The door of Bolan's cage slid open, and a meaty jailer used his bulk to bar the way. He held a clipboard in his hand, referring to it as he rattled off a list of names.
"McCullough. Jackson. Thorndyke. Shelton. Carlyle. Bowers."
Ritter's man was on his feet, all smiles. "Come on," he beamed. "That's us."
"What's going on?"
"We're out of here."
The soldier kept his seat. "I told you, I can't make the bail."
"It's covered," Shelton told him, "or they wouldn't call your name."
"Who's buying?"
"Wait and see."
"I've never cared much for surprises."
"Live a little, Mike. You owe it to yourself."
With feigned reluctance, Bolan followed Shelton past the scowling jailer, past the second holding pen. He caught a glance from Wilson Brown in passing, hesitated as the black man rose to face him through the bars.
"This isn't finished, whitey. I'll be seeing you again."
"Count on it," Bolan growled, and followed the grinning Bobby Shelton down the corridor toward freedom.
6
Outside the jail it was a crisp, clear midnight. Bolan wished he had taken time to fetch a jacket from his car. His car. It was a long walk back, unless...
"You coming?" Shelton asked. The Klansman was already halfway to the courthouse parking lot.
"I've got to get my wheels."
"Don't sweat it. We leave cars around the Blackboard all the time, and no one messes with them. We've got business."
"Oh? What kind?"
"You want that job we talked about, you've got to meet the man."
"Tonight?"
"Why not?"
Because he was unarmed and outnumbered — but the Executioner voiced none of those concerns. Instead, he merely shrugged and said, "Why not?"
Two cars were waiting for them in the parking lot, a station wagon and a middle-priced sedan. Their recent cellmates filled the wagon, then its driver made a sharp, illegal U-turn, taillights fading in a moment as he headed west in the direction of the Blackboard. Bobby Shelton took a seat beside the driver of the dark sedan, and Bolan sat in back.
"Where are we going?"
"Like I said, to see the man. We're going to his office."
"You expect to find him there at midnight?"
"He'll be there, don't worry." Shelton grinned at Bolan in the rearview mirror. "Don't you know a wizard never sleeps?"
"A wizard?"
"The wizard."
"I see."
"Not just yet. But you will."
Fifteen minutes in sparse midnight traffic, the dark sedan winding past storefronts and offices, all closed for the night. Bolan ticked off the streets as they passed, burning the names in his memory, filing the route away for future reference. He might be coming back this way again without a tour guide. For all he knew, he might be walking home.
Except he had no home in Little Rock — or Parrish, either, for that matter. Finding a room had taken second place to contact with the enemy, and he would have to look for one after his unscheduled interview. Assuming they didn't spot him as a ringer instantly, see through his cover like a pane of glass and solve the problem with a bullet in his brain. He had no backup this time, no weapons but his own two hands if it came down to killing in the next few hours. He was vulnerable, and he knew it.
It was not a pleasant feeling.
Shelton's destination was an office building that had obviously seen better days. A mile or so from downtown, the structure occupied a corner lot, with entrances on the north and west. Its neighbors were a Laundromat, a one-stop market and the office of a "painless dentist," who appeared to specialize in dentures for the toothless poor; on his plate-glass window his credit terms were euphemistically described as "reasonable."
Bolan followed Bobby Shelton through the north entrance, while the driver waited in the car outside. The lobby was illuminated by an ancient ceiling fixture that created more shadows than it dissipated.
"Stairs," his guide decided. "Elevator's too damned slow."
Six flights, three floors. Then a corridor with threadbare carpeting and doors on either side. Outside one door, halfway down on Bolan's left, stood Shelton's companion from the Blackboard.
"How'd it go?" the sentry asked.
"No sweat."
"All right."
The office waiting room was every bit as dingy as the outer corridor. A secretary's desk sat unattended facing half a dozen plastic chairs, which apparently had been designed without thought to comfort. Light was visible behind the frosted glass of Mason Ritter's door, a sign of life within the inner sanctum.
"Take a load off," Shelton offered, waving at the plastic chairs. "I have to let him know we're here."
The Executioner sat down and was surprised to find the chair even less comfortable than it looked. With minor alterations, it could have served the Inquisition. Shelton crossed the anteroom, knocked once on Ritter's door and waited for the wizard's summons. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and stood framed in silhouette against the frosted glass. Bolan heard the murmur of voices but couldn't make out their words.
Five minutes passed, and then another five, before the Klansman reappeared. "You're up."
As Bolan entered, the brains of the Teutonic Knights was lighting a cigar. He blew an aromatic smoke cloud toward the ceiling, waved the new arrival toward another of the space-age plastic chairs.
"Mr. Bowers... can I call you Mike? You did all right back at the Blackboard," Ritter said by way of introduction.
"Not so good. I didn't need another bust."
"It happens. Let it go." The wizard studied Bolan for a moment, measuring him with his eyes. "I'm Mason Ritter. Name mean anything to you?"
"I'm new in town."
"How new is new?"
The soldier checked his watch. "About six hours."
"Where you staying?"
"Nowhere yet."
"First thing in town, you hit a bar?"
"Not any bar. The grapevine told me I might make connections at the Blackboard."
"Grapevine's useful sometimes. Other times it trips you up and dumps you on your ass."
"It wouldn't be the first time."
"Understand you're looking for a job."
"Depends."
"You've got a military background? Special Forces?"
Bolan nodded, waiting.
"But you had a bit of trouble." It was not a question this time. "Trouble with a nigger officer."
"That's right."
"I like to think I'm a decent judge of men," the wizard said. "Unless I miss my guess, that general discharge ain't the only trouble you've been in because of niggers."
"You could say that."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Why?"
"You need a job; I need a man who fits my needs. I don't go in for hiring strangers."
Bolan shrugged. "I've done some time. A three-spot at MacAlester."
"What charge?"
"Attempted murder."
"Don't be bashful."
Bolan glanced around the office, feigning hesitation. "Listen, if you don't hire ex-cons, okay. Don't waste my time."
"Go easy, boy. I never judge a man until I know his story."
"I was in a bar, all right? I had a few too many. Or a lot too many. Either way, these spades were waiting when I started for my car. Four of them. Liquor slows reaction time, you know? They got my wallet — forty, fifty dollars and some plastic — and they worked me over pretty good before a squad car happened by. They were identified, but you know how it goes, one thing and then another. I was waiting for the bastards when they posted bail."
"You said attempted murder."
"They got lucky."
"Jesus Christ, I sometimes wonder what this country's coming to." The wizard shook his head in evident disgust. "Time was, the streets were safe for decent folk. A thing like that sounds more like self-defense."
"The D.A. saw it differently."
"Was he a white man?"
"More or less. He called himself Levinsky."
"Ah."
The Klansmen shared a knowing glance, commiserating at the fate of Aryans adrift in a world controlled by blacks and Jews. Behind a rising cloud of smoke, the wizard studied Bolan's face more closely.
"I'm in need of military personnel who have a knack for training others. Small arms, demolitions, hand-to-hand. The basics of survival in uncertain times. You follow me so far?"
"Yes, sir."
"You know of the Teutonic Knights?"
"A little."
"And?"
"I take Dan Rather with a grain of salt," he said. "The things I've seen and heard so far, I like."
"We're on the verge of a momentous turnaround in the United States," the wizard told him, warming to his favorite theme. "There's revolution in the wind, and I'm not talking any bullshit we-shall-overcome Red dogma, either. People in America are sick to death of being walked on by minorities and hyphenated immigrants. They're sick to death of schools where homosexuality is taught in place of Christian values. Men and women all across this land are waking up to the realities of race and reason, organizing to resist the mongrelizers while they still have time."
He paused to catch his breath and suck on the cigar. Mack Bolan wore a properly respectful face, appearing to hang on Ritter's every word.
"Unfortunately, revolutions just aren't what they used to be," the ranking Klansman said. "We don't have any minutemen today, and from appearances, our enemies have got the upper hand in numbers, weapons, the technology of mass communication. We require a dedicated hard-core group of patriots who will not flinch from their appointed duty in the hour of need. You might say we're assembling a group of men who take life... seriously."
Silence hung between them. Bolan nodded slowly, letting Ritter know he got the message.
"Our numbers have been growing in the past two years, and we have access to the necessary hardware. Now our recruits need proper training in the proper skills..." Ritter looked steadily at Bolan, as if inviting him to speak up.
"On my second tour in Vietnam, I helped train Montagnards and South Vietnamese to fight the Cong and NLF. I figure teaching white men ought to be a breeze."
"You're not intimidated by the thought of standing in open opposition to the government?"
Bolan's smile was ice. "The government has been opposing me for years."
"Of course, enlistment with the Knights would be mandatory if you held this post."
"Seems fair."
"A background check would be required." The wizard noticed Bolan's frown and hastened to explain. "We have a problem with informers, infiltrators — local, state and federal, take your choice. I have this office swept for bugs every morning, regular as clockwork."
"And you figure I'm a plant?"
"I didn't say that, Mike. There's no offense intended. On the other hand, I have a grave responsibility to all the other knights, the movement. Every new recruit is screened as carefully as possible. If that's a problem for you..."
"No. You put it that way, it makes sense."
"All right." The wizard fished a business card out of his vest pocket, sliding it across the desk toward Bolan. "You find yourself a room for a night or two, then call that number, leave a number where you can be reached. I'll be in touch with you."
The interview was over. Bolan rose. "I hope we have a chance to work together, Mr. Ritter. Either way, I want to thank you for your time."
"My pleasure. Bobby, if you'd help Mike fetch his car..."
"It's done."
They rode the elevator down, with Shelton whistling tunelessly. Outside, the dark sedan was waiting where they'd left it.
"Did I pass?" the soldier asked.
"That's not for me to say." The Klansman glanced at him and grinned. "Relax. You pass the background check, you've got it made."
"And if I don't?"
"Well, then, my friend, I'd say you still won't have problem in the world. You'll just be dead."
So simple. Life or death determined by a madman's phone call, his acceptance or rejection of the data in a manufactured file. Bolan wondered briefly if the Klan had ties with local law enforcement that would let them tap computer records, call up information from the central file in Wonderland. If so, it would not be the first time that a "superpatriotic" group had managed to seduce police or military personnel with platitudes and pledges of support.
In fact, he knew, the neofascist movement took little interest in the cause of law and order. Chaos was the movement's goal, apocalyptic violence the modern bigot's end that justified all means. From coast to coast, police and federal agents who attempted to curtail subversive actions by the Klans and modern Nazis had been harassed, threatened, shot and killed. Their epitaphs were silent testimony to a grass-roots movement gone berserk, inflamed by blood lust and the creed of hatred.
Bolan had an opportunity here and now to strike a blow against that twisted movement. Provided he passed the entrance test administered by Mason Ritter. Once he was inside it would be his task to wound the serpent when and where he could, as often and as mercilessly as he was able.
Bolan harbored no illusions that he could change the world, blot out the strain of racial hatred that had dogged mankind forever. He could not aspire to change the hearts and minds of men. What he could do was deal with savages in language they understood. He could and would provide them with the heat of cleansing fire... if he got the chance.
For now, his fate rested in the hands of Leo Turrin. If his manufactured cover stood up under scrutiny, he would be one step closer to his goal. If it failed.. .well, he was one step closer to the grave already, with the night wind at his back.
The view from graveside was familiar, but he never grew accustomed to it. Never.
Driving through the darkness with his newfound comrades of the Klan, Mack Bolan set his eyes on life and kept his fingers crossed.
7
Mason Ritter sipped his bourbon-laced coffee, set the steaming cup aside. "He seems all right to me."
"That isn't good enough."
"I understand we have procedures..."
"And they will be followed in this case, as always."
Freeman was not giving him an order, not exactly, but the chief of the Teutonic Knights resented having his best judgment overruled this way. He understood his placement in the pecking order; he did not need to have that understanding reinforced at every turn. It should be good enough for Freeman this time that he chose to take on a new man in time of need.
Across the glass-topped desk, his nominal superior leaned back in a reclining chair, examining his tented fingers. Ritter never ceased to wonder how a man of Freeman's size could have such tiny hands. Not soft, exactly. Not precisely feminine. But they were tiny, more like a child's hands, with pudgy sausage fingers and meticulously tended nails. Freeman preferred to keep them in his pockets when he could, but that was awkward when he sat behind his desk. Noticing now that Ritter was regarding his diminutive digits curiously, he hid them in his lap.
The wizard tried again. "We need a new instructor right away, before the training program falls apart. We've been six weeks without a man who knows his business, and the boys are getting itchy."
"Let them itch." There was a sudden edge to Freeman's voice. "I'm not about to jeopardize the program, everything we've worked for, on a hasty welcome for a jailbird."
"I've explained what he was in for, and his trouble in the Army. He's a natural, I'm telling you."
"You've told me what you heard from him," the leader of the Vanguard countered smoothly. "I'll feel better when I've heard the same thing from a more official source."
"You think he's running down a sting?"
"I didn't say that. Chances are he's clean. But if he's not, if he's a plant, I want to know about it in advance, before he gets inside."
"He seems all right to me," the Klansman said ag
ain, aware that he could push no further once the chairman had his mind made up. Like now. A stubborn streak was part of Freeman's nature, and it did no good to butt your head against the stone wall of his determination. All you got in the end was headaches and a battered ego.
"I understand the program's need." Freeman seemed to have relaxed a little once his hands were safely out of sight. "I'll put the query through as soon as possible and make it top priority. We should know something by tomorrow or the next day."
"Well, I hope so. The way he sounded, Bowers could develop itchy feet most any time. He hasn't got the cash to hang around and wait for very long."
"A day or two. If he's the man you think he is, he'll stick. And if he's not..."
"Okay." There was no point in arguing. Freeman had his mind made up, and he would not be swayed by anything his second-in-command might say.
That "second-in-command" bit galled the Klansman. He had the status of a leader with his own Teutonic Knights, but what the hell good was that when every move he made had to be cleared through Freeman and the Vanguard? Sometimes Ritter thought he was nothing but a goddamn puppet, and he did not like the idea. No, he did not like it in the least. Someday, he thought. Someday...
"What else?"
The chairman's voice recalled him from his reverie, and Ritter had to think a moment, scanning the old memory banks for new business. Finding none, he shook his head.
"That's all I have."
"How are we covered on that other business?"
Ritter did not have to ask what other business Freeman had in mind. Five days since they had dealt with Theo Brown — since he had dealt with Brown on Freeman's orders — and he heard the same damn question every day.
"We're fine," he answered, as he always did. 'The boys are hanging in. I don't expect a problem."
"It's the unexpected that we need to watch for," Freeman chided, frowning deeply. "One of them gets nervous, he might try to cut himself a deal. The law gets mileage off of frightened men."
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