"Sounds like great fun," Bolan said. "How many trucks do you lose between Atlanta and Marietta?"
"Don't think there haven't been some close calls."
"You were telling me about Shorty," Bolan reminded him.
"I still am. He comes running in one night, all in a lather. He has actually met Miss Superskate of I-75, see. Claims she followed him right into the terminal, see, and—"
"Bluebird?"
"Yeah, same place. We've been running a contract with them since last year. Hell, I didn't know they were dirty. Well, anyway, Shorty and Miss Superskate have really been getting it on for the past few months. I mean very heavy, see. She's been riding the bunk boards with him on his loner hauls, and I guess he's been riding her bunkboards during my loners. I don't know for sure about that. Shorty clammed up on the subject of Miss Super-skate right damned quick. Got very sensitive about the subject and even had a couple of brawls with our road buddies over her. You know how guys jaw about something like that."
"I don't know where the hell you're taking me, cowboy."
"We'll come out above Kennesaw on Highway 41. From there, you—"
"I was talking about your partner."
"Oh. Well, I don't know how else to tell it. I was working it through my own mind, I guess, trying to figure something logical about tonight. It's not like Shorty to flat not show up for a haul. I called all around for him. I even went through his stuff and found the superskate's phone number And that's when the whole thing turned definitely strange, I mean definitely for sure. It's his turn for the loner—right? He's been taking her along as his bunkie on the loners—right? So I figured—hell, I don't know what I figured. Except that something is screwy as hell."
"You, uh, are trying to tie it to what happened down there tonight."
"In a way, yeah. See, at first it was just a question of Shorty and the beaver. That was screwy enough Then when you hit me with this contraband rap—well, hell, now I'm really starting to wonder."
"It's the cop in you," Bolan suggested.
"There's not much of that left in me," the guy said, smiling wanly at his passenger. "Bolan . I'm worried. I'm afraid Shorty has got mixed up in that rat pack."
"Why do you think that?"
"Does the name Sciaparelli mean anything to you?"
Bolan raised a solemn gaze to the guy as he replied, "You bet it does. He's the silent man behind Bluebird. How'd you know?"
Reynolds sighed heavily and lit a cigarette. Presently, he replied, "Call it a hunch. I didn't know for sure until you just now confirmed it."
"Where'd the hunch come from?"
"It came from Miss Superskate's telephone number. I called there, you know, looking for him. A guy answers. He says it's Sciaparelli's residence. It confused me. The beaver's name is supposed to be Rossiter—Jennifer Rossiter. I thought maybe I was blundering into something. You know, an unfaithful wife routine or something. I told the guy I had the wrong number Then I went on out to the terminal and took the haul myself. Then you hit me with your little bombshell. And that's when I started hunching and worrying. Look, let's put it out flat. I'm not asking for anything except that you'll consider the circumstances. When you go gunning your next round at these guys, if your gun sights happen to fall on my little partner, try to remember what a dazzling beaver can do to a guy to screw him up. All I'm saying is—"
"I know what you're saying," Bolan quietly interrupted, "but I think maybe you're on the wrong tack."
"I hope so. Good Lord, I hope so."
"It could be worse than that, though."
"How could it be worse?"
Bolan quietly handed over to the Georgia Cowboy a wallet, a jack-knife, and thirty-seven cents in coins. "It could be this bad," he said.
The tractor lugged to a halt and coughed dead as Reynolds examined the remains of a miserable wraith who had summoned Mack Bolan to his torture/death chamber.
"Where'd you get this?" Reynolds whispered. "It's his, eh?"
"Yes. Where'd you get it?"
"From the back porch of hell," Bolan told him. "Your partner is dead, and damned glad to be that way, believe it. Don't ask me any more until you're ready to challenge hell. I mean that, cowboy. Don't ask."
The cowboy did not ask. The look in Bolan's eyes was tale enough, for the moment. He started the engine and resumed the silent journey.
Not until the lights of civilization were reflecting on the windshield did the silence break, and then it was Bolan who broke it.
"I'll help you set it straight if that's what you want," he told the guy.
"Yeah. Thanks. That's exactly what I want. Where do we go from here?"
The guy was ready to challenge hell.
"Welcome to the club," Bolan told him soberly. "Let's go to Acworth. I have a base camp on thelake."
There were, he knew, many routes to hell.
And, yeah, Bolan knew every one of them—like the palm of his hand.
4: Challenged
Bolan took the distraught trucker to his rented cabin on Allatoona Lake, put some coffee on the stove, and washed away the stench of warfare with a quick shower. The coffee was finished when he was, and Reynolds was mechanically going through the motions of filling the cups when Bolan emerged from the bath.
"You look great," the guy grumbled, giving his host a half-interested inspection. "How do you do it?"
"It's a state of mind," Bolan told him. "You'd better start working on yours."
"Guess I'm still a bit stunned "
"That's a state of mind, too," Bolan pointed out. "Guess you're right." The guy tried a smile, lit a cigarette, tasted the coffee. "You make it right," he commented. "You could get a job in a truck stop."
"Don't get glad, cowboy. Get mad."
"Don't let the smile fool you, soldier. I'm mad as hell."
"Stay that way then. It'll take a lot of it if you intend to hear about your partner."
"I've got plenty of it."
Bolan put on some comfortable clothing, sat down at the table with his coffee, and told the guy all about the final hours of Shorty Wilkins. He did not spare the details. When it was finished, Reynolds went to the toilet and puked. He was in there a long while and came out looking worse than when he went in.
"Still mad?" Bolan quietly asked him.
"No," the cowboy replied weakly, "just sick."
"When the sick goes, you'll be mad again. But the sick will always be there, poised at the back of the mind, ready to leap out at an unsuspecting moment. You'll have trouble eating meat for a while. You'll have more bad dreams than good ones for a long time. And it came to you second-hand—remember that."
Reynolds groaned and stared at his hands. "How do you do it?" he asked weakly.
"How do I do what?"
"How do you keep going on ... like this?" "I stay mad."
"I see."
"How you doing?" Bolan asked gruffly.
"I'll make it." The guy lit another cigarette. "How long," he asked presently, "do you suppose Shorty lived through that?"
"He lived through all of it."
The guy shivered. "How do you know that?" "They quit when he quit."
"I see. Okay. Now tell me why."
"I don't know why," Bolan replied. "They could have been punishing him for some indiscretion. Or it could have been an interrogation."
"Shorty wasn't that tough—for that kind of interrogation, I mean. He'd have told them anything they wanted to know from the first slap."
"That wouldn't have mattered," Bolan said quietly.
"It wouldn't have mattered?'
Bolan slowly shook his head. "The idea is to break the mind completely through fear, shock, agony, horror—complete carnal degradation. They take a guy completely apart, a piece at a time. They know they're getting to the home twenty when the victim begins confessing long-forgotten childhood sins—masturbation, secret fantasies, stolen cookies, and malicious wishes. They bust the mind, cowboy—wide open and shrieking out everything that ever
got lodged in there."
Reynolds took another quick trip to the toilet. He returned a few minutes later and said to Bolan, "Okay, go on."
"Sure you want me to?"
"Yeah. I find that my mad is just getting a head on it. Go on."
Bolan continued, matter-of-factly. "The body breaks down long before the mind does. The voluntary nervous system is usually the first to go. Controls, mostly. Saliva, kidneys, bowels. That adds to the sense of degradation—and only brings on more pain as punishment for the mess. And the guy is already screaming out everything his mind can seize. He's trying to please them, see—trying to get them to stop doing what they're doing. The turkey-maker becomes God himself, and this is the final judgment. But the more the poor guy talks and screams and pleads, the more they put it to him. There's no way out, see, absolutely no relief—except to die. And these guys know what they're doing. They know when to press and when to let up for a moment, when to cut and when to patch, and they're playing the poor guy for every breath of life he has in him. That's a turkey interrogation, cowboy."
Reynolds groaned, "Why do they want to hear all that shit?"
"They figure they have to get it all before they know they got anything at all. It's sort of like pouring out a box of cereal to get to a few raisins that are mixed up inside. You can't just rummage through the box for them. You have to pour it all out."
"It's not human," Reynolds muttered.
"Of course it's not human. When did I say I was talking about humans?"
"You really feel that way, don't you?"
"I feel that way," Bolan assured him.
"How many guys like Shorty have you run into?"
"Too many. Shorty was a lucky one. He was in hell for a few hours at the most. Sometimes this stuff goes on for days on end."
"How could it?"
"I told you. Some of these guys become real experts, absolute artists at keeping the flesh alive and cringing. I've just been talking about interrogation turkeys. If punishment is their game—well, hell . . ." Bolan's voice became a bit choked. "I knew a cute kid once who lived for fifty days."
"Don't tell me any more," Reynolds said. "It could happen to you, guy."
The trucker's eyes jerked and flared.
Bolan nodded his head, watching the guy closely. "It's something you have to face up to if you mean to challenge hell."
"Have you faced up to it?"
"Long ago," Bolan told him. "Many, many nightmares ago."
"And still you go on."
"I have to go on."
A tense silence descended. Bolan sipped his coffee and toyed with a cigarette. The trucker stared at his hands, ignoring all else. After a while he said, "Thanks, Big B."
"You're welcome, cowboy."
"It must be tough to talk about."
"It is."
"Thanks. I understand. I still want to go on."
Bolan nodded his head, agreeing with the decision. "You could be between the devil and the deep, anyway. If those guys didn't get satisfaction from Shorty, they just might decide to look for it in Shorty's partner."
The guy's eyes quivered again. He said, "Remember what I told you, back on the ridge when we first met? I said that maybe I owed you more than you realize. I was talking about the contraband. But what if I hadn't gone looking for you? What if I'd gone on to the home twenty and found those goons waiting for me there? Well, hey—I guess I owed you more than I realized."
"It's a curious world," Bolan said softly.
"Yeah. Okay. Where do we go from here?"
"A question, first," Bolan said. His eyes were hard, probing. "The answer won't affect our friendship. It could affect our future—both of us. So say it straight. Were you and Shorty running any kind of knockdown operation on those guys?"
"Not that I know of," Reynolds replied evenly.
"Which means ..."
"I guess I can't honestly answer for Shorty. Like I told you, things have been a bit out of whack between us since the superskate entered the picture."
"What would be your gut guess?" Bolen persisted.
"I could have answered a few months ago, straight from the gut, no sweat. Now—well, I can only say ... maybe."
Bolan sighed and finished his coffee. Then he asked, "You feeling okay?"
"Yeah, I'm okay."
"All right." Bolan pushed a miniature tape recorder at the guy. "Sit there and think out loud,. Everything you can remember about Shorty after he met the superskate, anything at all that seemed peculiar at the time—or anything that seemed natural at the time but now, in the back-think, seems peculiar. Everything about the girl, absolutely everything that you know or think you know. Anything and everything you can recall about the operations at Bluebird, unusual hauls, offbeat destinations, that sort of thing. Are you game?"
"Sure, I'm game," the trucker replied. "But, hell, it's going to take the rest of the night."
"That's all right," Bolan told him. "Just keep at it. Stay put, right here, until I get back. Don't make any phone calls and don't answer any. Don't show yourself outside the cabin."
"Are you leaving?"
"For a while, yeah. Couple of calls to make before daylight. If I should need to contact you, I'll call three times in quick succession. You'll get two rings on each call. Answer the fourth call. And don't say a thing until you hear my voice."
The guy seemed a bit flustered, but he said, "Okay."
Bolan donned the Beretta shoulder rig, drew on a light jacket, and dropped a few extra clips into a pocket. "I'll move your tractor, in case anyone is searching for it."
"Sure." Reynolds handed him the keys. "Think you can handle it?"
"I'll figure it out," Bolan said, smiling soberly. "And remember, cowboy, you're in total isolation."
The guy gave a weak grin and a shiver. "Never fear," he said.
Bolan went outside and gazed at the stars for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Yeah. The guy would be all right. The routine with the tape recorder was little more than a bit of disguised therapy. By dawn, Reynolds would be ready for the challenge.
By dawn, yeah, the guy would have realized where his guts went, after 'Nam and why he'd been a loser ever since.
By dawn, the fates willing, Mack Bolan would have another soldier on his side.
5: The Promise
The time was nearly five in the morning, and the mansion on Paces Ferry Road
was ablaze with lights. A dozen or so cars were parked in a neat line along the circular drive. The house chief, Mellini the Mick—so called because he had once used the alias Mickey Harrigan—paced nervously across the porch with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He came to a sudden halt, frowning at the sound of another vehicle coming up the drive, and stepped behind a column of the porch with a hand resting on the bulge at his coat front.
A taxicab pulled in beneath the portico.
The passenger paid his fare and got out. He was wearing an expensive leisure suit with a safari jacket, soft white shoes, oval glasses with large yellow lenses. He carried a small utility bag emblazoned with an airline's decals.
Eyes hard and body taut, Mellini went quickly down the steps to meet the new arrival.
Before a word could be said, the visitor opened his wallet to show the house boss a miniature playing card, an ace of spades, and announced, "I just got in from the Big Apple. Who's inside?"
Mellini was immediately impressed. A bit of excitement flowed with his voice as he replied, "It's an area conference, sir. They're all here. Have you heard about the Bolan thing?"
The visitor said, "It's why I'm here. That guy is my specialty. You must be Mellini."
The torpedo was surprised and pleased with the make. "Yes, sir, I'm him."
"Heard good of you, Mellini. You call me Frankie."
"Sure, Frankie. Thanks for the—thanks."
"You have any boys on the grounds?"
"Well, no, not yet. We just—"
"Better put a couple
on the prowl. Put a couple of cars out, too. You got radios?"
"Sure, we got radios."
"Okay, get a couple of cars out patrolling this neighbourhood. They keep in constant touch. And they report any suspicious movements."
"Yes, sir, uh . .."
"Uh, what?"
"That's going to leave us a little thin on the house detail. We weren't expecting a—I mean, it's been quiet and peaceful around here. We're not up to war strength."
"You will be."
"Well, see, that's what they're talking—oh, okay, yeah, I see what you mean. How many did you bring?"
"Enough. They'll be along soon as they get roomed and all. Put your boys out. It'll be okay." They were moving up the steps toward the porch.
Mellini said, "Maybe I should wait 'til your boys get here. It's going to be mighty thin here until then."
"You're here, Mickey, and I'm here," the visitor pointed out.
The torpedo laughed softly as he opened the door and ushered the distinguished guest inside.
"Well, you're the specialist," he said, yielding to superior authority.
"Step in and let the man know I'm here. I don't want to bust up his conference. Just whisper in his ear. Tell him I brought twenty guns and he should rest easy. I'm taking it over. He can pass that on to his people in there and they can take it into their planning. Tell him I said that. He should go on with his business as though I'm not here."
"Okay, sure," Mellini agreed—almost, it seemed, with a rush of relief. "Uh . . . what should I tell—who should I tell him—"
"Just tell him Frankie from the Commissione.
That's all he needs to know."
"Oh, sure, right, I understand."
The house chief left the guest standing alone in the foyer and made quick tracks toward closed double-doors across the way.
"Mickey!"
The house boss halted and turned back with, "Yeah, Frankie?"
"Where's the kitchen? I'll get some coffee."
"Oh, hell, I'm sorry," Mellini apologized. He raised his voice and called, "Henry!"
A handsome old black man, dressed in formal house servant attire, appeared at an arched doorway at the rear.
"Get Mr. Frank some coffee. Make him feel at home."
Executioner 027 - Dixie Convoy Page 3