The Fiery Cross

by Don Pendleton

  "This is a nice surprise," he said, strain visible behind the phony smile. "We've all been looking for you."

  "Here I am."

  "Is there a reason for the gun?"

  She took another step into the room, noting that he had changed his clothes. The slacks that lay beside his stockinged feet were wet with blood. Her uncle's blood.

  "There is. I mean to kill you."

  "Ah." If anything, his smile appeared to widen. "And I don't suppose we could negotiate?"

  "Too late."

  "I have a lot of money in the safe," he said. "I'm on my way to get a great deal more right now. Feel free to name your price."

  "I'm not for sale."

  "What will your uncle say?"

  "I doubt if he'll say anything now that he's dead."

  That wiped the smile away, and Freeman took a step in her direction, freezing as she thumbed the automatic's hammer back.

  "Be careful, will you?"

  "I'll be careful not to miss."

  "You don't look like a killer, Lynn."

  "Not yet."

  "I've known some killers in my time."

  "You see one in the mirror every morning."

  "Others. Men — and women — who can kill without a Second thought. For money, pleasure, any cause at all. I'd say that you don't have it in you."

  "Bet your life?"

  "I might." He glanced across her shoulder. "Take her, Mase."

  It was the oldest trick around, and Lynn fell for it. While she was turning, she realized her mistake, the empty doorway yawning at her, mocking her. Before she could recover, |bring the pistol to bear on Freeman again, he had closed the gap between them, clubbed her from behind. The floor rushed up to meet her, giving way to darkness, and she seemed to fall forever, knowing she had to hit bottom soon.

  19

  He awoke to pain, ignored the urge to moan and bit his lip instead. So many different kinds of pain: the jagged, shattered feeling in his groin, the dull ache in his back and ribs, the incessant rhythmic throbbing of his skull. He had forgotten, in the years since Nam, that pain could wear so many faces, could have so many textures and degrees.

  In darkness, Wilson Brown began to take an inventory of his battered body, tensing muscles in his arms and legs to check for broken bones, and finding none. The artificial foot was still in place, and from the feel of things — no sticky patches on his clothes — he had not bled except from wounds to his face and scalp. As for his face, his eyes still opened — barely — but his nose was broken, sure as hell, and his exploring tongue retreated from a painful gap where one of his incisors had been snapped off at the gumline.

  Bastards going to pay for that, he thought, and was reminded instantly of his absurd position. Bound and beaten, waiting to be carved up like a Christmas turkey, he was logging mental threats against his captors. It was funny, if you thought about it, but somehow he did not feel like laughing.

  What time was it? he wondered. His wrists were bound behind his back, and in any case, he had taken off his watch before going to bed. No way of even estimating how long he had been unconscious. It was dark outside; he saw that much by peering under the door of the prefabricated shed in which he lay. Brown knew it was a shed and not a room inside some larger building, from the breeze that reached him, slipping in around the door and carrying the smell of grass and forest.

  Forest.

  Theo had been murdered in the woods. Perhaps his killers had conveyed him to that very spot, to wait upon their pleasure as he counted down the final moments of his life. Beneath the pain, fresh anger came to life, and Brown began to test his bonds judiciously, first straining, then relaxing, giving knots and twists of rope a chance to gradually expand.

  How much time did he have before they dragged him out to get the party rolling? Minutes? Seconds? Certainly not hours; they could not afford to linger at their work, not after the commotion they had created at the rooming house.

  Brown thought about his landlady, wondering if she was still alive. If so, she might have called the police by now. If not, the melee could have roused light-sleeping neighbors, sent them to their telephones. But not in time. Assuming that a call was made and deputies responded promptly, they had still been too late to interrupt the kidnapping. Closing the barn door after the horses were gone, they would make their reports, question neighbors, dispense all the normal assurances. No stone unturned. Don't call us; we'll call you.

  Would the FBI be involved yet? Did it matter? The G-men were sharp, but they followed the book and went through all the motions, the same as the locals. His body might well be discovered before all the various agencies had covered the same narrow leads. If they finally picked up his killers on some charge or other... well, what would it matter to Brown?

  In the jungle, survival had been top priority, second to none. He had learned on the job, and the lessons were all coming back to him now. Keep your cool. Panic kills. Take it easy and go with the flow. When you see a chance, take it, and make all you can of the moment. It may be your last.

  Brown heard a murmur, the sound of human voices. Two sentries on their rounds, taking time for a smoke outside the door of his stockade. He wriggled toward the wall and pressed his ear against the corrugated metal, catching only snatches of their conversation.

  "... wizard get here?"

  "I don't know. Awhile."

  "... the nigger... fun."

  "Should be."

  "Not like his boy."

  At once the pain was gone, replaced by deep, abiding rage. He had a little time, at least — "a while" — before the leader of the mob arrived to open the festivities. If he could free his hands, meanwhile...

  Then what?

  He was alone, unarmed, against a hostile force that he could not begin to estimate in size. They plainly meant to kill him — after having "fun" at his expense — and they were definitely armed. Assuming he could free himself, surprise one of his guards and seize a weapon, did he have a chance?

  No matter. Trussed up in the dark, he had no chance at all, but he had never been a quitter. Not when he'd been a blocker for the hot dogs in the NFL, not when he'd led a combat team in Nam, not when they had told him he would learn, in time, to live without his foot.

  Not when the Executioner had trusted him in Monaco, against all odds.

  The rope was nylon, slender and resilient, knotted tight around his wrists and ankles. Taking turns, he flexed his legs and then his arms, not caring which gave first, refusing to believe that neither rope would yield to his determination. He would free himself, or he would still be trying when they came to haul him out, a bull to the slaughter. But he would not make it easy for them. No damned way at all.

  While he lived, he would resist with every ounce of strength remaining, and he would make them work for everything they got. Their "fun" would have a price, if he had anything to say about it.

  And if he survived, somehow, he would delight in pissing on their graves.

  * * *

  The phone "at Wilson Brown's rang seven times before an unfamiliar voice came on the line. "Detective Howard. Can I help you?"

  Bolan felt his stomach rolling. "May I speak to Wilson Brown?"

  "He isn't in just now, sir. If you'd care to leave your name and message..."

  "No. No message."

  Breaking the connection, Bolan held the telephone receiver in a death grip as he gazed out of the phone booth at the filling station gas pumps. Brown was "out" and the police were in, which meant there was major trouble at the rooming house. Had Brown been kidnapped? Would the officer have framed his cagey answers differently if the onetime football pro was dead?

  "Goddamn it!"

  Punching up the operator, Bolan rattled off the number of a private line in Washington. He paid the toll by credit card, a card registered to a dummy name and number in San Diego that was billed each month and never failed to pay the tab in full. He would be waking Leo up, but there was nothing else to do, and he was running ou
t of time.

  "Hello?"

  The little Fed did not sound sleepy. Rather, there was agitation in his voice.

  "They've taken Wils."

  "I know. We caught the squeal from Little Rock just now. The office patched it through. What's happening down there?"

  "My cover's blown, and Ritter's people fumbled when they tried to take me down. My best guess is that Axelrod is running a diversion."

  Turrin hesitated. "You mean Freeman."

  "I mean Axelrod."

  "Aw, shit."

  "Exactly."

  "All this time I didn't see it? Christ, I must be getting old."

  "I barely figured it myself. No time to run it down right now."

  "What's on with Wils?"

  "They'll ice him if they can." The Executioner refused to let himself believe that Brown was dead already, lying in some roadside ditch. "I have to try and get him back."

  "You still believe in miracles?"

  "Somebody has to. '

  "Yeah, I guess. You'll keep me posted?"

  "When I can."

  "Watch out for interference, okay? The Bureau's fielding every man in Little Rock on this one."

  "I'll be watching."

  "Yeah. I wouldn't want to see you tagged by one of ours."

  "I'm out of time."

  "Okay. Stay frosty, huh?"

  The line went dead, and Bolan backtracked from the booth to his waiting car. If Brown had been abducted by the Klan, then it could go in one of two directions. Either he was dead already, driven somewhere for a speedy execution, or they were holding him for something more elaborate, a ritual of sorts, to be performed before the klavern as a whole. Assembling the Klansmen would require some time, he knew, especially with hit teams on the street patrolling for himself and Lynn. If he could find the meeting place, before it was too late...

  But who would show him, now that "Michael Bowers' was officially an outcast, banished from the Klan? The mobile hunting parties would be primed to kill on sight, and if he managed to surprise one of them, take a living prisoner — then what? The odds were fifty-fifty that his captive would deceive him, lead him on a futile chase around the county, while his cohorts went to work on Wilson Brown.

  He had one chance. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, if he was not too late, one man could lead him to the killing ground. He put the rental into gear and left the filling station with a squeal of rubber, standing on the accelerator, jumping the lights when they turned red against him.

  He was running late for his unscheduled appointment with a wizard.

  * * *

  Despite the body in his trunk, the feeling that each motorist he passed must surely recognize his guilty burden, Ritter had been forced to detour by the office on his way to Chatham County. He could not appear before the Knights without his regal robe and mask, the uniform of office that he wore with pride. Tonight, however, trepidation mingled with his usual enthusiasm.

  Ordinarily he got a kick out of the Klan's infrequent necktie parties. Lynchings were a rarity these days, but once or twice a year the hard-core members of the klavern got together for a little sport, abducting some black sheep off the street at random to serve as a sacrificial lamb. The disappearances went unexplained, the bodies — what was left of them — disposed of with an eye toward permanent concealment. There were abandoned bauxite mines in Southern Chatham County where remains could lie undisturbed forever. Ritter thought that Reverend Jake would like it there just fine with Wilson Brown to keep him company.

  It made him nervous, though, to ride around with Halsey in his trunk. Suppose he got pulled over for a moving violation and the officer could smell his fear? Some cops were gifted that way, able to detect a liar by his looks, his smell. What if he got a flat and had to change the tire with Jacob resting right beside the spare?

  Sweet Jesus, what if he was in an accident?

  Aware of every rut and pothole in the road, he drove like an old woman, holding to the limit, even shaving some off that when there was other traffic. It took twice the usual time for him to reach his office, and he knew they would be getting restless at the meeting ground. But they would wait, because they had to. A wizard did not have to offer his apologies to any man among the rank and file.

  Upstairs, he took his robe and hood out of the closet, folded them until they fit his leather briefcase, checking to make sure he had forgotten nothing in his haste. The pistol in his pocket seemed to weigh a ton, but he would keep it with him, just in case. He might be needing it before the endless night was over.

  Ritter started for the stairs... and froze, as shadows near the outer door revolved themselves into a human shape — Mike Bowers, leveling a pistol at his face, with bloody murder in his eyes.

  "You're running late there, Mason."

  "I've got time." But could he reach his pistol, draw and fire before the big man took his head off? No. It was impossible.

  "We're going for a ride," Bolan told him.

  "Oh?"

  "I'd hate to miss the main event."

  "You think that's wise?"

  "I'll take my chances."

  "For a nigger?"

  "For a friend."

  "I knew it."

  "Shake a leg. You're wasting time."

  He summoned all the courage that remained, and forced the words out through his teeth. "What makes you think I'd take you anywhere?"

  "Oh, I don't know. I've got this sneaking hunch you want to live."

  "I don't believe you'd kill me in cold blood."

  "I think you do."

  And he was right, of course. The wizard knew that Bowers would be pleased to kill him, given any small excuse. He might be dead already, if he did not hold a precious secret locked inside his mind.

  "Let's make a trade."

  "I'm listening. You've got five seconds."

  "I play guide, and then you let me walk."

  "Depends."

  "On what?"

  "On how much time you waste, and whether we arrive before the party starts."

  "We'll be there."

  "You should hope so."

  "Twenty minutes. Thirty, tops."

  "You're wasting time."

  Before they left the office, Bolan took Mason's gun away. Downstairs, the wizard was about to slide behind the wheel when he was halted by the pressure of a pistol in his ribs. "Just give me the directions," Bolan ordered. "You can take the rumble seat."

  A sudden nausea enveloped Ritter. If the trunk was opened, Halsey's body found, all bets were off.

  "I can't do that."

  "Wrong answer."

  Bolan had the pistol pointed at Ritter's forehead. He could see the soldier's finger tightening around the trigger, and he folded. "Jesus, wait a second!" Babbling, he had to reel the roads off three times in succession, letter-perfect, to convince his captor that he was not pulling any kind of scam. When Bolan had it memorized, he prodded Ritter toward the trunk and waited while his captive fumbled with the keys.

  The blood was leaking out of Halsey's garbage bag. The threadbare carpet in the trunk had turned into a swamp.

  Bolan didn't need a moment to assess the situation. Reaching in, he tugged the plastic bag away, revealing Halsey's face, the bullet hole precisely centered in his forehead, nothing much in back.

  "Get in."

  "I can't!"

  "I'll bet your life you can."

  He did, the carpet squishing underneath him, sticking to his hands. He vomited, another contribution to the stew, and then Bolan planted a foot in his kidneys, forcing him in beside his lifeless bunkmate.

  "If you're lying to me, Ritter..."

  "No, I swear! You'll see."

  "We'll see."

  The lid came down, and he was trapped in darkness with the corpse. The engine caught a moment later, and the makeshift hearse began to roll. The pastor's body jostled him defiantly, an otherworldly subway rider staking out his space. The wizard would have vomited again, but he had nothing left inside.


  If Bowers followed his directions, he was in for a surprise. The Knights would welcome him with open arms, and no mistake. Firearms, that is. The cocky bastard would not last a second and a half against the Klansmen who were gathering to deal with Wilson Brown.

  It would be something to behold, provided that he lived that long. And if they recognized his captor while the car was still in motion? If they opened fire while Ritter was still locked inside the trunk with Halsey's corpse?

  Then he was finished.

  Eyes closed against his waking nightmare, breathing through his mouth in an attempt to mask the stench of death, he wondered if the leaking minister remembered any prayers.

  * * *

  The banker checked his Rolex, found the time approaching half past one o'clock. He sipped a cup of coffee purchased from a convenience store en route and cursed the day he had chosen Freeman as his latest tool. The man had seemed to have potential, but in retrospect he had been trouble from day one.

  Now this. An urgent call demanding that they meet within the hour, near the bank, no questions asked. When Andrews attempted to postpone the meeting, Freeman had grown abusive, snapping orders like the two-bit psychopath he was, demanding strict obedience. It might have been amusing, but for his repeated reference to a "secret" that he would be bound to share with members of the press — as well as federal agents — if the banker kept him waiting.

  Andrews never had responded well to threats, his temper taking over, tending toward retaliation rather than submission. But he had to know what "secret" Freeman knew — or thought he knew — before he set about the business of reminding his employee who was boss. The time had come for Freeman to be chastis'ed, and severely, for his insolence. It would be pleasant to devise a fitting punishment and put it in effect himself... but not tonight.

  He traveled armed, for self-protection, but he did not plan to murder Freeman here, this morning. He had already marked another member of the Vanguard, one of Freeman's up-and-coming young lieutenants, as a possible replacement if and when it came to that, but he was not prepared to kill on such short notice, almost on the doorstep of his workplace. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.