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 Cuban was consumed with private thoughts, his own grim memories, but Bolan's voice cut through the fog.
"I need your help," he said. "If this connects, I can't afford to go in firing blind."
Another hesitation, then Toro finally nodded.
"Raoul Ornelas." He pronounced the name as if it left a sour taste on his tongue. "My right-hand man. Mi hermano." Disgust was heavy in his voice. "You know I worked with Alpha 66?"
Bolan nodded. The computer files at Stony Man had kept him current on a host of paramilitary groups, their personnel — anything and everything related to the covert war of terrorism. While it lasted, he had followed Toro's progress through the Cuban exile underground, had been relieved when he affiliated with a moderate faction, had seen him rise into a leadership position, helping to direct the energies of soldiers who might otherwise have run amok.
"Raoul, he was not satisfied. More action... always more. He blames your government for all our problems. FBI or CIA, they're all the same with Castro to Raoul."
The Cuban downed his coffee, then got up to refill his mug.
"We quarreled over policy. I learned Raoul was acting independently, recruiting others. Bomb here, there... all the same to him.''
"He challenged you?"
The Cuban's eyes flashed back at him.
"I threw him out." The sudden smile was almost wistful. "No use. There is always somewhere for a man to go."
"Ornelas set you up?"
A casual shrug.
"Raoul, or one of his soldados," Toro answered. "Before the trial, he is already meeting with my men, reminding them they cannot trust the government, inviting them to join him.''
Bolan saw the picture clearly, all the ugly pieces falling into place.
"You know the EAC — Exiles Against Castro?"
"Yes."
The Executioner was only too familiar with the exile splinter movement. Known to law-enforcement agencies since 1975, EAC was a tiny clique numerically — fewer than one hundred hard-core members had been publicly identified — but it exerted influence beyond proportion to its numbers.
EAC drew support from leading members of the anti-Castro bloc. Successful exile businessmen supported the guerrilla band with money, arms, a well-timed word in certain ears.
And for their efforts, they got action, right.
The soldiers of EAC had been linked with bombings from Miami to Manhattan, random acts of violence and intimidation. They were indiscriminate in choosing targets: federal, state or local offices; the homes and businesses of opposition spokesmen; foreign embassies and airlines. Voices raised against the terror were silenced by the bomb or sniper's bullet, and EAC won grim recognition as the most savage, most secretive faction of the splintered Cuban exile movement.
Freedom of expression had a fearful price in southern Florida, and everyone was paying. Everyone, that is, except the Communists and Fidelistas whom EAC was presumably established to combat. Strangely, and despite the rising tide of Cuban violence, little of the action seemed to be directed at the classic goal of liberating Cuba from the blight of Castroism.
"Raoul is influential in the group. Some say he leads it now, except in name."
"I see."
EAC.
Weapons, trucks and drugs.
The Mafia.
A link was not beyond the realm of possibility, Bolan knew, but he needed much more in the way of solid battlefield intel before choosing targets for elimination. Nothing was precisely what it seemed among the exiles; anything could happen, and the Executioner could not afford mistakes that might cost lives.
"What will you do?" the Cuban asked, his voice intruding on the warrior's thoughts.
"Start rattling cages," Bolan told him. "I don't have a handle yet, but somebody out there can give me one.''
"Raoul?"
The Executioner shrugged. "I recognize your claim," he said. "But if you shake loose something helpful..."
Toro spread his hands.
"Como no. Of course. You are my friend. I owe you my freedom."
"You owe me nothing," Bolan told him solemnly. "All debts are canceled. From here on out, I can't predict where this will take me."
Toro frowned.
"You fear that it will lead you to my people. Mis hermanos."
"I've considered it," the Executioner admitted candidly.
"And I." The Cuban leaned across toward Bolan, and there was a sadness mixed with pain in Toro's eyes. "I understand Ornelas, his soldados. They have spent a lifetime fighting Fidelistas. First encouraged by your government, then punished."
Your government. Mack Bolan read the none-too-subtle message loud and clear. It drove the meaning home — that they were different, he and Toro. Different warriors with — perhaps — different wars to wage.
"I feel the same anger," Toro was continuing. "But even so..."
He hesitated, struggling with a problem that had clearly nagged him long and hard.
"A man must know his enemies," the Cuban said at last. "The blood, it is not enough. In here..." he tapped his chest above the heart "...a man can die before his time. A brother can betray his blood."
The Executioner was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was solemn.
"Blood doesn't always make a brother."
Toro nodded.
"Si. Comprendo. I will help you... if I can."
Bolan felt the shadow pass between them once again, but briefly. He dismissed it, knowing that he could not chart the Cuban's course of action for him. He trusted Toro's instincts, his sense of honor.
Bolan rose, prepared to leave.
"I'm on the numbers, Toro. Give you a ride somewhere?"
The Cuban shook his head and nodded toward the kitchen telephone.
"I make a call," he said. "There are soldados still that I can trust."
"Okay. Is there someplace I can leave a message?"
Toro thought about it for an instant, finally rattled off a number from memory, and Bolan memorized it.
"I'll be in touch," he promised.
Toro rose and clasped his hand in parting, wrung it warmly.
"Vaya con dios, amigo." And the Cuban's sudden smile was dazzling. "Viva grande, Matador."
Live large. Damn right.
The Executioner was out of there and tracking, leaving Toro to his own devices. They were separate soldiers, separate wars.
Mack Bolan hoped that they would meet again as allies, or at least as friendly neutrals. He had no wish to take the brave soldado's life, or risk his own in the attempt.
But he was moving now, and there could be no turning back.
Hunting.
Seeking out the savages in civilized Miami.
Rattling cages, right.
And living large.