this Bolan character. And half of the Dade Force is tied down on that music festival out at the raceway."