The feeling of being one man alone against the world came through strongly to him again. It was more intense than ever; it kept him sharper and more on his toes. It made his combat skills vital to his existence. At times he felt like a mouse in a meadow filled with hungry wildcats, hawks and coyotes.
It all made him more determined than ever to continue the fight until he had either won each individual battle or perished in his best attempt.
However, there was zero margin for error.
She saw him glance at her and smiled.
"Still wondering if you made the right decision to team up with me? I am sure you did, Mack. We can work well together, and when this is over, we will decide what comes next. Until then we must be a team, operate as a military unit. We must defend each other, protect each other, think alike. True, I saved your life an hour ago, but next it may be your turn to save mine. We do not know yet just what we face up here."
Bolan nodded, realizing what she said on the surface and for the mission was true. Trust and support as on any team. But he must never forget whom she worked for.
Bolan breathed deeply and tried to relax his hands on the wheel. He sat back in the driver's seat and put his left hand at the bottom center of the wheel. It was less tension-producing that way.
He blinked and shook his head. There was no time for sleep now. He could go for at least forty-eight hours without sleep, but only if he concentrated. The mind could force the body to obey, but only if that mind was strong enough. Bolan's was. He concentrated and the sleep need faded, and he was in total command again.
It had not always been that way. He had joined the army early in the Vietnam conflict, not content to wait to be drafted, eager to get the battle won and the boys home again. In the Army he had excelled in basic training and soon joined the Special Forces and trained to be a paratrooper, sniper and underwater expert. He had ranked first or second in every school he attended.
In Vietnam he had refined his natural combat sense and quickly became a specialist in missions behind enemy lines. During his tours of duty in Nam he had won the Bronze Star, two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star.
He developed into an expert assassin who could penetrate Cong defenses and camps to waste high military officials. He was a deathbringer. His true nature as a natural combatman surfaced at once in Nam. He had been labeled with the title of "Executioner" in that far-off land when he completed his long string of successful kills of Vietcong and North Vietnamese officers. They lost track after ninety-seven such missions.
But he was also known among the civilians of Vietnam as "Sergeant Mercy," because of his genuine and deep-seated concern for the country's civilians. He understood that they were the real victims of that total war. He went out of his way to safeguard the locals and often did it at a high risk to his own life.
While in Vietnam he exposed and wiped out a blackmarket and extortion ring that three American GIs were running in Tran Ninh province.
Then his father died by his own hand, and Bolan flew home on an emergency leave only to find that his father had not only killed himself, but Bolan's sister, Cindy, and their mother. Only Bolan's younger brother, Johnny, survived. The root cause of it all was the Mob. That began the Executioner's long war against the Mafia, which lasted for thirty-eight blood-drenched campaigns.
Then the thrust of his efforts changed. Not really by choice. Some said he had had a choice. However, five federal agencies wanted his scalp on a platter and police in twenty-one states and hundreds of local jurisdictions had arrest warrants for him.
The Man said Bolan had a choice. He could continue his war against the Mafia and know his odds of capture were running thin, or he could come in out of the cold and work for the U.S. government. Quickly he had a presidential pardon, which was and would remain top secret.
The federal people had orchestrated a violence-filled, fiery death for Mack Bolan in New York City's Central Park. Plastic surgery followed, giving him a different look, and he was provided with a completely new identity and background.
The Phoenix program was started with Stony Man Farm as its command center. He was Colonel John Phoenix, U.S. Army, retired. Hell, for a while there Bolan had felt great not being a wanted man anymore, having some clout and respect as a full-bird colonel and not always being on the run.
Then the undeniable will and power of the KGB had won a round with the attack on the Farm and the death of April Rose. The Soviet terror machine had created a Colonel John Phoenix double and staged a political assassination in public of an important European labor leader.
Then John Phoenix was definitely identified as the killer. Even the U.S. authorities suspected Bolan had made the hit. It was done that well. At once Bolan was cut off from government sanction and was actively sought as a rebel, a turncoat, an outlaw who had turned against his country and doublecrossed the generosity, the wisdom and the orders of Uncle Sam.
Once more. Mack Bolan was a fugitive.
Mack Bolan was free to do battle with any enemy he chose. He did not take assignments from the government to fight terrorists. He could aim his wrath and vengeance at anyone, anywhere, at any time. And high on his hit list was the KGB and its thousands of operatives. Those terrormongers who had cut down April Rose would always be his number-one enemy.
And he had targets. While in Russia he had obtained a list of KGB agents, their operations and activities in every country in the world. But now he was sitting beside a KGB agent, cooperating with one. For a while.
But for all the changes, the battle the Executioner fought was still the same: a life-and-death struggle against fear and frustration brought on by the continuing, unrelenting fight against the enemy — Animal Man in all his manifestations.
Bolan had to endure, and at the same time as a thinking individual he had to justify his motives and his actions. But over and through it all came the ultimate factor: in order to fight and win against evil, he had first to survive. That was the ultimate factor — survival. Without that, there was simply the ending, the blackness of death, the long sleep with no dreams.
Bolan shook his head, breathed deeply again and checked the summertime midafternoon highway ahead of him. Empty. Little traffic. They were now climbing gradually into the hills. They would climb two thousand feet as they went. It was cooler already as they came into the first of the tall pines.
The Executioner glanced at his companion. Kitty had put her head against the seat back and slept. Her face in repose was vulnerable. Gone was the sternness, the hard quality that he had found so characteristic of people in her line of work. Her brows twitched with REM and Bolan wondered what she was dreaming about.
One hour later, Bolan pulled the car into an isolated roadside cafe. It would get little traffic, and the owners would be on duty as long as it was open. They might have heard something, seen something. Besides, he was hungry. As soon as thecar slowed, Kitty awoke with nogrogginess. Her hand fell to her purse and she glanced at him.
"Trouble?"
Bolan shook his head. "Only hunger pangs. Lunch?"
"Yes, and we can make some subtle probings about..." She paused and laughed softly. "I am sorry. You obviously thought of that while I was sleeping. I will not try to direct our operation." She frowned slightly. "But on important matters, I expect consultation, input and approval before we move."
Bolan stopped the car at the wooden-rail fence in front of the cafe and nodded. "I'll always do that, especially when you're dead to the world."
"Mack, you may be a difficult person to work with."
"True, but then I tend to reflect the personalities of those I'm teamed with. Consultation: shall we have something to eat?"
She nodded, smiling. "I concur, but only if it is a hamburger or something truly American."
The little eatery had six stools along the counter and three booths crowded in the corner. Bolan and Kitty chose a booth. Hamburgers were on the top of the menu, painted on a board over the window into the kitchen. A woman in
her thirties grabbed a couple of glasses, filled them with ice water and came over, a big smile on her ruddy face.
"Hello, folks. Shore glad you stopped by. Y'all want coffee now while you pick out your supper?"
"Yes, that would be fine," Bolan said. Kitty looked at him in surprise. When the waitress left, Kitty whispered to Bolan.
"That is a Deep South accent. What is she doing this far to the West."
"It's a free country, remember? Our people are not tied down to one section or region or job. You must have learned that."
"Yes, of course. Still, it does seem strange."
They both had New York-cut steak dinners, deciding they might not be able to eat again for a long time. As they waited for their meal, Bolan talked to the waitress-cook who was also half owner of the cafe.
"Yep, we get a few semis through here now and then. This ain't what you'd call the main road to Phoenix, know what I mean? And you say you're on this special treasure hunt trying to follow a big semi Kenworth tractor. Hey, I know Kenworth. My ex-man drives one. His has a sleeper. That's why he's my ex. He kept picking up them high-school runaway girls and shared his sleeper with them. But I shore don't remember no Kenworth and a small Japanese man driving through here. Lordy, I ain't seen me a flattop haircut in ten years, more or less."
When the steaks came they were tender and rare, with red juices running out with each knife cut. Bolan watched Kitty eating. She looked up at him.
"Yes, all right, I love steak. We do not get much at home. I must admit that your common people eat much better than ours. We just think other things are more important."
"Bombs, not butter," Bolan said. She shrugged and went back to the steak. She finished the meal well before he did, eating every scrap on her plate. Bolan paid the check, and they walked back to the car. A road sign showed that they were still ten miles from Clints Well.
"Strategy," Kitty said as soon as she sat in the car. "What exactly do you suggest we do in this next village?"
"Find the truck."
"How?"
"How would you do it, KGB expert?"
"That would depend on how big the town is."
"My guess is a filling station, five stores and about twenty houses. We'll have to wait and see."
"Then we casually ask questions about the semi and trailer."
"Sounds reasonable. How did you get this far tracking Dunning?"
She looked at him a moment and shrugged. "We watched his apartment in Houston. He left hurriedly one morning, and we lost him in traffic. We returned to his apartment, questioned the cleaning lady thoroughly, and we found some old letters and trash that led us to Winslow."
"And the cleaning lady?"
"She... she had an accident."
"With Niki's help, I'll bet." Bolan's mouth tightened. For a long moment he wanted to break his word and not cooperate with this killer. He wanted to lash out, to make Kitty look the same way April Rose had — so still, so limp, so forever taken away from him. The Executioner gripped the wheel tightly, and then the emotional surge was past.
He glanced at her as he drove and she nodded.
"Again I think you made the right decision just now, about continuing to cooperate," she said. "Our work must always be on a nonpersonal basis, and it cannot take into account our private lives. We should think only of our governments.''
Bolan started to say something, then decided against it. First he would find Dunning, then he would deal with the KGB.
Clints Well was a small village. There were only two stores, a filling station and twenty-odd vacation cabins scattered in the hills. Bolan parked in front of the general store. He'd seen many just like it in some of the smallest towns and crossroads of the country. And in the best tradition, this one had an overhanging porch to shield those on the boardwalk. Six wooden chairs sat lined up against the front wall, and three were occupied by the town's old-timers. Bolan figured they would be the best information source in the county.
"Let's split up. That tractor trailer would stand out like a stagecoach here. I'll take the old-timers. See you back here in ten minutes."
Kitty nodded, gripped her purse with the strap securely over the shoulder and entered the general store.
Bolan climbed the steps and pointed to the empty chair next to one of the men. The old-timer, whom Bolan guessed to be about seventy, touched the peak of his railroad cap with one finger and shrugged. The Executioner sat down, leaned the chair back against the wall, then folded his hands on his chest and relaxed.
Five minutes later the old man beside Bolan, sighed. "Goin' far?"
"Nope."
"Wife buying some stuff, I guess?"
"Likely."
"Not a big talker, are you?"
"Not usually."
"You lost?"
"Do I look lost?"
"Yes. And a stranger. We don't get many strangers here on purpose. Had one yesterday. Trying to find Phoenix."
"I'm not lost, but I did lose something up here. A truck."
"That so?" the second old man asked.
"True. Big highway diesel with a thirty-foot trailer."
"Hard rig to lose."
"Somebody hijacked it."
"Figures. Worth a lot. You say it was a Jimmy or a Reo?"
"Nope. A Kenworth. You see one the past few days?"
"Yep. Logging rig, lots of log trucks up here. Southwest Logging Company kills a lot of ponderosa pine hereabouts."
Bolan played the waiting game.
"You see a Kenworth with a thirty-foot trailer?" Bolan asked.
"Yep."
"Red paint job?" Bolan asked.
"Nope, a sissy-green. But mebbe the hijacker had her repainted."
"She still around?"
"Not by a damn sight. Our deputy sheriff gave the sucker a ticket for illegal parking. Cost him forty-five bucks plus twenty costs. Guy driving her made a lot of noise about us having a ticket trap in a nothing town. Said they never did this over in Pine. That cost him a hundred for contempt. After that he ramrodded that rig out of town and almost got himself a speeding ticket. Biggest damn case we had here in three, four months."
"Was the driver a Japanese with a flattop haircut?"
"Well, now. How did you know that? Yessiree, he was. And he lit out screaming that he was glad to be out of our town."
Bolan let the chair fall forward on all four legs. He stood slowly and stretched. "I better move over toward Pine. That little Oriental is going to get himself in a lot more trouble. Thanks, men, for your help."
The old men smiled. The blue eyes of the first one were half clouded by a growing white film. "Young feller, you just more than welcome, You drive safe and come back and see us sometime, y'hear?"
The hint of a smile touched Bolan's mouth. It would be good to sit there on the boardwalk, chair tipped back against the wall and watch the world go by.
Yeah.
7
Mack Bolan wondered why it all had been so easy as he lay in the grass of a high-country valley and looked through light timber at a thirty-foot aluminum trailer at the edge of the campground.
He and Kitty had driven the twenty miles to Pine, which had over a thousand year-round residents and in the summer three times that many. The Japanese man, his semi and thirty-foot trailer had stopped in the town's two biggest gas stations and asked the same question. He wanted diesel fuel and wanted to find a local campground. In each station he got into an argument with the workers. At one place it almost ended in a fight. Everyone remembered the guy with the green Kenworth and the big trailer.
Both times the attendants told Yamaguchi where the camp called Pine Valley was located, about a mile on out the highway and below the Mogolion Rim.
Bolan studied the trailer again, then signaled for Kitty to stay down, and he ran another twenty yards forward through the timber and faded behind a tall tree. The trailer sat just ahead at the end of a private campground.
There was only one other camper, a tent at the far end, a q
uarter of a mile away. The tractor was nowhere in sight. Bolan saw no activity around the trailer. A set of steps stood at the rear of the rig, and the back door was closed.
He lifted the Ingram and charged toward the goal, this time moving thirty yards. He hit a trip wire just before he made it to his target pine. When he realized what he had done, he dived and rolled to the tree, protecting the submachine gun against his gut.
Five seconds after he kicked the wire, a mind-jarring explosion tore through the silence of the high pine country, blasting a hole in the stillness.
Bolan pushed his forehead into the pine needles as he listened for the singing of shrapnel from the blast, but there was none. Strange. He was not even scratched.
The Executioner ran again toward the trailer. This time he didn't feel the thin copper wire break as his foot rammed through it. The strand of metal let fall a half-pound weight that activated a spring, which in turn pulled the trigger back on an M-16 automatic rifle fifteen yards from Bolan. The weapon fired straight up into the air until the 20-round magazine went dry.
He looked behind and saw Kitty running forward, her Luger up and ready as she darted from tree to tree.
The trailer was in plain view now, less than thirty yards ahead. The Executioner did not like the situation. Where had the opposition come from? The trip wire he had hit would be a first warning. He guessed the explosion had been concussion grenades or perhaps two sticks of dynamite hung in a tree with something to trigger them. But the M-16. Who would fire twenty rounds from an M-16 without stopping?
It had to be something mechanical. A setup.
Another defensive, manless setup. Bolan snorted as he got up and raced toward the rear of the trailer. He made it with no more traps, no more shooting or explosions. He flipped the handle on the tall half door and jerked it open.
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