There was no escape, but every moment he survived beneath that shadow counted as another victory, a blow against his enemies. If he could somehow reach Los Angeles alive and testify, his life — and death — might count for something.
At the very least, Aguire knew that he would be remembered.
And the thought gave him no comfort whatsoever.
7
The room was decorated in a style that Johnny Bolan thought of as Motel Traditional: beige walls that needed scrubbing or a fresh coat of pain; a nubby carpet that hadn't been cleaned since installation; K-Mart reproductions of some famous paintings on the walls, offset by one of Jesus that appeared to be clipped out of a religious magazine. The garish flowered bedspreads clashed with everything in sight, and charcoal worms, produced by unattended cigarettes, had scarred the genuine synthetic hardwood furniture. A Gideon Bible shared one of the nightstands with an ashtray advertising Michelob. Inside the tiny bathroom, Johnny had found the plastic glasses wrapped in crinkly cellophane and the toilet that was banded with a strip of paper proclaiming that the bowl was Sanitized for Your Protection.
"Home, sweet home," he told the empty room and set to work.
His brother and Aguire were in room thirteen, where all three would spend the night. Johnny had been sent to make room six look "lived in," banking on the Executioner's hunch that any hostile visitors would have to split their forces, checking out both rooms to guarantee a sweep. It made good sense, but the young man was hoping they could pass the night without a confrontation. They'd traveled some four hundred and twenty miles that day, and he was ready for a good night's sleep.
Fat chance.
There would be sentry duty, off and on throughout the night. But first, with any luck, there would be food. His stomach growled, reminding him that they had eaten nothing since the stop in Georgia, hours earlier.
He stripped the covers back on matching double beds and formed the pillows into shapes that would — he hoped — approximate human forms in semidarkness, when the caller had no time to pick and choose his targets. Johnny turned the television on, its volume low but audible to someone standing just outside the door. The curtains had been drawn, and Johnny crossed to the bathroom in semidarkness. He turned on the overhead light and left the door ajar. It would, he thought, provide an extra touch of realism for a midnight caller, forcing the guy to hurry if he thought one of his targets was up and about.
Johnny checked the room once more, left the key on the dresser and closed the self-locking door behind him. If they passed the night without an incident, the maid could use her passkey in the morning. He'd let her puzzle out the placement of the pillows and the television playing to an empty room. She would discuss it with the manager, no doubt, and by the time they put their heads together on the problem. Johnny and his fellow travelers would be miles away.
First, however, they'd have to make it through the night.
The sky was darkening from dusk to night as Johnny made his way back toward thirteen. He scanned the motel parking lot and found a new addition, parked outside of number nine. The pickup had a custom tarp across its bed, an empty gun rack in the window and it carried Louisiana plates. A decal in the lower left-hand corner of the windshield proclaimed the driver's membership in something called the Second Amendment Foundation. A whip antenna mounted on the bumper told Johnny there'd be a CB radio inside the truck.
He knocked at number thirteen, slipped inside and let his brother close the door behind him.
"Finished?"
Johnny nodded. "It won't rate a cover story in House Beautiful but it should do the job."
"We have a new arrival."
"Number nine? I saw."
"Two men," the warrior told him. "Thirties. Light on luggage, one a little shorter than the other."
"Any flickers?"
"Not a one. If they're on us, they've had at least one acting lesson."
"I could check it out," Johnny suggested. "A little blade work on their tires, and I can drop in like a helpful neighbor, scope their room for hardware."
"Never mind. If they're with us, we've seen it coming. Otherwise, I'd like to minimize our contact with civilians."
"Fair enough, but we'll need contact with a restaurant before much longer. There's a couple places up the highway selling chicken and ribs."
"In a minute." Bolan moved toward the door. "I need to make a phone call."
"Fair enough." Johnny checked his watch. "Ten minutes do it?"
"I think so."
"Right. I'll see you in eleven, one way or another."
"Negative. Our passenger's the top priority. He doesn't leave the room tonight, and we don't leave him on his own."
"If you run into trouble…"
"I can handle it."
"Okay."
No doubt on that score, Johnny thought. Whatever happened, brother Mack could handle it.
* * *
In number nine, the lookouts lay on separate beds, a six-pack split between them. The portable TV was tuned to Wheel of Fortune, with the sound turned off.
"I still think we could take them by ourselves."
"No good," Arnie Norris replied. "They split their forces. That means splitting ours, and I'll remind you that there's only two of us."
"There's only three of them," Claude countered stubbornly.
"I know that, Claude. But any way you slice it, one of us is going to be facing two men…"
"I'm not scared of…"
"And the other will be standing there without a stitch of cover when their two men finish with our one."
"If we surprise them…"
"Claude, I'm telling you that we've got people on the way. We're under orders. Someone isn't going to be happy if they get here and we've fucked things up."
He didn't have to spell out who the «someone» was. Claude scowled and took another hit of beer, swallowing any further protests. Norris set his beer aside and took his Colt Commander form the nightstand. He pulled the magazine then replaced it after double-checking the weapon's load.
"What kind of heat you think they're packing, Arnie?"
"I don't know. The normal cop stuff, I suppose."
"You figure.38s and shotguns?"
"I imagine so."
"Suppose they got a couple Ingrams in there, Arnie?"
"Don't you worry. With our backup coming, we'll have all the shit we need. The dragon's sending down eight men, and I don't reckon they'll be coming empty-handed."
"Who's in charge?" Claude asked.
It hadn't come up on the phone, and Arnie frowned. "We did the groundwork. Any credit for the operator, seems to me we've got the main share in the bag."
"Those other boys might not agree."
"They ought to know that this is business, Claude."
"Damn right."
Pat Sajak filled the TV screen, lips moving silently, and Norris raised the.45 to draw a bead between his eyes. "So sorry, Pat," he said, grinning, "you've just been canceled."
"Arnie?"
"Yeah?"
"You figure those two boys are FBI?"
"I wouldn't mind."
"That's heat, for damn sure, if they are."
"A million dollars helps to cool things off."
"I guess."
"You getting nervous, Claude?"
"Just thinking."
"That's your first mistake."
"So funny I forgot to laugh."
"I mean it. You can think a job to death before you ever make a move. Start worrying about all kinds of shit, and then, first thing you know, you've got yourself convinced you shouldn't do the job at all."
"It's not like that."
"I hope not, Claude. Because the dragon will be mighty disappointed if you let him down."
"Don't worry. I'll be right there with you when it hits the fan."
"I know that, Claude. We have to stick together. We're a team."
For now, Norris thought, but he kept the postscript to himself. When they w
ere finished with the evening's work and he was paid, when he had earned his brownie points with men who mattered, Arnie meant to chart himself a new direction, find himself a new horizon. Beating on the drum for white supremacy was one thing, and he liked his work, but it was time for him to grow, make something of himself. He needed room to breathe, and it was getting rather claustrophobic in the Klan. The outside jobs, commissioned by their dragon, had provided Arnie with a new perspective on the world, and he was looking forward to the break.
Soon, now.
The screen was taken over by commercials, and he aimed his pistol at a Jewish-looking housewife selling laundry soap.
"So sorry."
* * *
Brognola's secretary caught him on the threshold, hat in hand.
"Line one, sir."
Doubling back, the big Fed closed the office door behind him, crossed to his desk and lifted the receiver. "Yes?"
"I'm on an open line. You clear?"
"Should be, but keep your twenty quiet, just in case."
"We changed the route."
"I heard. It was a good idea."
"Anything at your end?"
"Someone bagged the decoy."
"Damn!"
"Roger that."
"What happened?"
"FAA's still picking up the pieces, but it looks like plastique, set to blow at thirty thousand feet."
There was a moment's silence on the other end, and Brognola could picture Bolan turning over options in his mind, deciding whether the attack increased Aguire's danger or diminished it.
"Will they believe they tagged their pigeon?"
"For a while, I hope. That's guesswork, mind you. Mr. DEA still doesn't know how bad he's leaking, or from where."
"What kind of shop's he running over there?"
"The best he can, all things considered."
"I don't buy it, Hal. It shouldn't take an army to protect one man."
"Have there been any problems?"
"Not yet. It's early, but I'm hoping we can pull it off."
"If you agree. I'll mobilize a team and have them meet you. This fiasco with the decoy changes things."
"Not really. I'm convinced we have a better chance without the fanfare. Anyway, if DEA has leaks on this one…"
Bolan didn't finish the sentence, but Brognola got the message, loud and clear. It stung, but he couldn't deny its basic truth.
"I gave some thought to that myself. I've got no answer for it."
"Then we shouldn't ask the question."
"I'm sorry that I roped you in on this."
"You made an offer. I accepted. No one got roped into anything."
"I hate it when you make things easy on me."
The warrior chuckled softly. "I'll remember that. And now, I'm out of time."
"You'll keep in touch?"
"If possible." He lingered for a moment on the line, then added, "If we blow it, I expect you'll get the word through channels."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, guy."
"Okay. I'll see you."
"Bet your ass."
The line went dead, and Brognola replaced the receiver in its cradle. It was obvious that Bolan was anticipating trouble. Leaks at the DEA would soon confirm that Vos had tagged a decoy, rather than Aguire. Once that information registered, the hunt would be reactivated with a vengeance — hell, it could be underway already, even as he stood there wasting time.
Brognola shrugged his coat off, stripped the cellophane from a cigar and sat down at his desk. A moment earlier he'd been homeward bound, but it would have to wait. There were channels of investigation to be followed, buttons to be pushed and contacts to be made. He needed information on the inner workings of the DEA, and with a bit of luck, a phone call to the Farm should do the trick.
The big Fed punched out a number for the common room at Stony Man Farm, nestled in the scenic Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia to the south. As always, the phone was answered on the second ring.
"What's shaking, boss?"
"The whole world, Aaron. Can you help me out?"
"We aim to please."
"I need to take a quiet look inside the DEA."
* * *
"We're almost there. Another six or seven miles."
"Great."
Jason Meyers reached down between his feet and picked an Ingram submachine gun off the Chevy's rubber floor mat. He removed the magazine to verify that it was fully loaded, flicked the safety off and checked the live round in the chamber, then finally returned the stubby weapon to the mat when he was satisfied. Behind him, he could hear the other members of the wrecking crew as they examined their own weapons, preparing for the kill.
He had selected each man personally, these and four more in the trailing car, to guarantee that nothing would go wrong. The dragon had impressed him with the magnitude of the assignment, and as the exalted cyclops of the district, Meyers was determined not to fail.
He had a reputation to protect, and there was heavy money riding on the outcome of the operation. Meyers had spent the past three years convincing brother Klansmen he was fit to lead, and while a few of them still joked about his «Jewish» name when they were liquored up, most of them had the sense to wait until his back was turned.
His last raid had turned his life around, and it was worth the scars he carried from his confrontation with the Muslim, with the hideout razor. Scars were almost mandatory for a self-styled warrior, and his elevation to the post of Cyclops was assured when the incumbent started serving eight years federal time for manufacturing explosives. Careless, that, but who would tip the FBI that it should check old Howard's basement for the evidence?
Who else, other than his new replacement on the team?
Meyers felt no guilt about the phone call, knowing in his heart that he'd done the Klan a favor. By the time he went on trial, old Howard had been drinking heavily and topping off his booze supply with money skimmed from dues. Instead of working hard against the blacks and Jews who ran the country, Howard had been working on his liver with a steady stream of sour mash and showing up for Klavern meetings with a load on half the time. It had been damned embarrassing for everyone.
With Jason Meyers in charge, the Klan was moving forward, making progress once again. His raid against the Shreveport Muslims had been small potatoes by comparison with what he had lined up for the congressional elections in the fall. With any luck, he might be putting on the Wizard's purple robe before long.
First things first, however. This night's work was special, on behalf of an important client who supplied the Klan with arms and outside muscle work from time to time. He was a foreigner, of course, but still an anti-Communist, and he was paying cash. A million dollars on the barrel head, of which a solid five percent was earmarked for the leader of the team that made the score.
Meyers had been counting dollar signs all afternoon and waiting for the call from Arnie Norris that would bring him closer to the payoff. He could smell it now, intoxicating him with its nearness. Fifty thousand dollars, paid in cash, untouched by the greedy IRS.
And all he had to do was kill a man, or watch while one was killed.
Correction, three men.
Two were escorts, probably from Washington. They might be U.S. Marshals, FBI — whatever. It was all the same to Meyers, with fifty thousand dollars riding on the line. The Feds had served his purpose once, removing Howard from his post as cyclops, but that didn't mean they were his friends. If anything, the guilty link between them made Meyers hate his benefactors all the more. As stooges of the Zionist Occupational Government, the escorts were fair game for any Klansman with an itchy trigger finger.
"Pull over here," he said impulsively.
"What's wrong?"
"There's nothing wrong. Just stop the car."
He had a sudden inclination to address the troops, and ten more minutes wouldn't matter in the scheme of things. Their pigeons weren't going anywhere tonight.
Except, perhaps, to eterna
l hell.
* * *
"We need to talk," Mack Bolan said when he'd closed the motel door behind him.
"Problems?" Johnny said.
"Could be. Vos tagged the decoy."
"Jesus. How?"
"Hal hasn't got a clue. Looks like the same leak at the DEA."
"What's our time frame to exposure?"
"That's another question mark. Pratt means to play it straight, but since we don't know where the leak is, there's a chance we might be blown already."
"So much for security."
"It could be worse. We're better than a hundred miles off-route. If someone pried our schedule out of Pratt, they should be looking south, along the Gulf."
"Good thing we changed the plates."
"It might not be enough," Aguire said, surprising the other two men.
"We're listening," Johnny encouraged.
"I know the way Vos works. He has eyes everywhere. Not only dealers, but police and politicians, judges, 'honest' businessmen. It's impossible to hide forever."
"We don't need forever," Bolan answered. "Just tonight, and two more days."
"A lifetime."
"Giving up already?"
"No." Aguire stiffened. "But I am prepared to die."
"Some other time. We're here to keep you breathing, and I plan to do my job."
The witness flashed a quick, ironic smile. "I wish you luck."
"All this excitement makes me hungry," Johnny quipped. "Who's game? I saw a Colonel Sanders and a Long John Silver's down the road."
"Let's make it chicken," Bolan said. "I've had my quota on the fishy smells for one day."
"Chicken all around," his brother answered. "I'll be back before you know it."
"Keep your eyes peeled, little brother."
"That's affirmative."
The door clicked shut, and the Executioner turned on the television set. He found the evening news in progress, but the program had moved on to sports and weather bulletins, its segment on the national and local news complete. He turned if off and made a mental note to try again around eleven.
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