“See you in Legend City,” he said quietly, then very quickly got away from there.
Numbers were falling everywhere.
Police sirens were screaming through the night, converging on the riverfront. The entire area was becoming a hellground—especially for a man like Mack Bolan.
At least, now, he knew why the gut had been clutching ever since his arrival in the area. And he knew, now, why he’d had the starkly spooky feeling down at river’s edge, just before the pushoff.
The universe had been whispering to him.
And, yeah, Mack Bolan would go to Nashville, depend on it. Even if he had to ride the hounds of hell all the way.
CHAPTER 3
THE RIDDEN
Nashville is one of those small towns which virtually overnight became a major city—but never quite got into the spirit of the thing. In its heart, Nashville is still a small town though it numbers nearly half a million citizens within its borders—borders which expanded suddenly in the early sixties, at the stroke of a pen, to absorb all of surrounding Davidson County.
To most people, Nashville means country music—and though that industry alone accounts for some 60 million dollars of the city’s annual economy, the music business is not the sum total of what Nashville is about. Nashville is at the heart of a major commercial, educational and cultural complex with more than fifty colleges, universities and vocational schools, some 500 manufacturers. Publishing, not “picking,” is the leading industry. It is a major banking and investment center and ranks only behind Hartford, Connecticut, as the city with the most major insurance company offices.
The “Nashville Sound” has, of course, made the town second only to New York as a recording capital of the world—but culture lovers should also know that the city supports a symphony orchestra and a fine arts center. Although those latter hardly draw the crowds that flock to the $25,000,000 complex known as Opryland USA, they do serve notice that Nashville is a city of interesting contrasts with something for almost every taste.
And Mack Bolan had to wonder about the interests it held for the mob. Jack Grimaldi, the Mafia flyboy and secret Bolan ally, had very little to offer in that regard—despite the fact that he had been flying Syndicate bigwigs and couriers into the area for months. He’d been briefing Bolan on the area since their departure from Memphis, and now he told him, “Look straight down. That’s Fort Nashborough, facing the river there. See it?”
“I see it,” Bolan replied. “Any special significance?”
“Only as a historical shrine,” Grimaldi said. “It’s the original site of Nashville. Built about 1790, I believe.”
“That long ago, eh?” Bolan asked absently.
“Yeah, just a few years after we became a nation. Andy Jackson got here before that. The guy was a horsetrader. Can you believe that? Who the hell did he trade with before the settlers came?”
“That the same guy who became President?”
“Right. His old home is still here. It’s a shrine, too. The Hermitage. Wonder why he called it that?”
“Did he name it before or after he went to Washington?” Bolan inquired lightly.
“Beats me,” the pilot said, grinning. “He was the first congressman from Tennessee you know.”
No, Bolan did not know that.
“First President from here, too. Tennessee has sent three of ’em. He was the first. Imagine. A horsetrader.”
Bolan chuckled.
Grimaldi said, “Did you know they were pro-Union, before the war actually started? Last state to secede, first to come back in.”
Yes, Bolan knew all about that particular bit of history. “Ironic, isn’t it,” he said softly. “This state was one of the major battlegrounds of the war. Over seven hundred battles. Second only to Virginia in battles and skirmishes fought.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. General Hood met his great defeat right here at Nashville. That was one of the battles that broke the South’s back. It was the only full rout of a major rebel force. Hood lost six of his generals. He wept after the battle and resigned his commission a month later.”
Grimaldi shot his passenger a quick look and commented, “You’re quite a war historian, aren’t you?”
“War is a science,” Bolan replied quietly. “You study it if you mean to master it.”
“Right, Master,” the pilot said. “Airport’s straight ahead. Do we go right in?”
“Fly by once and tell me how it looks, Jack. You know—from a master pilot’s point of view. Let’s make sure it’s cool.”
“Amen to that,” Grimaldi said, and dipped the nose into the final descent.
At that very moment, a telephone rang in a swank townhouse not far from Nashville’s Music Row. The groggy man who snapped on the bedlamp and reached for the instrument was about thirty years old, handsome, and a bit out of sorts at the moment. “Who the hell?” he growled at the caller.
The voice in the receiver was twangy, worried. “You sleeping alone, Ray?”
“Who’s sleeping, damnit?”
“It’s urgent—okay? I’m at a phone booth just down the street. You want to meet me or …?”
The man swore softly as he turned blurry eyes toward the nude girl who lay asleep at his side. He sighed and said, “In the middle of the damn night? Can’t it wait?”
“Maybe it can but it shouldn’t, hoss. It really shouldn’t.”
The man sighed again and said with resignation, “Okay. Come on over. But keep it quiet. I got company.” He hung up, scratched his head vigorously with both hands, then turned off the lamp and softly left the room.
He was drinking milk from a quart carton and nervously pacing the floor of the living room when his caller scratched at the front door.
The man who entered was a bit younger and had the lean, hard look of a gunfighter straight from the Old West. His attire was subdued “country gentleman” with the trousers stuffed casually into western boots. “Who’re you sleeping with, hoss?” he asked in greeting.
“None of your damn business,” said the host, but pleasantly. “What’s so urgent?”
The visitor went to a chair and dropped into it with a heavy sigh. “It just came down the vine a few minutes ago. An army of federals swooped down on old Dandy tonight. They got ’im cold, buried in powder. About a ton of it, what I hear. Not even a kilo was saved. I thought you’d want to know, middle of the night or not. But it ain’t. It’s closer to five o’clock.”
The other man was easing slowly onto the couch. He said, very softly, “Good God.”
“Does that touch you, hoss?”
“What d’you mean? No! Nobody can connect us!”
“That ain’t what I meant. I meant does it touch you. Are you laughin’ or cryin’ on the inside?”
“Bet your ass I’m not laughing,” said the other. “How ’bout you?”
The cowboy laughed lightly and spread his hands. “You know me, hoss. Easy come, easy go. I was born with nothing but a six-string geetar in my hands. I guess I can go out the same way.”
“This just plays hell with everything, you know.”
“That’s what I said, hoss.”
“A ten million dollar deal. And it won’t wait for other connections. I gotta have the stuff now.”
“You ain’t gonna get it, you know.”
“Well by God we’ll see!”
“I’m tellin’ ya, you ain’t. Dandy was the man. He had it cornered, the whole market. When he fell, it all fell with ’im. It’d take another month even if Dandy hisself could start workin’ on it. And there’s only one Dandy Jack I know of, podner.”
“Well goddamnit, there’s got to be …”
The visitor got to his feet and said, “There ain’t. That’s what I come to tell ya. I don’t know how far your tail is out on this deal but … well, hoss, you got a lot of people standin’ and waitin’ for this deal. If you can’t deliver, then I hope you got a hole somewheres to run to. Know what I mean?”
&nbs
p; “Wait a minute, Jess.” That worried face was beginning to reflect a flickering hope. “Maybe we can still pull it out. Tell your sponsor I’ve got an ace in the hole. Tell him that.”
“You better be damn sure before I tell him anything.”
“I’m sure, yeah. Pretty sure. Tell him I’m pretty sure.”
The lean man went out chuckling at some secret joke.
The other paced the floor for several minutes then went to the bedroom and picked up the telephone.
The face was screwed into lines of painful indecision as he began dialing—then he changed his mind and put the phone back down.
The girl on the bed stirred and looked up at him. “Ooh hoo, it was great, baby,” she murmured sleepily.
He gathered her clothing and dropped it in a pile beside the bed as he told her, “You’re a real ball, kid. Now beat it. Party’s over.”
The girl picked up her clothing and staggered toward the bathroom without a word.
One party was over, for sure.
But another was just getting underway. Mack Bolan’s quiet Mafia wings were at that moment lightly kissing the earth of Music City USA.
Buy Tennessee Smash Now!
About the Author
Don Pendleton (1927–1995) was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. He served in the US Navy during World War II and the Korean War. His first short story was published in 1957, but it was not until 1967, at the age of forty, that he left his career as an aerospace engineer and turned to writing full time. After producing a number of science fiction and mystery novels, in 1969 Pendleton launched his first book in the Executioner saga: War Against the Mafia. The series, starring Vietnam veteran Mack Bolan, was so successful that it inspired a new American literary genre, and Pendleton became known as the father of action-adventure.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1977 by Don Pendleton
Cover design by Mauricio Diaz
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8583-3
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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