Don Pendleton - Blood Dues

Time enough to orchestrate a massacre, damned right, and throw Miami's affluent society into a screaming panic.

Hell, it was almost perfect.

Bolan did not spare more than a passing thought to motives in the plot. In the end, it mattered little whether Raoul Ornelas was an opportunist seeking ransom for himself, a dedicated rightist striking back somehow at Castro and America, or a turncoat working hand in glove with Cuban agents. Whichever way it cut — a hostage situation or a random massacre — the end result, inevitably, had to be a bloodbath.

Ornelas was committing criminals and addicts, all the human dregs that he could muster, as his front-line troops. There was no way on earth that he could hope to rein them in once they had scented blood. Ornelas had to know that much, and from that grisly certainty, Mack Bolan knew a massacre was what Jose 99 had planned from the beginning.

The DGI and its controllers in the KGB would profit doubly from the holocaust. The chaos, killing, violence — the goals of global terrorism — all of these were ends in themselves, but there were greater potentials there.

Supposing that Ornelas was exposed, revealed in court and through the press as the mastermind of the plot, it would, if handled carefully, reflect upon the anti-Castro movement rather than upon the Communists who hatched the plot. The end result, disgrace for any Cuban exiles who were militant or even vocal in their opposition to the current Havana regime, would bring oppressive crackdowns at the state and federal level, doubling security for Castro at no expense to the Cuban government itself. Castro's chief enemies in the United States would be surveyed, perhaps incarcerated... and years would pass before the anti-Castro movement won back any small degree of visible respectability.

Mack Bolan, at the moment, had no interest in the politics involved. His mind was on the countless lives that would be lost unless he found a way to short-circuit the plan in its initial stages.

Geography and economics helped the terrorists select their target. Key Biscayne's sixty-three hundred affluent residents lived on an island barely four square miles in area. A former U.S. President maintained his winter White House there, but nowadays the majority of tourists headed straight for Bill Baggs Cape Florida State Park, to see the historic lighthouse. And they came in whopping numbers, right.

Key Biscayne connected to the mainland by a single causeway — and its demolition as described by Toro would destroy it, or at least render it impassable for hours, even days. With that route cut, relief would have to come by water or by air... and either way, relief troops would be landing in the face of hostile guns once terrorists controlled the island.

Bolan knew that if the terrorists gained a beachhead on Biscayne, there would be no stopping them before they had a chance to wreak their vengeance on a sleepy populace.

If possible, Bolan and the troops that Toro might be able to recruit had to stop the juggernaut before it started bearing down upon its target.

So far, the Executioner was hampered by a lack of battlefield intel. He did not know the number of his enemies, their firepower or their precise location. Every piece of information that he lacked made it more likely that the small defensive force would fail.

But the very things that made Biscayne a tempting target also worked in Bolan's favor. Using trucks for transport, the invaders were restricted to a single avenue of entry to the island: over Rickenbacker Causeway to Virginia Key, then over Bear Cut Causeway to the killing ground itself on Key Biscayne. With that in mind, Mack Bolan could map out the different approaches to the causeway, narrow down the hostiles' route to half a dozen possibilities.

And then what?

By himself or with Grimaldi flying cover, even with the guns that Toro might be able to recruit, he could not cover all of the approaches with sufficient force to turn an armed brigade around. The roadblock must be inconspicuous enough to slip past the notice of police, yet strong enough to stop the killer convoy cold, without allowing even one of them to reach the target zone.

Clearly, Bolan needed reinforcements in a hurry.

The sudden inspiration struck him, and it was simplicity itself.

Suddenly he knew exactly what he had to do and where to find the reinforcements that he needed. It would require audacity and nerve — two qualities the Executioner possessed in abundance — but if Bolan could pull it off he might be able to bring down two vultures with a single shot.

All he had to do was change identities again in mid-stride, without losing his momentum. Just a simple probe inside the enemy encampment, right.

That, and then get out again intact, with time to spare before he had to meet the final strike on Key Biscayne.

A simple matter, right.

No sweat.

Except that he could lose it anywhere along the way, with one false step.

And if he lost it... then he would die along with others, and the savages would breeze through unobstructed to their target area. There would be hours or days of mayhem.

Mac Bolan pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on his actions of the next few moments.

Defeat was not an acceptable alternative.

He would have victory, or death in the attempt. And if he died, a lot of savage souls were going with him.

Phillip Sacco did not have his usual nightmare on the night after Omega's visit. You have to sleep in order to have nightmares, and for the aging capo, sleep was suddenly in very short supply. For the first time in his adult life he doubted his ability to control his own environment.

And it was a frightening sensation.

After twenty-four hours he still hadn't been able to get a line on Tommy Drake's assassins. Omega was out there, but Sacco's calls to New York City, Chicago and the West Coast had been unable to confirm or deny the black ace's standing with La Commissione. And worst of all, Sacco's town was blowing up around him, dreadful rumors circulating.

Rumors about marksman's medals, damn right, and stories that Mack The Bastard Bolan might be back in town, goddamnit.

Now there was a recurring nightmare — one that Sacco could not seem to wake himself up from no matter how he tried.

Phil Sacco had been convinced, like all of his amid in the honored society of Mafia, that Bolan had finally died in his New York flame-out some time back. It had not been smooth sailing with him gone, of course; he left the brotherhood in an unholy shambles when he faded from the scene, and there had been a recent wave of state and federal offensives — but anything was better than going to bed with the fear that you might not wake up in the morning.

Anything was better, sure, than jumping every time a shadow moved around you, any time a man in black might cross your path.

Anything, yeah, except maybe not sleeping at all.

If Mack Bolan was back, Sacco told himself, the frigging guy had made a critical mistake by coming back to southern Florida right now.

Phil Sacco meant to see that Bolan paid for this mistake with his life.

The telephone in his study started ringing, but Sacco did not answer it. He waited while Solly Cusamano, the houseman, took care of it, picking it up on the third ring.

Sacco figured that any call at this hour of the night just had to be bad news — unless, perhaps, it might be one of his hunter crews reporting with information on the bums who took down Tommy Drake.

There was a long moment's delay, then Solly knocked on the door of his study, poking his head in at Sacco's summons. Cusamano looked worried and apologetic.

"It's that Omega, boss. You wanna talk to him?"