Miami Massacre

"If I find out you've lied to me," Bolan said ominously, "I'll be looking you up, doll."

"I ain't lying! Please, mister. I got my clothes upstairs. Let me get out of here, huh? Before the cops come?"

Bolan was satisfied. He said, "Sure," patted her shoulder, and made his exit through the shattered window. He circled to the rear and went back the way he had come, over the back wall and across the adjacent property to the side street. Houselights were coming on up and down the street. A man stepped out on his porch and curiously watched Bolan as he stripped off the black jumpsuit and got into his car.

Ten minutes and several miles later, Bolan stepped out of a public telephone booth, his face dark with speculation. The airline reservations clerk had most helpfully given him some food for thought. "Mr. Portocci and party" had departed Phoenix earlier that evening on a flight to Miami. This information, in itself, held very little interest for The Executioner. Added, however, to several other items of intelligence he had accumulated on his trek of the past few days — and with the blond woman's disclosure; "He's flying somewhere — some meeting . . . " — a picture was begi

As he stood beside his car, pondering the possible implications of his suspicions, a police car screamed by a block away, followed closely by an ambulance. Another siren could be heard in the distance. Bolan smiled and climbed into his car. The time had come for The Executioner to take leave of the desert scene. Miami, he was thinking, should be entirely pleasant at this time of year. If he could line up a quiet air charter, he reflected, he could even get there in time for the hunting season — and, if his suspicions were correct, the Florida playground would be teeming with big game.

Bolan turned his car around and headed it toward the airport. He had tried to smash up the middle in Phoenix and it had proved at least momentarily successful. Perhaps he could smash with equal success right through the middle of the Mafia ruling council. Discovering that he was breathing very shallow, he chuckled to himself and tried to relax. What did he have to lose? Just his own life — and he would undoubtedly be losing that sooner or later anyway. What did he have to gain? Bolan chuckled again. This one would be for all the marbles. He found himself relaxing. He knew now how the VC suicide troops felt when they swept into a government stronghold. A walking dead man has everything to gain and nothing, absolutely nothing, to lose. Bolan understood this.

"Look out, Miami," he said aloud, "I'm sweeping in."

Chapter Two

The screen

Joh

"That's what you call being honest, dumb, and poor," Joh

Joh

Joh

During one particularly hairy episode with the Los Angeles police, Joh

Ciro had plans in which Joh

And he became an underboss to Ciro Lavangetta. Some friction developed between the two, due perhaps to the Capo's uneasiness over Joh

Yes, Joh

Except for one unpleasant development. Mack Bolan. The wise-guy had been ru