Executioner 071 - Blood Dues by Blood Dues

Author:Blood Dues [Dues, Blood]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

13

“You won’t need that with me,” the woman told him lightly, glancing down at the Beretta clutched in Bolan’s fist.

The warrior hesitated for a moment, then slowly holstered the 93-R.

“I’ll keep it all the same,” he answered. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“There’s no such place.”

“Perhaps. But I could not allow you to be killed back there.”

The Executioner risked a cautious smile.

“I’m not complaining, just surprised,” he said. “You don’t hold any grudge for Tommy Drake?”

The young woman made a disgusted sound deep in her throat, and spat out the open window of the drop-top sportster.

“Drake was a pig!”

Mack Bolan raised an eyebrow, curious and surprised by her reaction.

“If you say so.”

She read the unspoken question in the soldier’s tone, but she was slow in answering. They were rolling along Northwest 103rd Street, heading toward the suburb of Miami Shores. Behind them, the Liberty City ghetto was an ugly fading memory.

They drove along another block or two before the young woman found her voice again.

“I do what must be done,” she said, “like you, Matador.”

Bolan felt the warning tingle at the base of his skull.

“Have we been introduced?” he asked her, trying to sound casual.

She flashed him a small secret smile.

“There is no need. You’re as my sister said.”

Bolan frowned, studying her face. And something did a slow rollover in the back of his mind, stirring sluggishly at first, all hazy from the passing years. There was something in her face, around the eyes —

“Your sister?”

“Margarita.”

There was age-old sadness in the woman’s voice, and the single word hit Bolan like a hard fist underneath the heart. He was silent for an endless moment, first watching her, then turning to regard the passing storefronts, staring through them without seeing anything.

In his mind he pictured Margarita, brave soldada of the exile cause. He saw her as she was when last he held her—lifeless, brutalized by mobsters who had tortured her in vain, attempting to find out Bolan’s whereabouts. He had found her, found them all in time, and the hot flame of his vengeance had touched off the Miami massacre that followed.

Margarita.

Heaven keep her.

“She was a brave soldada,” Bolan said, and knew that even as he spoke the words they sounded lame, inadequate.

A measure of the woman’s sadness was replaced by pride as she responded.

“Si. I fight a different war against the animals who killed her needlessly.”

“You’re undercover?”

She nodded.

“I was placed with Tommy Drake to gather information. He would have been indicted soon.”

“I couldn’t wait,” the warrior said.

“No matter. He did not deserve to live, and it was worth it to be present at his death.”

She spoke with an intensity that would have been disturbing had Bolan not understood its source and motivation. He could read the grim commitment in her tone. Everything about her bespoke determination, singleness of purpose.

Some soldada in her own right, yeah.

The warrior cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“As long as you’re intent on saving me, I ought to know your name.”

She smiled at him, a lovely young-old smile.

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