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now he did not alibi his American specialty to himself. The conditions were the same. A different place, a new enemy, but the same rotten situation and the very same call to duty.
    It is doubtful, though, that any such contemplations occupied Bolan's mind on that pleasant Miami morning of November 5th. It is much more likely that his finely tuned and disciplined mind was occupied with such considerations as range, azimuth, wind-direction and velocity, trajectory-drop, and so forth. He lay prone on a balcony outside a tenth-floor beachside apartment, a high-powered rifle angling toward another patio several buildings removed and around a gentle curve of beachline, calmly studying a face which occupied the vision-field of his sniper scope.
    He made a fine adjustment to the scope and intently watched the rangemarks climb into the crosshairs, then he sighed audibly and murmured, "So there you are." Bolan knew his target by reputation only. The name had been a household word at the DiGeorge
palazzo
in Palm Springs, a prime link in the chain of narcotics distribution from Mexico into the U.S. Bolan had no personal grudge with Johnny the Musician. Untold thousands of school kids, however, hooked on an insatiable appetite for expensive "kicks," had ample reason for begrudging the continued life and good health of the man in The Executioner's crosshairs.
    He made a rough calculation on a note pad, then eased the long rifle into a slow scan of the target area. He did not want any innocent bystanders hovering in the sidelines, nor in the background. He scanned on, then returned quickly to a flag atop the diving platform for another check on the wind condition. Another quick calculation on the note pad and Bolan was ready. The rest was up to the fates.
    Portocci was seated lazily on a chaise lounge at poolside, a frosted glass in one hand, the other hand idly toying with the thick hair of his chest, legs crossed at the ankles and the toes of one foot jerking to some inaudible rhythm. Directly across from him, perched tensely on an aluminum folding chair and paying nervous little attentions to an upswept hairdo, was a stunning young woman in a flowered bikini. Portocci was giving her no attention whatever, but was scowling at a large man who stood at the foot of the lounge.
    "Now look, Johnny," the large man was saying, "I don't have to take no abuse from you, and what's more I ain't gonna. You don't like the way I handled the Bolan screen, then you get one of your own. But don't go telling me-"
    "Ah, hell, forget it, Vinnie," Portocci growled. He sighed and sipped at his drink. "You ain't the first to flub on this boy."
    Balderone said, "Well I can appreciate how you feel, I mean getting that little medal addressed to you and all that. But, hell, we still don't even know for sure the guy's here."
    "He's here," Portocci assured his host. He nibbled on his knuckles for a moment, then asked, "So what did Ciro have to say about it?"
    Balderone studied the rhythmic snapping of Portocci's toes as though fascinated by the unvarying movements. "I told you," he said slowly. "He wants you to stay put, right here at the Sandbank."
    "Relax and enjoy your vacation, he says. When he needs you, he'll let you know. Meanwhile, they're in session right now over what to do about this Bolan."
    Portocci followed Balderone's gaze to the snapping toes. He said, in a suddenly soft tone, "Look, Vinnie . . . Ciro didn't see what this guy left behind him at Palm Springs.
I
saw. Those old men sitting in session over there. . .
they
didn't see.
You
didn't see, and this stupid broad here didn't see. Johnny Portocci
saw,
Vinnie. And he isn't going to relax and enjoy any vacation with this guy's shooting medal hanging over his head. You go tell that to Ciro
il Capo
Lavangetta. You tell him that Johnny Portocci says Miami Beach stinks with the smell of Bolan, and it's about time this thing of ours put out the smell. . . eh? You tell him, Vinnie, that-"
    "Hell, no,