MAGGIE CONNOR’S HOME was in a quiet residential district that lay east of Miami’s historic Biscayne Boulevard.

      The reporter’s home, smaller than some, was still spacious. Bolan swung his rented SUV off the road and came to a stop at the closed gates. He checked the grounds. Pristine. Empty. There was no movement. That wasn’t unusual in itself. The occupants, if they were home, could be inside the house, or in the backyard.

      Bolan’s knowledge that Maggie Connor was missing gave him reason to think otherwise. He checked the gates. They weren’t locked. He pushed them open and drove through. Once inside he returned to close the gates behind him, then drove up to the house.

      He stood beside the SUV, his hand sliding inside his jacket to loosen the Beretta 93-R. His presence did not seem to have alerted anyone. At the front door he tested the handle. He wasn’t surprised when the door opened, moving on smooth, balanced hinges. Bolan toed it fully open, drawing the 93-R. The entrance hall was bright from the sunlight streaming through numerous windows.

      The Executioner stepped inside, his Beretta sweeping back and forth as he checked the area. He closed the door behind him, pausing to turn the lock. It was a reflex action to prevent anyone entering behind him.

      Standing in the center of the hall Bolan strained to pick up any sound. Nothing.

      He moved across the hall, up a couple of steps that led into a spacious living room. It was airy and filled with light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Now he heard a soft, constant buzz of faint sound. As he turned to check the room the buzzing heightened. Sunlight picked up every detail in the room.

      Papers and books were scattered across the floor. The drawers of a desk were empty, either lying on the rug or hanging crookedly from their runners.

      Bolan saw the sprawled body, half stripped of clothing, exposed flesh showing where a knife had been used to cut and slash. Blood had run and pooled around the body. It had soaked into the carpet and partially dried. As Bolan stepped closer he picked up the smell of putrefying flesh and saw the black flies on the body. This had happened some time ago. Even from where he stood Bolan knew the dead woman was not Maggie Connor. Her file had given her height as five foot ten. The dead woman was much shorter. And she had blond hair, matted with blood. Maggie Connor had jet-black hair.

      Bolan scanned the room thoroughly. The perpetrators had been looking for Maggie, or whatever they thought she knew. The woman on the floor had clearly been tortured for that information. If she had given her tormentors any information they could well be one step ahead in the search for the missing journalist. Or already have her in their hands.

      As the Executioner turned away he spotted an object on the carpeted floor. He crouched to inspect it. It was the crushed remains of a thick cigar. He picked it up and sniffed the shredded leaves. He studied the rich, sweet aroma. He was certain he would recognize it again if he came across it.

      He moved quickly and ran a full inspection of the house. All the other rooms had been subjected to thorough and destructive searches.

      In the master bedroom he found the second and third bodies. One male, one female. Both had been tortured in the same fashion as the woman downstairs. The bodies showed signs of savage beatings and severe knife wounds. The off-white carpet beneath the bodies was caked with dried blood. More was spattered around the area. As before, the cloying smell of death hung in the warm air, and flies rose and settled as Bolan approached.

      They were young and Hispanic. Bolan guessed they were probably Maggie Connor’s house staff.

      Back on the landing Bolan took out his phone and called Hal Brognola on a secured line.

      “Not looking good,” Bolan said. He told Brognola exactly what he had found. “They were looking for something. No way of knowing if they got it. The house staff were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

      Bolan heard the big Fed’s sharp intake of breath. “No sign of Maggie?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Either she’s on the move, or they’ve already picked her up.”

      “That’s the way I see it. Hal, if she was on the run I would have expected her to contact you.”

      “Yeah, I know,” Brognola said. “Are you still at the house?”

      “I’m leaving now. Give me time to get out of the area, then call it in. Let the Miami P.D. do their thing and look after the victims.”

      “Will do. Striker, what the hell are these people after?”

      “I’ll tell you as soon as I find out.”

      Bolan recalled some information he had found when reading Maggie’s file back at Stony Man Farm. Paul Sebring had worked with Maggie years back as her photographer. They had operated out of Central America, covering revolutions and military operations, bringing back hot reports and images. Then Sebring stepped away from the war zones and opened a photography studio in Miami. According to her file, Maggie and Sebring were still close and she sometimes used him to look after material she sent in from foreign assignments.

      Bolan left Maggie’s house and headed back in the direction of the city.

      2

      Luis Costa swirled the rich, dark rum around the glass, the telephone cradled against his ear. He took a swallow, letting the aromatic flavor of the liquor fill his mouth.

      “Did he call the police?” he asked his lieutenant.

      “I don’t think so. He was inside for some time, so he must have found the bodies. When he left he closed the gates behind him. Like he didn’t want to show he had been there.”

      “Did you recognize him?” Costa asked.

      “Never seen him before. Big hombre. Looks like he could handle himself. Maybe an associate of the Connor bitch. Another journalist, maybe?”

      “What are you doing about him?”

      “I had people follow him back into the city. We took the details of his SUV. Cabrerro is running a check as we speak.”

      “Good. Watch him. See where he goes.”

      “What do you think?”

      “I think we need to deal with him. But first we have to find out if Connor gave him any of the information she has been gathering. Use whoever you need to learn what you can. Remember, we have to contain this. If information leaks the whole operation could fall apart.”

      Costa dropped the phone back on its cradle, swiveling his chair around to stare out the window of his Miami office. He looked across the placid blue water of the bay, watching power boats race back and forth, leaving white trails behind them.

      The man who had visited the Connor house intrigued him. It was the calm way he had exited the house and driven off. Calling in the police and waiting for them to arrive would have been the normal way to handle the situation, but for unknown reasons this man had withdrawn quietly, leaving the house as he had found it.

      What did that mean?

      Costa was determined to find out. As Raul Manolo’s right-hand man, he had to inform his boss of this latest development.

      His call was answered immediately.

      “We have had an unknown visitor at the Connor house. I am having him checked out. Once we establish who he is we can decide what to do about him.”

      “A cop? Federal agent?” Manolo asked.

      “That’s what I’m trying to establish.”

      “Could he have been given Connor’s findings?”

      “Possibly. We won’t know until we establish his identity.”

      “Just