Perhaps the only word she understood was Toro. In struggling English, she told Bolan, "Toro no . . . habla?. . . no say thees. Margarita say thees." She sighed and nuzzled his ear. ''Ees soldado, no? Ees time, R and R, no? El Matador say yes?"
Bolan rubbed her hip then pushed her onto her back and kissed her throat. "Hell, yes," he sighed.
She laughed lightly and wriggled back to her side, tossing a leg nonchalantly across his hips. "No cansado?" she inquired, suddenly quite sober.
"No what? Tired? No, Margarita, not that you would notice."
"Love me, Mock. Margarita esta soldada, tambien. Soldados R and R, yes, Mock?"
Bolan understood. They were soldiers together. Tomorrow perhaps each would die. Tonight, they would love, as only soldiers can. He gathered her into his arms and rolled to the edge of the bed, kicked his legs over the side, and sat up, cuddling her in his lap. She was clutching him fiercely and breathlessly moving her lips across his chest and moaning, "Mock, Mock, Mock . . . ."
Soldados together, they lay back down and took a respite from their respective wars, joining forces in a most engaging act of love.
Chapter Thirteen
And gone!
When Bolan next awakened he was alone on the bed and the yellow light of a kerosene lamp was dimly illuminating the room. Toro stood just inside the doorway. He said, "It is nine o'clock, Matador."
Bolan surged to his feet, unmindful of his nakedness, and went over to his luggage. A man with a huge smile moved into the room and helped Bolan transfer the two suitcases to the bed, then stepped back with arms folded across his chest and glowingly watched El Matador get dressed.
Bolan first selected a midnight skinsuit of fine woven, tough nylon and put it on. It fit like underwear, skin tight, with elastic cuffs at ankles and wrists.
The man with the big smile nudged Toro and said something in excitedly hushed Spanish as Bolan strapped the side leather on over the skin-suit. He tied the waist strap and inserted a fresh ammo clip into the Luger, then glanced at Toro and asked, "What'd he say?"
"He was admiring your black costume, amigo. It is a psychology suit, no? To strike terror into the hearts of your enemies? This is what he asks me."
Bolan grinned. "I don't know about the psychology thing. I wear it because it blends beautifully into shadows and because it doesn't hang me up on doorknobs and fences and stuff. Sorry to spoil the illusion."
Toro rattled an explanation to the third man.
Bolan began drawing on a shirt. "So what'd you tell him?"
Toro laughed. "I tell him yes, the suit strikes terror into the hearts of your enemies."
Bolan chuckled and selected dark trousers, then canvas sneakers. As he finished dressing, he told his host, "Something is on your mind, Toro." "Si." He leaned against the wall and lit a cigar, then turned to say something to the other man. The man nodded, tossed Bolan a final face-splitting grin and left them alone. "Your enemies begin a retrenchment, Matador," Toro said soberly.
Bolan found a pack of Pall Malls in the suitcase, opened it, lit up, then turned to his friend with a frown. "Just what are you calling a retrenchment?"
"They have been scattered about the Beach, no?"
Bolan nodded. "I had that understanding." "Suddenly, senor, their scatterings are no more. They leave this place and that place, bag and . . ." "Where are they going, Toro?"
The Cuban sighed heavily. "Two large Beach hotels are suddenly in the midst of labor difficulties. All workers are pulled out, and these muy bueno haciendas are suddenly without service. Reservations are cancelled, and with mucho stirrings, registered guests are transferred to other establishments."
"Uh-huh."
"Si. But . . . other guests come quickly, amigo. Bringing with them their own service. Is this not strange?"
Bolan smiled. "Yes, I'd call that a bit strange. Names, Toro."
The Cuban sighed again, almost a moan. "This would be most dangerous to attack these places, Matador. This would be the suicide mission."
"Who has to make that decision, Toro?"
"You are correct," Toro replied unhappily.
"Starlight Palms. Beach Hacienda. You know of these?"
Bolan said, "Yes, I know them. You have one hell of an intelligence network, amigo."
Toro delicately shrugged his shoulders. "We are everywhere, Matador. A piece here, a piece there, it comes together as a whole picture." He frowned. "But we do not deserve such praise."
"No?"
"No. A something is missing. Some of your enemies, it is said, are going to a boat, a large boat, and I have not the name of this boat."
Bolan stood up and snapped the suitcases shut, then turned to Toro with a thoughtful gaze. "Some one else mentioned a boat to me today, amigo. A party boat. Something like that?"
Toro shrugged again. "Perhaps. Did this someone also mention the name of this boat, senor?"
"Yes, but I guess I wasn't paying enough attention." He shook his head, then snatched up the suitcases and headed for the door, Toro followed closely. "I have to get moving, amigo. You'll never know how much you've helped me. In many ways."
They went on out to the car. Bolan put the luggage in the rear seat. Toro seemed uncomfortable. Bolan hoped he wasn't about to bring up the money. He closed the gap of silence with, "You going to let me out of here without a blindfold?"
Toro grabbed Bolan and embraced him, saying, "Para siempre hermanos— brothers forever, yes?"
"Siempre," Bolan soberly repeated. Then he smiled and added, "Does that mean no blindfold?"
Toro's eyes were watery. He shook his head. "No blindfold for our Senor El Matador. God walk with you, Mack Bolan."
The emotion embarrassed Bolan. He opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel. Then he noticed the brown satchel on the floorboards, and he understood why Toro had made no further mention of the money. He sighed and picked up the satchel and dropped it through the window onto the ground.
The Cuban said, "Amigo, it is too much. We cannot accept your own war chest."
"It's a revolving fund, Toro. There's plenty more where that came from, just waiting to be picked up. You get yourself some weapons, amigo, and you walk the length and breadth of your Cuba with them. Which way to Miami, hermano?"
Toro's face was a study in restrained emotion. The eyes were watering freely and the lips trembled between a smile and a frown. He swung his gaze toward the veranda and a small figure detached itself from a chair in the shadows and stepped into the dim nightlight. It was Margarita, once more in the tight fatigues and with the businesslike .45 strapped to her waist. Toro leaned into Bolan's window and said quietly, "Margarita demands the right of guide, or I would lead you myself. Follow her, Matador, she will take you to the highway. And Mack, in god's name, take care. Do not die in Miami for the sake of nothing."
A final clasp of hands and then Mack Bolan, now El Matador del Causa de Cuba, was following the jeep back across the darkened compound, silent men lining the roadway and waving a quiet farewell. They were passed through the gate without a challenge, and some twenty minutes later the jeep executed an arc in front of Bolan and halted, facing back the way they'd come. Bolan pulled alongside and reached into the jeep to squeeze the girl's hand. "Gracias, soldada," he said soberly.