Free Miami Massacre by Don Pendleton

placed it in her hand, then gave her his pen. "Start writing," he said coldly. "And keep it straight. I wouldn't want to see that beautiful head in my crosshairs again."
    "I didn't know they were M-Mafia," she blubbered.
    "You know it now."
    She sprawled out across the bed, pen and pad in hand, and began the list. She paused to dab at her eyes and to shoot a reproachful look at Bolan. "I'll bet I know who you are, too," she announced.
    "Yeah? Just write, kid."
    "Yeah," she said, imitating his voice. "I know
what
you are, too. And
they
know it. I heard them talking about you. I didn't understand it then, but now it all makes sense. You're in more trouble than
I
am, Mack Bolan. I wouldn't change places with you for all the money in Miami. You think you're their judge and jury. You're as wrong as they are."
    "It takes one to know one," Bolan replied curtly.
    "And it takes a killer to kill," the girl fired back. She seemed more in command of herself now, and not at all frightened of Bolan. She finished the list and returned his notebook and pen. "There's your information. Go on out and drown yourself in other people's blood."
    Bolan said, "Thanks." He pocketed the book. "If you mention any of this to
them,
you know you're as good as dead. And not from
my
hand. I'll keep the secret if you will."
    "I guess I've been dead a long time already," she said, falling back to the pillow. "How much deader can you get?"
    Bolan smiled. "I'd like to discuss that with you some time."
    "Sure."
    "Seriously. I'll be checking back — and not on business."
    She showed him a frown, then dropped her eyes. "Just for the record, I didn't do it very often. You'd never believe it if I told you what a rotten jungle this modeling business is. A girl sort of loses her . . . sense of value."
    Bolan bent over the bed and lightly kissed her lips. "Thanks for the information," he said.
    "You threaten me and then thank me," she said, sighing. "Goodbye, killer."
    "Executioner," he corrected her. "There
is
a difference."
    "Sure, your difference is like my difference. But I'm just as ruined and you're just as bloody, difference or no."
    Bolan patted her leg, replied, "I'd still like to discuss that with you some time," and then he went out of there. The "party" list in his pocket held portents of a party the likes of which Miami Beach had never hosted. He reminded himself that there was nothing personal in his war with the Mafia. He was a soldier doing a soldier's job. The chief difference between this war and the one in which he had learned his craft was a simple matter of geography. Miami was the new battleground, but his mission remained the same. Kill. Decimate the enemy. Fight the war of attrition until one side is down and out.
    That word "difference" kept surfacing in his mind. The encounter with Jean Kirkpatrick had raised troublesome ghosts. As he cranked the engine of his car, the two little boys reappeared briefly and took imaginary shots at him, using fingers for guns. Bolan gazed at them for a moment then kicked the car into gear and put the scene behind him.
    "Sure I'm wrong," he told his rearview mirror. "The
difference,
Miss Kirkpatrick, is that I'm not quite as wrong as they are." A wan smile played briefly upon his lips. The girl had been correct, of course. It takes a killer to kill. The difference, as Bolan tried to see it, lay in
motive.
What motivated Mack Bolan to kill? His smile disappeared and was replaced by a brooding frown. Wasn't that question asked repeatedly by every soldier who'd ever found himself in a combat situation?
What am I here for?
    He lit a cigarette, set his course for the beach drive, then pulled out his party list for a quick inspection. Bolan knew damn well why he was in Miami. He'd come to crash a party. From the looks of the list, his task was mushrooming. How many parties could he "crash" before one of them rolled over atop him? He sighed. It was the same old story. The rules of warfare for an inferior force would