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The Cuban said, "Maybe you can return for it later." He pulled a chair into position beneath a ceiling grating, stood on it, and carefully elevated the metal screen. "Air conditioning shaft," he explained, smiling at Bolan. "Remain at my very feet and make not a sound."

Bolan nodded, jammed the .32 into the waistband of his trunks, and followed Toro into the shaft. It was cramped and dark, but delightfully cool. Bolan replaced the grating and snaked along in pursuit of the fast-moving Cuban.

The shaft obviously traversed the entire length of that wing of the building, with periodic offshoots to the upper floors. They moved warily across a dozen gratings opening into rooms below; once Bolan passed directly above a nude couple, entertwined and apparently asleep on a bed. He made a mental note for future reference to avoid hotel rooms with overhead air-conditioning, and quietly passed on. After a long period of uncomfortable slithering along the narrow shaft, his guide halted and signalled Bolan. They lay still for a long moment, then a crack of light ahead momentarily blinded Bolan. Another quiet wait, then the crack suddenly became a wide rectangle and Toro was again moving forward. Then he was gone from sight and whispering urgently, "Quickly, senor, swing down."

Bolan found the hand rail and tumbled through the access hatch. He performed a somersault and landed on his feet in soft sand. They were at the end of the horseshoe and one low wall removed from open beach. Toro was scrambling over the wall. Bolan quickly followed and glanced about for a quick recon. Few bathers were present, though there was fresh evidence of a recent crowd in the vicinity. Bolan presumed that they had been drawn back to the hotel by the ruckus. A man lying beneath a beach umbrella stared at them curiously as they walked by.

The Cuban had begun to dance about in the sand and laugh loudly, as though Bolan had said something funny, which he had not. Bolan picked it up, talking and laughing in a loud voice. They were approaching the center of the hotel's private section of the beach. Three very obvious policemen in plainclothes, standing stiffly near the wall in an attitude of tense watchfulness, gave the merrymakers an intent scrutiny. One of the officers shifted his weight in a half-pivot and seemed to be about to step into their path. Toro whipped off his robe and danced wildly around Bolan as he wadded the robe into a ball, then he threw it into Bolan's face with a wild shriek and raced toward the water.

Bolan yelled, "Okay, buddy, you asked for it!" — and chased after Toro, removing his own robe on the run. He hit the surf in an arching dive. The .32 left him under the onslaught of the foaming water. Bolan let it go and threshed on in pursuit of the Cuban. A glance over his shoulder showed that the policemen had bought the act. They were splitting up and moving toward the ends of the building.

Toro was floating and getting his breath beyond the rollers when Bolan reached him. "Some carpet," Bolan panted. "And some act. Now I know what you taught. Drama, right?"

Toro grinned. "We will work slowly and casually northward. A boat awaits us. Or if you become too tired, senor, we can go ashore farther on and walk a little."

Bolan was gazing toward the open sea. "Couple of boats right out there," he observed.

"Si, and they await you also. Police boats, Senor Bolan."

"How do you know so much?" Bolan asked, though not really expecting an answer. He flipped onto his back and idled northward with his guide who, incidentally, Bolan was now certain was something more than a hotel bellman. Just how much more, Bolan was equally certain that he would soon learn. For the moment, he was only grateful for the strange twist of destiny that had placed him in the hands of Toro, the Spanish bull. He hoped that they would continue to be friendly hands. He liked the little Cuban; more, he respected him. Also, in some dark instinctive corner of his mind, he feared him. Bolan paddled on, watching the luxury hotels slipping slowly past, and found the entire scene suddenly incredible. He had just slain a dozen men. And now he was lolling in the warm Miami currents, lazily making his way "northward," guided by an unknown entity and to an unimaginable destination.

Yes, it was incredible. Very well. Bolan accepted the incredible. His entire life, since returning from Vietnam, had been woven of same threads.

He smiled and caught Toro's eye. "By the way, thanks," he said.

"My pleasure, senor, to work with a man of your accomplishments."

Bolan said, "I had a flanker like you once," in his own mind paying the man a huge tribute. "He died in a place called Balboa."

"Si, I read of that tragedy."

"You seem to know a lot more about me than I know about you," Bolan observed.

"In time," Toro replied, smiling, "that will not be so. For now, know this. When this flanker dies, he hopes it to be in a place called Cuba."

Bolan said nothing. He was beginning to understand the new friendship. Impossible causes, he was thinking, had a way of branding their champions — brands which made brothers of the bearers, regardless of their other differences. Their eyes met and the unspoken understanding passed between them. "It must be very lonely to be an exile," Bolan murmured.

"Can you not answer that for yourself, senor?" Toro replied quietly.

"Yes, I suppose I can." Bolan turned his face toward the line of hotels, and the two exiles paddled on northward.

Chapter Ten

El Matador

John Harmon stood broodingly in the doorway of the manager's office at the Tidewater Plaza, watching the approach of the Homicide lieutenant. Wilson's face showed no evidence of impending good news. Hannon dug into a pocket for his pipe, clamped it between his teeth, and waited the report.

Wilson shook his head and said, "I don't know, cap'n. This place is like a small city. Over 500 rooms, barber shops, clothiers, restaurants, bars, the whole bit."

"You're saying we're not going to find him," Hannon snapped.

"No sir, it's too soon to say that. I just want you to know that it's going to take a while for a thorough shake. We're still finding victims. The count is now up to ten."

"How about the young women? They have anything to offer?"

The detective grinned. "Yes sir, but not while I'm on duty."

"Cut it out," Hannon growled. "I'm in no mood for wisecracks."

Wilson sobbered. "Uh, every one of them gave a different description of the assailant. They can't even agree on how many. You know how numbing it can be when hell explodes right out of the blue. One of the girls is under sedation. The others are still shaking. I believe we'll get better accounts after they've settled down some."

"In the meantime," the captain fumed, "we're getting no closer at all to Bolan."

"One very stark picture does emerge," Wilson thoughtfully pointed out. "Bolan hits fast and hard. He comes in like a lightning bolt and leaves in a clap of thunder — and when it's over, those left alive are sitting around wondering just what the hell happened."

Hannon nodded and started to comment, then checked himself as a telephone rang behind him. He stepped into the office, conversed briefly on the phone, then returned to the doorway. "Another stiff," he told Wilson, sighing. "Room 342. Better get up there and look it over. Wait . . . I'll go with you." He caught the attention of a uniformed officer and called him over. "Watch the phone," Hannon ordered. "Relay anything for me to 342."

The patrolman murmured his understanding and went into the office. As the two detectives walked to the elevator, Hannon said, "Somehow Bolan penetrated their security — obviously knew precisely where they were quartered. I don't know how, yet . . . but I guess we better try to find out. It might be our only finger on him. This deal up in 342, now there's a case in point."