The twin-engined plane came in low over the Texas plains and landed on a strip by some buildings: it carried a one man raiding party with a blackened face and a lot of bullets. Five minutes later there were no buildings, just a sheet of flame and dead men—and Bolan was in the air again, with a drugged and naked girl who was the heiress to an oil fortune . . .
The Executioner had come to Texas . . .
Also by DON PENDLETON
THE EXECUTIONER: MIAMI MASSACRE
THE EXECUTIONER: ASSAULT ON SOHO
THE EXECUTIONER: CHICAGO WIPEOUT
THE EXECUTIONER: VEGAS VENDETTA
THE EXECUTIONER: CARIBBEAN KILL
THE EXECUTIONER: CALIFORNIA HIT
THE EXECUTIONER: BOSTON BLITZ
THE EXECUTIONER: WASHINGTON I.O.U.
THE EXECUTIONER: SAN DIEGO SIEGE
THE EXECUTIONER: PANIC IN PHILLY
THE EXECUTIONER: SICILIAN SLAUGHTER
THE EXECUTIONER: NIGHTMARE IN NEW YORK
THE EXECUTIONER: JERSEY GUNS
*THE EXECUTIONER: DETROIT DEATHWATCH
And published by CORGI Books
*to be published by CORGI BOOKS
The Executioner 18:
Texas Storm
Don Pendleton
CORGI BOOKS
A DIVISION OF TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS LTD
THE EXECUTIONER 18 : TEXAS STORM
A CORGI BOOK 0 552 10037 4
First publication in Great Britain
PRINTING HISTORY
Corgi edition published 1975
Copyright © 1974 by Pinnacle Books Inc.
Corgi Books are published by
Transworld Publishers Ltd.,
Century House, 61-63 Uxbridge Road
,
Ealing, London, W.5.
Made and printed in the United States of America
by Arcata Graphics,
Buffalo, New York
Scanned by CrazyAl v1.0 2009
For Bolan's best friends of '73—
Cy and Frank, Scott and Jack.
Our thanks.
D.P.
Texas Storm
PROLOGUE
I am not their judge. I am their judgment." With these words a Vietnam-baptized war machine who had already become known as the "Executioner" declared his personal war against the Mafia.
The motivation was as straightforward as the man himself. He had come to recognize that the universe provided its own balance: for every action there is a reaction, for every good an evil, for every strength a weakness—and for every injustice there was somewhere a final justice. By their own actions, the mob had provoked a reaction which was as inevitable and implacable as any force in the universe.
The, mob itself had created this War Against the Mafia.
They had fashioned it from the stuff of which the Executioner was made and fanned it to life with the spreading flames of rampant thugdom.
The man was Mack Bolan. He was thirty years of age, a career soldier with two Southeast Asia tours behind him when he was called home to bury his parents
and a teen-age sister, victims of Mafia terrorism. Bolan had grown up in the neighbourhood where his family died. The Mafia was no stranger to him. He was acquainted with their omnipotence and viciousness. But he had been hardly more than a kid himself when he departed that environment. Consumed by the military problems of the larger world, Bolan had matured into manhood along the lines of military destiny, with little more than dim memories of that other world where violence and death also stalked the human footpaths.
The family tragedy abruptly jerked Executioner Bolan back into the reality of that dark landscape where thugdom reigned, focusing his attention upon the unrestrained plundering of that human estate .. . and a new war was born.
"I am not their judge. I am their judgment!"
It must have seemed to this formidable warrior that all the actions and interactions of his thirty years in life had been leading him inexorably along this collision course with that complex human cancer, the Mafia—known also as La Cosa Nostra, the syndicate, the combine, the mob. By whatever name, Bolan saw them collectively as a rapacious horde of thieves and cutthroats, plunderers, degraders of humanity, a destructive growth at the core of mankind. He also became strongly aware of the inability of the nation's legal structures to counteract this menace.
Someone, he knew, had to stand and fight.
Few men living at the time could have been more admirably equipped to assume the role that Bolan felt descending upon him.
He was, in his own understanding, particularly fit for the job. Something in his genetic makeup coupled with a peculiarly complex "toughness of the soul," and hardened by years of training and testing in a finite little hell called Southeast Asia had produced something truly unique in an individual human framework. Bolan knew himself. He knew what he could do. And he also knew what he must do.
This was not the first good man to run afoul of the cannibalistic activities of the organized crime world.
He was not the first to suffer personal tragedy, to see loved ones victimized, degraded, then sacrificed body and soul to the all-encompassing wave of this ever-advancing cancer.
Bolan was not even the first to stand and strike back.
But he was the first to be so magnificently equipped to handle the challenge. The challenge therefore became an obligation. It became, in every respect, a holy mission.
But Bolan was no philosopher. He would send you one of those humorously quizzical glances from his ice-blue eyes if you were even to suggest to his face that he was an idealist. Bolan would tell you that there is nothing so practical and real as survival.
Jungle law is no philosophy—it is reality; this was Bolan's understanding. And the case at hand seemed entirely clear-cut in that understanding. The mob was out to rape the world and eat it whole. Nothing in the world was stopping them. Something or some one had to. Maybe Bolan could and maybe he could not. He was at least uniquely qualified to try. There was the commitment. Idealist, no. Realist . . . yeah, sure. All philosophical and moral questions to hell . . . he had to try!
And try he did.
He tried in seventeen consecutive pitched battles that ranged throughout the United States and spilled over into Europe, Britain, and the Caribbean. He engaged the enemy in a stunning and progressive application of one-man guerrilla warfare that left them reeling in confusion or stampeding in panic wherever he surfaced, and his formula for warfare became expressed in the simplest of expedients: Identify! Infiltrate or Isolate! Destroy!
His name quickly became a legend to the public, an inexhaustible source of interest to the news media, an embarrassing frustration to the law, a cuss word filled with crawling fear to the mob.
Even so, all the world knew that Mack Bolan was a living dead man. His war was hopeless, his odds insurmountable, his chances for personal survival absolutely zero.
For every Mafioso who fell to his campaign, ten replacements stepped into the line.
For each individual lawman who exhibited overt sympathy for the man and his war, a hundred became all the more determined to halt his illegal crusade. And for each small stolen moment of personal victory, Bolan himself realized that the odds against him thus pyramided in geometric progression.
But he kept trying.
And one day in late spring, when most of North America was awakening to the annual rebirth, a deadly storm came to the great state of Texas.
It was a human storm.
And its name was Bolan.
1: KNIGHT AT DAWN
The darkness of the Texas central plains was being diluted at its eastern edge by
the mottled gray advance of dawn as a sleek, twin-engine Cessna swept across from the west, winging close above the flat landscape to maintain a low celestial profile.
Two men occupied the aircraft.
The pilot was a dark, handsome young veteran of many low-profile flights such as this—both in the service of his country in adventures abroad, and in the service of others in adventures here at home. His name was Grimaldi. Until recently he had served the enemies of the man who now sat beside him.
The passenger wore black. He was garbed in a tight-fitting combat outfit of the type favoured by those who must advance by stealth into hostile lands. At the moment he was a one-man raiding party. A military style web belt encircled his waist to support a heavy auto-loading pistol plus various other weapons of war. Smaller belts angled from shoulders to waist in a crossing arrangement to accommodate miscellaneous munitions and accessories of survival. His face and hands were smeared with a black cosmetic. In the glow from the plane's instrument panel, only the eyes were clearly visible—steely glints of blue ice that seemed to see everything.
The pilot glanced at his passenger and suppressed an involuntary shiver. "Coming around on the midland Omni," he announced solemnly.
The man in Executioner black did not immediately respond to the announcement, but a moment later calmly replied, "Bingo. Tank farm dead ahead."
Grimaldi said, "Right. Okay, get set. We're making a straight-in to the airstrip. You can mark it one minute and forty from the tank farm to touchdown."
The other man fiddled with a watch at his left wrist as he crisply delivered a repetitious instruction. "Keep it on the numbers, Jack. Give me ninety, exactly. Nine-oh."
"Sure, I know. That's from touchdown to full stop."
"That's what it is," the cold one growled, showing the first traces of emotion. "Unless you enjoy finding yourself in a cross fire."
"Nine-oh it is," Grimaldi replied with a tight smile.
The Executioner punched a timing stem on his watch as they flashed above a sprawling collection of oil storage tanks, then he began his last-minute countdown preparations. An enormous ammo clip clicked into position in the light chatter gun that hung from his neck. Blackened fingers traced out once more the feel and position of munitions spaced along the utility belt while the other hand checked out the security of a waist weapon, the thunderous .44 AutoMag which—for this mission—was carrying scatter loads of fine buckshot.
As a final item, a delicately engineered sound suppressor threaded its way onto the shoulder-slung "silent piece"— a 9-millimeter Beretta Brigadier which, through many campaigns, had become virtually an organ of the man and which he affectionately called "the Belle."
"That'd better be a dirt strip down there," he said, as though speaking for his own benefit.
Grimaldi chuckled nervously as he replied, "It was last time. But that's still mighty hard territory down there, man."
"It all is," the raider said. He sighed, very softly, and the blue ice glinted with some indefinable emotion. "just get me in, and make all the dust you can. We'll take the rest one number at a time."
Sure. One number at a time. Grimaldi had seen plenty of Mack Bolan's "numbers"—in spades. Any way they fell out, it was nothing but bad news for the guys whose misfortune found them on the receiving end.
But what the hell? This was one of the best- guarded sites the guy could have chosen to hit. Why was it always the meanest ones?
Grimaldi had been there when the guy hit Vegas. And Grimaldi had been on the wrong side there.
He'd been there, also, during the Caribbean campaign—which actually had started out as no more than an extension of the Vegas thing And, yeah, the dumb Italian had started out on the wrong side in Puerto Rico, too.
So what about this time? Grimaldi shrugged away a little quiver of apprehension and aligned the nose of the aircraft with the tiny dirt strip that came into view just ahead. His hands and mind were going to be very busy for the next minute or so, and for that he was thankful. As for the rest of it . . . right or wrong, Mack Bolan was his man.
There simply was no other way to think of it.
"Gear down," he announced quietly.
Bolan released his seat belt and reminded the pilot, "Start your count when I go out the door." "Sure," Grimaldi replied.
Oh, sure. They might have been discussing when to meet for dinner, it was that casual. But that hellfire guy was going to go out that door with blood on his mind. He was dropping into a Mafia hard site with no less than a dozen pro killers defending it and with God only knew how many local recruits to back them up—and he was going to be hitting that earth out there with every intention of scorching it or dying in the attempt.
And for what?
For what damned possible good?
It seemed to Grimaldi like a hell of a way to live ... or die.
He brought the nose up and cut the power. Then the wheels touched and a cloud of dust swirled into the slipstream.
"There's your cover, Mr. Blitz," he intoned, the words sounding loud and overly dramatic in the sudden silence of the dead-stick landing.
A dimly lit shack flashed past on his left; his peripheral vision caught unmistakable movement— human movement—as floodlights erupted on all sides.
Then he was braking for the turnaround as the door cracked open at the far side of the cabin.
The man in black called, "Tallyho, Jack."
Tallyho, yeah. A hunting cry. The guy was gone in a flash of ice-blue eyes. The cabin door closed with a quiet click. And Jack Grimaldi had just brought a very hot war to the peaceful state of Texas.
Something was rotten in Texas.
Bolan did not know precisely what that something was.
He did know, though, that a strongly apparent odour was emerging from this particular spot on the Texas midlands, one of the nation's chief oil-producing areas, and that the odour was being experienced at some rather disconcerting points throughout this wealthy state.
Klingman's Wells had once been among the most productive oil leases in the midlands. Not now. Several months back, the rich wells of Klingman Petro had abruptly gone out of production, much to the surprise of other oilmen in the area. And an air of mystery had settled upon the place.
Rumours had it that the old man's daughter had disappeared and that Klingman himself had gone into virtual seclusion in his Dallas apartment. That in itself was mystery enough. Arthur Klingman was one of the pioneer Texas oilmen, one of the last great independents in this age of corporate giants, a tough old desert rat who could not stand the smell of plush offices and mahoganied board rooms.
Mack Bolan did not like mysteries, particularly when they involved mob operations.
And Kling- man's Wells was now without a doubt a very important mob centerpoint.
Whatever the nature of the new activities, quite obviously it was more profitable and therefore more desirable than the harvesting of fossil fuels.
The most painstaking investigation had failed to reveal to the Executioner's curious mind the true name of the Mafia game in Texas. But there was more than one way to gain intelligence; if you couldn't pry it loose then maybe you could blast it into the open. And that was the real nature of this daring dawn strike at a mob command post; it was shock therapy, to be delivered in Bolan's inimitable style of blockbuster warfare. The shock waves just might rattle something loose and into the intelligence network.
So—if Bolan had heard Jack Grimaldi's silent question, For what damned possible good?—he could have replied, "Not for good, Jack, but for bad. When you have an omnipotent enemy then you simply hit him with everything you can grab—you give him all the bad you can muster—and then you check for leaks in that shell of power."
Bolan was here for some damned possible bad.
He had been here many times—but only on paper. He knew this terrain as though he had lived here a lifetime, and he was intimate with each structure, fixture, and device within that compound—thanks mainly to the remarka
ble memory of Jack Grimaldi, who had chauffeured several flights of Mafia bosses to the site just after the takeover.
At the moment, Grimaldi was providing some distracting manoeuvres with the taxiing aircraft. Bolan was on the lee side of the dust screen and galloping along the backtrack—the chatter gun riding in muzzle-down standby, the silent Beretta Belle in hand and at the ready, and he was closing vital numbers on the growing collection of sounds up there in that confused jumble of sand-polluted darkness and choked floodlights.
The timing could not have been more precise. It was the moment that divided night from day, with just the faintest sliver of gray light moving into the eastern heavens. Bolan had learned long ago that this was the best possible time to catch an enemy off its guard, especially those who have watched through the long and uncertain night.
Pendleton, Don - Executioner 018 - Texas Storm. Page 1