Miami Massacre Read Online Free PDF Page B

pushing from the rear. Balderone covered his irritation with a forced smile as he looked the youth over. "If you're not ashamed to look that way," he replied amiably, "you shouldn't mind someone taking a picture. You could wind up on the cover of Newsweek, eh?"
    Another of the group stepped forward, a tall man in buckskins with a thin leather thong tightly crossing his forehead, from which dangled a tiny peace symbol. A black bandanna was knotted about his head, Arab style, and covered his shoulders. A small guitar hung upside-down on his chest. The face was smooth-shaven but tiny blue tattoo marks dotted the chin and each side of the nose. "Let him shoot," he suggested to the bearded one. "Just get the name of the group right, that's all. It's
Love's Family.
Ed Sullivan introduced us as
Lovers'
—
"
    Balderone cut off the quiet statement with an impatient grunt. Other passengers had begun to push past and Balderone was greatly agitated over this. "Yeah, yeah, wait for me out front, I'll shoot you," he snapped, swinging quickly against the wall. "We're blocking the passageway, go on, go on."
    The men shrugged and exchanged smiles and went on, the others following unhurriedly and eyeing Balderone with unconcealed interest. He was inwardly cursing himself for allowing his attention to be diverted by "a hippie band" and anxiously screening the faces that were now hurrying by in the wake of the traffic jam. Moments later the final straggler had passed his scrutiny. He sent a signal to his nearest screen man which would put a search party aboard the plane, then he dashed outside to a waiting service vehicle. "Let's go!" he commanded the driver. They dodged around a small train of baggage carts and sped along the service ramp, hitting the access road to the flying service terminal just as a sleek little red and white Cessna jet touched wheels to the runway far across the field.
    "That's it," advised a voice from Balderone's radio. "The charter job. It'll take him about five minutes to get crossed over and down to the hangar area."
    "He's gotta be on there!" Balderone snapped back. "Stay covered till I give the signal. And no gunplay unless you just gotta. Let's keep this as quiet as possible."
    The red and white Cessna seemed to be taking its time in approaching the service apron. It had paused twice on the taxiway and now stood with engines idling about 50 yards downrange from the private terminal. A man in white coveralls had emerged from the service hangar and stood by the fuel pumps, hands on hips, gazing curiously toward the plane. As he began walking slowly toward it, the Cessna lurched forward and taxied clear of the runway and onto the service apron.
    Vin Balderone, seated in the service vehicle in the shadows of the terminal, quickly thumbed his transmitter and said, "Hey Tommy, are you sure nobody jumped out during those stops?"
    The voice from the man atop the main terminal came back reassuringly. "Nobody got out, Vin. He just stopped and sat there a while, both places."
    Balderone growled something unintelligible and craned forward to study the aircraft. The man in coveralls was marking a spot for the plane to stop. It rolled to a halt and the engines immediately went dead. Balderone again thumbed the transmitter button. "Get set but keep outta sight."
    A man with thinning blond hair swung down from the cabin of the Cessna, a mapcase under his arm, and said something to the service attendant. The attendant nodded his head and the pilot walked toward the terminal. Balderone said, "What th' hell . . ." and hastily emerged from his vehicle. "Check out that plane!" he snarled into the radio.
    Several men in business suits immediately came out of the service hangar and quickly approached the Cessna. Balderone headed over to intercept the pilot just as five other men filed out of the flying service office and hurried toward the plane. The pilot glanced at Balderone, then halted and watched his approach with an expectant