Don Pendleton - Blood Dues

"Shoot."

But there was caution in the tone, and Bolan knew that he was skating very near the edge of Hannon's trust, his patience.

Before he had a chance to answer, Evangelina returned from her visit to the washroom. Now her shoulder-length hair was neatly brushed back from her face, and Bolan was again struck by her resemblance to Margarita. He marveled that he had not seen it in her when they met the first time, despite the circumstances... and just as quickly, he wondered how much of it might be simply the product of his own imagination.

Either way, the lady was a living monument to something from the past, another stop along the hellfire trail of Bolan's private, endless war. A part of Margarita lived in her, through her, and he would do everything within his power to preserve that vestige, let it blossom and grow into everything that it could be.

"Where are we going next?" she asked, addressing herself to both men at once, but focusing her main attention on the Executioner.

He looked her square in the eye before he answered.

"Not we, Evangelina... You'll be staying here awhile... for safety's sake."

He registered the startled glance from Hannon, but there was no time to ask the favor now. Bolan focused on the lady now, reading anger and betrayal in her face.

"Staying?" she asked incredulously. "No! I saved your life. I brought you here."

The soldier nodded.

"And I appreciate it. That's one reason why I can't risk taking you along."

There was a flicker of surprise beneath the brooding anger.

"One reason? What is the other?''

"I move better on my own. You'd slow me down, get one or both of us killed."

The lady looked a little hurt at first, but she recovered swiftly, temper and a flaring irritation taking over from the wounded pride.

"I can protect myself, senor. I am a warrior, una soldada — like you."

"Oh, no, you're not." Bolan rose from his chair, advancing on her, pleased that she did not flinch away from him. "You're not like me at all, Evangelina. When was the last time you killed a man? Can you remember how the blood smelled? How his brains looked when you held the gun against his head and dropped the hammer?''

As he spoke the soldier aimed an index finger at her pretty face, the fingertip coming to rest between her eyes.

She shivered at his touch but did not pull away.

Bolan bored in, unrelenting, hating the hurt he had put in her eyes, knowing there was no soft way around the obstacle.

"You ever slit a throat, Evangelina? Do you know the way it feels to saw through flesh and gristle like you're carving a roast, except the roast's still fighting for its life?"

A single tear made a glistening track across one cheek.

"I've never killed a man," she said, the voice soft, shaking. "But I could. I know it."

"Don't be eager," Bolan told her, letting softness creep into his voice now.

He cupped her face gently in his palm, tenderly wiping away the tear.

"I am a soldier," she repeated.

"Fine. So live to fight another day."

She was resisting, but more weakly now.

"I choose my fights," she said softly, tearfully.

And Bolan knew he had her now.

"Sorry. This one's taken."

"And if I refuse to stay behind?"

It was a question more than a challenge. He could sense that most of the fight had drained out of her now.

"I don't have time to argue with you now," he said. "You know what I say is true." He paused, letting that sink in, waiting until she nodded, a barely perceptible motion of her head. "I'll need your car keys."

Another moment's hesitation, then she fished around inside her purse, finally coming out with them and handing them over to Bolan. He turned toward Hannon, frowning, knowing he had put the former captain of detectives on the spot.

"I'll be back when I can," he said.

If I can.

And Bolan pushed the grim, defeatist thought away from him as he shook hands with Hannon at the door. Behind the ex-cop, he could see Evangelina watching him, but she did not respond when Bolan waved his hand in parting.

"We'll be here," Hannon told him, glancing briefly at the lady.

Evangelina nodded, finally.

"Si."

And Bolan put that house behind him, hoping those two good people would be safe along the sidelines of his war. There were no guarantees, he knew, but at the same time he had done his utmost, short of backing off completely while he saw the lady to some haven out of town or out of state.

There was no time for backing off or backing down, the warrior knew from grim experience. The battle had been joined there in Miami, and although he still had no firm handle on the situation, he knew that there was only one direction he could travel on the hellfire trail.

His course was dead ahead and damn the enemy's defenses. The Executioner had come to shake Miami, and nothing short of death would stop him from accomplishing that aim.

He was rattling Miami, see what fell out of the vipers' nest.

And he would see Evangelina when he got the chance.

If he got the chance.

In the meantime, there were cannibals at large, demanding Bolan's full attention. He was carrying the fire. And someone in Miami was about to feel the heat.

Raoul Ornelas listened to the ringing of the telephone on the other end, his anger and frustration mounting by the moment.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

On the tenth ring he slammed down the receiver, cursing under his breath. It was a gesture out of place with the man's normal sense of control, but he could feel the cool slipping, giving way to the bottled emotions that he felt inside.

He had been trying to reach Julio Rivera, his second-in-command, all morning, ever since the news reports had started coming in, and so far there had been no answer.

Frustration gave way to puzzlement and Ornelas frowned. It was not like Julio to be away from home throughout the morning hours; even when he spent the evening with a woman, Julio never slept over, preferring the security of home.

Healthy paranoia kept his second-in-command alive. And that same paranoia, multiplied by the tempo of current events, told Ornelas again that something must be wrong.

Beneath his anger now there was something else — an uneasiness that bordered on fear. It was uncustomary for the Cuban to feel anything but self-assurance, but on the other hand, he had a lot to worry about these days.

Too many strange and unexpected things were going on around Miami for a man to feel secure. Within the past twelve hours ominous bits and pieces of a grim mosaic had been casually revealed to him, and now he felt the very fabric of his world beginning to unravel around him.

Ornelas stopped himself, cutting off the train of thought before it could progress to its logical conclusion. The soldado knew that he would need his wits about him if he was to cope with the several riddles that the past half day had handed to him.

And a quick solution to those riddles might be vital. To completion of the plan he had been nurturing along for months... to his very survival, if it came down to that.

He needed answers in a hurry — but the worst part of it was that, so far, he was still uncertain of the questions.

First things first. There was the death — no, the assassination of Tommy Drake the previous night. Someone had entered Drake's estancia and murdered him, along with several of his hardmen, making off again without disturbing anything around the place, from all reports. No robbery, no vandalism — nothing.

That made it an assassination, by professionals. It also cut off Ornelas's supply of cocaine for the moment and placed him in the uncomfortable position of having to seek out new contacts. He could handle it, but it was just another inconvenience, something else to occupy his mind at the very moment when concentration was so vital.