"But I think, maybe this fierce warrior could be persuaded to enter another cause, a finer one."
Bolan said, "I feel honored, Toro. But you know better."
"Si," the Cuban replied, sighing. "I respect your war, amigo, as you respect mine. How long will you stay with us, El Matador?"
Bolan hesitated. "I haven't slept for two days," he replied. "If I could get a couple hours sleep— How long before my car gets here?"
"Momentarily, amigo."
Bolan studied his wristwatch. It was just past seven p.m., far from the end of a most active day. He removed the watch and stripped the leather band between his fingers to remove the Atlantic moisture still clinging to its fibers, then returned it to his wrist. "I'll wait till the car arrives," he told Toro. "Then, if you have some place to bed me down, I'd like to catch a short nap."
Toro quickly made available upon demand the full hospitable resources of his camp. Then the two men went to the veranda and perched upon the railing and quietly talked "shop," discussing weapons, tactics and other aspects of impossible wars. Some minutes later, Bolan's rented Chevy rolled to a halt beside the jeep and the two Cubans alighted from it. They approached the veranda and one of them dropped the keys into Toro's hand, delivering them with a short speech in Spanish. Toro handed the keys over to Bolan and explained, "They took every precaution. They were not followed. Your luggage is in the rear seat."
Bolan shook hands with the men and thanked them, then went directly to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He called to Toro, and his host joined him there. Bolan was leaning into the trunk and wrestling with a bulky package, wrapped in heavy green waxed paper. "Get the other end," Bolan instructed. Toro did so, and they carried the heavy object to the veranda. The two men who had delivered the Chevy watched with interested silence, then dropped to their haunches and assisted as Bolan began removing the wrapping paper.
Exclamations of awe accompanied the final unveiling. Bolan grinned at Toro and announced, "This is a Honeywell, the hottest little number in any arsenal."
"This is a machine gun?" Toro asked in a hushed voice.
"Sort of. Actually, amigo, it's a rapid firing M-79 grenade launcher. Operated like a gatling gun. Belt fed — see? — there's your firing mechanism. Maximum effective range is about 100 meters, fires a 40 millimeter round of high explosives with an effective kill radius of five feet, also handles a shotgun round of 20 double-ought buck, a tear gas round and a flare round — and you can mix 'em in the belt any way you please."
Toro was running his hands about the weapon in a reverent inspection. He declared, "This is most impressive, Matador."
"It would stomp a lot of snakes," Bolan replied, grinning. "It's yours, Toro, and there's a couple of cases of ammo in the car."
Toro was dumbfounded. He spluttered, "You are giving this . . . this . . . magnifico . . ."
Bolan explained, "It's too much for one man to handle, Toro. I added it to my arsenal in a weak moment, I really can't use it. It's a crew-served weapon, takes two men to operate, even better with three." He spun away suddenly and went back to the Chevy, returning immediately with another object. It was a leather golf bag with a canvas snood. Toro and the other two Cubans were still ardently occupied with the Honeywell. Bolan asked them, "Can you figure it out?"
"Si, we shall figure it out, amigo,"Toro assured him. "But are you sure that you do need this magni-"
Bolan cut him off with, "Look, I don't need it. Here's why." He was removing the snood from the golf bag and removing another weapon. "This," he explained, "is the best bundle of firepower going for a man alone. It's an over'n under M-16/M-79. Great for firefights. The 16 is our standard infantry weapon now, fires a 5.56 tumbling projectile at 700 rounds per minute, gas operated auto or semi-auto, your option. I carry 30-round magazines. This baby on the underside is the M-79, a pistol-grip for this configuration and a slide action breech, handles the same stuff as your Honeywell there, but just one at a time."
"Magnifico!"
"Toro. You want M-16's, M-79's, Honeywells, M-60 machine guns, and maybe a few Stoner Weapons Systems. You tell your supplier to dump the other junk in Africa."
Toro laughed. "My supplier, amigo, is one of your enemies, of this I am certain."
Bolan said, "Where the hell do you think I get mine?"
They laughed together, then Toro hefted the 16-79 configuration, gave Bolan a pleased nod, and said, regretfully, "Such weapons, I am certain, are beyond our limited means, Matador. But we thank you for the instruction. We will add it to our dream mountain."
Bolan muttered, "Well, there is one other thing, Toro." He made another trip to the car, returning this time with a leather satchel. He opened it, extracted a package of U.S. currency, riffled the edges of the packet with a thumb, then stuffed it into the waistband of his swim trunks.
Toro was watching him with puzzled eyes. Bolan closed the satchel and soberly passed it over. "El Matador's contribution, Toro the Spanish bull, to La Causa de Cuba. You will buy some snake-stompers, no?"
Toro's face was split from ear to ear in a delighted grin. He cried, "We will buy the snake-stompers, si! Senor Bolan, I do not know how to thank-"
"Hell, you already did," Bolan assured him.
The Cuban could contain himself no longer. He turned to the other men with an excited rattling speech.
"No! No!"
"Si! Si!" Toro was digging into the satchel and throwing out packets of currency. "Yanqui dollars, muchos muchos dinero, amigos, para la causa . . . ."
Bolan was quietly putting away his weapon. He dropped the packet of retained money into the golf bag and restored the snood, then replaced the bag in the Chevy's trunk, wrestled the Honeywell ammo cases to the ground, took his luggage from the rear seat, and passed back into the house, pushing his way through a growing crowd of excited insurgents. Margarita made way for him at the door, regarding him with glowing eyes. He went on through and into a small bedroom, dropped his bags to the floor, and immediately sprawled out across the bed. He was bone weary. Also uncomfortable. The swim trunks were too tight, and briny from the swim in the ocean. He struggled to his feet and took them off, then lay down naked and passed almost immediately into an alert combat sleep.
There was no sensation of a passage of time, but he awoke with a start and the realization that he had slept for some time. The house was still, as though deliberately quietened for his benefit — but also there was another presence in the darkened room, a most distinctive presence which was hovering above and very near. Recognition beat reaction by one flashing synapse and his instinctive lunge into the attack was quickly converted into a soft embrace of delicately scented and delightfully resilient flesh.
"Margarita?" he whispered.
She came on down atop him then, wriggling into the embrace with a soft exhalation, the firm flesh of her chest spreading onto his in an electrifying merger. Her mouth covered his and she sighed into the union, her hips seeking an accomodation which was impossible to acquire in the existing arrangement.
Bolan rolled her to her side and dragged his lips regretfully clear. "I'm not complaining," he assured her in a soft whisper, ". . . but are you sure this doesn't exceed Toro's sense of hospitality?"