Blood Dues

Bolan felt him winding down.

"I need a handle, Toro. Anything at all."

The Cuban hesitated, finally spoke.

"There may be something I can do," he said. "But from in here..."

His shrug was eloquent, and Bolan got the message. Loud and clear. He sca

"We can work it out," he said.

7

John Ha

It was a voice from somewhere out beyond the rim of Hell.

A warrior's voice.

There had been doubts, despite the blood-and-thunder meeting that had saved his life, but Ha

He had just been talking to a dead man.

Ha

The former captain of detectives had expected some reaction, anything — except the sudden sense of loss.

The soldier's death had left a void behind... in Ha

But the soldier was not dead in faraway New York. He was alive and fighting in Miami. Fighting, very probably, for life itself.

And for what else?

The morning call had been abbreviated, cryptic. The warrior had dropped a code name, listened stoically as Ha

Oh, yes. John Ha

In the meantime, all he had to do was trace a faceless Cuban hiding somewhere in Miami or environs, pinpoint his location, set him up — for what?

He frowned. No doubt on that score, either.

This commando was not known for taking prisoners.

Ha

Right now his limited objective was a Cuban stoolie known as Jose 99. And finding him could be a problem, unless...

He lifted the telephone receiver, punched a number up from memory, identified himself and waited while the patch was made. Another moment and a second strong familiar voice addressed him.

"Morning, John. How are you?"

"Hanging on. Taking it easy."

"That's a good way to take it," Captain Robert Wilson told him earnestly.

It was apparent Wilson would have liked to ask him more about last night's fiasco. Ha

"I need a favor, Bob."

"So, shoot."

"I'm looking for a Cuban, and he may be in your files. I've only got a street name."

"Yeah?"

"He goes by Jose 99. It isn't much, I know..."

Suspicion crept into the homicide detective's voice. "Would this have anything to do with last night's shoot-up?"

Ha

"It's unrelated. I've been working on a skip-trace and I'm getting nowhere fast."

"I see." The skepticism carried in his voice across the wire. "I'll run it through, but don't expect too much."

"Appreciate it. Listen, Bob, I wish I could help you with this other thing."

"Well, if you don't have any information...."

Wilson left the statement dangling, giving him a chance to spill, but Ha

"You know if there was anything at all I'd let you in on it."

"I hope so, John."

And there was something very much like sadness in Bob Wilson's voice.

"If you come up with anything on this Jose..."

"I'll call you," Wilson told him. "In the meantime, why not take some time off? Get yourself some rest."

"I'm way ahead of you. Just have to clear a few things up before I take the time."

"Uh-huh. John?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch your ass."

The former captain of detectives smiled.

"I always do."

Bob Wilson rocked back in his swivel chair and glowered at the silent telephone. He felt an urge to call John Ha

It used to be John Ha

They had been working on a string of hooker killings that made Jack the Ripper look humane. The evidence was slim, but through a string of lucky breaks they had finally narrowed the field to one substantial suspect: big and bad, a six-time loser, psychopathic woman hater with a string of brutal incidents behind him. Rumors on the street said he had taken up the knife to do a little twisted civic renovation on his own.

They had traced him to a seedy rooming house and Ha

The memories of that desperate battle in the darkness still made Wilson queasy. He had been moving up the stairs, a step ahead of Ha

So he owed John Ha

Now this Cuban thing — what was it? Jose 99. A street name, sure, designed to hide the true identify of someone who was dealing weapons, drugs, or simple information. Any one of those commodities could' get you butchered in a hurry.

The Cuban scene these days was lethal. Sprinkle in the Haitians and Colombians, a hefty dash of coke and heroine, and start the blender. What came out the other end was sudden death, and there were bodies filling up the county morgue to prove it.

Ha

Still, he owed the captain one, and Wilson would inquire about the Cuban for him. If he stumbled over something he could use along the way, well, so much the better.

He would do that much for Ha