"You've heard the news?"

"I hear much news. Be more specific."

"Toro. Drake. The rest of it."

"What rest?"

He felt concern, but was careful to keep all traces of it from his voice.

"There have been shootings, incidents..."

Ybarra released his breath in a weary sigh.

"There are incidents every day," he said, allowing a trace of annoyance to surface in his tone.

"Not like this. I am afraid..."

"I see."

"I am afraid the plan may be in jeopardy," the caller continued.

"You exaggerate."

"But Toro..."

"One man. Hunted. Outcast. He is nothing."

"And Tommy Drake?''

Another sigh, this time audible over the line.

"These gangsters kill each other regularly. Why concern yourself with their misfortunes?"

"But if there is some connection...."

"Basta! That's enough! You are creating problems in your mind where none exist." Having delivered the reprimand, he allowed his tone to soften. "Rest easy. Everything is ready. Every possibility has been accounted for. You told me yourself."

The caller cleared his throat, and when he spoke again he sounded calmer but still uncertain of himself.

"I know, but..."

"No more, now." Ybarra cut him off. "You represent the people's revolution. All the masses put their faith in you. Be worthy of their trust. If nothing else, be worthy of the price you have received.''

The caller almost choked on his reply.

"Si. Comprendo."

"Bien."

Before the other man could think of something else to say, Ybarra cradled the receiver. He was certain that "Jose" had understood his meaning, thinly veiled behind his spoken words. The project's ultimate success or failure rested on his shoulders, and if it should fail, then he would have to bear the burden.

The cultural attache thought of Tommy Drake and his assassination. It would hamper drug trade in the south of Florida, but only briefly, virtually unnoticeable at street level, where the pushers and consumers made their deals. Another Tommy Drake would come along, perhaps before the day was out, and the flow of pure cocaine and heroin from Cuba would continue as before.

As for the man called Toro, his escape from prison might be cause for some concern — but only to his caller.

Jorge Ybarra had no more to fear from Toro than he did from any of the countless other rightist exiles living in Miami. Any one of them would kill him, but he refused to let them have the chance.

Ybarra was a survivor by instinct and by training. He intended to go on surviving in the cause that he had chosen for his own.

No matter if the several strange events should be connected by some stronger thread than mere coincidence. It was a troubling thought, but Ybarra finally dismissed it as unlikely — or, in any case, too little and too late to sabotage his plans. The wheels were greased, already in motion, and within twenty-four hours they would be grinding over anyone who tried to oppose him.

The stage was set for ultimate humiliation of the Anglo-capitalist pigs, and very soon now, they would taste the kind of terror that was a staple in the Third World diet.

Ybarra smiled and lit a thin cheroot, inhaling the acrid smoke and expelling it toward the ceiling. Another day, less now, and he would see his master plan fulfilled. Nothing, no one, could stand in his way.

If anything went wrong, he would off-load responsibility upon his second-in-command, the worried caller. And if this man Toro was still hunting for the one who called himself Jose, Ybarra just might let them find each other. It would be amusing.

The sudden laughter welled up out of him spontaneously, and filled the office. His secretary, if she heard him, might suspect that he was drinking, but Ybarra did not care.

He was about to score the coup of his career, and there was not an obstacle in sight.

His enemies, the Anglos, were about to learn exactly what it felt like to exist with terror. And Ybarra would enjoy his role as teacher in that lesson.

Well back from the picture window of John Hannon's house, out of sight of anyone outside, Evangelina sat watching the street.

Hannon's low-pitched voice rumbled across the room.

"You've known him long?" the ex-detective asked.

It took a heartbeat for the young woman to realize who he was talking about.

"Not long," she said. "We only met last night."

She flashed back briefly to the scene at Tommy Drake's, blushing involuntarily at the image of herself, nude on the bed with the mobster on top of her, the man in black looming over them both, clutching death in his hand. She could still recall the rush of fear, thinking that it was a Mob hit coming down, herself included in the cast of victims. Fear, and then the sweet, almost guilty feeling of relief when it was done and she was spared from death.

"I understand you helped him out this morning," Hannon said, trying to sound casual.

Evangelina shrugged.

"It was a small thing."

Hannon nodded, giving her an understanding smile.

"Sure. With me it was the other way around. A small thing. All he did was save my life."

Evangelina looked at him with new awareness.

"You care about him, don't you?"

Hannon looked embarrassed and confused at the same time.

"Lady, I don't know exactly what I care about these days." His voice softened as he asked her, "You?"

"My sister knew him long ago." She hesitated, trying hard to think of something else to say, some way to finish it. "She... died."

A look of understanding passed across the former captain of detectives' face.

"I... I had no idea...."

The telephone rang, before either of them could dredge up further conversation.

Hannon left his chair and crossed to the phone, picking it up on the third ring. From her position by the window, Evangelina could watch him and eavesdrop on his side of the conversation.

Hannon was silent for a long moment, listening to the caller. At length, his brow deeply furrowed, he said, "I'm listening."

After another twenty-second pause, he glanced over at Evangelina with a look that might have been concern — or guilt.

"I can find it," he said at last, turning his wrist for a look at his watch. "Yes... no problem."

Hannon looked worried as he cradled the receiver. Moving back into the living room he stood beside the window for a long, silent moment, staring out into the quiet street before he spoke again.

"I have to go out for a while," he told her simply. "You should be safe here if you stay inside."

Evangelina shook her head.

"I'm coming with you.''

"I told the man I'd keep you safe," he said.

"You said that you would stay with me," she countered, reading irritation in the large man's face, refusing to be cowed by it.

Hannon looked flustered, his face reddening.

"I can't afford to take you. There's no way for me to guarantee your safety."

Evangelina let him see a cryptic little smile.

"There's no way you can guarantee another." And then she played her ace. "You leave me here, I follow you. There's nothing you can do to keep me here."

He mulled that over for a moment, finally making up his mind.

"All right. I want your word you'll stick with me and do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. Agreed?"

"Si. I will."

Hannon disappeared into a narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms. When he reemerged he was wearing a jacket and there was a revolver in his hand. He broke the cylinder and checked the load, then slipped it into a holster that he wore beneath his jacket, on his belt. The eyes that met hers across the room were made of flint.

"You armed?"

Evangelina nodded. She produced a small automatic pistol that she carried in her handbag.