their dwindling time.
"Federal, undercover. She was working Tommy Drake."
"I'd say she's out of work." Hannon changed gears, shifting topics. "What have you got?"
"I'm working on your Cuban," Bolan told him. "Nothing solid yet, but I'm in touch with someone who may have a handle on him.''
Hannon frowned, the deep lines etched into his weathered face.
"Your someone wouldn't be a guy named Toro, would he?"
Bolan met the ex-detective's eyes directly, never flinching.
"You never know."
"It's funny," Hannon said reflectively. "Someone yanked him off the county farm this morning. Got away clean. They're beating every bush from here to Tallahassee."
Bolan remained silent, watching Hannon and waiting for him to continue. When he spoke again, the former captain of detectives' voice was slow, low pitched.
"I met him once, you know, when I was working Homicide. I had to ask him all about a wild-ass soldier who was shaking up the wise guys."
"Was he helpful?" Bolan asked.
"Like a stone. He told me everything I had to know, and never said a frigging word."
"The Cubans put a premium on loyalty."
"Some others, too, I guess."
Bolan spread his hands.
"There's no way for an Anglo to be inconspicuous among the exiles. If Toro can help me get where I need to go, I'll thank him for the ride."
Hannon's eyes flashed at him.
Bolan frowned. "What did your contacts have to say."
It took a while for Hannon to respond.
Bolan kept studying the man's face. Clearly, he was put off by the thought of breaking convicts out of prison. The guy had worked a lifetime trying hard to put them there and keep them there. It was entirely understandable, but it had no effect on Bolan's combat situation.
Hannon finally made a sour face before he answered Bolan's question.
"A lousy zero. Too damn many street names in the files for them to trace a Jose 99. I couldn't push too hard without inviting interference.''
"Never mind. It was a long shot, anyhow." Mack Bolan hesitated, reluctant to involve Hannon any deeper, yet unable to see any way around it. "I need a favor," the Executioner said at last.
"Shoot."
But there was caution in the tone, and Bolan knew that he was skating very near the edge of Hannon's trust, his patience.
Before he had a chance to answer, Evangelina returned from her visit to the washroom. Now her shoulder-length hair was neatly brushed back from her face, and Bolan was again struck by her resemblance to Margarita. He marveled that he had not seen it in her when they met the first time, despite the circumstances... and just as quickly, he wondered how much of it might be simply the product of his own imagination.
Either way, the lady was a living monument to something from the past, another stop along the hellfire trail of Bolan's private, endless war. A part of Margarita lived in her, through her, and he would do everything within his power to preserve that vestige, let it blossom and grow into everything that it could be.
"Where are we going next?" she asked, addressing herself to both men at once, but focusing her main attention on the Executioner.
He looked her square in the eye before he answered.
"Not we, Evangelina... You'll be staying here awhile... for safety's sake."
He registered the startled glance from Hannon, but there was no time to ask the favor now. Bolan focused on the lady now, reading anger and betrayal in her face.
"Staying?" she asked incredulously. "No! I saved your life. I brought you here."
The soldier nodded.
"And I appreciate it. That's one reason why I can't risk taking you along."
There was a flicker of surprise beneath the brooding anger.
"One reason? What is the other?''
"I move better on my own. You'd slow me down, get one or both of us killed."
The lady looked a little hurt at first, but she recovered swiftly, temper and a flaring irritation taking over from the wounded pride.
"I can protect myself,
senor.
I am a warrior,
una soldada
— like you."
"Oh, no, you're not." Bolan
"Federal, undercover. She was working Tommy Drake."
"I'd say she's out of work." Hannon changed gears, shifting topics. "What have you got?"
"I'm working on your Cuban," Bolan told him. "Nothing solid yet, but I'm in touch with someone who may have a handle on him.''
Hannon frowned, the deep lines etched into his weathered face.
"Your someone wouldn't be a guy named Toro, would he?"
Bolan met the ex-detective's eyes directly, never flinching.
"You never know."
"It's funny," Hannon said reflectively. "Someone yanked him off the county farm this morning. Got away clean. They're beating every bush from here to Tallahassee."
Bolan remained silent, watching Hannon and waiting for him to continue. When he spoke again, the former captain of detectives' voice was slow, low pitched.
"I met him once, you know, when I was working Homicide. I had to ask him all about a wild-ass soldier who was shaking up the wise guys."
"Was he helpful?" Bolan asked.
"Like a stone. He told me everything I had to know, and never said a frigging word."
"The Cubans put a premium on loyalty."
"Some others, too, I guess."
Bolan spread his hands.
"There's no way for an Anglo to be inconspicuous among the exiles. If Toro can help me get where I need to go, I'll thank him for the ride."
Hannon's eyes flashed at him.
Bolan frowned. "What did your contacts have to say."
It took a while for Hannon to respond.
Bolan kept studying the man's face. Clearly, he was put off by the thought of breaking convicts out of prison. The guy had worked a lifetime trying hard to put them there and keep them there. It was entirely understandable, but it had no effect on Bolan's combat situation.
Hannon finally made a sour face before he answered Bolan's question.
"A lousy zero. Too damn many street names in the files for them to trace a Jose 99. I couldn't push too hard without inviting interference.''
"Never mind. It was a long shot, anyhow." Mack Bolan hesitated, reluctant to involve Hannon any deeper, yet unable to see any way around it. "I need a favor," the Executioner said at last.
"Shoot."
But there was caution in the tone, and Bolan knew that he was skating very near the edge of Hannon's trust, his patience.
Before he had a chance to answer, Evangelina returned from her visit to the washroom. Now her shoulder-length hair was neatly brushed back from her face, and Bolan was again struck by her resemblance to Margarita. He marveled that he had not seen it in her when they met the first time, despite the circumstances... and just as quickly, he wondered how much of it might be simply the product of his own imagination.
Either way, the lady was a living monument to something from the past, another stop along the hellfire trail of Bolan's private, endless war. A part of Margarita lived in her, through her, and he would do everything within his power to preserve that vestige, let it blossom and grow into everything that it could be.
"Where are we going next?" she asked, addressing herself to both men at once, but focusing her main attention on the Executioner.
He looked her square in the eye before he answered.
"Not we, Evangelina... You'll be staying here awhile... for safety's sake."
He registered the startled glance from Hannon, but there was no time to ask the favor now. Bolan focused on the lady now, reading anger and betrayal in her face.
"Staying?" she asked incredulously. "No! I saved your life. I brought you here."
The soldier nodded.
"And I appreciate it. That's one reason why I can't risk taking you along."
There was a flicker of surprise beneath the brooding anger.
"One reason? What is the other?''
"I move better on my own. You'd slow me down, get one or both of us killed."
The lady looked a little hurt at first, but she recovered swiftly, temper and a flaring irritation taking over from the wounded pride.
"I can protect myself,
senor.
I am a warrior,
una soldada
— like you."
"Oh, no, you're not." Bolan
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