Miami Massacre

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Authors: Don Pendleton
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure, Men's Adventure, det_action
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Lavangetta croaked. He was staring intently at a package of matches and speaking around the furiously smoking cigar. "Tommy Janno just called in from the Sandbank. Johnny the Musician and Miami Vino just got hit."
    A brief silence followed, then: "You mean they're dead?"
    "Yeah, that's what I mean. Sittin' there right by the pool, right there at the Sandbank. And somebody pumped a bullet into both of 'em. Imagine that. Somebody just-"
    "Somebody!" Aggravante yelped.
    Lavangetta sighed. "I guess it was Bolan."
    Aggravante turned an angry gaze to Augie Marinello. "He means the guy he's right on top of," he said nastily.
    Marinello snapped, "Get me the Talifero brothers!" His brooding gaze swept the assembled bosses and he amended the demand by adding, "I mean, I make a motion that we delegate this problem to Pat and Mike Talifero. Do I hear any objections?"
    Aggravante said, "You don't hear any objections and neither do I." He got to his feet and went to the door, swung it open, and leaned into the open doorway to speak to the guard stationed there. "Tell the Talifero brothers that they're wanted in here."
    Ciro Lavangetta wet his lips and nervously rolled the cigar between them. He'd tried, he was telling himself. And he'd done no worse than any other boss had done since that blacksuited bastard had started hitting them. So now it was to be Pat and Mike. Lavangetta shivered inwardly. He was glad they were to be sicced onto Bolan instead of onto Ciro Lavangetta. The
Commissione's
own lord high enforcers, activated only by unanimous consent of the high council, with their own elite Gestapo — this was the Talifero brothers — remorseless human missiles with a one-way switch and with the power of life and death over even a
Capo.
Yes, classy Bolan with the fancy medals, just wait you smart bastard until Pat and Mike get your scent. You're going to die, Bolan the Bastard, you're going to
die screaming!
In the council of kings, it was preordained.

Chapter Seven
A difference
    He was in a modest residential area of Miami Beach. The neighborhood was clean and the neat rows of stucco homes in glaring white contrast to the green lawns and tropical shrubs. He noted the house number where the police car was stopped and went on by and took his time circling the block. When he came around the second time, the squad car was gone. Again he passed the house and pulled in to the curb several doors beyond, angled his rearview mirror for a casual surveillance, lit a cigarette, and settled in for a patient wait. Five minutes passed. Two little boys came around the side of the house just opposite his position, looked him over in that frank display of youthful curiosity, and one of them waved to him. He grinned and waved back. The tots looked at each other and giggled, then ran back out of sight.
    Bolan lit another cigarette and returned his attention to the mirror. When he'd finished the smoke, he carefully crushed it in the ashtray, got out of the car, and walked briskly to the stucco bungalow which had been occupying his attention. A hooked screen door offered the only discouragement to an uninvited caller. He ran the blade of his penknife through the flimsy wire screen, opened the door, and went in.
    He found the girl lying across the bed in bra and panties, face down, the rise of ample rump presiding majestically over other interesting topographical features. She raised her head in a mute inspection of the intruder. Her makeup was smudged from persistent tears, but this offered no contradiction of Bolan's earlier assessment of her beauty. The enormous dark eyes were wide with undisguised fear, but she met his level gaze and said, "Wh-who are you? What do you want?"
    Bolan removed his sunglasses and dropped them into his pocket. "We nearly met this morning," he told her, "but at a distance of about 500 meters."
    "Wh-what?"
    "You didn't see me," he assured her. "But I saw you. In the crosshairs of my scope. And I could have punched a hole

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