Blood Dues Read Free

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.

3
    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