Miami Massacre by Don Pendleton Page A

"Relay anything for me to 342."
    The patrolman murmured his understanding and went into the office. As the two detectives walked to the elevator, Hannon said, "Somehow Bolan penetrated their security — obviously knew precisely where they were quartered. I don't know how, yet . . . but I guess we better try to find out. It might be our only finger on him. This deal up in 342, now there's a case in point."
    "What point?" Wilson asked.
    "Bolan had 'em fingered. Peters says the victim was crumpled against the door, inside the room. Chainlock still intact. Got it right in the face. Cracked the door, see, left the chain on, looked out to see who was calling. Then
splat,
a bullet up the nose. Guy had a drink in his hand, half-undressed, television turned on . . . all relaxed, see? A .38 revolver lying on his dresser, didn't even take it to the door with him, took his drink instead. Suspected nothing, felt safe and secure. The door chain was a normal caution, I'd do it that way myself. Then
splat,
right up the nose."
    Wilson was frowning as he stepped into the elevator car. "He's just hunting them down, then, and killing them on sight," he commented, a growl in his voice. "Look, I don't like these people myself . . . but I can't buy that kind of shit. The guy's an animal, cap'n. An animal with a strong smell for blood."
    Hannon was grimacing in deep thought. "I don't think so, Bob," he muttered. "Is that the way you'd describe our boys in Vietnam? As bloodthirsty animals?"
    "That's different," Wilson replied.
    The car eased to a smooth halt and the door slid open. The two men stepped out, paused to check the directions on the wall, then strode along the carpeted hallway as the captain picked up the conversation. "It's different only because of time and place," he argued. "These are the rules of combat, the new rules, as prescribed for Vietnam. It's a hunt and kill war over there, Bob. These young fellas are taught to fight that way. The enemy is something to track down and exterminate. Bolan's been through several years of that hell, and I guess he learned his lessons well. Now he's fighting the same kind of war, right here in our town. We don't want to
hate
the kid, Bob. We want to try to understand him. Otherwise, I'm getting the feeling that we'll never nail him."
    "He's no
kid,
" Wilson sniffed. "Not unless I am too."
    The veteran cop chuckled. "You're both kids to me, lieutenant. Here we are. The scene is undisturbed . . . we'll have to climb the balcony."
    A uniformed officer stood in the open doorway of room 340. He touched his cap respectfully and said, "340 is unoccupied, sir. Go through to the terrace and over the wall to your right."
    The detectives went on through without a word. As Wilson was hoisting himself over the dividing wall, he muttered, "Goddamn war anyhow, sending these guys back with blood in their nose."
    The captain did not comment on that until they were standing over the bloodied remains of Al Capistrano, an enforcer in the Philadelphia family of Ralph The Barber Calipatria. He sighed and said, "They don't all come back with this big a hard-on, lieutenant. We've got to get this boy. We have got to get him quick." He dropped to his knees for a closer look.
    "I'll buy that," Wilson replied.
    The captain rose hastily to his feet and passed a hand wearily across his face. "I just hope you can, lieutenant . . . and that the price won't be too high. How many victims does this make today?"
    Wilson performed a quick mental calculation and replied, "Thirteen that we know of."
    "Uh-huh. Well, I guess the massacre is on. We won't find Bolan at the Tidewater Plaza, I'm sure of that now. He isn't hanging around waiting for us to seal him in. I'd say he's a perfectionist. Knows precisely what he is doing, every step of the way. In matters of war, that is."
    "So which way do we go from here?"
    Hannon sighed. "You go down and take the seal off, it's a useless exercise. I'm going to stay up here for a while. I feel very