never slept over, preferring the security of home.
Healthy paranoia kept his second-in-command alive. And that same paranoia, multiplied by the tempo of current events, told Ornelas again that something must be wrong.
Beneath his anger now there was something else — an uneasiness that bordered on fear. It was uncustomary for the Cuban to feel anything but self-assurance, but on the other hand, he had a lot to worry about these days.
Too many strange and unexpected things were going on around Miami for a man to feel secure. Within the past twelve hours ominous bits and pieces of a grim mosaic had been casually revealed to him, and now he felt the very fabric of his world beginning to unravel around him.
Ornelas stopped himself, cutting off the train of thought before it could progress to its logical conclusion. The
soldado
knew that he would need his wits about him if he was to cope with the several riddles that the past half day had handed to him.
And a quick solution to those riddles might be vital. To completion of the plan he had been nurturing along for months... to his very survival, if it came down to that.
He needed answers in a hurry — but the worst part of it was that, so far, he was still uncertain of the questions.
First things first. There was the death — no, the
assassination
of Tommy Drake the previous night. Someone had entered Drake's
estancia
and murdered him, along with several of his hardmen, making off again without disturbing anything around the place, from all reports. No robbery, no vandalism — nothing.
That made it an assassination, by professionals. It also cut off Ornelas's supply of cocaine for the moment and placed him in the uncomfortable position of having to seek out new contacts. He could handle it, but it was just another inconvenience, something else to occupy his mind at the very moment when concentration was so vital.
He wondered if the hit on Drake could be related to the near miss on John Hannon. Somehow, Drake's best men had failed to take the nosy private eye, and they had gotten themselves killed in the bargain. Ornelas had no faith in mere coincidence. He realized that the events were probably related, but beyond that realization he could not proceed. Without some leads, at least a clue to the identity of Drake's assassins...
No matter how it read, the failure to eliminate Hannon left some dangerous loose ends. He would have to try and snip them off before they had a chance to multiply like roaches in the woodwork.
Toro's jailbreak, naturally, had been the worst news of the day — hell, of the year. The timing, on the eve of Ornelas's bold scheme, could not be automatically dismissed as chance. If there was some dark, guiding hand behind it...
Briefly he reflected on the string of violent incidents around Miami through the morning hours and early afternoon, all seemingly directed at the operations Drake and Phillip Sacco had their fingers in: drugs, gambling, women.
Raoul Ornelas had not survived so long on the fringes of the underground by trusting chance or letting others do his thinking for him. He was worried now, and with good reason. Something was afoot around Miami and right now he did not have a clue as to what might be going on.
Ignorance was no way to survive in war. And it was war that had taught him to survive. He stared at the phone as he recalled the past.
As a teenager he had fought for Castro against the animal Batista, battling to release his native Cuba from a tyranny that had oppressed her people for a generation. He had lost a brother in the fight and counted it a small price to be part of history.
He had survived to see the people's revolution twisted and transformed into something else, with the appearance of the Soviet "advisors" and Fidel's admission that he was, indeed, a secret Communist.
When exiles started fleeing from their homeland to the coast of Florida, Ornelas went with them, vowing that someday he would return and finish what
Healthy paranoia kept his second-in-command alive. And that same paranoia, multiplied by the tempo of current events, told Ornelas again that something must be wrong.
Beneath his anger now there was something else — an uneasiness that bordered on fear. It was uncustomary for the Cuban to feel anything but self-assurance, but on the other hand, he had a lot to worry about these days.
Too many strange and unexpected things were going on around Miami for a man to feel secure. Within the past twelve hours ominous bits and pieces of a grim mosaic had been casually revealed to him, and now he felt the very fabric of his world beginning to unravel around him.
Ornelas stopped himself, cutting off the train of thought before it could progress to its logical conclusion. The
soldado
knew that he would need his wits about him if he was to cope with the several riddles that the past half day had handed to him.
And a quick solution to those riddles might be vital. To completion of the plan he had been nurturing along for months... to his very survival, if it came down to that.
He needed answers in a hurry — but the worst part of it was that, so far, he was still uncertain of the questions.
First things first. There was the death — no, the
assassination
of Tommy Drake the previous night. Someone had entered Drake's
estancia
and murdered him, along with several of his hardmen, making off again without disturbing anything around the place, from all reports. No robbery, no vandalism — nothing.
That made it an assassination, by professionals. It also cut off Ornelas's supply of cocaine for the moment and placed him in the uncomfortable position of having to seek out new contacts. He could handle it, but it was just another inconvenience, something else to occupy his mind at the very moment when concentration was so vital.
He wondered if the hit on Drake could be related to the near miss on John Hannon. Somehow, Drake's best men had failed to take the nosy private eye, and they had gotten themselves killed in the bargain. Ornelas had no faith in mere coincidence. He realized that the events were probably related, but beyond that realization he could not proceed. Without some leads, at least a clue to the identity of Drake's assassins...
No matter how it read, the failure to eliminate Hannon left some dangerous loose ends. He would have to try and snip them off before they had a chance to multiply like roaches in the woodwork.
Toro's jailbreak, naturally, had been the worst news of the day — hell, of the year. The timing, on the eve of Ornelas's bold scheme, could not be automatically dismissed as chance. If there was some dark, guiding hand behind it...
Briefly he reflected on the string of violent incidents around Miami through the morning hours and early afternoon, all seemingly directed at the operations Drake and Phillip Sacco had their fingers in: drugs, gambling, women.
Raoul Ornelas had not survived so long on the fringes of the underground by trusting chance or letting others do his thinking for him. He was worried now, and with good reason. Something was afoot around Miami and right now he did not have a clue as to what might be going on.
Ignorance was no way to survive in war. And it was war that had taught him to survive. He stared at the phone as he recalled the past.
As a teenager he had fought for Castro against the animal Batista, battling to release his native Cuba from a tyranny that had oppressed her people for a generation. He had lost a brother in the fight and counted it a small price to be part of history.
He had survived to see the people's revolution twisted and transformed into something else, with the appearance of the Soviet "advisors" and Fidel's admission that he was, indeed, a secret Communist.
When exiles started fleeing from their homeland to the coast of Florida, Ornelas went with them, vowing that someday he would return and finish what
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