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.

Somesoldada 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.

"Evangelina."

Bolan answered with a small grin of his own.

"What now, Evangelina? You were seen back there — at least your car was seen — and now your cover's blown."

She shrugged.

"It's nothing. This is rented in a different name. I will check in with my control for relocation when we're finished."

"We?"

"I can help you," she told him, plainly reading the sudden distance in his voice.

Bolan shook his head, a firm emphatic negative.

"You've helped enough already. Thanks, but no thanks."

She hung in there, stubborn... like another Cuban tigress he had known. Her eyes flashed at him.

"You think I cannot fight because I am a woman."

"Not at all." He had a sudden flash of Margarita's face, contorted in an endless, soundless scream. "I think you've paid enough dues in a fight that isn't yours."

"It is my fight. You think I am afraid of what they did to Margarita? No. I do this thing because of her."

"That was another time, Evangelina, and another war. The enemies are different now. The stakes are higher."

"These stakes... can they be higher than a life?" she asked him. "Higher than dignity?"

The Executioner reflected on that briefly, knowing what the lady meant, exactly how she felt... and wanting desperately to keep her out of it.

"You sound a lot like Margarita,'' he said at last.

"Then you know that I do not give up so easily.''

"Okay."

She hesitated, doubting the evidence of her own ears.

"You'll let me help?"

"First things first," he answered. "I lost my wheels back there. I've got a stop to make."

"Just tell me where you need to go. I'll take you there."

"Uh-huh."

He rattled off John Hannon's home address and she repeated it, committing it to memory. They drove awhile in silence, each one occupied with private thoughts, and Bolan felt a certain sense of guilt, a sadness, even, at the double cross he had in mind.

But he could live with guilt, with anger, sadness.

But he did not know if he could live with this one's blood upon his hands, his soul.

He had already cost her far too much. His war had robbed this woman of her family when she was a child. His fight had stripped her of her adolescence and propelled her headlong into danger, into actions that had chipped away her dignity and self-respect.

Mack Bolan did not think less of her because she used her body in pursuit of evidence to put the cannibals away. In fact, he admired her courage and determination. Any guilt was his, he knew, for costing this young one a life of her own, outside the combat zone. She could have been a new bride, settling down somewhere to start a family with a man who loved her. Instead, because of Bolan, she was driving through the streets of Miami with a fugitive, sporting a Mafia price on her head.

The soldier cursed his endless war for robbing this one of her past, and very possibly her future. There was nothing but the present left to reckon with, and he was damned if he would lead her out of danger into greater danger.

Evangelina's sister — brave soldada — hadpaid off the family's dues for generations yet unborn, and there would be no more down payments made to that account if Bolan had a thing to say about it.

If it took a double cross to put this woman-child in safe surroundings, he could live with it, damn right. His war was closing in, the falling numbers gathering momentum, but he would have to make the time to see her out of peril.

To a safe place, yeah.

Except there's no such place.

So, build one. Carve it out of living flesh and blood. The flesh and blood of cannibals and savages.

More than a destroyer, Bolan was a builder, piling clean new stones upon the ruins of the old, erecting something in the nature of a fortress to repel the next attack. Within the walls, at least, there could be safety and security. Outside...

He closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the sports car carry him away.

Outside, there would be Bolan.

John Hannon's house was modest, planted in the middle of a quiet residential street in a suburb north of Miami. Bolan had called ahead from a pay phone, and the former captain of detectives was expecting them. As Evangelina swung her convertible into the driveway, Bolan spotted Hannon waiting for them underneath a carport connected to the house.

Hannon greeted them affably, showing mild surprise at his first sight of Bolan's traveling companion. The ex-cop led them through a side entrance into a little family room where he motioned for them to be seated. As he pulled up a chair, Mack Bolan noted a short riot shotgun propped up in a corner, and he realized that Hannon was ready for trouble.

And he wondered if Hannon was ready enough.

"You've been a busy guy," the ex-detective said, settling into a lounger within arm's reach of the pump gun.

"I'm not half done," Bolan answered. "You hearing rumbles?"

Hannon snorted.

"Make that shock waves. They're breaking in on soap operas with news flashes, for heaven's sake. Film at eleven — the whole nine yards."

Bolan chuckled.

"Glad to hear it. I want the word to get around."

"It's getting there," the former cop assured him. "Did you come up with anything?"

Bolan hesitated, glancing at Evangelina. After a moment she got the message, excusing herself, getting directions from John Hannon to the bathroom. The detective watched her go, and Bolan saw him following the sway of her hips with his eyes, studying her appreciatively.

"Where'd you pick her up?"

"Outside Aiuppa's." Bolan saw Hannon's eyebrows raising. "And it was the other way around."

"What's her angle?" Hannon asked.