Miami Massacre

He was sitting there in that frame of consciousness, staring at the television, an untouched drink in his fist, when Talifero came in. The brother looked like hell, Ciro thought. He'd never seen him look that way, hell no, not ever.

Ciro said, "Hi there Pat or Mike, I never could tell which one."

"Hi there, Ciro," the brother replied.

"Looks like you hurt your shoulder. That's hell out there, huh."

"Yes, it's quite a bit of hell, Ciro. You know what I have to do, huh."

"Yes I guess I do, Pat or Mike."

"It's Mike. You deserve to know that much, also. How do you want it, Ciro?"

"I want it dignified, Mike, like I always lived my life. I want it right between th' eyes, sittin' here watching television, a good drink in my hand. Dignified, Mike."

"That's the way it is then, Ciro. Remember me to the boys on the other side, huh?"

"I'll sure do that, Mike."

Then the bullet punched in between his eyes, his head snapped back and rolled to his chest, the drink fell to the floor, and the King of Arizona sagged into the chair and a "dignified" death.

Though deposed by death, Ciro Lavangetta had died a true Capo.

Bolan got off his final M-79 round and slammed a fresh clip into the M-16. Perhaps, he was thinking, he had not accomplished all of his objectives, but as far as Bolan was concerned the offensive was over. The problem facing him now was a tactical withdrawal, and the chances for success in that direction were seeming more remote by the moment. He had carried the strike overlong. Now the enemy was overcoming that initial confusion and panic, they were regrouping, and it appeared that the counterattack was underway. They were flanking him from both sides and a murderous fire was spraying in on him from various locations in the center. Then he caught a glimpse of movement down at the wall again, followed closely by the staccato of a Thompson, and the big .45 slugs began chewing up the woodwork all about him. Another Thompson opened up from the right flank. Bolan scooted back and threw a fast burst toward the wall, rolled quickly to his left, tossed another burst, and rolled again.

Two men tried to charge the gangway. Bolan heard rather than saw them, and rolled quickly back to his earlier position, chopped them down, then again spun across to his left. As he was pondering a likely escape route and gazing longingly down the beach, another threat bore in on his consciousness. A blue flashing light was coming along down there, ru

Just as he was seriously considering a standing plunge down the gangway, another sound registered in his consciousness — a most dramatic sound for Bolan. Above the endless and constantly growing rattle of gunfire, above the methodical chopping of the Thompsons, above the thudding and screaming of projectiles all about him — a faint, almost ghostly voice drifted in on the wind from the sea. Obviously electronically amplified and further distorted by the wind and surf and the uproar of warfare, it was still warmly familiar, a voice of friendship, and it was insistently calling El Matador.

Bolan's sagging spirits experienced a rapid recharge. He abandoned the heavy weapon and snaked along the deck toward the stern, intent on getting over the side and into the water. The police cars were less than a hundred yards away now, and Bolan did not find it inconsistent with this observation that the fire from the beach also halted abruptly.

Deciding that it was now or never, Bolan raised to a crouch and raced along the deck to the fantail. And then, in a startling moment of awareness, Bolan understood the full significance of that ceasefire from the beach, at the same moment realizing that Mack Bolan was not the only man who might decide to climb a mooring cable. Crouched on the galleon was a handsome man with blond hair in a dripping Palm Beach suit and in his hand was a long-barreled pistol. His attention had apparently been momentarily diverted by the rapidly approaching blue lights, and the two men became aware of the other's immediate presence at the same instant.

Bolan's recovery was a shade faster. One hand chopped at the gun as the other seized a fistful of cloth and he lunged into a backward roll, bringing the man down with him, chest on feet and flipping in a sprawling somersault. Then both were springing to their feet and Talifero was lunging forward with a small stiletto poised for the strike. Bolan tried to move inside the blow but he slipped on the deck-moisture and took the stiletto low in the shoulder. Whirling with the man's arm locked across his chest, Bolan sent him catapulting in a backwards, off-balance plunge along the galleon. He balanced there for a doubtful split-second; then, his eyes boring into Bolan's, he toppled on over and took the long plunge into shallow water.

The stiletto remained in Bolan's shoulder. He withdrew it and quickly crammed in a compress. It was a puncture wound, and not bleeding too severely. He tested the damage by pushing against the galleon with both hands and immediately ruled out a hand-over-hand descent via the cable. He stepped quickly to the overhanging fantail and stared down at the water for a moment, timing the insweeping swells.

The faint voice from the sea continued to summon El Matador. He wondered how far away lay that voice and how far a man could swim with a hole in the shoulder . . . but then, there was no other exit available. He watched the ocean gird itself and lift in a cresting swell, then he vaulted over and plummeted down, and he was once again swimming for an unknown destination . . . this time with only a phantom voice to guide him.

Chapter Eighteen

Living large

Bolan's left arm was useless, the pain in the shoulder becoming excruciating with the gentlest movement. He side-stroked and tried to guide himself by the elusive, wind-lofted calling from somewhere out there in the blackness. A stiff wind had begun to blow steadily and the water was turbulent, the troughs deep and the swells immense. The view behind his course was sporadic, though he had travelled no more than fifty yards or so. Lifting with the swells, he caught wet-eyed and spray-brown glimpses of blue lights and swirling action all about the beach in front of the Hacienda, an occasional rattle of gunplay and the booming of riot guns adding to the surrealistic atmosphere of the night. The nicest part was that Bolan was out of it; what was left, the cops were welcome to.

He was tiring rapidly and fighting for breath. His good arm and both legs were begi

The sounds from the beach had either ceased or he had outdistanced them. This was now, for The Executioner, an item of entirely insignificant information. He was floating in the womblike hold of the sea, and he was feeling entirely comfortable, totally relaxed — and goodbye, world, Mack Bolan was getting off now.

He had never thought that he would die so placidly, so comfortably — it should come with searing pain and with hyperelevated senses straining into the release of death — not this way, not so easy, so downright lulling, like an old man in a rocking chair and nodding pff into the final sleep. It should be like la soldada and the . . . Bolan's lagging consciousness was jolted by that memory, and suddenly the comfort was gone, the quiet acceptance of death wrenched away in a painful floundering and a fighting to clear impacted lungs. He was under, and suffocating, and totally disoriented and trying to cry out against the unbreathable atmosphere of heavy water — and suddenly he was churning atop a high swell, liquids were being hastily expelled from irritated membranes, and he was shocked by the sound of his own voice crying out against the entombment of the sea.