Blood Dues Read Free Page A

his siblings, suddenly acquired a taste for travel.
    He had gravitated to Miami, seeking distance from Chicago. He acquired a muscle job — as Tommy Drake — with local
mafioso
Vinnie Balderone. Miami was an "open" city, filled with opportunities for someone who could follow orders. Someone who was not afraid of cracking heads and breaking legs along the way.
    When Balderone went down before the Bolan guns, Drake numbly switched allegiance to the growing faction led by Nicky Fusco. Loss of relatives had taught him flexibility, and Tommy sought "adoption" in the Fusco family, taking up the duties of a first lieutenant, learning the narcotics business from a master. Later, after Nicky lost it all in yet another Bolan blitz, his protege went shopping for a sponsor.
    And discovered Don Filippo Sacco.
    Tommy's penchant for adopting bosses did not signal any lack of personal ambition. On the contrary, experience had taught him to let others take the heat that came with leadership. He was content to stand in someone else's shadow, glad to profit from the fearsome reputation of his nominal superiors. They protected him while he earned them money.
    No one killed the golden goose if there was any choice, and Tommy Drake was full of options. He dealt with anyone, impartially, so long as his security and profit was reasonably guaranteed.
    Narcotics had been good to Tommy Drake. He prospered in the trade and became a millionaire while managing to insulate himself from the endemic mayhem that had turned Miami into the American murder capital.
    The Mafia umbrella sheltered him to some extent, as did his legendary willingness to ice the competition first. For the most part he left the smaller independent operators alone, but the cocaine cowboys who encroached too readily upon his turf were fast becoming famous as endangered species.
    Drugs had purchased Drake a Spanish-style estate in suburban Hollandale, an easy drive from Gulfstream Park. The likes of Frank Costello and Myer Lansky used to watch their horses run at Gulfstream, and while Tommy Drake enjoyed a fondness for the ponies, he did not aspire to ostentatious power. He remained secure within the shadows, letting others make the headlines, draw the fire.
    Except shadows would not shelter Tommy Drake this night. His sanctuary was eroding, and the master dealer did not even know it yet.
    Tonight the shadows served as cover for an enemy. Implacable. Determined.
    And tonight, a golden goose was on the menu.
    Bolan circled once around the block and found an unobtrusive parking place. His Firebird fit the neighborhood, but he did not plan to linger long enough to arouse curiosity.
    A swift probe, right, with all the muscle necessary to extract some answers from his target.
    The Executioner was rigged for battle as he left the Firebird. He was clad in midnight black, his face and hands already darkened with combat cosmetics. Underneath his left arm, the Beretta 98-R nestled in shoulder leather. The silver AutoMag, Big Thunder, rode the soldier's hip on military webbing, extra magazines for both handguns hung from his belt. Slit pockets in the midnight skinsuit held stilettos, strangling gear — the instruments of silent death.
    A decorative wall encircled the estate. It had not been constructed with defense in mind, and Bolan scaled it easily, touching down on manicured grass inside. Across the darkened lawn, some fifty yards away, a rambling hacienda structure was ablaze with lights. As Bolan watched, a sentry moved across his field of vision, disappearing around the corner into darkness.
    The warrior circled to his right and kept his back against the low retaining wall until he reached a willow grove that screened him from the house. He tugged the sleek Beretta from its sheath and eased the safety off before he moved into the trees.
    His circuit brought him behind the house, and Bolan looked out on a patio complete with pool, cabanas, deep-pit barbecue. A twelve-foot-high diving tower