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"What point?" Wilson asked.

"Bolan had 'em fingered. Peters says the victim was crumpled against the door, inside the room. Chainlock still intact. Got it right in the face. Cracked the door, see, left the chain on, looked out to see who was calling. Then splat, a bullet up the nose. Guy had a drink in his hand, half-undressed, television turned on . . . all relaxed, see? A .38 revolver lying on his dresser, didn't even take it to the door with him, took his drink instead. Suspected nothing, felt safe and secure. The door chain was a normal caution, I'd do it that way myself. Then splat, right up the nose."

Wilson was frowning as he stepped into the elevator car. "He's just hunting them down, then, and killing them on sight," he commented, a growl in his voice. "Look, I don't like these people myself . . . but I can't buy that kind of shit. The guy's an animal, cap'n. An animal with a strong smell for blood."

Hannon was grimacing in deep thought. "I don't think so, Bob," he muttered. "Is that the way you'd describe our boys in Vietnam? As bloodthirsty animals?"

"That's different," Wilson replied.

The car eased to a smooth halt and the door slid open. The two men stepped out, paused to check the directions on the wall, then strode along the carpeted hallway as the captain picked up the conversation. "It's different only because of time and place," he argued. "These are the rules of combat, the new rules, as prescribed for Vietnam. It's a hunt and kill war over there, Bob. These young fellas are taught to fight that way. The enemy is something to track down and exterminate. Bolan's been through several years of that hell, and I guess he learned his lessons well. Now he's fighting the same kind of war, right here in our town. We don't want to hate the kid, Bob. We want to try to understand him. Otherwise, I'm getting the feeling that we'll never nail him."

"He's no kid," Wilson sniffed. "Not unless I am too."

The veteran cop chuckled. "You're both kids to me, lieutenant. Here we are. The scene is undisturbed . . . we'll have to climb the balcony."

A uniformed officer stood in the open doorway of room 340. He touched his cap respectfully and said, "340 is unoccupied, sir. Go through to the terrace and over the wall to your right."

The detectives went on through without a word. As Wilson was hoisting himself over the dividing wall, he muttered, "Goddamn war anyhow, sending these guys back with blood in their nose."

The captain did not comment on that until they were standing over the bloodied remains of Al Capistrano, an enforcer in the Philadelphia family of Ralph The Barber Calipatria. He sighed and said, "They don't all come back with this big a hard-on, lieutenant. We've got to get this boy. We have got to get him quick." He dropped to his knees for a closer look.

"I'll buy that," Wilson replied.

The captain rose hastily to his feet and passed a hand wearily across his face. "I just hope you can, lieutenant . . . and that the price won't be too high. How many victims does this make today?"

Wilson performed a quick mental calculation and replied, "Thirteen that we know of."

"Uh-huh. Well, I guess the massacre is on. We won't find Bolan at the Tidewater Plaza, I'm sure of that now. He isn't hanging around waiting for us to seal him in. I'd say he's a perfectionist. Knows precisely what he is doing, every step of the way. In matters of war, that is."

"So which way do we go from here?"

Hannon sighed. "You go down and take the seal off, it's a useless exercise. I'm going to stay up here for a while. I feel very close to that boy right now, I could almost touch him. I'm getting his feel and his smell."

Wilson went back out the way he'd come, nodded to the patrolman, and headed for the elevator. If the captain wanted to sit in that death room and think, then Bob Wilson allowed that this was the captain's own business. But Wilson had just remembered something regarding the tough old chief of the Dade Force. Hannon's only son had died in Vietnam, torn to bits when he stepped on a land mine. The lieutenant was hoping that the captain was not becoming confused as to the identity of The Executioner. The name was Mack Bolan — not John Hannon, Jr. And a guy had to know when to stop being a war hero. Bolan was no hero in Miami. He was the same as any other killer, and he was going to meet a killer's fate in Miami. Lt. Wilson had already bought that fact. And no cost would prove too high.

Wilson felt, moreover, that this was no case for the silk gloves, VIP handling of the Dade Force. It was a homicide matter, and only homicide routines would tip the balance of advantage away from Bolan. Let Hannon sit in a death room and ponder M.O. The homicide cop would conduct a standard investigation. He would begin with the hotel staff, and he'd milk them dry of all they could possibly offer. He'd backtrack on Bolan's trail and sift through it all again. He'd call in every informant in town and he'd comb the city for every presence of the Mafia and he'd, by god, meet Bolan on Bolan's own ground. What was more, he would gun the son of a bitch down without once thinking of all those glory medals from Vietnam.

Hate the kid? Wilson's lips twisted in a rueful smile. Hell no, he didn't hate him. But he hated what he stood for, he hated the idea that some combat-crazy sergeant could forget what it had all been about, and come back to destroy the very thing he had fought to preserve.

After all, Wilson had put in his share of military service, too. If Hannon wanted to "understand the kid," he should ask a . . . Wilson stood stockstill in the elevator doorway, gripping his hands together tightly in the sudden "revelation." Of course! The military mind was . . .

The Lieutenant was mentally chastising himself — had he so easily forgotten all of his war training? The success of every commando-like strike was geared to the intelligence factor! So where was Bolan getting his intelligence? From a beautiful whore in a flowered bikini? Was Jean Kirkpatrick an innocent witness . . . or was she an accomplice to a killer?

Bolan had to have an accomplice! Those lightning strikes didn't just materialize spontaneously! They were planned to the closest detail, and executed with military precision!

Wilson punched the elevator button and, in the same motion, made a grab into his breast pocket for his notebook and hurriedly flipped the pages to his notes of the Sandbank investigation. Uh-huh, there she was. 2015 Palmetto Lane. There was the start . . . and maybe the ending.

The boat had picked them up at the north end of Miami Beach and then headed south, backtracking along their earlier route, past the seaquarium and across Biscayne Bay. Then Bolan was outfitted in ragged jeans which were several inches too short and thonged sandals, also too small. It was at this point that Toro had apologetically applied the blindfold, explaining while not explaining, "You understand, amigo, the necessity for secrecy."

Some time later they bumped ashore and Bolan was guided up over the bow and into grassy marshland. After a twenty minute hike with difficult footing, Bolan's blindfold was removed. They were in rough country and quite removed from the water. Bolan oriented his directions by the setting sun, but could arrive at no meaningful analysis of their course. They seemed to be zig-zagging, travelling on first one heading and then another. In the last faint light of dusk they emerged from thick underbrush onto a narrow dirt lane and a waiting jeep. A pretty senorita sat behind the wheel. She was clad in tight-fitting combat fatigues and wore a U.S. Army .45 in a flap holster. A field hat with the brim snapped up did little to imprison a thick sheen of luxurious raven hair.