"Burnett, I..."
"Someone's coming," Coolie said from the doorway.
Burnett pushed Jasper away from him. "Take a whiz," he ordered.
Jasper moved to stand in front of one of the urinals while Burnett went into the third stall and stood by the door, holding it on its hinges. Coolie lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. Within seconds a middle-aged Japanese man walked into the room, a small suitcase in his hand.
He stopped dead upon seeing the thugs. "Please to excuse," he said, and turned around, leaving quickly.
Burnett let the door go and turned to the commode to feel around behind the cold porcelain. He found the key at once and ripped it off the toilet. Shoving aside the broken door, he stepped out of the stall and held up the key in front of Jasper's face.
"Tell me about bullshit now/' he said, eyes narrowing.
"I didn't think..." Jasper replied, letting the unfinished sentence serve as his acknowledgment that Burnett was right and he was wrong.
"C'mon, let's try this baby," Coolie said, stepping up to stare in fascination at the key, and by so doing, dissipating the tension. Burnett shrugged and decided to say no more to Jasper.
They left the men's room and took the hallway back to the stairs, then climbed up to the main floor of the terminal. It was late on a Friday night, no one around but scabs, bums and the homeless, looking for a place to sleep. The bus stations of America had become the last dumping ground of the chronic indigent, those without transportation in a society built around transportation. An air of hopelessness hung over everyone there. Burnett hated the sight of them. They reminded him too much of his own upbringing. A beat cop stood leaning against the ticket counter, chewing tobacco and keeping an eye on things. And right now his eye was on Burnett.
Burnett returned the cop's stare boldly then moved past him to the bank of lockers by the west door of the terminal. Jasper and Coolie gathered around him as he turned the key in the bright orange locker whose number, 23, matched that of the key.
It opened easily. Inside was a large satchel, just as Jericho had said. Burnett pulled the bag out of the locker and shut the door. He wiped his nose on his half-gloved hand and smiled. "In this bag is our future, my friends."
"Yeah," Coolie agreed, eyes bright. "Let's open it."
"Outside." Burnett nodded toward the cop. "In the car."
The three exited the terminal into the rapidly cooling evening, the smell of diesel fumes heavy in the air. They crossed the parking lot and headed down Tryon Street, where the Wacovia Bank tower and the gold dome of the civic center dominated the drab downtown landscape. The bag was heavy, Burnett noticed. There was something inside it.
His '71 Chevy was parked half a block from the terminal, away from streetlights where a police cruiser might see that the license plate was two years out of date.
They climbed into the old, gray vehicle, Jasper up front with Burnett, and Coolie in the back. He leaned over the seat to watch the opening of the bag.
"This is really weird," he said. "I mean, what do you really know about this Jericho character. I..."
"You talk too much," Burnett interrupted as he thumbed the catch release on the satchel. The lid popped up. He opened the car door a crack, so the dome light would help them examine the contents.
"Oh sweet baby!" Coolie's eyes widened when he saw the bundles of cash. "I can hardly believe it!"
"Jesus!" Burnett said, pulling out several bundles. "This is the real thing."
"Whoo!" Coolie yelled, and began laughing wildly. "This is incredible!"
A manila envelope lay in the bag amid the stacks of money. Burnett pulled it out and opened it. Several photographs fell out, each one with a name, address and alias clipped to it. "Well boys," he said, "now we got to earn all this bread." He looked at the addresses. "Think we'll start in sunny Southern California tomorrow night. What do you say?"
"All right... L.A.!" Coolie yelped, waving a stack of twenties in front of his face.
Burnett smiled, then turned to Jasper, who was staring in disbelief at the money. Jasper looked up and met his eyes. He shook his head. "Count me out, man," he said. "This has all been a kick... but, God, now we got to go out and kill people."
"We've all killed before," Burnett said.
"That was in war, man," Jasper said. "Hell, I'd go into the jungle with you and shoot some dinks, but this... this I can't do."
Burnett smiled. His hand slid slowly down his leg to his left boot and found the handle of the Ka-bar knife he always kept there. "You should've thought of all that before, compadre."
"I never thought anybody would really answer that stupid ad. It was just a game, you know?"
"No, I don't know," Burnett replied. He whipped the Ka-bar out of his boot and jammed it straight into Jasper's throat.
The man's eyes went wide and he tried to say something, but a rush of blood came out instead of words. Burnett pulled out the knife. Jasper's hands went to his throat in disbelief, his lips still moving silently as the severed jugular poured thick liquid down his front.
"You're yellow, Jasper," Burnett said casually, while reaching across the dying man to open the car door. "And there's nothing I hate worse than a coward."
He shoved hard, and the already weakened Jasper tumbled out of the car and onto the street. Coolie quickly climbed over the seat and took Jasper's place, closing the door as Burnett started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
"I know where we can get a few more guys," Burnett said. "But let's not tell them how much dough we've got, okay?"
"Fine by me." Coolie juggled two stacks of bills. "That's just fine by me."
Burnett drove down Tryon, looking once in the rearview mirror. Jasper had struggled to his feet, and was staggering toward the bus station. He took three steps before his knees gave out and he fell hard to the street, dying as his blood ebbed away into the gutter.
4
Bolan and Joan Meredith sat in the rented Chevy in the small, private parking garage in D.C. and watched the seafood restaurant with the big lobster on the sign across the street. Carol Niven and Roy Carver sat in their separate cars elsewhere in the lot, also watching the restaurant.
"I wish we were on the inside and they were on the outside," the woman said, leaning her head back on the seat. "This damned surveillance is for the birds."
Bolan grunted. Patience was a virtue he had learned long ago. He looked at his watch. "If it goes anything like last night they shouldn't be in there too much longer."
"Do they always come here after work?" Meredith asked.
"It's a favorite hangout of people in the department," Bolan replied, watching the dying sun as it glinted in orange-pink sabers on the gently rippling Potomac, the Capitol buildings just distant silhouettes against the rapidly darkening sky. "They stop in the bar for a few drinks, then head for home about seven-thirty. I've heard it called an attitude adjustment hour." Bolan's ironic tone told what he thought of that expression.
"That's where I wish I was," she said, "home, soaking myself and my arm in a nice hot bath."
"The arm still give you trouble?" he asked.
"It stiffens up sometimes, especially in cold weather." She looked at him quizzically. "How about you, Mack? Where's home for you?"
He half smiled at her. "Right now it's this car, I suppose. I'm always on the move... so I really don't have a permanent base of operation."
She shook her head. "You know, it's really sad to hear you call home a base of operation."
He didn't answer right away, then just said, "By the way, make sure you don't call me Mack in front of the others."
"Don't worry, Mr. Belasko, your secret is safe with me." She stared through the windshield. "Look, here comes one of them."
Bolan watched one of the witness protection lawyers come out of the restaurant. It was a man in his early fifties, wearing a black suit — Bert Kaminsky, Carver's man for the night. Bolan hit the horn a light tap, Carver responding in kind and starting
his engine several cars farther down the line.
Kaminsky's white Porsche came humming out of the restaurant lot and passed beneath their vantage point, Carver following seconds later.
"For my money," Meredith said, "he's our main suspect. He's got direct access, plus he likes a fancy life-style."
"You might study him a little more," Bolan replied. "He was born wealthy, so the life-style is actually one he's always known and taken for granted. Plus, he helped head up the New York State Crime Commission back in the fifties that led to the Congressional hearings..."
"That broke the back of the Mob in New York," Meredith finished. "You're right. I should do my homework better."
"I'm not counting him out," Bolan conceded, "but he's at the bottom of my list. He seems like a good, honest man."
"Here comes another one," she said, referring to her photo book of suspects. "It's... Ken Chasen."
"He's mine." Bolan started the engine.
The woman pushed open her door. "I'd better get back to my own car. It looks like they're all leaving."
"Remember," he said, "anything unusual... report in to Benny Young back at base."
"Base," she repeated, once again looking sadly at Bolan.
"Later," he said as she closed the door. He backed out of his space and drove to the pay window, the gate going up to allow him out just as Chasen's Corvette passed him.
He pulled up easily behind the Corvette when it stopped at a red light half a block farther on. Bolan was about to put on his left blinker, prepared to follow the man home, but instead Chasen turned right and headed away from town.
Bolan followed at a respectable distance, the Vette easy enough to keep in sight. In about ten minutes, Chasen guided his car into the covered parking of the Econolodge motel.
Strange, Bolan thought, gliding into the front parking lot near the office. He turned out his headlights and watched. A moment later Chasen came out of the garage, looked all around and entered the building. Bolan got out of the Chevy and followed him in.
Chasen had just disappeared behind the closing doors of an elevator as Bolan crossed the lobby. The big man turned back toward the registration desk, passing a glassed-in pool that smelled strongly of chlorine.
"You got a Ken Chasen registered here?" he asked the man working the night desk.
The guy went through his reservation listings, frowning. "No," he said, looking up.
"Thanks." Bolan headed for a pay phone near the front door and dialed up the apartment HQ.
"Yeah?" Young answered on the first ring.
"Belasko," Bolan said. "I'm at the Econolodge Inn on the eastern edge of the city. My man, Chasen, ended up here instead of going home. Maybe it's legit... maybe he's just meeting his secretary or something on business. I'll stay on it here until he goes."
"Got it," Young said. "Good luck."
"Thanks." Bolan hung up the phone, though he at this point figured he needed coffee more than luck.
* * *
Until he had some, Burnett didn't know how little money meant to him and how easy it was to spend. The big white Cadillac had cost a bundle, but so what? It felt good to be on top of the world for a change. Why worry about holding on to a buck when a guy could snuff out at any time? Enjoy, that was Burnett's motto. If anyone thought that a bit simplistic, they'd just have to lump it — just like those clowns down on the beach.
He watched them through binoculars from his car, parked on the shoulder of California 1, the coastal highway. The Pacific Ocean washed noisily up on Laguna Beach below their redwood deck. They laughed, drank wine and talked about things he'd probably never know or understand. He hated them for owning a beach house, while wanting one for himself. He hated the men for the women they attracted so casually. He hated the women for being so accessible to that kind of man. Most of all he hated the men and women both because they stood in the way of his enjoying himself with the rest of his money. When they died, when the others died, he could then take their place on the social ladder and enjoy his money to the full.
Besides, he liked watching things die, a fact he had known from childhood and that had been confirmed in Vietnam. He loved the power, the control. He loved to kill people up close so he could watch their eyes as the light drained out and he could stand above them to assert his superiority.
"When we gonna do it?" asked the big man who sat next to him.
"Soon, Juke." Burnett turned to stare at the large, retarded man with the oversize head, who had walked out of a mental institution and into Burnett's life a couple of months before. "We've got to let the sun get down a little more first."
Burnett seemed to have a knack for attracting a certain type of person, what most people would think of as turning up bad pennies. Burnett tended to think of it as extremely good luck.
He stared out at the ocean, at the sun disappearing on its distant horizon. He didn't notice the beauty of the sunset, the many shades of pink streaking the sky in pastel splendor, nor did he react to the inscrutable majesty of the rolling, blue-gray waters. All he saw was ten more minutes of daylight, ten more minutes separating him from his mission.
The walkie-talkie beside him on the leather seat squawked to life. "Blue Teamleader, this is Red Team leader... over."
Burnett picked up the unit and pushed the button on the side. "This is Blue Team leader... what's up. Coolie? Over."
"We are in position in front of the house," came Coolie's staticky voice. "The front door is locked, but we can go right through the picture window. Over."
"Hold your position. Red Team," Burnett said. "We are preparing to flank them. Over."
"Cleavon says we should get on with it. Over."
Burnett's jaw tightened. He hadn't wanted Cleavon on this mission, which was why he had originally chosen Jasper. The man was dangerous enough, all right, but his militant hatred of most whites made him tend to lose control too often.
"You tell Cleavon that I am in charge of this operation, and if he doesn't like it he can walk right now. We don't need him. Over."
"Roger. Out."
The big man beside him chuckled. "Cleavon's mad," he said, then did an imitation of Cleavon's face when he was angry, which made him laugh again.
Burnett drew a long breath, then exhaled. There was one bright spot about using Juke and Cleavon. He had given each of them five grand for the operation instead of the hundred thousand Jasper would have collected, and they were as happy as pigs in slop. Juke probably would have done it for slop. He followed Burnett around like a puppy dog, blindly doing anything the man asked of him.
He looked at his watch, but had to turn on the map light to see it. It was nearly dark enough. Picking up the binoculars he spied on the dinner party again. Two men and two women were sitting out on the high deck. The men were leaning back in their chairs smoking, while the women sat engaged in their inane woman chatter. Even as he watched, though, one of the men extinguished his cigar and one of the women gathered up the drained coffee cups and put them on a tray. The party would soon be breaking up.
It was time to move. Burnett focused on the man in the white shirt and pants, then looked again at the photo on the seat of the car. It was a positive make, no sweat.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's get down there."
He opened his door and stepped out onto the roadway, bringing the walkie-talkie. The ocean lay about a hundred feet below, down a long rolling hillside. They had parked just around a curve in the road, just far enough off the road that no one could see the car until they were passing it. It seemed safe enough to leave it there. This would only take a couple of minutes.
He put the key in the trunk lock, and like everything else on the expensive car, it seemed to open automatically, the lid rising slowly.
He pulled out the pale green duffel bag with U.S. Marine Corps stenciled on it and handed it to Juke. "Keep the gear from rattling," he said, "and as we maneuver the hill, try and keep low, beneath the underbrush."
Juke smiled stupidly. "O
kay, Burnett," he said in a loud voice.
"And no talking," Burnett said. "Just keep your mouth shut."
Juke started to respond, then stopped himself, grinning instead and pointing to his mouth to indicate his lips were sealed.
Burnett hoisted a leg over the retaining wire on the edge of the shoulder and started down the hill, his fatigue clothing blending with the scrub oak and the shadows of descending night. Behind him, he could hear Juke puffing, out of shape, but keeping up despite the heavy ordnance he was carrying.
They reached the beach within two minutes, coming out of the brush thirty feet from the deck where the dinner party was winding down. The sun had set now, the tall pylons that supported the deck a dark forest of shadows. Crouching, Burnett turned to Juke, who was sitting on the ground, breathing heavily. He pointed to the underside of the deck. Juke swallowed hard and nodded.
Still in a crouch, Burnett charged across the open sand to the safety of the deck supports. When he reached the shadows, he motioned for Juke to follow, and the big man lumbered over.
Burnett leaned against one of the pylons, an old telephone pole, and looked straight up into the darkness of the underside of the deck. The faint sounds of conversation and laughter drifted down to him. Nothing suspicious. He turned oceanward. A long flight of wooden steps led down from the deck to the beach, the ocean itself fifty feet distant. He felt the same surge of excitement that search-and-destroy missions in Vietnam had always aroused in him.
He turned down the sound of the walkie-talkie and brought it to his lips, pressing the button. "This is Blue Team leader to Red Team leader... over."
"Yeah... let's go," came Cleavon's voice through the small speaker.
"Where the hell's Coolie?" Burnett asked in a harsh whisper, then added as an afterthought, "Over."
"Just tell me what you want," Cleavon demanded harshly. "I'm gettin' old standin' out here with my dick in my hand."
The rage was creeping up on Burnett, but he fought it back as best he could. "We go in one minute," he said, voice trembling. "Are you looking at your watch? Over."
The Killing Urge Page 5