He tensed in the seat of the rented car and quickly started the engine as the service vehicle suddenly wheeled about and lurched to another stop in the parking area beside the flying service. He watched as the thick man transferred to a dark Lincoln, waving his arms in some signal to the other men congregated there. Then a small motorcade, led by the Lincoln, pulled onto the service road and sped off toward the perimeter highway.
Inside the private terminal, a charter pilot was ruefully relating his "weird experience" to the flying service manager. ". . . and chartered me to Miami, see. Then ten minutes out of New Orleans, he decides he wants to go to Jax until he makes this phone call, and then he gives me this precise schedule to Miami, see. I got to come in at a such and such time . . . well, hell, I guess it's okay, I picked up an extra hundred for my trouble, plus the deadleg fee . . . but did you see that guy who picked up the package? Brrr, there's a Murder Incorporated type if I ever heard of one. I'm wondering what the hell I got myself into, see, and I'm wondering if a hundred bucks is worth it, but I . . ."
On a parapet overlooking the fast-awakening international airport, a pair of disgruntled "photographers" were hastily packing up their gear and preparing to depart. Down below, anxious-eyed men in hand-tailored suits were spreading energetically throughout the facility, inspecting restrooms and lounges and waiting rooms in a final, almost frantic search for an illusive quarry.
In an airporter bus just then clearing the terminal area, the members of an obscure rock music group, bound for a music festival in a Miami suburb, were discussing their "adventure" in solemn and dignified elation.
A round-eyed girl, still a bit breathless with suppressed tension, said, "We should've, you know, found out who he was and why he was hiding. I mean, wow, he could be anybody. I mean it was groovy, sure, but wow! He could be anybody."
"Sometime you just have to go on instincts," their bearded leader observed. "Like with chicks, you know. You just have to like the look in their eyes and like take it from there. I mean I just looked in those eyes, dig? — and I said, 'sure, man I'll let you carry my guitar.' And the cat fit, didn't he? I mean, he was a real cool Aquarian, wasn't he?"
The real cool Aquarian was, at that moment, pacing along at a discreet distance, following a Mafia motorcade to Miami Beach. For The Executioner, it had been a highly successful soft sweep.
Chapter Four
Sandbagged
Mack Bolan did not regard himself as a superman. He knew who and what he was. But he had learned, in the school of life-and-death, that knowledge coupled with action and wedded to total commitment would elevate any ordinary man into the ranks of the extraordinary. Superman, no; extraordinary weapon of war, yes — this was Mack Bolan. Sgt. Bolan was a craftsman. His craft was warfare; a particular type of warfare in which a man became either extraordinary or dead. The sergeant remained alive. He had learned his lessons well in the do-or-die theaters of Southeast Asia — and he had brought his diploma home to ply his craft in the untidy junglelands of America.
He did not think of himself as a crusader, nor even a patriot. He felt no grand exaltation in his self-appointed role as nemesis of the American underworld, and he did not have time or inclination to wonder if his sacrifice would have any meaning in the ultimate outcome of this highly personal war of his.
In speaking of Bolan and his pre-Mafia days, friends invariably described him as a friendly, thoughtful, and kindly man. Aside from his programmed forays against the enemy in Southeast Asia, there exists no evidence whatever to indicate that he possessed a violent nature; even in Vietnam the record reveals again and again that he was respectful of the Vietnamese people, responsive to the suffering of the children of that war-torn land, that he inspired lasting friendships and fierce loyalty from his comrades.
Bolan would not alibi his Vietnam "specialty" to anyone, newsmen and war historians included. He would, and did, tell them simply that he had not chosen this war; it had chosen him. He had not requested permission to kill the enemy; he had been trained to do so. He did not war against men but for ideals.
And now he did not alibi his American specialty to himself. The conditions were the same. A different place, a new enemy, but the same rotten situation and the very same call to duty.
It is doubtful, though, that any such contemplations occupied Bolan's mind on that pleasant Miami morning of November 5th. It is much more likely that his finely tuned and disciplined mind was occupied with such considerations as range, azimuth, wind-direction and velocity, trajectory-drop, and so forth. He lay prone on a balcony outside a tenth-floor beachside apartment, a high-powered rifle angling toward another patio several buildings removed and around a gentle curve of beachline, calmly studying a face which occupied the vision-field of his sniper scope.
He made a fine adjustment to the scope and intently watched the rangemarks climb into the crosshairs, then he sighed audibly and murmured, "So there you are." Bolan knew his target by reputation only. The name had been a household word at the DiGeorge palazzo in Palm Springs, a prime link in the chain of narcotics distribution from Mexico into the U.S. Bolan had no personal grudge with Johnny the Musician. Untold thousands of school kids, however, hooked on an insatiable appetite for expensive "kicks," had ample reason for begrudging the continued life and good health of the man in The Executioner's crosshairs.
He made a rough calculation on a note pad, then eased the long rifle into a slow scan of the target area. He did not want any innocent bystanders hovering in the sidelines, nor in the background. He scanned on, then returned quickly to a flag atop the diving platform for another check on the wind condition. Another quick calculation on the note pad and Bolan was ready. The rest was up to the fates.
Portocci was seated lazily on a chaise lounge at poolside, a frosted glass in one hand, the other hand idly toying with the thick hair of his chest, legs crossed at the ankles and the toes of one foot jerking to some inaudible rhythm. Directly across from him, perched tensely on an aluminum folding chair and paying nervous little attentions to an upswept hairdo, was a stunning young woman in a flowered bikini. Portocci was giving her no attention whatever, but was scowling at a large man who stood at the foot of the lounge.
"Now look, Johnny," the large man was saying, "I don't have to take no abuse from you, and what's more I ain't gonna. You don't like the way I handled the Bolan screen, then you get one of your own. But don't go telling me-"
"Ah, hell, forget it, Vinnie," Portocci growled. He sighed and sipped at his drink. "You ain't the first to flub on this boy."
Balderone said, "Well I can appreciate how you feel, I mean getting that little medal addressed to you and all that. But, hell, we still don't even know for sure the guy's here."
"He's here," Portocci assured his host. He nibbled on his knuckles for a moment, then asked, "So what did Ciro have to say about it?"
Balderone studied the rhythmic snapping of Portocci's toes as though fascinated by the unvarying movements. "I told you," he said slowly. "He wants you to stay put, right here at the Sandbank."
"Relax and enjoy your vacation, he says. When he needs you, he'll let you know. Meanwhile, they're in session right now over what to do about this Bolan."