She puffed frantically on her cigarette, not tasting anything.
The door opened and Dave appeared. "Sorry about that," he apologized with a grin.
"That's okay. I really should be going. My roommate gets hysterical when I'm late."
"Please wait," he said. But he wasn't looking at her, he was looking around the room, almost as if he could sense she'd looked through it. He nudged an open book on his desk, straightened some papers a fraction of an inch. He looked over at her, his eyes flat. "You look funny. You feel okay?"
"Shouldn't I?" she said.
"Well, it's just that you look, I don't know, scared."
"Truth is those two guys and you yelling all morning did put a little damper on the romance of the situation."
"It's just business. I do some repo work for them. Some guy has a Ferrari they want back and I've been having some trouble. They're a little pissed off, that's all. I can handle it."
"Repo work, huh. Sounds interesting."
"Not really." He walked over to the closet, opened it up. He reached in as if he were looking for a shirt, but Libby could see his eyes searching the closet, looking for signs of disturbance. He closed the closet door without taking anything out. He looked at her sadly.
Now she really was scared. She looked at her watch. "I gotta take off, Dave. Really."
He shook his head. "I guess the repo story won't work now, huh?"
"What do you mean?"
He walked toward her. "You've been snooping about in my closet, Libby. I didn't expect that of you."
"I was looking for a match. Remember." She held up her cigarette. "Didn't find any."
"But you found something else, didn't you?"
"What do you mean? I didn't find anything." Libby was having trouble swallowing. Her tongue seemed to get in the way, clog her throat.
"I thought you looked a little strange, frightened. I was hoping I was wrong."
She stood up, tried to act indignant. "Look, I don't know what you're talking about. Okay, I looked around for some matches and maybe disturbed a precious book or two. Sorry. Now I'm going."
He grabbed her wrist as she marched by and gave it a quick twist that sent her to her knees with a yelp. "You want the truth. Okay, I'm going to tell you the truth. A true story where the names haven't been changed to protect the innocent."
Tears slid from her eyes as she struggled against his grip. "I don't want to know anything, Dave. Honestly, I was just looking for a match."
"I believe you, Libby. That's the sad part. I believe you, but I can't take the chance you'd tell anyone."
"I won't," she sobbed, mucus billowing from her nose. "I swear!"
Dave sat on the floor next to her, still holding her wrist in tight lock, bending it until she was in too much pain to struggle. "You see, Libby, like most college students, I, too, have a part-time job. Some guys work as bartenders or delivery boys or tutors. I kill people. Not many, and not just anybody. Only the tough ones, the ones that are challenging to my intellect and rewarding to my bank account. Comfortable?"
She cried openly now, tears washing across her face, dripping from her chin. She shook with fear.
"How'd a sweet guy like me get into this racket? Family business you might say. My dad was in the same line, though on a much smaller scale. Taught me a lot of tricks, including how to shoot and make bombs and trace people. He was one of the best. For his time. But now we've got computers, advanced technology, laser-aimed guns. It's like he was a farmer trying to teach me how to use an ox-drawn plow in today's market."
Grady leaned against the water bed frame and looked up at the ceiling.
"A few years ago, some self-righteous crusader busted into a New Orleans safehouse where my dad was hiding out after killing some guy who was going to testify against the Mafia. My dad wiped him and his whole family out with a lousy little pipe bomb. Anyway, this crusader busts in and blasts my dad and everyone else in the house. Name was Mack Bolan."
Libby had heard the name. Her parents spoke disapprovingly of him as a vigilante. Her uncle the cop thought he was a hero, though he made her promise not to repeat that.
Dave touched her cheek gently. "You probably think I'm going to wax poetical about my old man and what a great loss he was. Wrong. He was a son of a bitch who used to beat the hell out of me for every mistake I made or didn't make. But he was my old man and I was going to kill him in my own time.
"It was what I lived for, how I survived every beating, every insult. He was big, I mean the size of a bull elephant. That's one of the things he hated about me, my size. Not manly enough. But I was smart, smarter than him. And I knew that one day I would use my brains to beat him at his own profession. He would be my first contract. But that bastard Bolan did him instead. Now it's my turn to get Bolan. It'll be almost as good. Maybe even better."
"Please, Dave," Libby begged, trembling. "Please, let me go."
"I'd like to, Lib. I really would. But it would be a bad career move. So…" He reached into the pocket of his bathrobe, pulled out a switchblade and flicked it open. The blade was long and thin. With his other hand he grabbed a handful of Libby's thick red hair, yanked her head back and plunged the knife behind her ear up into her brain.
He stood and walked to the bathroom. He put some toothpaste on his brush and began brushing his teeth. In the mirror he could see her body twitching slightly as nerves waited for the message that she was dead.
8
Bolan hurried across the parking lot of Ridgemont Academy. His clothes were stiff with dried saltwater and sand. His skin itched.
He saw Denise Portland standing next to her BMW, brushing sand from her hips and legs. Deems had already pulled out in his old tan Nova and was driving down the street, the muffler rattling. Boorman was in Major Forsythe's office calling his wife to bring the extra set of car keys. He'd lost his in the ocean when Koontz gave him that dunking. Koontz was nowhere around.
Bolan unlocked the chain he'd used to secure his Harley-Davidson motorcycle to the lightpost. Last time, he'd used phony id to rent a car but they'd still found him. He didn't want to take any chances that renting a car somehow had something to do with that young assassin finding him. So he'd bought a motorcycle from a college kid. This would be much harder to trace.
Bolan straddled the motorcycle, but didn't start it. He was thinking back on that day at the motel. The explosion. The little girls. The skinny blond assassin no more than twenty years old. But old enough to pull a trigger, old enough to kill. Which made him old enough to be killed. Bolan promised himself he would see to that.
Still, it was uncanny how quickly they'd found him. He was certain it was the Mafia. Bolan had killed Danzig in Noah South's territory, and Noah South had a reputation for sparing no expense in making examples of anyone who dared to breach his territory.
One day the Executioner would pay a visit to Noah South. But right now there was the matter of Colonel Danby's death and why his son Gregg had killed him. Bolan decided he'd give it two more days. For two days he could dodge the Mafia and the CIA. Unless he came up with something by then, he'd have to clear out.
Major Forsythe had promised he'd call them that evening with his decision. He expected the winner to start the next day. After all, the students had to prepare for upcoming war games and they'd already lost a week due to this damned inconvenience.
"Get lost," Denise Portland said loudly.
Bolan looked up and saw Koontz standing between her and her car. He was grinning, though his face looked a little lopsided from the beating he'd taken. She didn't look scared, merely weary and annoyed.
"Come on, kid," Koontz said. "You owe me at least one drink considering how you snookered me back there on the beach."
"The only thing I owe myself is a bath."
"You talked me into it. We can make bubbles together."
"Get out of my way, Koontz."
Koontz reached out and snagged her arm with his meaty hand.
Bolan climbed
off his motorcycle.
Koontz dragged Denise Portland toward him, his face inches from hers. She twisted her arm free from him and stepped back.
"Stronger than you look," he said, impressed. "Maybe you like to play rough?"
"Trouble?" Bolan said, walking between them.
"Nothing I can't handle," she said.
"Well, lookee here. The guy who sits back and watches everybody else fight. Come over for a closer look?"
Bolan stared into Koontz's menacing face. "Not much to see."
"Maybe you'd like to try me and see? Huh, asshole? Come on. Take a shot." He tapped his finger on his chin, providing Bolan with a target. "Let's see what you got."
Denise Portland reached for her car door. "Why don't you boys settle it over there? I've only got three more payments on this car and I've gone this long without any dents or dings."
Koontz brushed her roughly aside. "Why don't you just shut up? Didn't no one ever tell you that a woman should be seen and not heard?"
"No one over ten years old."
Koontz smacked her across the face. He'd been too fast for her to avoid the blow completely, but she did react quickly enough to roll with it. Bolan was impressed. She knew what she was doing.
But so did Koontz. And without Major Forsythe around, he had a few dirty tricks she wasn't prepared for. He grabbed a handful of her long dark hair. Bolan started for him, but the gun came out from under Koontz's jacket with a practiced draw. He shoved the barrel into Bolan's stomach. "Want some, big man? Wanna show the lady how tough you are?"
Bolan didn't move. The gun was a Sterling 400S, made of stainless steel and holding a clip of eight .22-caliber bullets. Not much of a weapon, but pressed against Bolan's navel that way, it was enough.
Denise Portland struggled to loosen Koontz's grip from her hair. Most women would have tried to scratch the hand or to kick out at the man's crotch. Portland knew better. She went right for the pinkie, grabbing it and pulling it back until Bolan heard the snap of the knuckle breaking. Koontz winced, but didn't loosen his grip. Instead he whipped her headfirst into the door of her BMW. The door buckled on impact and she sank to her knees, dazed.
"Now you got a dent," he said. He looked down at his finger. It bent out at an odd angle. "Crooked as a dog's hind leg," he said, grinning. He nudged Denise Portland with his foot. "I'm thinking you and me should get in this fancy breadbox of yours and drive on over to my place." He nudged her again. "What do you think, honey?"
She looked up at him, her eyes glazed, a dark bruise at the top of her forehead. She tried to get up, seemed to lose her balance. Tried again, fell forward against Koontz's leg.
Then suddenly she was moving like a whip. She yanked the cuff of his pantleg, pulling his left leg out from under him. Koontz fell back against the car, the gun now away from Bolan's stomach.
The Executioner was now free to move. And move he did. His fists flew into Koontz's face like a swarm of vampire bats. They chipped away at his cheeks and nose until there was nothing left of the face but a swampy mush of blood and flesh. Portland tried to twist the gun free from his hand, but it went off before she finally wrestled it loose.
Koontz lay unconscious across the hood of the BMW. Bolan grabbed Koontz's shirt in a fist and pulled him off, letting him fall face first onto the pavement. They heard the crunch of his nose flattening on impact.
"That was quite a chance you took," Bolan said to her.
She shrugged. "Not really. He had the gun in your stomach, not mine."
"Good point."
She ran her fingers along the dent in her car door. "Damn!" She climbed into her car and stuck the keys into the ignition.
"Sure, glad to help," Bolan said. "Don't mention it."
She lowered the window. "Everything was under control until you came along. That's when he had to show how macho he was."
"My mistake," Bolan said.
"Yes, it was. I can take care of myself without any help." She turned the key. The motor sputtered. She tried again. And again. Nothing.
Bolan crooked a finger at her to get out. She did. He pointed to the hole in her hood where Koontz's stray bullet had punched through the metal.
"Want some help?"
She sighed.
* * *
When they climbed off the motorcycle her hair was a tangled heap that made her look even more beautiful than before. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, her eyes a little watery from squinting. Yet somehow it made her look woodsy, like a woman living in a cabin in the forest, capable and strong.
On the seat of the motorcycle was an outline of sand where she had sat.
"I guess I could spare a cup of coffee," she said.
"Guess I could choke one down," Bolan answered.
She looked at him and laughed. "Okay, I'll stop being the Wicked Bitch of the West. Sometimes you go for a job where you know they're already prejudiced against you, you've got to play it tough. You understand?"
"You did fine."
She shrugged. She led him up the stairs of an old pink apartment house called Wanderly Arms. The place had a faded charm to it, old but clean. Gigantic palm trees shaded the building from both sides. She unlocked the door and walked in. "Don't expect much," she said as he followed her in.
She was right. There was no furniture to speak of, just a sleeping bag in the middle of the living room. A telephone next to it. A small combination TV/radio/cassette player with a five-inch screen. A stack of tapes sat next to it. "Redecorating?" Bolan asked.
"Just moved in. I heard about the job in San Jose. Sent in my application, climbed in my Beemer and drove straight through."
"What if you don't get the job?"
"I'll get it," she said. She filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil.
"I admire your confidence."
"I've worked too hard to think anything else."
Bolan remained silent. He sat on the floor and glanced at his watch. He knew he should get back to his own rented room and wait for the phone call about the job. But being here was nice. Spartan, but nice. Denise Portland was more than a beautiful woman, she was intelligent, funny and independent. It was a while since he'd taken the time to enjoy someone's company like this. Besides, the less time he spent at his own place, the less likely he was to be discovered by the assassin.
"What's your story, Cummings?" she asked, handing him a cup of steaming instant coffee.
"Nothing much. Came out of the Army, did some private security work back East. Married, divorced, looking to start over in sunny California. The usual."
"Kids?"
"None. Someday, maybe." Bolan sipped the coffee; it was terrible. "What about you? What's your story?"
"College track star turned stunt woman for the movies. Got tired of playing rape victims tumbling downstairs." She sat down with a glass of orange juice. "What if you don't get the job?"
"If?" Bolan teased. "What happened to your famous confidence?"
She smiled. "Caught me. A chink in the lady's armor."
"If I don't get it, I'll keep looking in the area. I like it here."
The phone rang.
She looked at him and grinned. "Here it is. The One Hundred Thousand Dollar Question." She picked up the phone. "Hello?"
Bolan could hear Major Forsythe's brittle voice, though he couldn't make out any words. Denise Portland listened, her expression not revealing anything. "Yes, we decided to have a cup of coffee at my place," she finally said. "Sure. He's right here." She handed the phone to Bolan.
Bolan said, "Hello?"
"Major Forsythe here, Cummings. You start first thing in the morning, at 0700. We'll complete the paperwork then. Your first class is at 0800. I expect you to be prepared to teach. See you then." Major Forsythe hung up.
So did Bolan.
"Congratulations, Cummings. You got the job."
Bolan nodded. Whoever Hal Brognola talked into giving the recommendations must have done a first-rate job. Now that he was inside
the school, it would be easier to find out what was going on.
"You're not one given to wild outbursts of enthusiasm, are you?" she asked.
"I'm glad I got the job," Bolan said. "But I've had others, probably will have others after this one."
She looked at him sternly and he knew it was time to get out. He stood up and headed for the door. "Thanks for the coffee. Sorry about the job. Maybe I'll see you around."
"Maybe," she said with a mysterious smile.
9
"Any questions?" Bolan asked.
One boy with braces raised his hand.
"Name?" Bolan asked, looking at his clipboard with the student roster attached.
"Harwood, sir. Leonard Harwood."
"Yes, Leonard?"
"Well, sir." The youth hesitated. He looked around at the rest of the students, who stood quietly by, eighteen boys and four girls, all about sixteen or seventeen. They all wore white T-shirts and khaki shorts.
"What is it, Leonard?" Bolan prompted.
Leonard pointed at the "clothesline," the two wooden poles separated by thirty feet of one-inch manila rope stretched like a clothesline between them. Directly under the rope was a pool of water ten feet deep. "That looks pretty high, sir," Leonard said.
There was a mumbled agreement from some of the other students.
"It's almost thirty feet," Bolan said.
"Well, what I mean, sir, is that Mr. Lister never had it above eight feet."
"Why not?" Bolan asked.
"I don't know. Guess he figured it wasn't safe."
Bolan looked at the fear on their young faces as they stared up at the rope high over their heads, their eyes flicking between rope and pool, calculating the drop, speculating on injuries, envisioning failure. But Bolan had already measured the pool. It was deep enough to accommodate a drop from that height without any harm. He didn't tell them that.
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