Miami Massacre

Toro's voice also, very close now, was rattling off sharp commands in excited Spanish, and Bolan wondered if he was still reliving a memory. Then a dark bulk crested above him, a volley of excited voices restored his sense of reality, and immediately others were beside him in the water. Some one was forcing a lifering down over his arm and he was being tugged and dragged and then lifted; his heels bumped solid matter, and Toro's anxious face was looming above him, and Bolan knew that he was in good hands once again.

He was lying on the soft cushions in the cabin of a boat, the constant vibrations of a strong propulsion system jarring into him, and someone was sawing off his arm at the shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked into Toro's, and the Spanish Bull smiled and said, "Sorry, amigo, it is difficult to remain the gentle doctor in so turbulent a sea."

He was swabbing out Bolan's shoulder wound with raw alcohol. Another man hovered nearby, holding a tin cup. Toro relieved the man of the cup and held it to Bolan's lips. "Drink this, my friend," he commanded. "It is a transfusion of spirit."

Bolan lifted his head and accepted the transfusion. It was undiluted rum, and it momentarily took his breath. He coughed and pushed himself upright. Toro said, "See what I have told you? Already you are sitting up and looking for another fight."

Bolan smiled weakly and watched the Cuban apply a bandage to the shoulder, then he replied, "I guess I'm all fought out for a while, Toro."

"And Margarita, amigo?"

Bolan's eyes fell. His voice sounded u

Toro nodded his head to the other man, then told Bolan, "It is as we suspected. She is the cat, senor. You ca

"Was, Toro."

"Senor?"

Bolan lifted pained eyes to his friend. "Margarita is dead, Toro."

The Cuban stared at him for a long, silent moment, then he patted Bolan's good shoulder and wearily got to his feet, said something in Spanish to the men grouped around them, and lurched across the pitching cabin. The men began talking quietly amongst themselves and slowly drifted back topside.

Bolan moved his feet carefully to the deck and tested his equilibrium. "You know how I felt about Margarita," he called over to his friend.

"Yes, amigo, I know," Toro replied.

Bolan found a crushed pack of brown-leafed cigarettes and lit one. The boat was idling along, maintaining just enough headway for maximum stability, and that was not saying much. The craft was an old, much-patched, and several times renewed PT boat of World War Two vintage. Torpedo tubes and deck guns had long since given way to more practical space utilization for its successive postwar roles as private yacht, commercial pleasure craft, and deep-sea fishing sportsboat. The powerful Packard propulsion plant remained virtually intact and smoothly functioning. Now the boat was primarily a troop-carrier, small commando strike-force variety. Bolan was looking it over with casual interest when Toro returned and tiredly sat beside him. He explained to Bolan that the 15 men now aboard constituted a hastily recruited volunteer crew, and that they had come forth for the express purpose of offering tactical support to Bolan's war.

"We have learned the identity of this big boat, the floating home of your enemies," he further explained. "We have thought perhaps that El Matador would highly desire this information and -" He swept his arm in a half-compass of the little vessel. "— and the facilities of our navy."

Bolan smiled, genuinely affected by the offer of military aid. "Thanks, Toro. You risked your navy to pull me out of a tight spot, and that's plenty enough. Besides, I guess the Miami War is over. If you'll just put me ashore somewhere. . . ."

Toro's face clouded. He pointed through the cabin porthole to faintly winking lights in the distance. "She lays there, senor, this boat. Soon she will be forced to seek refuge in a safe harbor."

"The sea, Matador, is angry. A tropical storm approaches from the south. We are no more than . . . perhaps ten minutes removed from your enemy's position. You will reconsider?"

Bolan was staring glumly at the distant lights. In a gruff tone, he replied, "The price has already gone too high, amigo. It has become a lousy war."

"Porque? Margarita?"

Bolan nodded. "That's porque, Toro."

Toro sighed and reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing a folded paper. "Did you know that our Margarita was a poetess?" he asked quietly.

Still gruff, Bolan replied, "It wouldn't surprise me."

"She left this for me, Matador."He shrugged his shoulders and gently added, "As an explanation, perhaps. Can you read Espanol?"

Bolan shook his head and took a heavy drag on the Cuban-style cigarette. "And I don't believe I want to hear it, Toro. I don't believe in grief, and I really can't afford it."

Toro protested, "This is not for grief, Matador. It is for courage, and for remembering a shining light in the darkness. You will allow me to read it for you?"

Bolan sighed, nodded, and closed his eyes.

"It will not sound the same, maybe, in English, but this is how it would translate:

The world dies 'twixt every heartbeat,

and is born again

in each new perception of the mind.

For each of us,

the order of life is to perceive and perish and perceive again,

and who can say which is which-

for every human experience builds a new world

in its own image...

and death itself is but an unusual perception.

Live large that you may experience large

and thus, hopefully, die large."

Toro's voice broke as he added, "That is it, amigo."

Bolan sat silent for a long moment. Then he opened his eyes and crushed out the cigarette. "Margarita wrote that?" he quietly inquired.

"She did. Tell me, Matador, did the little soldier die large?"

"Yes, Toro," Bolan assured him, "she died very, very large."

"She was muy angry with me, senor. Because I would not offer you assistance with your war."

Bolan sighed. "Well, Toro, you've got those snakes to worry about."

"There are snakes, senor, everywhere." He looked out at the distant lights. "Shall we live large, Matador, for a little while — together?"

The Executioner smiled. "What sort of weaponry do we have, amigo?"

"We have the magnifico Honeywell, also personal weapons."

Bolan got to his feet and tested his sea legs. "Does this thing always buck like this?" he asked.

"Si, she is a Yanqui buckaroo."

"You'll have to get the Honeywell mounted."

"This is done. The Honeywell is deck-mounted, Matador."

Bolan said, "Show me."

Toro led the way just above and behind the cabin to what had originally served as a mount for a fifty-calibre machine gun. A small wooden platform had been added, and the Honeywell was bolted to this. Bolan nodded and ducked back into the cabin to escape the stinging spray which was now constantly flaying the main deck. He said, "Okay, I'm ma

"Your shoulder, amigo. Will this not-?"

"It's all right," Bolan assured him. "What's in the belts?"

"High-explosive only. For war at sea-"

"Okay that's fine, but have some flares ready just in case. And make up a belt of double-ought." He gri

Toro gri

Bolan turned away quickly, so that Toro could not see the surge of emotion across his face, muttering beneath his breath, "And a little soldada shall lead them."