"Uh-huh."
He rattled off John Hannon's home address and she repeated it, committing it to memory. They drove awhile in silence, each one occupied with private thoughts, and Bolan felt a certain sense of guilt, a sadness, even, at the double cross he had in mind.
But he could live with guilt, with anger, sadness.
But he did not know if he could live with this one's blood upon his hands, his soul.
He had already cost her far too much. His war had robbed this woman of her family when she was a child. His fight had stripped her of her adolescence and propelled her headlong into danger, into actions that had chipped away her dignity and self-respect.
Mack Bolan did not think less of her because she used her body in pursuit of evidence to put the cannibals away. In fact, he admired her courage and determination. Any guilt was his, he knew, for costing this young one a life of her own, outside the combat zone. She could have been a new bride, settling down somewhere to start a family with a man who loved her. Instead, because of Bolan, she was driving through the streets of Miami with a fugitive, sporting a Mafia price on her head.
The soldier cursed his endless war for robbing this one of her past, and very possibly her future. There was nothing but the present left to reckon with, and he was damned if he would lead her out of danger into greater danger.
Evangelina's sister — brave soldada — hadpaid off the family's dues for generations yet unborn, and there would be no more down payments made to that account if Bolan had a thing to say about it.
If it took a double cross to put this woman-child in safe surroundings, he could live with it, damn right. His war was closing in, the falling numbers gathering momentum, but he would have to make the time to see her out of peril.
To a safe place, yeah.
Except there's no such place.
So, build one. Carve it out of living flesh and blood. The flesh and blood of cannibals and savages.
More than a destroyer, Bolan was a builder, piling clean new stones upon the ruins of the old, erecting something in the nature of a fortress to repel the next attack. Within the walls, at least, there could be safety and security. Outside...
He closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the sports car carry him away.
Outside, there would be Bolan.
14
John Hannon's house was modest, planted in the middle of a quiet residential street in a suburb north of Miami. Bolan had called ahead from a pay phone, and the former captain of detectives was expecting them. As Evangelina swung her convertible into the driveway, Bolan spotted Hannon waiting for them underneath a carport connected to the house.
Hannon greeted them affably, showing mild surprise at his first sight of Bolan's traveling companion. The ex-cop led them through a side entrance into a little family room where he motioned for them to be seated. As he pulled up a chair, Mack Bolan noted a short riot shotgun propped up in a corner, and he realized that Hannon was ready for trouble.
And he wondered if Hannon was ready enough.
"You've been a busy guy," the ex-detective said, settling into a lounger within arm's reach of the pump gun.
"I'm not half done," Bolan answered. "You hearing rumbles?"
Hannon snorted.
"Make that shock waves. They're breaking in on soap operas with news flashes, for heaven's sake. Film at eleven — the whole nine yards."
Bolan chuckled.
"Glad to hear it. I want the word to get around."
"It's getting there," the former cop assured him. "Did you come up with anything?"
Bolan hesitated, glancing at Evangelina. After a moment she got the message, excusing herself, getting directions from John Hannon to the bathroom. The detective watched her go, and Bolan saw him following the sway of her hips with his eyes, studying her appreciatively.
"Where'd you pick her up?"
"Outside Aiuppa's." Bolan saw Hannon's eyebrows raising. "And it was the other way around."
"What's her angle?" Hannon asked.
Bolan put it in a nutshell for him, anxious to make the best use of their dwindling time.
"Federal, undercover. She was working Tommy Drake."
"I'd say she's out of work." Hannon changed gears, shifting topics. "What have you got?"
"I'm working on your Cuban," Bolan told him. "Nothing solid yet, but I'm in touch with someone who may have a handle on him.''
Hannon frowned, the deep lines etched into his weathered face.
"Your someone wouldn't be a guy named Toro, would he?"
Bolan met the ex-detective's eyes directly, never flinching.
"You never know."
"It's funny," Hannon said reflectively. "Someone yanked him off the county farm this morning. Got away clean. They're beating every bush from here to Tallahassee."
Bolan remained silent, watching Hannon and waiting for him to continue. When he spoke again, the former captain of detectives' voice was slow, low pitched.
"I met him once, you know, when I was working Homicide. I had to ask him all about a wild-ass soldier who was shaking up the wise guys."
"Was he helpful?" Bolan asked.
"Like a stone. He told me everything I had to know, and never said a frigging word."
"The Cubans put a premium on loyalty."
"Some others, too, I guess."
Bolan spread his hands.
"There's no way for an Anglo to be inconspicuous among the exiles. If Toro can help me get where I need to go, I'll thank him for the ride."
Hannon's eyes flashed at him.
Bolan frowned. "What did your contacts have to say."
It took a while for Hannon to respond.
Bolan kept studying the man's face. Clearly, he was put off by the thought of breaking convicts out of prison. The guy had worked a lifetime trying hard to put them there and keep them there. It was entirely understandable, but it had no effect on Bolan's combat situation.
Hannon finally made a sour face before he answered Bolan's question.
"A lousy zero. Too damn many street names in the files for them to trace a Jose 99. I couldn't push too hard without inviting interference.''
"Never mind. It was a long shot, anyhow." Mack Bolan hesitated, reluctant to involve Hannon any deeper, yet unable to see any way around it. "I need a favor," the Executioner said at last.
"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.