The Fiery Cross

by Don Pendleton

  "They'll stand the heat. Don't worry."

  "Someone has to. You remember Mississippi? Bogalusa? Seima? Birmingham? Each place, each time, the FBI found someone who was looking for a deal, a quick way out. Each time, a weak man sold out his brothers for money and immunity."

  The wizard shook his head. He knew the stories, had known some of the men, but he was not terribly concerned. He had learned from the mistakes of others. He had the problem covered.

  "Like I told you, everybody's implicated. Everybody took a shot, all right? If someone talks, he puts his own ass in the chair along with anybody else he names. I don't think anyone will risk it."

  "Maybe not." The chairman did not sound convinced, by any means. "But with immunity, the way these bastards work, I'd still feel better if we had insurance."

  It was Ritter's turn to frown. He did not like the sound of that at all. "What do you mean?" he asked, afraid to hear the answer, frightened that he might already know.

  "I don't mean anything. Not yet. We'll need to keep a sharp eye out for any signs of weakening."

  You mean I will, the wizard thought. He seriously doubted whether Freeman would be standing watch on any rowdy Klansmen. He had better things to do, arranging payoffs from the banks and heavy-duty farmers who were covering their overhead in Chatham County and around the state.

  But never mind. The Knights were his concern, and he would hold his end up, rain or shine. If someone tried to cut and run... well, he would deal with that one if and when it became necessary. There was no point fretting in advance. Fretting caused ulcers, and the wizard did not need that kind of damn white-collar problem.

  "I've been thinking we might ease off a little," Ritter mused. "Give things a chance to cool."

  "No good. Our sponsors want the union broken yesterday. We have to keep the pressure on."

  "They ought to understand we can't work miracles."

  "The kind of cash they're laying out, they look for miracles. We can't afford to keep them waiting."

  "Still, the more we push right now, the more risk we run of someone getting busted."

  "Strategy," the chairman snapped. "Plan every move before it's made and double-check the consequences. Keep the details to yourself and share the necessary minimum with members of the wrecking crew."

  "I do that now."

  "All right, so what's the problem?"

  "Law of averages," the Klansman answered sourly. "We run too many operations and it stands to reason someone's got to take a fall. You've got to figure on some bad luck somewhere down the line."

  "We make our own luck, Mason. Chance and circumstances are the excuses offered up by failures. Winners have no need for explanations."

  "That's all well and good, Jerome, but..."

  "But nothing," Freeman snapped. "The locals can't be everywhere at once; the FBI has even less manpower to work with. A professional strike force should be able to go on indefinitely, choosing targets with discretion. We just need a few more weeks."

  "I'll tell you what we need." Ritter's face was flushed and his voice had a rough edge as he tried to make Freeman see his point. "You talk about professionals, and all I have are amateurs. Okay, a couple of the boys are fair with dynamite, they all know how to shoot, but that's the limit. If they don't get decent training soon, as promised, we'll see losses in the rank and file. Who knows? I might start losing members of the wrecking crew."

  "See that you don't."

  "Or what? You reckon I should wipe them out? Does that make sense to you? You figure I should threaten seven hundred Klansmen on my own?"

  "I hardly think that's necessary, Mason."

  "Maybe not, but promises were made when we recruited some of these old boys, and they've been waiting for the payoff. They were promised weapons, military training, action. They won't sit around forever, jerking off, while we play word games with them at the monthly meetings."

  "I've been working on the weapons, you know that. I expect a shipment later in the week."

  "That leaves the training."

  "What you mean is, that leaves Bowers."

  "Him, or someone like him."

  Freeman heaved a weary sigh. "I'll see what I can do. But I'll be damned if I'll abort the screening process. If he can't stand up to scrutiny, he's not our man."

  It was the best that the wizard could hope for, and he let it go. If Bowers could not pass the test, then he would have to look for someone else, and quickly. There were mercenaries to be found, if one knew where to look; some of them even advertised in magazines these days. Of course, they might not be committed to the cause. Not like a man who had been betrayed by niggers more than once already.

  The wizard liked to put his faith in hard experience. A man who had been burned was cautious when he handled fire, but he also knew its uses and its value. Freeman had the caution down, no question there, but sometimes Ritter wondered what had happened to his nerve.

  What did he really know about his nominal superior, when it came down to that? Freeman had appeared as if from nowhere when the Brotherhood had been floundering, and had pulled the scattered troops together, promising they would be better, stronger, than before. He had the PR angle covered, but you had to wonder sometimes what was going on behind his steely eyes.

  Sometimes Mason Ritter wondered what it would be like to sit in Freeman's chair behind the glass-topped desk, instead of killing time in his dilapidated, roach-infested office half a block away in the slums. These days he thought about it more and more.

  One day soon, the wizard thought, he might find out. In fact, he would be looking forward to it.

  * * *

  Freeman waited for the outer office door to close before he raised the telephone receiver, punching up the number for the sheriff's office. Despite the hour, he was confident that he would reach his party at the other end.

  "Zverbilis, R and I."

  Records and identification. He was in.

  "How are you, Gary?"

  He could imagine the overweight deputy glancing around at the otherwise empty office, terrified of being overheard.

  "You're not supposed to call me here."

  "I know that, Gary. I apologize, but this is an emergency."

  "Oh, yeah? How's that?"

  "Your people had a fellow in the tank last night. I need some background on him, quickly."

  "One of yours?"

  "Potentially. Not yet."

  "What's his name?"

  "Mike Bowers. He came in with Bobby and the others from the Blackboard."

  "Yeah, I figured. It'll take some time to run him through."

  "This is a matter of some urgency, you understand?'

  "You can't rush Washington. I'll do my best."

  "Of course you will. And I appreciate it, Gary."

  "Yeah. You at the office?"

  "Just as usual."

  "Okay. I'll be in touch."

  Freeman listened to the dial tone for a moment, frowning, finally replacing the receiver in its cradle. He had done his part, and it was up to the computers now. If Ritter was not satisfied with their performance, that was his problem.

  It was bad enough to rush security procedures; he refused to scrap them altogether, even if the chief of the Teutonic Knights was running short of patience. Freeman knew from grim experience the price tag that inevitably came with carelessness and sloth.

  Before the Vanguard, in another life, he had been brash and overconfident, self-satisfied. He'd thought that no one could touch him, that nothing could go wrong with any of his plans. Success had been preordained and therefore guaranteed. He had been wrong, of course. Disastrously, apocalyptically mistaken. Smug self-confidence had very nearly cost him his life; it would have cost him everything if he had not been prepared for a failure he was positive would never occur.

  When Freeman looked around his office now he missed the opulence of other days, but he was thankful for his life, for the remnants of an empire that allowed him to begin anew, from scratch.
In eighteen months he had established a base of operations, he had gathered fifteen hundred men around his standard, with another seven hundred in the ranks of the Teutonic Knights, and he had earned the confidence of men with money, power, the respect of governors and presidents.

  No small task, but as with everything, he had been forced to compromise along the way. His name was not his own, a minor inconvenience when he thought about the price of clinging to his former life. He could live with the change. As for the rest... well, he was a professional, a master in his chosen field. He had long ago decided that it did not pay to argue with the money men.

  He would provide the services for which he had been paid, because he had no choice. The motives of his various employers meant no more to Freeman than the color of their skin. If there had been a bullish market for black militants, he would have dyed his skin and learned to break-dance overnight.

  He placed his small hands on the desktop, studying the nails, which from time to time he chewed. Expensive manicures had solved the problem for the moment, as a ready fund of cash had eased his other hungers, kept his demons momentarily at bay. Destruction of the farmers' union would ensure that cash remained in plentiful supply. A failure to deliver would destroy him.

  Mason Ritter would not be a problem. He was anxious now, Freeman thought, but he could be manipulated with a minimum of difficulty. The Klansman was a brawler, but he had the passions of an adolescent and the intellect to match. If necessary, he could be eliminated and replaced.

  The thought of murder led back again to Theo Brown. Freeman grimaced. He had not been present at the execution, could not be connected with the crime except by Ritter, but he did not share the wizard's faith in the dependability of underlings. Subordinates were rarely to be trusted, never absolutely, and he worried that the Knights might spring a lethal leak at any moment. He would happily have silenced every member of the wrecking crew, but that meant finding other killers, placing other men in a position to betray the movement. If it came to that, he would demand that Ritter do the job himself, and after he was finished...

  Freeman pulled the reins on his imagination, cutting short the homicidal fantasy. It would not come to that. The background check on Ritter's chosen drill instructor, Bowers, would be clean. And if it wasn't, a polite rebuff would do the job in place of messy violence or a disappearance that would have to be explained away. A simple no would do the same job as a bullet, and with fewer complications.

  Since forming the Vanguard, Freeman had become obsessed with safety and simplicity. The two ideals were often incompatible, but with a little effort, harmony could often be achieved.

  He smiled. For someone who had staked his future on the propagation of unrest within society, it was ironic — even humorous — that Freeman's private vision of success revolved around a state of blissful inactivity. An island setting came to mind, with brown-skinned natives with perfect bodies frolicking on deserted beaches beneath the tropic sun.

  The natives in his fantasies were always male, athletic, busting with vitality and youth. Freeman had no use for women save as window dressing to maintain his image as a rugged all-American, possessed of raw machismo. Otherwise, he found their touch repugnant, something to be shunned at any cost.

  Six months of celibacy had done nothing to improve his temperament, but Freeman was accustomed to self-sacrifice. There would be time enough for recreation when he finished the present job with cash in hand. When it was time, he would not seek companionship among the members of the Vanguard or the Knights. Exposure would be self-destructive, and there were so many other ways to find release without involving members of the cause.

  The murder of Theo Brown had been a tactical maneuver, aimed at silencing his criticism of the Vanguard's backers rather than destroying the union he led in Chatham County. The elimination of Brown's private files had plugged a crucial leak and had also furnished Freeman with the name of one who had betrayed the movement, selling precious secrets to the enemy. Within a day of Brown's removal, Freeman had arranged the permanent eradication of that leak — a tragic auto accident had done the trick — but the experience had only confirmed his gut suspicion of the men who worked beneath him.

  No one could be trusted absolutely.

  No one.

  During transitory episodes of paranoia and depression, Freeman did not even trust himself. He questioned his ability to lead the movement, to succeed where he had failed before, had come so close to losing everything. Might he betray himself unconsciously, through momentary weakness of the flesh? Was he, in fact, the weak link in the chain?

  Disgusted with his own self-doubt, the Vanguard's führer drew a bottle of expensive whiskey from a lower desk drawer, topping off his coffee mug. The liquor scorched his throat at first and quickly lit a fire inside him, smothering his doubts and purging them with liquid heat.

  Eliminating Theo Brown had left the farmers' union leaderless, but only for the moment. There were rumors even now of Theo's father stepping in to fill his son's position, taking up the fallen standard, as it were. The elder Brown was still an unknown quantity, but Freeman had his own paid eyes and ears inside the NFU — no movement was secure from traitors, after all. He gathered that the old man had no union background. Some kind of an athlete, ruined by the war, who had retired from play to scout the colleges. A football pimp of sorts.

  The story was encouraging, if true. It pleased him to believe his enemies could do no better in their search for a replacement. Sentiment had surely played a role in the selection — yet another weakness he could turn to his advantage when the time was ripe. Soon, now.

  He recognized that Ritter's plea made sense, that they wait awhile, allow the heat to die down. But Andrews and the others, rich men all, were pressing him for fresh offensives, hot new blood. Ensconced in lavish offices, their money safe in vaults, they had grown restless, anxious for the final conflict to be joined. It was imperative that farmers who had worked the land for generations be driven into poverty and hounded from their homes. For Freeman's part, he did not care or wonder why.

  It was enough to know the truth concerning Andrews, cocky spokesman for the moneyed clique that paid the Vanguard's bills. That truth had not been easy to uncover, and Freeman would have bet his life that no one else in Little Rock possessed the knowledge that he held.

  It was his secret ace, the hole card he would play when it was time to cut and run. A final coup that would surprise the smirking banker, teach him something of humility as he began to pay in earnest.

  Freeman savored the idea and poured himself another drink. It might be hours before he got the word on Bowers from his contact in the sheriff's office. In the meantime, there were confrontations to be organized, "spontaneous" events to be anticipated, planned in detail. There were hopes and dreams to be demolished just across the line in Chatham County, and he had no time to waste.

  It would not do to keep the buyers waiting.

  8

  "You're in. Be out in front of your motel at eight o'clock."

  The call from Bobby Shelton had inspired a host of contradictory sensations for the Executioner. First of all, he was relieved to know his cover had survived the scrutiny of Mason Ritter and his cohorts. Bolan had no way yet of knowing their connections with state or local law enforcement, but he had to figure his jacket had been studied, in whatever detail, and had passed inspection by the Klan.

  You're in.

  Immediately after satisfaction, Bolan felt a certain apprehension. Could it be a trap? A setup? Had his cover failed somehow, provoking Ritter and his Knights to jury-rig a plan for the elimination of Mike Bowers? Bolan knew there was a chance, however slim, that he was being led to the slaughter... but he had to keep his date with Shelton, all the same. The purpose of his drive to Little Rock had been a bid to infiltrate the Vanguard or the Klan, and having come this close, the Executioner would not allow himself to turn away.

  He would be ready, though, for anything that happened. The Beretta
and the AutoMag were out, of course. Too ostentatious, too sophisticated for the likes of ex-con Bowers to be carrying around on his nocturnal errands. Shelton would expect him to be armed, might be suspicious if he wasn't, but the Klansman would have questions if the new recruit arrived bearing state-of-the-art military hardware.

  Bolan chose a Browning Hi-Power semiautomatic pistol for his head weapon, checking its load and easing off the safety before he snugged it into shoulder rigging. Three rounds less than the Beretta's maximum capacity, without the selective-fire option for 3-round bursts, but it was still a decent weapon, capable of killing on command. More important, it was a weapon readily available through legal outlets, plentiful throughout the country and the world. The Browning would not raise an eyebrow if its presence underneath his arm should come to light.

  The odds were good that Bolan would be asked to hand his weapon over, even if his invitation to become a Klansman was legitimate. Accordingly, he opted for a backup, buckling on an ankle holster that would grant him easy access to a second, smaller gun. His choice from the selection in his special suitcase was a Colt Mustang automatic, chambered in .380 caliber. Less than six inches overall, the snubby side arm held five rounds in its magazine, with a sixth in the firing chamber. Bolan loaded it with hollowpoints to take maximum advantage of the firepower available.

  Six rounds might be enough, allowing for close range, a limited number of participants in the initiation ceremony. At the very least, it might give Bolan time to seize another weapon, increase his firepower. In close-up killing situations, the advantage of surprise meant more than caliber and muzzle velocity.

  The soldier hoped he was being an alarmist, that he would not have a need this night for either weapon. His plan did not involve an early confrontation with the Knights. He sought instead to infiltrate their ranks — their hierarchy, if he could — and catch a glimpse of Ritter as he worked with Freeman and the Vanguard. The Teutonic Knights were secondary in importance, though their strength in numbers could not be discounted. Jerome Freeman, by all accounts, was the brains of the operation, its guiding hand. A decimation of the Knights that left the Vanguard and its chief intact would accomplish precisely nothing.