Miami Massacre by Don Pendleton Page B

close to that boy right now, I could almost touch him. I'm getting his feel and his smell."
    Wilson went back out the way he'd come, nodded to the patrolman, and headed for the elevator. If the captain wanted to sit in that death room and think, then Bob Wilson allowed that this was the captain's own business. But Wilson had just remembered something regarding the tough old chief of the Dade Force. Hannon's only son had died in Vietnam, torn to bits when he stepped on a land mine. The lieutenant was hoping that the captain was not becoming confused as to the identity of The Executioner. The name was Mack Bolan — not John Hannon, Jr. And a guy had to know when to stop being a war hero. Bolan was no hero in Miami. He was the same as any other killer, and he was going to meet a killer's fate in Miami. Lt. Wilson had already bought that fact. And
no
cost would prove too high.
    Wilson felt, moreover, that this was no case for the silk gloves, VIP handling of the Dade Force. It was a homicide matter, and only homicide routines would tip the balance of advantage away from Bolan. Let Hannon sit in a death room and ponder M.O. The homicide cop would conduct a standard investigation. He would begin with the hotel staff, and he'd milk them dry of all they could possibly offer. He'd backtrack on Bolan's trail and sift through it all again. He'd call in every informant in town and he'd comb the city for every presence of the Mafia and he'd, by god, meet Bolan on Bolan's own ground. What was more, he would gun the son of a bitch down without once thinking of all those glory medals from Vietnam.
    Hate
the kid? Wilson's lips twisted in a rueful smile. Hell no, he didn't hate him. But he hated what he stood for, he hated the idea that some combat-crazy sergeant could forget what it had all been about, and come back to destroy the very thing he had fought to preserve.
    After all, Wilson had put in his share of military service, too. If Hannon wanted to "understand the kid," he should ask a . . . Wilson stood stockstill in the elevator doorway, gripping his hands together tightly in the sudden "revelation." Of course! The military mind was . . .
    The Lieutenant was mentally chastising himself — had he so easily forgotten all of
his
war training? The success of every commando-like strike was geared to the
intelligence
factor! So where was Bolan getting his intelligence? From a beautiful whore in a flowered bikini? Was Jean Kirkpatrick an innocent witness . . . or was she an accomplice to a killer?
    Bolan
had
to have an accomplice! Those lightning strikes didn't just materialize spontaneously! They were planned to the closest detail, and executed with military precision!
    Wilson punched the elevator button and, in the same motion, made a grab into his breast pocket for his notebook and hurriedly flipped the pages to his notes of the Sandbank investigation. Uh-huh, there she was. 2015 Palmetto Lane. There was the start . . . and maybe the ending.
    The boat had picked them up at the north end of Miami Beach and then headed south, backtracking along their earlier route, past the seaquarium and across Biscayne Bay. Then Bolan was outfitted in ragged jeans which were several inches too short and thonged sandals, also too small. It was at this point that Toro had apologetically applied the blindfold, explaining while not explaining, "You understand,
amigo,
the necessity for secrecy."
    Some time later they bumped ashore and Bolan was guided up over the bow and into grassy marshland. After a twenty minute hike with difficult footing, Bolan's blindfold was removed. They were in rough country and quite removed from the water. Bolan oriented his directions by the setting sun, but could arrive at no meaningful analysis of their course. They seemed to be zig-zagging, travelling on first one heading and then another. In the last faint light of dusk they emerged from thick underbrush onto a narrow dirt lane and a waiting jeep. A pretty
senorita
sat behind