The Fiery Cross

by Don Pendleton

"I always do."

  It seemed to Wilson Brown that Bolan was approaching some sore topic indirectly, stalking it as if it might escape or turn and bite him like a cottonmouth.

  "About the church..."

  "No need to tell me any more."

  "I think there is." He paused to take a breath, then dragged the dirty linen out. "I set the charge."

  "Okay."

  "I thought you had a right to know."

  "I would have done the same thing in your place." Brown spoke around the new obstruction in his throat. "The only problem is, I wouldn't pass the entrance test."

  "There's something in the mail. A package. Give it to the pastor, will you?"

  "Sure. I guess I shouldn't ask."

  "A little something for the building fund. We'll let it be anonymous."

  "I think that's best."

  "I'll try to keep in touch."

  "You do that." Wilson hesitated, finally thought of something else that needed to be said. "Hey, Sarge?"

  But he was talking to dead air, the dial tone humming in his ear.

  "Goddamn it!"

  "Not bad news, I hope?"

  He cradled the receiver, putting on a plastic smile before he turned to face the lady of the house.

  "No, ma'am, I wouldn't say that."

  "Oh." Her face and tone were weighted down with disappointment. Clearly she had been anticipating tragedy — and looking forward to it.

  Back inside his room once more, Brown thought of Bolan, trying to imagine what the soldier must have gone through when he drew his orders for the bombing of the church. The guy was hurting, he could tell that much, and all the conscience money in the world would not relieve him of the guilty burden he bore.

  It was ironic. Bolan's life was on the line; he had been forced to make an agonizing choice, to preserve his cover in the interests of the mission, yet the demolition of an empty building weighed upon him more than all the lives he had taken on the field of combat through the years of everlasting war.

  It was a measure of the man, Brown thought, that such feelings still remained inside him. Other warriors would long since have fallen prey to burnout, running on their instincts, killing out of habit, settling for survival in a dog-eat-dog world. The Executioner was living proof of an alternative approach, and he was living in the true sense of the word. The guy was still alive in spite of all that he had witnessed, all that he had done and suffered.

  Sergeant Mercy.

  They had called him that in Vietnam because he had been known to risk his life retrieving wounded soldiers and civilians — even those of the enemy — without regard for danger. Such had been the flip side of the Executioner, and it was good to know that both sides were still around.

  Still fighting.

  When the package came he would deliver it to Reverend Little, and the Bethany African Methodist Episcopal Church would rise again, a monument to man's humanity. It was a pity that the pastor and his flock would never know their benefactor's name, his color. If they did...

  Brown closed his eyes again and concentrated on an image of his son in younger, brighter days. He thought Theo would have understood the Executioner's dilemma and would have been forgiving.

  Somewhere down the line, forgiveness had to break the cycle of aggression and reaction. Somewhere, sometime, people had to lay their pain aside.

  But not today. Not here. The pain of loss was still too fresh, his anger still a living thing that gnawed his vitals. He was not prepared to let it rest.

  Not yet.

  Not while his enemies were still alive.

  14

  "The key to unarmed self-defense is timing," Bolan told his ragged troops. "The second most important thing is leverage. If you can use an enemy's momentum and his weight against him, you've got half the battle won before you start."

  "Seems like it's easier to pop the bastard with a sucker punch," Jeeter drawled, smiling as his comrades snickered their agreement.

  "Let's find out."

  "How's that?"

  "Let's test your theory." Bolan snapped his fingers at the Klansman, who seemed suddenly reluctant. "On your feet. Get over here."

  "Goon, Lem!"

  "Show him."

  "Give him one for all of us."

  The porky trooper scrambled to his feet and circled Bolan warily. "What is it I'm supposed to do?"

  "Whatever suits your mood. A sucker punch, I think you said?"

  "Well, shoot, you're ready for it now."

  "Is that a problem for you? Fine." He turned his back on Jeeter, closed his eyes. "Just take your time. I'll be here when you're ready."

  "Lem, for Christ's sake, do it!"

  "Kick his ass!"

  Bolan heard the Klansman coming, lumbering across the open ground like an arthritic dinosaur, and he marveled at the thought of any human being with such total lack of stealth. And he had twelve of them to deal with.

  Timing was the key, as he had told the class. He estimated Jeeter's distance by the sounds he made, was waiting when the Klansman launched his hard right hand. A side step, pivoting to meet the blow as it sliced empty air, and Bolan seized his adversary's wrist, continuing the move and letting Jeeter's own momentum do the rest. The chunky form described an awkward somersault, and Jeeter landed on his back, lungs emptied by the impact, gasping to regain his breath.

  "That's one. Who's next?"

  No hands, so Bolan chose a conscript from the ranks. According to the name tag on his camou shirt, the Klansman's name was Martin. Sandy hair and ruddy skin with countless freckles gave the man a dusty, unwashed look. As Martin took his place he passed downwind of Bolan, and the Executioner noted that appearances were sometimes accurate.

  "We've seen what you can do against an unarmed man who tries to jump you from behind. But what about the fellow with the knife who'd just as soon take home your nuts for souvenirs?"

  He waited for an answer from the class, aware that there would probably be none. After a moment of silence he turned back to Martin, pointing to the twelve-inch bowie knife the Klansman carried on his hip.

  "You any good with that?"

  "I hold my own."

  "Let's see."

  A crooked grin broke through the freckles. "Are you serious?"

  "Completely."

  "Do it, Tommy!"

  "Hell, it's your funeral, man."

  The bowie's heavy blade caught the sunlight as he drew it from its leather sheath. The Klansman made a couple of exploratory passes through the air, then started circling, knees flexed, the knife held out in front of him, its tip aimed straight at Bolan's midriff.

  It was going to be simpler than he had anticipated.

  He waited for his adversary, moving only as was necessary to keep Martin in front of him. The Klansman made a full circle around Bolan and was halfway through a second round before he made his move. The lunge was telegraphed by his expression, slack lips tightened across his teeth, eyes narrowing to beady slits before he charged.

  Bolan stepped inside the thrust and fastened on his adversary's wrist with fingers like steel talons, twisting, wringing out a cry of pain before a back-kick cut the Klansman's legs from under him. Martin fell heavily, and Bolan followed him down, kneeling on the freckled youngster's chest, wrenching his right arm painfully around until the bowie's blade was kissing Martin's throat. A bit more pressure, any weight at all upon the blade, would loose a geyser of the skinny racist's blood.

  "Momentum. Timing. Use them to your best advantage and you'll come out points ahead." He rose and turned away from Martin, studying the class. He checked his watch and found that it was pushing three o'clock. "Let's knock off there and start in fresh tomorrow."

  From the corner of his eye he recognized Bob Shelton. Watching. Moving closer as the class dispersed.

  "You free tonight?"

  "I could be. What's the deal?"

  "We've got unfinished business from the other night."

  "You mean a couple of walls are standing?"


  Shelton frowned and shook his head. "Seems like the preacher just can't take a hint. No matter that he lost his church, the stupid bastard keeps on giving speeches for the union. Now he lets them use his house, if you can feature that."

  "Sounds like a stubborn man. Who is he?"

  "Reverend Cletus Little." Shelton cracked a wicked grin at that. "I'll bet you that he's feeling little when we finish with him. If he's feeling anything at all."

  "Another bomb?"

  The Klansman shook his head. 'Too noisy. Mason thinks it's time the reverend did a disappearing act."

  "I'm in," he said. "When should I meet you?"

  "Same as last time. We'll be taking on a few more hands for this one. Two cars, maybe three."

  "I'll be there."

  "See you then."

  It would have been too much, he thought, to ask the target's address. With a name in hand he should be able to alert authorities or pass a warning on through Wilson Brown if all else failed. It stood to reason Brown would know the minister — know o/him, anyway — and he would be the man to contact if the Bureau could not move in time.

  When he got back to his apartment, Bolan made two calls. The first, to Leo Turrin, was brief. He gave his friend in Wonderland the name of the intended victim and the time the Klansmen were meeting.

  "I don't have an address, but he should be in the book."

  "No problem," Turrin said. "I'll put the local office on it. They've been looking for a decent handle on the Knights. This should be perfect."

  "Count on two cars, minimum."

  "The Bureau always comes prepared. You're in this one, are you?"

  "All the way."

  "You know, I can't exactly tip the locals off to let you slide."

  "I've got it covered."

  "Watch yourself."

  "Will do."

  He severed the connection, dialed Lynn Halsey's number, waited through four rings before she answered.

  "Lynn."

  "You caught me in the shower. Can I call you back?"

  "I'm sorry, there's no time. I have to take a rain check on tonight."

  He felt her frowning through the line. "What's wrong?"

  "I've got some business to take care of."

  "With the Klan?"

  "Just business."

  She was silent for a moment. "Will you call me when you're finished?"

  "I'll be late."

  "It doesn't matter. Call me. Promise?"

  "Yes."

  "About this rain check..."

  "I was thinking of tomorrow night, unless you have other plans."

  "I'll have to check my social calendar."

  "Well, if you'd rather not..."

  "Tomorrow night's fine."

  "Okay."

  "Be careful. Please?"

  "I'll call you."

  Bolan stripped the Browning, checked its load and action, then repeated the procedure with the hideout Colt. He emptied extra magazines, refilled them, more to occupy his time then from necessity. His mind, meanwhile, was grappling with the problems and risks presented by his new assignment with the Knights.

  The law enforcement end was Leo's headache. After consultation with the FBI in Little Rock, he might — or might not — choose to notify the sheriff's office. If the local force was infiltrated, any leak would jeopardize the mission, blow the ambush in advance. It might be safer all round to keep the action under wraps and let the sheriff know about it when the smoke began to clear.

  Security for Reverend Little would be in the Bureau's hands, and Bolan put that problem out of mind immediately. There was nothing he could do about it from his end, in any case, and he would have to trust the G-men, knowing they were experts at their job. The FBI had waged an unrelenting war against the KKK for more than half a century, and they would know what to expect from Ritter's wrecking crew.

  His own role in the raid was something else entirely. Bolan would not fire upon the FBI under any circumstances. He might even be forced to intervene on their behalf if Shekon's crew appeared to have the upper hand. It would be risky playing both sides of the fence at once, and if the Executioner was forced to show his hand before his "brother Kiansmen," he would have to kill them all in self-defense. No word of his duplicity would find its way to Mason Ritter or to Freeman before he was prepared to make his final play.

  He thought of Lynn and felt a sudden pang of guilt at using her to gain more information on the Klan. He told himself that it was necessary, that her own antipathy toward Ritter and the others would have made her understand. She had not been betrayed, precisely, and he would not harm her if he could avoid it. On the question of her uncle, if it became imperative to take him down... well, she would have to take her chances. Bolan's mission took priority over personal feelings, and he would not let his sympathy for Lynn — or any of the other feelings he undeniably experienced in her presence — undermine his sense of duty.

  He had come to Arkansas to break the Klan and crush the Aryan Vanguard. He would be satisfied with nothing less than victory.

  With time to kill, the soldier settled down to wait.

  * * *

  Reverend Cletus Little never thought about himself in terms of activism. When he thought about himself at all, he wondered at the nature of his predicament. A man of God who tried to set himself above the petty problems of the world, he had been dragged somehow into the middle of a worldly conflict that now threatened to destroy him. Already he had lost his church, and while the Lord might know how it would be restored, Cletus Little did not have a clue.

  He had been satisfied with life the way it was until Theo Brown had approached him with the proposal to enlist Bethany AME as the unofficial chapel of his fledgling farmers' union. The minister had been skeptical at first, but Brown had been compelling, charismatic, making light of Little's private fears and couching his request in scriptural terms.

  In the end, there had seemed to be no choice. A movement had arisen in the people's hour of need, and who was Cletus Little to say no when lives and souls were hanging in the balance?

  From donating the church as a meeting hall it had been a short and easy step to mentioning the union in his Sunday sermons. Nothing radical, of course. A sympathetic reference here and there to working men in danger of eviction from their homes, of losing the land on which their fathers and their fathers' fathers had raised crops to feed the nation. Reverend Little still would not have called himself an activist. Not yet.

  And when they had murdered Theo, riddled him with bullets in the middle of the night, it had been a pastor's duty to preside at his funeral services. He had spoken the words that had come to mind, and had meant them with ail his heart. Now, in retrospect, he wondered if he would have chosen other words had he been favored with the gift of prophecy.

  The pastor would not call himself an activist, but someone did. In Parrish — and in Little Rock, as well — were men who hated him for what he was, for what he said in public, for the dreams he cherished in his heart. The burning of his church had been a warning to desist, expressed in terms any man might understand. It was a warning he could not ignore.

  But Reverend Little had refused to run and hide. Against his better judgment, he had gone before a meeting of the farmers' union just last night, and he had pledged them his continuing support. Almost before he realized what he was saying, he had offered members of the union space to gather in his home if they were short of room. He heard himself declare that he was not afraid of any man alive, and knew it was a lie.

  In fact, he lived with mortal terror every day. The product of a home where Booker T. Washington had been more revered than Martin Luther King or Malcolm X, he had been taught to "know his place" from childhood, to avoid antagonizing whites whenever possible. In spite of federal laws, Supreme Court rulings, all the rest of it, there was a strain of bigotry and violence still alive and well in Dixie. Blacks had made substantial progress through the years, out there were regions where they trespassed at t
heir peril even now. In Chatham County, unions were considered "white man's business" and were viewed with general disfavor even when their membership was entirely Caucasian. The specter of an interracial union organizing hardscrabble farmers to resist the rulers of the county and the state had called for swift retaliation from the power structure. After economic pressure had failed, when members of the union had started fighting back with strikes and boycotts, men in suits and ties had called on others dressed in sheets and neo-Nazi uniforms to teach the blacks and the radicals a lesson in reality.

  Somehow, without intending to, the Reverend Cletus Little had been dragged into the middle of it all. Respected in the black community for his position as spiritual leader — and by certain whites for his conservatism — he had suddenly become a figurehead of sorts for peaceful revolution. Fool that he was, the pastor had believed a social revolution could be peaceful, carried on without the bloody stain of violence.

  He knew better now, and still he was not wise enough to turn his back and run. As frightened as he was, he could not bring himself to be a coward now.

  Outside, a car door slammed. Then another. Reverend Little kept no weapons in the house, for he had always placed his faith in God. Just now, however, as he approached the door and pressed one eye against the peephole, Little would have settled for a .38.

  Two men in business suits, both white, clean-cut. Not Klansmen, by the look of them, unless their sheets and overalls were in the laundry. Little waited for the taller of the two to ring the bell, then cracked the door.

  "Who are you?"

  He thought his heart would freeze inside him when the tall man reached inside his jacket like a movie gangster going for his shoulder holster. It was just a wallet, though, not a pistol, that he held up with a flourish.

  "Reverend Little? FBI."

  * * *

  The other members of the wrecking crew were still arriving when Mack Bolan parked his car behind the meeting hall. The battlewagon and another dark sedan stood side by side, mud liberally smeared across their license plates, although the cars themselves were spotless. Safe from view by passing motorists, the Klansmen were inspecting shotguns, rifles, pistols, double-checking loads and setting safety catches, making ready for the night's festivities.