Two bedrooms, one unfurnished. Why bother? No one stayed overnight, he knew of no living relatives, and there would be no wife, no children. Once he had resigned himself to perpetual bachelorhood, a vasectomy had seemed advisable. No accidents that way, no grasping female turning up with babe in arms. When he required a woman, he paid for sex, anonymously, safely. No entanglements, no mornings after, no recriminations when he couldn't summon up the emotions women expected.
At an early age, the hunter's obsession with revenge had swallowed up all his other feelings. From observation, he was able to simulate the moods and attitudes required for civilized encounters, but inside himself, the man felt cold and dead. Except when he was focused on the image of his enemy. The thought of Bolan could kindle fire inside him, thaw the glacier of his mind. At mention of the name, his pulse would hammer double time. A glimpse of Bolan in the flesh, as he had learned last night, could make him almost giddy with the hunger for revenge.
The bedrooms were, of course, secure.
Satisfied, he brought his luggage from the living room and left it on the bed. Undressing swiftly, he stuffed his soiled clothing in the laundry hamper and turned on the taps in the shower. When the water was hot enough to wash his weariness away, he slipped behind the curtain.
For several moments the hunter allowed the stinging spray to strike him, turning slowly until his hair was plastered to his skull and steaming rivulets ran down his chest, his back, his flanks. Finally, he picked up the bar of Safeguard and, soaping first his face then his body with energetic thoroughness, he washed away the smell of perspiration and anticipation, smoke and cordite, hours on the road. He could not wash away the memories, and that was fine. They warmed him better than the shower ever could.
He saw Mack Bolan crouching by his bullet-punctured car in the cul-de-sac, waiting for sudden death to strike him from the shadows. And again, the soldier airborne, somersaulting clear of the explosion that destroyed his safe house. Bolan had trembled as he rose, from shock. From fear? Was it too much to hope for that the Executioner, however briefly, had been afraid?
The hunter felt arousal stir in his groin and turned to face the shower head, eyes closed. When every trace of lather had been washed away, he turned off the hot water faucet and stood beneath an icy waterfall, teeth clenched, gooseflesh rising on his chest and shoulders. The warm tumescence in his loins subsided, but he remained immobile, punishing himself with the icy needles on his skin.
By slow degrees, he turned his back against the spray, enduring the Arctic river coursing down his spine, between clenched buttocks. Shivering, he counted down another thirty seconds before he turned again to shut off the water. He pulled a bath towel from the rack and dried himself with almost brutal strokes that left his flesh a livid pink, then hung the towel across the shower rod to dry.
He stood before a full-length mirror mounted on the inside of the bathroom door, examining his body with a critic's eye. Stomach flat, well muscled at an age when his contemporaries had begun to spread. A runner's legs, rounded thighs and supple calves, with strength and stamina enough to see him through a marathon. He could have used more beef around the chest and shoulders, but karate exercises kept him limber, swift and deadly in the clinches.
He could hold his own. If the Executioner was taller, heavier, the guy was also older. Granted he had a lifetime of experience behind him, countless tricks stored in the corners of his mind, still, living on the run for more than a decade had to take its toll. Bolan had been living on the edge so long that he should be ready for a shove to send him over.
Not that the hunter cherished illusions that Bolan was frightened yet. His quarry would be curious, disturbed at the most. But fear would follow once Bolan recognized the odds against him, realized the situation was already beyond his control. The bastard was a take-charge guy, by all accounts, but he would not be taking charge in Pittsfield. His pursuer knew the moves by heart, had been rehearsing them as long as he could remember.
He had shaken Bolan's confidence twice already, alerting him to the fact that he was not invincible. He could be found and followed, cornered, killed. It was a lesson that would bear repeating here on more familiar ground.
If Bolan's war had roots in Pittsfield, so, appropriately, did his downfall. By returning to the scene of his initial crime, the bastard had made the classic error singled out in every mystery and penny-dreadful since invention of the printing press. He had returned, and so had become ensnared.
The hunter combed his hair straight back, eschewing fashion. Still damp, it lay against his skull like seaweed, offering no balance to his ruddy, squarish face. Beginning with that face, he took an inventory of his scars.
The nose, twice broken during fistfights, canted slightly to the left so that his face appeared uneven on the rare occasions when he smiled. Below the jawline, on the right, a hairline scar from his nearest brush with death. (The punk had stumbled, missed his thrust, and there had been no time for second chances with the slim stiletto.) A bullet graze above the hip, which could have been a mortal wound except that his assailant — a Vietnamese "assassin" scarcely twelve years old — had panicked at the final instant, flinched away from killing face-to-face. Another souvenir from Nam, the ragged scarring on one calf where he had taken pungi stakes while on a night patrol.
The hunter's body was a road map of his violent life, but all the scars that mattered were inside. No X ray could reveal the wounds to soul and psyche, wounds that had been devilishly slow to heal.
The hunter left the bathroom, padded naked through the bedroom, across the living room and kitchen to the closet that concealed the basement stairs. His fingers found the light switch, brought the single bulb to life below, and he descended swiftly to his shadowed sanctuary. It was cooler there, enough to make him shiver, but his eyes had locked with Bolan's on the far side of the room, and for a moment he was unaware of his surroundings.
"Looking good," he told the silent, knife-scarred face and laughed out loud.
The bastard would look even better soon.
He did not open the trunk this time. Turning toward the workbench on the opposite wall, he found what he was looking for, wrapped neatly in a blanket stained with oil.
The Marlin Model 444 was awesome, with its twenty-four-inch barrel and the twenty-power telescopic sight that he had mounted personally, to take the guesswork out of long-range shots. A big-game rifle in the true sense of the word, it could hurl 240 grains of death downrange at 2,440 feet per second, exploding with 3,070 foot-pounds of raw killing energy. The heavy slug would lose 600 feet per second at 100 yards, but no one on the grim receiving end would ever know the difference.
Years before, a rifle such as this one had destroyed his life and stripped him of his childhood. Selection of the Marlin to complete the hunter's private arsenal had been no accident. He had practiced with it faithfully, on solitary "hunting trips" where human silhouettes replaced elusive bucks, until he knew that he could handle anything the big gun had to offer.
He would not be practicing today, not here. Still he picked up the Marlin, excited when he cradled it and ran one hand along the polished stock. It smelled of oil and solvent, the familiar fragrances of military hardware that could conjure up so many memories of basic training, Vietnam, the aftermath of war.
He pivoted and raised the Marlin to his shoulder, framing Bolan's knife-scarred face inside the twenty-power's field of vision. He could almost count the bastard's pores. He worked the lever action smoothly, chambered an imaginary round and smiled with satisfaction as his aim held steady on the target. Casually, he hooked an index finger through the trigger guard, inhaling deeply as he did so, swallowing to lock the stabilizing breath inside his lungs. The squeeze was slow, meticulous, precise.
The Marlin's hammer fell with a resounding snap against the firing pin. He repeated the procedure, dry-firing through a magazine of six imaginary rounds. One slug would take his target's head off, certainly, but he owed Bolan so much more.<
br />
Disturbing images of men in uniform flashed through the hunter's mind like color slides on some mental viewing screen. The first ones he saw wore badges on their blue serge tunics, and they stood with hats in hand, explaining something to his mother while she trembled, weeping, building up to a scream. The others were dressed in olive drab or camouflage, and he was one of them as they pushed off into hostile jungle darkness, searching for the faceless enemy.
Unlike so many others, he had enjoyed his tours in Vietnam. The steaming jungle was a classroom where the lessons learned in basic training were made practical to fit his needs. Already dedicated to the task that would become his obsession, he knew raw hate was not enough to see him through.
Nam had given him the skill, the grim experience he needed for his war at home. On grueling night patrols, he took the point whenever possible, determined to overcome any fear of darkness or the unknown. He had earned a reputation for ferocity in combat that left older, more experienced soldiers muttering about his "hero complex." They never understood the burning urgency that drove him on.
One night, in Bien Hoa province, he had known that he was ready.
The war was in its final weeks, with Nixon promising withdrawal, avidly collecting votes as interest on the promise. The hunter had been shaken, saddened by the news that left his comrades cheering. They were going home, and soon, but he still had so much to learn.
He volunteered for mission after mission, seeking out danger, confronting it at every turn. Within a week he slaughtered twenty-seven enemy soldiers, and when he was offered three days R&R in Adelaide he turned it down, refusing to explain. His place was in the jungle, and he could not tear himself away. When Operation Boomerang was devised to sweep the VC out of Bien Hoa province, he had been among the first to volunteer for duty.
The village was called Thai Hiep. It had sheltered VC sappers from the beginning of American involvement in the war, and relocation drives had never been successful. The CIA's assassination of selected traitors only seemed to stiffen the resolve of a rebellious people, deepening their commitment to the revolution.
They had approached Thai Hiep by night, faces blackened, gear secured with tape and Velcro to prevent any sound from giving them away. He took the point, alert for booby traps or hostile movement in the undergrowth. In retrospect, he wondered why a die-hard VC village had no lookouts posted, but at the time he had not questioned his good luck.
The people of Thai Hiep were asleep when men in camouflage fell upon them — kicking in doors and shouting into groggy faces, herding children, women and men toward the center of the village, slapping those who moved too slowly or seemed about to offer some resistance. Huts were ransacked, sleeping mats torn up in search of tunnels where arms and fugitives might be secured. The sweep was nearly finished when it happened… and his life was forever changed.
The woman appeared from nowhere, closing on him from his flank, a long machete raised above her head, its razor edge already slicing toward his face. He spun and fired instinctively, the short precision burst of 5.56 mm manglers lifting her completely off her feet and blowing her away.
For just a heartbeat, there was silence in the village. Then the other M-16s opened up in grim, reflexive fire. The troops were wired, some of them frightened, and the peasant woman's suicidal play triggered something in their minds that turned loose a homicidal fury. He watched the villagers collapsing, folding upon themselves as they were torn apart by tumbling projectiles. He watched… and held his fire.
Within that fraction of a second, he had known that Vietnam had nothing left to teach him. He had seen it all, and he was getting out before he lost control.
Control had always been the key to Bolan's war, and it was crucial to the hunter, as well. Control and caution were the watchwords of his vendetta with the Executioner. He had worked too long, too hard to blow it now.
But there were steps to follow, if the plan was to succeed. If Bolan's death had been the solitary focus of his scheme, he could have killed the soldier in Connecticut. A bullet in the cul-de-sac, a moment longer in the safe house… But the hunter's exercise in retribution was more subtle, more refined. Before he finished with his quarry, Bolan would be stripped of all his hero's trappings. He would lose the covert legion of admirers who had followed his campaigns with bated breath, applauding all the way. When Bolan paid the final tab in blood, he would recognize the hunter's motives, know his identity — and he would understand the kind of terror a fifteen-year-old boy is forced to live with from the moment that his father is assassinated on the street.
Before he punched Mack Bolan's ticket, finally, forever, he would take the time to spell it out and let the bastard know precisely why he had to die. The hunter didn't mind explaining it at all.
In fact, he was looking forward to it.
10
Al Weatherbee had picked the restaurant, a small place known for its New England decor, decent food and lavish prices. With Pappas picking up the tab, he saw no reason to be frugal. They were greeted by a hostess dressed like a scullery maid and shown to a secluded booth. A real flintlock pistol had been mounted on the wall above their table, and the waiter who arrived to take their order could have passed for Paul Revere, with knee pants, buckled shoes and phony pigtail jutting from underneath his tri-cornered hat.
Splurging, Weatherbee decided on the surf 'n' turf. He didn't need the added poundage, but it did him good to see John Pappas flinch, his own eyes homing on the thrifty "Revolution Burgers." It occurred to Weatherbee that Pappas might be paying for their lunch out of his own pocket, but his sense of guilt was fleeting. When they were left alone, the newest chief of homicide put on a friendly smile and settled back in his padded seat.
"You're looking good," he said.
"I feel okay."
He was expecting more — some bullshit like retirement must agree with you — but Pappas deftly stepped around the snare and took him by surprise.
"So how was Texas?"
"It was… interesting."
"I'll bet it was. I talked to Andy Foster, from L.A. He seemed to think you were on active duty at the time."
"That's his mistake. I never flashed the tin at anybody."
"So give me your impressions."
Easily said. Al Weatherbee had flown to Texas at his own expense, on receiving word of Bolan's capture in McLary County. He had been charged with murder, which was no surprise, but it was the murder of a common prostitute; her body, mutilated after death, had been discovered in the soldier's motel room. A tip had led the raiders straight to Bolan, enabled them to take him with his guard down, momentarily… but it had been too slick, too pat for Weatherbee to swallow. If the stiff had been a pusher or a pimp, a local mafioso… maybe. But a hooker? No, it wouldn't wash, and he had said as much to anyone who would listen. Andy Foster from L.A., Brognola out of Washington, the whole damned crew of Bolan watchers who had flocked to Texas like vultures circling a carcass, waiting for their turn.
The guy had foxed them all, however, with a little help from friends and some stupendous bungling by the opposition. Someone — odds were heavy on a mob-connected rancher by the name of Peck — had tried to make a hit on Bolan in the courtroom, and the goddamned guy had wriggled through their net. But while his day in court had lasted…
"Nothing much to tell. In my opinion, he was framed, set up for execution by the Mob."
"I thought the charges sounded lame. You see him fly the coop?"
"I did."
"They tell me he had help. Somebody in the audience?"
"The press box," Weatherbee corrected him, remembering the young man's dash to intercept the nearest gunner as he rose, the automatic weapons sliding out from under his coat. There had been something in the young fellow's face, something familiar… but no, it wouldn't come. Not yet.
"Some deal." Their food arrived, and Pappas waited for the waiter to retreat before he leaned across his burger, frowning. "Were you glad he got away?"
If Pappas expected a reaction, Weatherbee decided, he could wait until his goddamned revolutionary burger turned to fossil fuel.
"I haven't thought about it, John."
A lie, but it would have to do. He didn't know the answer yet, himself, but he had thought about it since McLary County. Endlessly.
The chief of homicide was clearly skeptical. "I think you're glad," he said at last. "I think it tickled you no end when Bolan pulled his disappearing act."
"You may be right."
And having voiced the words, Weatherbee could no longer hide their import from himself. He would be forced to deal with attitudes that ran counter to everything he had ever said and done as a policeman. He was not certain he could live with that… or that he wanted to.
"I told you, John, the charges sounded bogus. Even Bolan has the right to an impartial trial."
Across from Weatherbee, his former second in command was grinning, nodding.
"That's exactly why I want you in on this. You like the guy."
"That's bullshit, John."
"Okay, okay. Let's say you've got a feeling for him. Hell, the guy was yours before he took his show on tour."
"The guy was ours, John. Ours. I didn't let him get away all by myself."
"I know that, Al. The whole department knows it. No one's pointing any fingers here."
"Let's cut the hearts and flowers, shall we? Tell me what you want before my steak gets cold."
"We got a tip that Bolan's back in town, or will be soon."
"You told me that already. Was the tip anonymous?"
"What else?"
"Male voice?"
"As far as we can tell. It was disguised, of course."
"You're working on the voiceprints?"
"Slow but sure."
"You're biting on the tip?"
"We're standing ready. Bolan was in Hartford, raising hell last night. It's not that far."
Al Weatherbee allowed himself a mild expression of surprise. He had not known that Bolan was so near. A swing by home might strike the soldier's fancy, or he might have business here, in Pittsfield, where it all began.
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