"You got more? Hey, I'm game."
"You're a mess, Wils. I'll find you a medic before I move on."
"Listen, Sarge, I don't want to pull rank. If there's more of these birds, I'm not hanging it up till they're finished."
"One more, and he's not worth your time."
"Well, in that case... thank God! You got wheels?"
"I've got wheels and a half. Would you care for a lift in the Klanmobile?"
"Solid."
Dead eyes watched them pass from the field, Bolan still in his robe and supporting the black man who hobbled beside him. The meat wagons would not arrive for an hour yet, running with red lights and sirens to search in vain for survivors. Meanwhile, the dead were alone with their dreams.
21
The shackle had been specially designed to offer limited mobility. Its four-foot chain, secured to a central upright of the metal hut, permitted access to a cot and folding chair while falling well short of the door. The collar bit Lynn Halsey's ankle when she moved, and after several fruitless bids to free herself, she sat immobile, studying her prison.
She was locked inside the smaller barracks at Camp Nordland, near the compound's southernmost boundary. The Quonset hut accommodated eighteen men, but none was currently in residence. The live-in guards, perhaps a dozen of them, were bunked in Barracks 1, and thus far they had left her alone on Freeman's orders.
He would have her killed before another day was out; of that much she was certain. She could link him to her uncle's murder, send him to the death house with her testimony, and he was in jeopardy as long as she survived. The mystery, to Lynn, was why she had survived this long. It would have been so simple to eliminate her, put a bullet in her head and dump her body in the woods, along the highway — anywhere, in fact, where it would not lead back to Freeman and the Vanguard. Keeping her alive implied that he had some use for her, and Lynn was not certain she wished to contemplate what that might be.
Her stomach growled, and Lynn immediately tried to think of something else. There was a toilet in the barracks, but she could not reach it, tethered as she was. In an emergency she would make do, but in the meantime she would fight the need while she could, denying Freeman and his men the pleasure of debasing her.
He had not taken her alive for personal amusement; Lynn was confident of that, at least. His interest in the female sex was seemingly restricted to the typing speed of this or that potential secretary. Neither would he have abducted her to please his men, although they might abuse her if they had the chance. From all appearances, the Vanguard's chief regarded his subordinates with thinly veiled contempt, and was not prone to offering them "treats" of any kind. Her presence at the camp would suit his purposes, and no one else's.
After running through the possibilities, Lynn knew that only two explanations made any sense. If Freeman meant her for a hostage, something he could bargain with if he was pursued by the authorities for Jacob Halsey's murder or some other crime, then it was in his own best interest to keep her reasonably healthy. On the other hand, if he intended to extract some information from her — possibly about Mike Bowers — then she could look forward to a rigorous interrogation, no holds barred. She thought Freeman and his goons would happily resort to torture, and she wondered how long she could hold her tongue once all their talents were applied. An hour? Two? Was she exaggerating her own stamina?
Escape was critical, not only for herself but for the damage it would do to Freeman's plans. If she could not contrive a way to free herself, then she must think in terms of an alternative that would deprive her captor of his hostage, of the information that he might desire.
The shackle held her firmly tethered; she could not dislodge it from the upright where it was anchored, and the clasp around her ankle left her no possibility of working herself free. Without a tool of any sort, she could not hope to cut or pry it open. No part of the cot or folding chair was strong enough to break the manacle or snap the links of chain.
By walking to the far end of her leash and straining forward, stretching out her arms until her shoulders ached, Lynn found that she could reach the nearest window with her fingertips. The glass was frosted to prevent anyone from seeing in or out, but she believed she could break it with her fist if she applied herself. The broken pieces would be sure to fall outside, but others would remain. If she could free a jagged shard, put it to use before her guards responded to the sound of breaking glass...
The thought of death was sobering, but Lynn had seen so much of it already tonight that she quickly grew accustomed to the notion. Death was preferable to the pain that Freeman and his soldiers might inflict in the pursuit of information she did not possess. And if he chose to keep her as a hostage, it would be at best a temporary stay of execution. When he finished with her, after his escape had been accomplished, she would be a piece of excess baggage, something that would merely slow him down. He would eliminate her with the same disdain a man might show while stepping on an insect. The disdain that he had shown for Uncle Jacob.
Better, Lynn decided, to deprive him of the opportunity, the pleasure. If she killed herself, not only would he lose his shield, his source of information, but he would be inconvenienced by another body on his doorstep. Not precisely what she might have called a victory, but at the moment it was all she had.
She tried to calculate the force required to break a windowpane. It would not do to simply crack the frosted glass, but neither did she wish to smash it into smithereens. A happy medium would leave her several shards to choose from, any one of which would nicely do the job.
Lynn was about to try it, straining at her tether, one arm cocked to strike, when she was startled by a shuffling step outside the barracks door. She retreated to her cot and sat demurely, eyes downcast, as one of Freeman's brownshirts entered with a plastic tray in hand. Approaching her, he hooked the camp chair closer with a boot and set the tray down on its seat. She saw a glass carafe of coffee with an empty cup, a plate of sandwiches with pickles on the side.
"Commander says you need to keep your strength up," he informed her. "I'd say you look pretty fit right now."
When she did not respond, he masked his irritation with a leering smile.
"Them dills are kosher. Like commander says, the only thing the Jews are good for's making pickles."
"What does Freeman want with me?"
"I couldn't rightly say. But me, I'd settle for a piece of what you're sitting on right now."
"I'll see you dead first."
He was stung by her response, and his face went dark with rage. "I think you got it backward there. You'd better eat up while you can. Commander just might change his mind about the need to keep you healthy. When he does, we'll talk again."
She let him have the last word, and he left her, smirking as he closed the door. His parting glance had made her flesh crawl, and she felt a sudden urge to shower, cleanse herself, as if from contact with a pair of unclean hands. Instead, she poured a cup of hot black coffee, drank it to help herself relax. A fleeting thought of drugs or poison crossed her mind, but Lynn knew she was being paranoid, and in any case she no longer cared.
The coffee cup was thick, but she believed she could break it on the metal frame of her cot. Once shattered, it would adequately suit her needs, without the noise of breaking window glass. But first, a gnawing trace of hunger made her give the food a second glance. It made no sense, devouring a sandwich moments before committing suicide, but the condemned were always offered food, and why should she refuse?
Deferring self-destruction to a later moment, Lynn began to eat.
* * *
After dropping Wilson Brown outside the entrance to Emergency Receiving, Bolan drove directly to the home of Gerry Axelrod. A rich two-story modern in the suburbs, it was set back from the street behind a spacious lawn, with hedges and a chain-link fence in front, a wooden fence in stockade style behind. A narrow alleyway out back provided access for sanitation trucks and the men who came to servic
e swimming pools and manicure lawns.
He made a drive-by, saw a dark sedan parked in the drive and pulled around in back. The stockade fence was barely six feet tall and posed no challenge as he vaulted over, clad in blacksuit, and merged with the shadows of the shrubs in Axelrod's backyard. Ah oval pool reflected moonlight and the glare from kitchen windows.
Bolan crossed the patio to peer through sliding doors. Inside a pair of Vanguard troopers dressed in street clothes sat across from each other at the dining table, killing time playing nickel blackjack. With the upstairs windows dark, he took them for the house force, gambling that Axelrod had left them to secure the premises while he was occupied with business elsewhere. It was risky, barging in on gunners when there might be others dozing in the parlor or in any one of several rooms upstairs, but Bolan had no options left. He wanted Axelrod — would have him this time — but he needed information first.
He tried the sliding door and found it locked. With his Beretta 93-R in his fist, he took a long step backward, picked up a wrought-iron chair with his free hand and propelled it toward the broad expanse of glass. It struck dead center, crashing through and bringing down the window like a frozen waterfall, its jagged pieces jingling on the flagstones of the patio.
He followed through without a heartbeat's hesitation, low and fast, the silent handgun leading, tracking into target acquisition. At the dining table, Bolan's targets were responding awkwardly, the dealer clinging to his cards, his partner scrabbling at the buttoned flap of his leather GI holster, getting nowhere fast. If there were any other gunners in the house, his entry should have brought them on the run, but only ringing silence echoed from the living room, the darkened stairs beyond.
He needed only one of them alive, and so he took the nearest gunner with a round between the eyes, opening a keyhole on the bridge of his nose and punching him backward out of his seat. His heels drummed briefly on the vinyl floor as Bolan held his weapon steady, pointed at the dealer's face.
"Your choice," he said.
"Wh-what choice is that?"
"It's easy. If you talk, you live — provided you're convincing."
"Jesus... I don't know."
"Goodbye."
He was already tightening his finger on the trigger when the trooper broke. "No, wait! What do you want to know?"
"I'm looking for your boss."
Relieved. "He isn't here."
"Wrong answer, guy."
"Oh, yeah, okay. He's at the camp."
"Camp Nordland?"
"Yeah. He took the girl out there a couple hours ago."
"What girl?"
"The preacher's daughter, niece... whatever. Halsey. I don't know her first name."
"You said two hours?"
"Give or take. I didn't check the time, you know?"
"Okay."
"That's it?" The trooper plainly smelled a rat, as if he knew that he was getting off too easy. "Nothing else?"
"Don't press your luck."
Bolan was backing toward the exit when his adversary did precisely that. The gunner was no faster with his awkward holster then the other guy had been, but Bolan let him haul the automatic clear before he fired. Round one impacted on the junior Nazi's chin, evaporating bridgework as it burned up through his palate toward the brain. The second round was probably unnecessary, but it couldn't hurt: a second head shot while the guy was twisting, plunging toward the floor.
There were no brownshirts left to challenge Bolan as he backtracked to his car. Camp Nordland. Thirty minutes out, if he caught all the lights and pushed his rental to the limit in between. That made two and a half hours, at least, since Lynn had been seen alive, and he could feel the apprehension gnawing at his gut like starving rats inside a bamboo cage.
How had she managed to connect with Axelrod, and why was he now holding her? It never crossed the warrior's mind that Lynn had run to join his enemy by choice, that she would voluntarily remain in "Freeman's" company. Somehow she had acquired a means of transportation from the Greyhound depot and had traveled to the Vanguard offices, the office of the Knights — it scarcely mattered now. She had surprised Freeman doing something, going somewhere, and the savage had decided he could not afford to let her walk. It was encouraging that she had not been killed immediately; on the other hand, he did not wish to think about the treatment she might receive from Axelrod or his companions in captivity.
There was a chance, however slim, that Axelrod suspected her of working with "Mike Bowers," helping gather information on the Knights for future prosecution. If that proved to be the case, Lynn could expect a full "debriefing" from the Vanguard's chairman, even though she had no answers for him, had no secrets to divulge. Her very silence might convince her captors that their first suspicions were correct, and they would never rest until they broke her spirit, crushed her will. If they had any skill at all — and Axelrod, at least, had dealt with masters of the art — Lynn would confess to anything from childhood foibles to the Kennedy assassinations, and it would not be enough.
He closed his mind to images of lacerated flesh and screaming nerves laid bare. There were too many turkeys on his soul already, and the soldier did not know if he could bear the weight of yet another. Not this time. Not here. Not Lynn.
She was in jeopardy because of him, and for no other reason in the world. The lady had not asked to be a part of Bolan's war; he had inducted her, with sex and sympathetic words, intending all the time to use her as a source of information, extra eyes inside the Klan. No matter that the plan had been revised along the way, her role eliminated after Bolan recognized the nature of his feelings for this innocent. She had been nearly murdered once, while sharing Bolan's bed. For all he knew, she might be dead — or worse — because he had allowed the shadow of his everlasting war to fall across her life.
If so, it was a burden he would carry to his grave. But in the meantime, there was hope while life remained, and Bolan was not giving up by any means. There was a great deal he could do for Lynn if she was still alive. And if she wasn't... well, there was a great deal he could do on her behalf. Sweet vengeance might not ease the pain he felt inside, but he could let her killers know a taste of hell on earth before he sent them on their way.
He would give them a preview of coming attractions, with Death in the starring role and a supporting cast of corpses from the Vanguard and the Teutonic Knights, all filmed in bloody, dying Technicolor.
And the projectionist was ready to roll.
* * *
Gerry Axelrod checked his watch against the wall clock in his office, cursing under his breath as he saw they agreed on the time. Still five hours to go, and he wondered if Andrews was sleeping. He hoped not. The bastard deserved to be pacing and chewing his nails while he waited to make the delivery.
The cash could be trouble at customs, but Axelrod had all the rough spots worked out in his mind. He would charter a flight to Mexico, then disappear and resurface with one of his backup identities, taking his time before booking for Europe, the Orient, anywhere he could be free to relax for a while.
When he thought about Europe, memories of Switzerland sat in his stomach like stones. He had nearly been killed there, along with Ramirez, his KGB contact, and others; his final escape had been damned near miraculous — or pure dumb luck. The hell of it was that he still did not understand what had gone wrong; he had no idea who had been trying to kill him or why. There were rumors, of course. CIA. SAS. KGB. He had listened to each in their turn and rejected them all while he waited for brand-new incisions to heal on his face. In the end he had given it up, but he hated the feel of another disaster-in-waiting that came to him now when he thought back on recent events.
He had covered his tracks like an expert, preparing his own resurrection in style. Even if his cover was shaky close up, he had known there would be few occasions for long, indepth scrutiny. Aware of the risks, he had taken a gamble... and he had come that close to losing it all. If he had not seen Bowers for what he was...
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Damn the man, anyway! He had appeared out of nowhere, slipped through Axelrod's best defenses, to strike at the heart of the Knights. Had he shown up days earlier, Theo Brown might still be alive. As it was, both father and son had been removed from the scene, and his hold over Andrews was stronger than ever.
The telephone's shrilling startled him. Axelrod's stomach was weighted with lead as he grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Let me have the commander." A breathless voice. Desperate.
"Speaking."
"Oh, Christ, sir, I'm sorry. It's Tucker. You'll never believe it."
"Slow down, Charley." Tucker was one of his sergeants, and one of those chosen to join in the rally where Brown would be dealt with. "Just tell me what happened."
The trooper obeyed his instructions, and Axelrod felt his blood turn to ice as he listened, reliving the chaotic scene in his mind. Somehow, someone had started a shoot-out in place of the nice quiet lynching that Ritter had planned. Charley Tucker had run for his life, showing more sense than Axelrod would have expected, but he had seen close to a dozen men dead on the ground, and the battle had still been in full swing when he had taken to his heels.
"Could you see who was shooting?"
"No, sir. He was wearing a Klan robe, and all. Just the one man, at first, but then others got in on it, trying to stop him, I guess. It was hell on a Ferris wheel!"
"Charley, I think you should take a vacation. The sooner the better. Get hold of the others — the ones who can answer — and tell them to get out of town. There'll be no end of heat after this."
"I've been packing already," the sergeant responded. "I'll get on those calls...but I don't think I'll have too much luck, sir."
"Just do what you can, Charley."
"Yes, sir."
He broke the connection and stared at the phone for a moment, the wheels of his mind spinning aimlessly, digging for traction and throwing off sand. For an instant his vision was clouded by fear, followed closely by rage — and then Axelrod had his first great revelation.
The Fiery Cross Page 22