Hannon replied, "Something's going on down at the Tidewater Plaza. Sounds like a possible Bolan hit."
Wilson nodded and settled into his seat, nervously dug for a cigarette, and commented, "Isn't the Tidewater on that list of Mafia tie-ins?"
The captain's reply was lost as the car squealed onto the beach drive, heeling and swaying in the abrupt turn as a marked patrol car leapt alongside then powered smoothly into the lead, beacon flashing and siren screaming. Hannon snapped, "Mike!" and extended a hand into the front seat. Wilson passed the radio microphone back and watched the captain through narrowed eyes as the leader of the Dade Force passed instructions into the command net. "No sirens! Marked cars form a perimeter of standard containment and hold all traffic. Dade Specials form on me, outside front, and await further."
The clipped tones of the special dispatcher immediately began relaying the instructions and assigning stations. Hannon turned the microphone over to Wilson. "They're sending a couple of boats down, also. If that character is in there, maybe our problem is smaller than we thought."
"And what if he's not?" Wilson muttered.
"Then we're already treading deeper water than I enjoy. Tallahassee is in the act already, bunch from the attorney general's office on the way down. And the governor's office has been on the horn. Plus, Dunlap tells me that this Brognola fella is being flown here in a government jet."
"Aw, piss," Wilson commented dismally.
"Well, maybe we'll have our turkey on ice by the time the congregation arrives," Hannon said.
"I'll buy that," Wilson said. He took out his revolver and checked it, sighed, and added, "They say this guy has several faces. How do we know which one to look for?"
"Just look for a big graceful cat with graveyard eyes. All the pictures and sketches I've seen of this youngster have that one thing in common. Those eyes. You noticed?"
Wilson nodded, twirled the cylinder of his revolver and replaced it in the leather. "I noticed."
"Just ahead, cap'n," the driver advised.
"All right, let's get set," Hannon commanded, his voice tightening. "A lot of people have left this world with that vision carrying them out."
"What vision?" asked the detective.
"Those eyes, Sergeant. Those graveyard eyes."
The "big graceful cat" had stumbled into a full nest, obviously a honcho's pad, in the fifth floor penthouse — and a firefight was in hot progress. Three semi-nude women were racing across the roof sundeck and screaming at the limit of their lungs; two others lay in petrified curls beside a shattered plate-glass window, another was having a loud nervous breakdown in one of the bedrooms, a blood-spattered companion pinning her to the bed beneath his lifeless bulk. Four men — two in bathing trunks, one in flowered shorts, one fully dressed — sprawled in various poses of death about the apartment.
Bolan had run out of ammo for the Luger, and had abandoned it. A snubnosed .32 was in one hand, a .45 automatic in the other, both acquired during the course of the battle. He was bleeding slightly from the right hand, where a sliver of flying glass had nicked him, and he was surveying the carnage from behind the cover of an overturned couch, seeking another live target. A man in a white suit broke from a doorway across the room and made a run for the front door, firing wildly toward the couch as he ran. Bolan raised up and fired both guns simultaneously. The man broke stride and fell in a twisting crumble.
The Executioner was well aware that he had pushed his luck a bit too far. The thunder of a firefight he had not desired, and his timing had suffered grievously from being pinned down too long in the penthouse. He tossed the .45 across the room, retrieved his Luger and jammed it into the sideleather, and dropped the .32 into the pocket of his coat. The girl in the bedroom was running out of breath and had wound down to a rhythmic moaning.
Bolan hesitated, then stepped inside the bedroom and pulled her to her feet, stood her against the wall, and began gently working her over with methodical slaps to the face. Her eyes rolled down almost immediately and the glaze disappeared from them. He muttered, "Sorry, kid. Your bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Grab your clothes and beat it."
She nodded her head in understanding. Satisfied that she was in control, Bolan released her and moved quickly through to the living room. The girls by the window were beginning to lift themselves up and look around. At Bolan's reappearance, they again dropped quickly to the floor. He went on out, entering the penthouse foyer with senses quiveringly alert, and ran down the winding stairway to the fourth level hallway. A window there overlooked the front grounds, revealing a scene of considerable activity below. Vehicles were entering the circular drive from both directions; others had already reached the portico and men were spilling from them. In the distance he could see two police cruisers pulled broadside across the beach drive, beacons flashing.
Bolan came to a quick decision and descended quickly to the ground level, passing into the now very much alive lobby at the same moment that a group of grimfaced men came through the main entrance. He quickly stepped into the lounge. The bartender was hovering just inside the doorway, anxiously peering into the lobby. Bolan said, "What the hell is going on around here?"
The bartender replied, "Christ, I don't know. Th' house dicks are running around like wild men, and it looks like the cops just made the scene. I heard explosions. I dunno, maybe we're on fire."
Bolan said, "Oh," and went out the other door, along the hallway, and to his room.
He knew that he had a visitor even before he closed the door. The .32 cleared his pocket in a lightening sweep, the small hairs at the back of his neck stiffening in the automatic reflex, then relaxing in the instant recognition of his visitor. Bolan kept the little .32 steady and said, "Naughty, naughty. What did you teach in Cuba, breaking and entering?"
The bellman, now wearing swim trunks beneath a short terrycloth robe, smiled and replied, "Relax, Senor Bolan. I am your friend."
"How does Blanski come out Bolan?" The Executioner inquired, though well aware that his cover had been penetrated.
"I have followed your campaigns with great admiration," the Cuban said, ignoring the question. He waved his arm in the direction of a chair, on which were draped swim trunks and a robe similar to his. "Right now we must get you out. I will explain while you change, but you must hurry."
Bolan had never been noted for indecision. His mind examined the situation in a quick scan and he immediately began undressing.
"You may call me Toro"the Cuban told him. "And that is the Spanish bull, not the Italian. Not that I have anything at all against the Italians, but just to clear your own mind."
Bolan was kicking off his jockeys. He stepped into the trunks and said, "Okay, Toro the Spanish bull. What's the plan?"
"The plan is escape, and the via is the sea. We Cubans are noted masters of such an event."
Bolan smiled and adjusted the trunks to his crotch. "So all we have to do is find the sea. Great." He shrugged into the robe. "Do you have a magic carpet?"
Toro smiled broadly. "Si, maybe. But you must leave your possessions behind."
"I've done that before, too," Bolan replied. "Nothing here I can't replace." He gazed regretfully at the Luger, then wrapped it carefully and stowed it in the suitcase.