Don Pendleton: Blood Dues

"I asked... I mean..."

"It's off the record," Bolan told him. "Call it 'need to know.'"

"I see." The former homicide detective's intonation made it clear he did not see at all.

"You know those guys?"

"One of them," Hannon answered, plainly hesitant. "A shooter by the name of Joey Stompanato. He belongs — belonged — to Tommy Drake. That tell you anything."

"It does."

Mack Bolan riffled through his mental mug file, flashing up the entry on one Tommy Drake. He was a middle-ranking mafioso, risen through attrition to acquire preeminence in the chaotic drug trade. While not a boss, he had the capability of putting out a contract. But the question still remained of why he bothered with a former captain of detectives.

"What's the tie-in?"

Hannon spent another silent moment staring at the road before he answered.

"Since you know my name, you've got to know I used to be with the Miami Police Department." He waited for the Executioner's confirming nod. "I pulled the pin two years ago, and since then I've been mostly working private."

"Something special in the wind?"

"It didn't start that way." Another thoughtful pause. "I handle some investigations for Miami Mutual — evaluating claims and checking into frauds, that kind of thing. About six weeks ago they put me on a theft of long-haul moving vans."

The former captain of detectives shifted in his seat and cleared his throat before continuing.

"The vans were stolen from a single firm, but when I started checking into it, I learned they weren't the only ones. Turns out we've had a dozen moving vans and semirigs ripped off right here in Dade these past two months."

"Is that unusual?" Bolan asked.

"Damn right. These rigs were empties, mind you, nothing worth a hijack, and they're too conspicuous to keep around for long. I mean, nobody goes for midnight joyrides in a semitractor."

"Someone's moving contraband?"

"It reads that way, but all the major fences use commercial lines. It cuts the risk to zero."

"So you're looking at a special cargo.''

"That's affirmative." He shot a piercing glance at Bolan. "Something like a load of stolen arms."

"Speculation?"

Hannon shook his head.

"I wish it were. When I was checking out the vans, I sorted through all kinds of other theft reports — including ordnance from Camp Blanding, south of Jacksonville, and from the naval training station at Orlando. Both within the past eight weeks."

Mack Bolan felt a tightness spreading in his gut.

"What kind of ordnance?"

"Name it. Small arms, ammunition, hand grenades and rocket launchers. Someone's sitting on enough hardware to start a private army."

"You figure some connection with the trucks?"

Hannon frowned.

"The street talk here backs it up," he said. "There's a bottomless market for arms in south Florida — terrorists, drug runners, exiles from all over Central America. They're buying anything that shoots."

"Okay. You're still a country mile from Tommy Drake."

"Not necessarily. I was supposed to meet with an informant who could put it all together, but...." He checked his watch. "Looks like I'm going to miss him."

"Just as well," the soldier told him. "If he didn't set you up himself, he may be in the bag already. If he's clear..."

"He'll get in touch," John Hannon finished for him. "Yeah, I thought of that.''

They passed a small suburban shopping mall, and Bolan cut across the nearly empty parking lot, his sportster homing on a bank of pay phones next to the corner drugstore.

"This will have to do."

"It's fine. I'll have somebody here inside of five." He hesitated, halfway out the door, a frown carved deep into his honest face. And there was something going on behind his eyes.

"Your hardware... isn't that the new Beretta?"

Bolan felt the short hairs lifting on his neck. He nodded.

Hannon's frown was softening, becoming speculative.

"Fellow I used to know swore by the Luger."

Bolan forced a smile.

"It's got the power, but the toggle's too exposed," he said. "It snags."

"I guess my dope was secondhand. This fellow... well, we never really met.''

There was another pregnant pause, and Bolan waited for the other shoe to drop. When Hannon spoke again, his voice was softer, cautious.

"Guess I'd better make that call," he said. He got out of the car, eyeing the phones, then he turned around to face the Executioner.

Bolan felt himself relaxing as the older man continued, smiling now.

"If I had some idea what you were looking for..."

"I'm not exactly sure myself," the soldier answered truthfully.

"Well, if there's anything...."

"I've got your number," Bolan told him.

"Mmm." No real surprise. "Well, thanks again."

He slammed the door and Bolan took the Firebird out of there, John Hannon swiftly dwindling in the rearview mirror. The P.I. had a telephone receiver in his hand, already speaking into it.

And Hannon held the fate of Bolan's mission in his hand as well. If he revealed what he suspected — what he knew — to the police, Miami could become a write-off. If they were expecting him...

The flash of recognition had been unavoidable, perhaps, but Hannon was a savvy war-horse, all the same. Nothing passed him by unnoticed, unexamined by the keen detective's eye. There was potential danger there, if Hannon's sense of duty forced him to report their close encounter.

But Bolan trusted the detective. Naturally. Instinctively.

A great deal more than recognition had been shared between them as they spoke. There had been understanding, yes, and something else on the detective's part.

Approval?

Grudging admiration?

Bolan frowned. If Hannon chose to play the role of ally, he might be a winning asset — or a cumbersome liability. At present, though, the Executioner had other problems on his mind.

His Miami probe was a response to rumblings in the underground, a hint of trouble dangerously near the flash point. He had bits and pieces of the puzzle, and there had been a hope that Hannon, in the private sector now, might help him put them all together. Now, instead, he had provided further riddles.

And a pointer, yes. At least that much.

He had pointed Bolan straight to Tommy Drake.

Tommy Drake — born Thomas Dracco — was the sole surviving son of a Chicago loan shark. Papa Dracco was "connected," but his Mob affiliations did not guarantee intelligence — nor could they save him when he sided with the loser in a local Mafia insurrection. The incumbent boss had Papa taken for a ride, and when his elder sons went looking for revenge, they disappeared without a trace.

All three of them.

And young Thomas, wiser than his siblings, suddenly acquired a taste for travel.

He had gravitated to Miami, seeking distance from Chicago. He acquired a muscle job — as Tommy Drake — with local mafioso Vinnie Balderone. Miami was an "open" city, filled with opportunities for someone who could follow orders. Someone who was not afraid of cracking heads and breaking legs along the way.

When Balderone went down before the Bolan guns, Drake numbly switched allegiance to the growing faction led by Nicky Fusco. Loss of relatives had taught him flexibility, and Tommy sought "adoption" in the Fusco family, taking up the duties of a first lieutenant, learning the narcotics business from a master. Later, after Nicky lost it all in yet another Bolan blitz, his protege went shopping for a sponsor.

And discovered Don Filippo Sacco.

Tommy's penchant for adopting bosses did not signal any lack of personal ambition. On the contrary, experience had taught him to let others take the heat that came with leadership. He was content to stand in someone else's shadow, glad to profit from the fearsome reputation of his nominal superiors. They protected him while he earned them money.