bucked and bellowed, sent another stunner out to close the gap between them. Downrange, Bolan's target hurtled backward, propelled into a sprawl by the batton round's impact. Bolan turned his full attention back to Toro, focusing upon the mission.
And his passenger was there, one arm outstretched to grasp the helping hand that Bolan offered. Jack Grimaldi saw the Cuban come aboard, and the pilot reacted instantly. The ship lifted off, ascending vertically, the altered angle of their rotor blast dispersing smoke and gas.
Below them riflemen were searching for the range and finding it. A bullet whispered next to Bolan's ear and drilled an exit port behind him, through a pane of Plexiglas. Another twanged against the fuselage and spun away.
Grimaldi took them out of there, the Bell responding to a master's hand and climbing, banking, rising in a spiral that would get them out of rifle range.
The Executioner and Toro scrambled into seats and buckled up, riding out the storm. Grimaldi soon had them running true and arrow straight above the scrublands, with the prison compound dwindling, behind them.
Across from Bolan, Toro was beginning to relax, but his deliverer could not afford to share the feeling. They were flying out of momentary danger into greater peril, and the heat would follow them inexorably. The spark that he had struck that morning might ignite a lethal conflagration in Miami.
Fine.
Warrior Bolan was familiar with the heat; he thrived on it.
And he was carrying the fire this time, a cleansing flame to scorch the savages and drive them underground.
A number of his enemies had felt the Bolan heat already. More would follow. Hell had come acalling in Miami, and the purifying flames would have to run their savage course.
A skillful hand could fan the flames, attempt to channel and direct them, but the end result would be in doubt until the final shot was fired. There was every chance that warrior Bolan would be counted with the fallen, but he knew the long odds going in, and they did not deter him.
The Executioner was blitzing on.
9
Toro stood before the open kitchen window, leaning on the sink and staring out across a scruffy yard in the direction of a peeling clapboard fence. The nearest neighbor was an auto graveyard, its rusting hulks piled high above the fence.
"Sorry we couldn't set up something with a view."
Grinning, the Cuban turned to face Mack Bolan.
"The view is fine,
amigo.
I was getting tired of open spaces, anyway."
He retrieved a mug of coffee from the kitchen counter, sat down at a narrow dining table to face the Executioner.
"I have not yet thanked you for delivering me."
"No thanks are necessary," Bolan told him.
"Ah. Without the need, then.
Gracias, amigo."
"Welcome."
They were seated in the combination dining room and kitchen of a rented bungalow in Opa-locka, a Miami suburb. It was five minutes from the Opa-locka airport and well removed from Little Havana. And Bolan knew that it was there the main heat of the coming search for Toro would be concentrated. With any luck the hunt should pass them by completely.
Not that Bolan or the Cuban planned on hiding out while the search went on around them. Far from it.
They were pausing at the rented safehouse only long enough to coordinate a course of action.
There was work to do yet in Miami, and before proceeding with it, Bolan needed information.
"You mentioned a suspected sellout in your group."
Toro glanced up from his coffee cup, a frown etched into his forehead. He hesitated, and when he spoke, his voice was solemn.
"I will deal with him myself."
"I understand your feelings."
Toro raised an eyebrow.
"Do you?"
Bolan nodded.
"Faint-hearts... traitors... they injure all of us."
He did not speak of April Rose or of the mole who had done everything within his power to scuttle Bolan's Phoenix program. Good lives down the drain, and changes — driving Bolan back into the cold and giving back his name, his lonely war.
The
And his passenger was there, one arm outstretched to grasp the helping hand that Bolan offered. Jack Grimaldi saw the Cuban come aboard, and the pilot reacted instantly. The ship lifted off, ascending vertically, the altered angle of their rotor blast dispersing smoke and gas.
Below them riflemen were searching for the range and finding it. A bullet whispered next to Bolan's ear and drilled an exit port behind him, through a pane of Plexiglas. Another twanged against the fuselage and spun away.
Grimaldi took them out of there, the Bell responding to a master's hand and climbing, banking, rising in a spiral that would get them out of rifle range.
The Executioner and Toro scrambled into seats and buckled up, riding out the storm. Grimaldi soon had them running true and arrow straight above the scrublands, with the prison compound dwindling, behind them.
Across from Bolan, Toro was beginning to relax, but his deliverer could not afford to share the feeling. They were flying out of momentary danger into greater peril, and the heat would follow them inexorably. The spark that he had struck that morning might ignite a lethal conflagration in Miami.
Fine.
Warrior Bolan was familiar with the heat; he thrived on it.
And he was carrying the fire this time, a cleansing flame to scorch the savages and drive them underground.
A number of his enemies had felt the Bolan heat already. More would follow. Hell had come acalling in Miami, and the purifying flames would have to run their savage course.
A skillful hand could fan the flames, attempt to channel and direct them, but the end result would be in doubt until the final shot was fired. There was every chance that warrior Bolan would be counted with the fallen, but he knew the long odds going in, and they did not deter him.
The Executioner was blitzing on.
9
Toro stood before the open kitchen window, leaning on the sink and staring out across a scruffy yard in the direction of a peeling clapboard fence. The nearest neighbor was an auto graveyard, its rusting hulks piled high above the fence.
"Sorry we couldn't set up something with a view."
Grinning, the Cuban turned to face Mack Bolan.
"The view is fine,
amigo.
I was getting tired of open spaces, anyway."
He retrieved a mug of coffee from the kitchen counter, sat down at a narrow dining table to face the Executioner.
"I have not yet thanked you for delivering me."
"No thanks are necessary," Bolan told him.
"Ah. Without the need, then.
Gracias, amigo."
"Welcome."
They were seated in the combination dining room and kitchen of a rented bungalow in Opa-locka, a Miami suburb. It was five minutes from the Opa-locka airport and well removed from Little Havana. And Bolan knew that it was there the main heat of the coming search for Toro would be concentrated. With any luck the hunt should pass them by completely.
Not that Bolan or the Cuban planned on hiding out while the search went on around them. Far from it.
They were pausing at the rented safehouse only long enough to coordinate a course of action.
There was work to do yet in Miami, and before proceeding with it, Bolan needed information.
"You mentioned a suspected sellout in your group."
Toro glanced up from his coffee cup, a frown etched into his forehead. He hesitated, and when he spoke, his voice was solemn.
"I will deal with him myself."
"I understand your feelings."
Toro raised an eyebrow.
"Do you?"
Bolan nodded.
"Faint-hearts... traitors... they injure all of us."
He did not speak of April Rose or of the mole who had done everything within his power to scuttle Bolan's Phoenix program. Good lives down the drain, and changes — driving Bolan back into the cold and giving back his name, his lonely war.
The
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