And Gerald Whitson died with a marksman's medal in his hand.
No more than an hour following the killing in Houston, a man walked into the Austin office of Oilfield Research and Conservation and asked to see the prominent Texas attorney who ran that office.
The name of Joseph Quaso was passed as a means of identification and admittance.
Thomas Kilcannon, Esq., came to the door of his office to personally escort the caller inside.
Less than a minute later the man departed, letting himself out and nodding stonily to the secretary in the outer office.
"Don't go in there," he cautioned her. "Just call the cops. Tell them a man has been killed."
The secretary "called the cops" but did not follow the other advice.
She found Thomas Kilcannon slumped over his desk in a pool of blood, his lifeless fingers resting upon a military marksman's medal.
A full police alert was ordered throughout the state of Texas at five o'clock, and "watches" were set up in the neighbouring states of Arkansas, Louisiana, Oklahoma, and New Mexico. A special alert was flashed to the US Border Patrol.
Mack Bolan, the man at the top of the FBI list, was now positively known to be blitzing across the Lone Star State and evidently running amuck.
His latest three victims were all highly respected and influential citizens with spotless reputations.
In the eyes of certain Texas lawmen and in the words of one of that state's television newsmen, "Mack Bolan has made a tragic blunder. In trying to set himself up as judge, jury, and executioner, he has emerged in Texas as just another wild gunman with a lust to kill."
But, in Mack Bolan's personal journal, an entry of that same date reads: "I am neither judge nor jury. By their own actions they condemned themselves. This is war, and there is no such thing as morality in warfare. Let the world damn me. I did what had to be done."
The "world" had thrice damned Mack Bolan in Texas.
It was Oscar Wilde who wrote: "For he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die." But how many damnations could a human soul endure?
12: EYE OF TEXAS
"No flow, Sarge," Leo Turrin reported, his voice bursting with restrained emotion across the long-distance connection. "Nobody is talking about Texas, I mean not a word, not on either side of the fence. The mob guys change the subject quick at the very mention of Texas. The federal boys shake their heads and pass the buck along. I did make contact with Hal Brognola, though, finally. All he would say is that you are in a quote very sensitive area unquote. He's asking you to lay off. I get it there's a very uptight investigation in progress down there, maybe been going on for some time. Anyway, he wants you to cool it."
"I can't cool it," Bolan replied. "And you can tell Brognola for me that his quote investigation unquote is long dead on the vine. It never got off the ground."
"Do you have proof of that?"
"I do. I can give him names and the precise market value of each one, if he's interested."
"You know he is," Turrin said wearily. His tone said that it was tough being a middleman between these two.
"Yeah, well, I'll get the intel to him—for whatever good it will do him. One of his. own superiors is involved. Things are not exactly peachy-creamy in Washington these days, Leo. What the hell happened to official integrity in this country? The buying and selling of people seems to be the chief government activity."
"Hey, it's not all that bad."
"Isn't it? Listen, Leo, the biggest problem I have anymore is trying to separate the sheep from the wolves. They all look alike these days. They all smell alike. And they all act alike. I'm getting sick to my chin."
"God! Are you down!"
"Yeah. It's the company I keep. It's not just politicians and bureaucrats. Hell it's—Leo, I executed General Spellman today."
"Who?"
"Nat Spellman. He used to be counterintelligence chief for Europe. Then there was this big-shot financier who called kings and presidents by their first names And a past officer of the Texas Bar Association who has autographed pictures of supreme court justices adorning his walls. I hung the mark of the beast on all three of them today, and in each case it was an award long overdue."
There was a long, heavy silence before Turrin replied, "Then that's what it's about."
"What?"
"Brognola is on his way to Texas with a large force of US marshals. Special government planeload." "When were you talking to Hal?" Bolan asked. "About an hour ago."
"That's probably it, then. I expected to make a lot of waves. No great surprise, Leo."
"Are you sure, uh . . . ?"
"About the targets? As sure as I've ever been." "Yeah. Well. I hope you know what you're doing." "So do I," Bolan told his friend in Pittsfield. "Brognola knows we're in touch. He says to tell you he hopes you're out of the state by the time he gets there. You know what his assignment is, Sarge." Bolan sighed. "Sure, I know."
"He says, just in case you are still around, he'd like a chance to parley with you before the deadline hostilities begin."
"Is he headed for Dallas?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. If you make contact in the next few hours, tell him to be on the sidewalk in front of the Federal Building at eight o'clock, main entrance, alone. I'll contact him there."
"Okay. Mack. Be careful."
"Sure. Everything all right there?"
Turrin understood the particular phraseology of that query. It had to do with Valentina Querente, Bolan's lady love, and the kid brother, Johnny Bolan. Turrin was keeping them in protective concealment. Bolan had not referred to the two by name since the near-tragic incident in Boston.
Turrin told the one-man army, "They're fine, but worried. She says you're getting too chancy."
Bolan growled, "I'm a dead man the minute I get to cautious. Watch the home fires, Leo."
"You know it. Oh. Do you still need the info about the oil fields?"
"I need everything I can find," Bolan assured him. "Well I couldn't get much. But a guy in the Interior Department tells me about a new pipeline outfit that started down there a few months back. It's called Pecos Conduit, Inc. Couldn't find out what they're doing or where, but there's a definite link to your people. The Small and Poors has them listed as a subsidiary of International Bankers Holding."
Bolan said, "Bingo. Okay, thanks. It could mean something Ringing off, Leo."
"Wait a minute. Lileo's in Dallas with his whole bunch. You did some kind of job on Joe Quaso. No one is saying much about it, but it's for sure that Jaunty Joe is in some kind of disgrace at the moment. Lileo has been given full authority in Texas. He'll be waiting for your head to drop into his basket, Sarge."
"Know much about his operation?"
"No. But he's young, cagey, quick. I'd say dangerous as hell."
"Okay, thanks. I'll watch it."
Bolan hung up and stepped out of the phone booth. A very nervous hot wing pilot awaited him "What now?" Grimaldi asked.
"Now you return to base," Bolan replied. "I'll contact you."
"Where, uh, are you headed now?"
"Into town. I need a talk with a certain hotshot and I need to rattle some more teeth."
"What about the jet?"
"Leave it sit. Don't go near it."
"You know how much you paid for that thing?" Grimaldi asked, obviously pained.
Bolan smiled tightly and replied, "You know how much more it will cost if it gets tied to your tail?"
The pilot sighed. "See what you mean. Well, it's just money. What's money, eh?"
"It's just the stuff that buys men's souls," the Executioner mused. "Lay low, Jack. Stay out of sight."
"I know the routine."
As though in afterthought, Bolan said, "One quiet job you can do for me." He handed his one-man auxiliary a matchbook. "Call this motel. Use a pay phone. Ask for room one fifteen. If a man answers, hang up. If a woman, tell her to sit tight and cool it. Things are working."
Grimaldi
smiled sourly. "I could go over and hold her hand "
"Forget it. It could be the last one you ever held." "You, uh, think maybe . . . ?"
"We never know, do we?" Bolan replied. "Just handle it the way I told you, Jack."
"Count on that. Christ, man, watch yourself. I've been listening to the radio. The heat is on and pressures are rising."
Bolan grinned. "Like I said, Jack, things are working."
The two men shook hands and went separate ways—Grimaldi to his rotary wings and a quick return to sanctuary—Bolan to his hot wheels and an immediate return to the hell grounds.
The storm over Texas was gathering forces and this iceman was moving through the eye of it.
Very soon, now, that eye would close, thunder and lightning would walk the plains, and the war for the soul of a great state would rage throughout the land.
The Executioner was moving in for the kill.
13: ROUSTED
Lileo stood several inches taller than the Chief Enforcer of Texas. He was broad of shoulder and nipped of waist, wore his hair in the new full look— could have stepped straight from the pages of Playboy or Penthouse. A handsome man—explosive, vigorous—he was quick to laugh and quick to snarl, sell-assured, almost cocky.
Joe Quaso hated him.
The two bosses were bent over a large map of Texas which was spread across Quaso's desk, discussing in quiet tones their strategy for the night.
The apartment was aswarm with hard men, some roaming restlessly from room to room while others gathered in sullen clumps and talked of minor things or gazed vacantly into one of the five television sets in the apartment. These were tough boys, recruited with the greatest discrimination from the various jungles of the nation. Many were combat veterans of Vietnam. All were young, hard, hungry. New groups were arriving almost hourly, and the man-loading of the penthouse was reaching Its outer
limit. The glass doors to the garden terrace had been opened and that area also was brimming with bored, restless young men from around the country.
Two of Quaso's housemen were retelling for the umpteenth time the adventures of the morning, for the benefit of those in the Bolan Bunch who had just arrived from Florida. The story had grown with each recital, with the effect that the arch opponent was now being credited with near supernatural powers.
Afternoon was blending into evening and a spectacular Texas sunset had turned the skies to red fires when a harried houseman, who had been kept busy passing out sandwiches and beer, approached the desk where the two bosses laboured and announced that Mack Bolan was "on the telephone" and asking to speak to Mr. Lileo.
Quaso told his houseman to shut up and get lost and take his lousy jokes elsewhere, but the man insisted, "No sir, I think it's really him, I think it's the guy."
The two bosses exchanged glances. Lileo's eyebrows raised. He said, "Well, let's find out."
The houseman punched a button and shoved the desk phone over. Lileo winked at Quaso, picked up the instrument, and said, "This is Lileo."
A voice of cold steel told him, "Do a standard right face so I can get a good look at you."
Lileo chuckled and replied, "What, you're looking right through telephones too, eh? How do I know this is Bolan?"
"It's me," the voice assured him. "But I'm not looking at you through the phone, Lileo. I'm looking through a twenty-power. It's mounted on a four-sixty Weatherby. The back of your head is centred in the hairs and you're just about an inch below point blank for this piece, which means you'd get it just above the vertebrae. But I've heard you have a pretty face, and I'd like to see it once before I mess it up forever. Right face, please."
The Chief of the Bolan Bunch laughed again but this time it sounded a bit hollow. He said, "This is childish, guy. You're not spooking anyone."
"That's not the intent. There, that's great. You have a good, strong profile. Now do it again so I can check the colour of your eyes."
Lileo's hand closed over the mouthpiece. He snarled, "Check this joint out! You find a guy playing games with a telephone, bring me his head!"
The houseman had brought another telephone for Quaso.
A hush spread from the desk outward like ripples in a pool, engulfing the penthouse in a tense silence as the word spread that "something is up."
Grim-faced young men jostled their way through the crowds, searching for only what instincts could recognize or explain.
Quaso had a receiver to his ear and the voice was saying, "You crashing the party,
Quaso? Move a little closer and I'll have you both in a tight two-shot."
Quaso took, an uneasy step backwards.
"What the hell are you trying to pull off, guy?" Lileo asked, his voice vibrating with tension. He was gazing angrily out into space now, through the lass window and toward the nothingness of suburban Dallas at twenty stories up. .
"There, now you have it," the cold voice told him. "You're looking right at me."
"Keep him talking," Quaso whispered urgently.
"I'm looking at nothing but another building about half a mile away;" Lileo said into the phone. He said it casually, but the eyes were searching that distance out there, a gap of open space reddened by the setting sun.
"That's me," the dirty bastard said. "On the roof. But it's a little more than a half-mile. My range finder calibrates it at just a bit over nine hundred meters. Like I said, that's about an inch of trajectory-drop for the Weatherby. You'd like this piece, Lileo. Say the word and I'll show you how good it is."
Quaso cupped his phone and screamed, "Hit those drapes! Close 'em, damn it! Close the drapes!"
The guy was still talking. "I could have taken you, Lileo, at any time during the past ten minutes. You'd have never known what hit you. And they'd be cleaning your skull off that wall forever. But I'm saving you, for now."
"I think you're full of shit, guy," Lileo told him —but he was crouching now, sighing and obviously relieved that someone had finally found the handle to the damned drapes and pulled them across the window. Instincts were screaming at him to get the hell away from there, but some tenacious braggadocio would not permit him to yield to such an uncertain threat. "If you could have pumped me, you'd have pumped me. I don't buy your superman act, and I want to tell you something, guy. When I leave Dallas I'm going to have your head in a sack. Don't think you've made any points with me because of this kind of childish bullshit "
The guy said, "No points intended, Lileo. Just wanted to show you what I think of your lousy band of head-hunters. Listen to this."
The telephone instrument virtually leapt from Lileo's head as the receiving diaphragm rattled violently with an explosive report and Lileo took a dive.
His ear was ringing and he nearly blacked out for an instant from the auditory shock.
Quaso, too, flung away his telephone and sprawled to the floor, instinctively seeking the lowest horizontal level he could attain.
Another explosive report blasted through the abandoned receivers before the first hard item of confirming evidence could travel the course and a heavy bullet crashed the glass window, ripped through the drapery, and ploughed into the panelled wall above the desk like a woodsman's axe, coming in at shoulder level. And they kept coming, one upon another in a coolly calculated pattern that searched that wall right to left then top to bottom directly along the centreline above the desk.
The telephone was lying on the floor beside Lileo's head. He counted ten reports and winced with each impact, and when it was done he heard the cold voice in the receiver, "There you go, head-hunter. Welcome to the war for Texas."
Tough young men were lying all over each other in wall-to-wall cautious flesh, even in those areas far removed from the scene of destruction. Not a man in the place was on his feet.
Lileo lifted his head off the floor and snarled, "The son of a bitch!"
Quaso was staring mutely at his ruined wall. Shards of broken glass littered the area and shredded splinters of wood were still settling.
&
nbsp; Someone close by, in a voice that carried throughout the room, cried, "Jesus! Look at that! He put a cross on it. A perfect cross!"
"Through closed fucking drapes," someone added.
And thus grew again the soul-shaking legend of Mack the Bastard—half man, half demigod—the stone-cold killer who had executed more amici than all the past Mafia strife in history had accounted for.
Half a mile away, an entirely human being carefully disconnected his lineman's phone from a roof patch, stowed a tripod-mounted rifle in a shoulder bag, and made his withdrawal to a new line in the hell grounds.
Pendleton, Don - Executioner 018 - Texas Storm. Page 8