"You did it all yourself. You're a deserving case."
Emerging from the shadows, two forms merged as one. "I've got a little something here you might be interested in."
Lynn Halsey stared at him with pleading eyes, but Bolan knew she was not pleading for her life. She wanted Axelrod — or Freeman, as she knew him — dead and in the ground for murdering her uncle.
"Want to make a trade?"
The soldier shook his head. "Not this time."
"I could kill her."
"Sure you could. And what's your encore?"
"I've got information you could use!"
"I'll settle for a bird in hand."
"A sleeper, damn it! KGB! Don't tell me that's not worth a little slack."
"I couldn't say."
"You know the Southern Bankers' Conference?"
Bolan nodded, holding his sights on the visible half of Axelrod's face. It would not be an easy shot, and yet...
"The local honcho. Michael Andrews. He's your man."
"You say."
"I've got a briefcase in the car. The evidence is all inside. It's yours, the skinny and the girl. Just let me walk."
"No sale."
"But I thought..."
"Your mistake."
"You bastard!"
"Right."
He saw the move before his adversary made it, felt the anger boiling out of Axelrod, preparing to explode and sear Lynn's life away. He stroked Big Thunder's trigger, rode the recoil, squeezing off again before the rolling echo of his first shot died away, and Axelrod leaped backward like a puppet yanked on strings, dead before he hit the ground. His body twitched, the reflex action of his dying muscles simulating life, his one eye open, staring at the heavens.
Lynn came to Bolan, sobbing, and he clasped her in his arms, allowing her to cry it out. They were alone beneath the friendly stars, and Bolan's work was finished.
Almost finished.
There was one more IOU awaiting cancellation, one more bit of refuse to be swept away before the Executioner was done in Arkansas.
The sleeper had a nightmare coming to him, and he didn't even know it, yet.
Epilogue
The news of Freeman's death preempted the morning farm reports. It followed a description of the slaughter at a Ku Klux lynching party outside Parrish. Twenty-eight were dead, at final count, and agents of the FBI were scouring the countryside for stray survivors, interviewing all known members of the Klan in search of a reliable eyewitness. Meanwhile, someone with a grudge against the Aryan Vanguard had killed two men at Freeman's home and then moved on to kill another ten — along with Freeman — at Camp Nordland.
All in all, it was a bloody morning's work, and very possibly the finish of the Klan in Arkansas. According to reports, one of the rally dead — a body burned beyond immediate attempts at recognition — was believed to be the ''wizard," Mason Ritter. From appearances, a member of the Knights had gone berserk and sprayed the crowd with automatic fire. The only witness presently on record was the Klan's intended victim, Wilson Brown, who had described his ordeal from the hospital bed where he lay under twenty-four-hour guard by federal agents.
Michael Andrews had been disconcerted by the morning's news. He was relieved, of course, to know that he had heard the last of Freeman, but there was the "package" to be thought of, and the possibility that it might be in federal hands right now. Did evidence of his identity exist, in fact? Or had the mercenary racist been relying on a bluff to earn himself an easy payoff? At the moment, there was nothing for Andrews to do but wait and see.
He would go through the motions of a normal day, for starters. Business at the bank, an early lunch with two of his associates from the Southern Bankers' Conference. They had already called, inquiring as to the details of the Freeman matter, and he had promised explanations when they met at noon. At the moment, their worries were the least of his concerns.
There had been calls to make, arrangements to be canceled after he received the news of Freeman's death. The two assassins he had hired to follow Freeman from the bank would still be paid, as promised, even though their work — or part of it — had been performed by someone else. They had been hired to follow Freeman from the bank, dispose of him and mount a thorough search for any evidence he might have hidden on his person, in his car or in his home. No searches would be possible now, with the police and the FBI investigating everything the dead man had ever touched, but Andrews would not quibble over twenty thousand dollars. The assassins were reliable, good men and he might well have need of them again before too long.
His contacts in the prosecutor's office and the sheriff's homicide division would inform him of developments, if there was time. His major worry was the FBI. If they laid hands on Freeman's evidence, the locals might not know about it until news of his arrest was printed in the daily papers.
He could leave, of course, but even that took time. There was one hundred thousand dollars in his bedroom wall safe, ten times that securely stashed in Switzerland — the funds he had embezzled from his clients over the years. He could catch a flight to anywhere on earth with two hours' notice. But evacuation was a signal of defeat, and Michael Andrews had himself convinced that he could still fight on to victory.
He was a Marxist in his heart, beneath the layers of comfortable capitalism that he wore as a grand disguise. Not suicidal, but committed to the cause of revolution, which he had served all his adult life. Perhaps a dozen men in Moscow knew of his existence, although few would ever have thought about him in the course of normal daily business. Serving as the spearhead of the revolution, he was naturally alone.
If he should be arrested, brought to trial, the revelation of his long career would be another victory of sorts for Mother Russia. The humiliation that Americans would suffer, their embarrassment throughout the world, would almost justify the sacrifice. Of course, the blacks would not believe it for a moment; they would charge the FBI or CIA with covering for racists in the government, red-baiting as a smoke screen for their own covert activities. Dissension would be multiplied throughout the land, and it would be his fault.
His glory.
Still, the idea of a life in prison — or the thought of execution as a spy and saboteur — did not appeal to Michael Andrews. He seldom thought of himself as Mikhail Andreivich these days. In fact, it was years since he had consciously thought in Russian, although he remained fluent in his native tongue through deliberate private practice.
No, the idea of a prison cell did not fit in his plans at all.
Tomorrow he would leave. Announce a personal emergency to members of his staff this afternoon, a false itinerary they could follow and accept, while he prepared to fly off in the opposite direction, bound for parts unknown.
Tomorrow.
But today it would be business more or less as usual. One last chance to dip his fingers in the bank's supply of ready cash. The money he had planned to siphon off for Freeman would do very nicely for himself. By the time the auditors discovered it was missing, he would be long gone, beyond their reach. Beyond the reach of sheriff's officers, police or FBI.
Tomorrow.
Straightening his tie, the soon-to-be-ex-banker smiled at his reflection in the mirror. What he saw there was success — at several levels. He had done his duty for the revolution, and he had prospered as a direct result of his attention to duty. After more than twenty years of service to the cause, he was retiring to enjoy the good life for a time, and no one had the power to stop him.
Andrews doubted that the KGB would even miss him, let alone attempt to find him. If his disappearance caused a ripple in the Kremlin, they would notice that his exit had been made in character, a capitalist banker absconding with the hard-earned money of the proletarian clients who had trusted him with their life savings. It was perfect, a fitting culmination to his career as a sleeper.
Locking the front door behind him, he strode briskly down the walk, across his lawn, in the direction of the waiting l
imousine. A different driver held the door for Andrews, smiling deferentially, and he supposed that Thomas must have called in sick. No matter. Nothing could be less significant than the selection of a new chauffeur.
He settled back into the leather-upholstered seat, contemplating the future with mounting enthusiasm. Somewhere tropical, perhaps — at least for openers. And later, Switzerland. Or Liechtenstein. Perhaps the Orient.
He missed the usual landmarks, did not recognize the storefronts sliding past his tinted window. Leaning forward, he pressed the button on the intercom that linked him with the driver.
"Why are we going this way? Thomas never comes this way."
The driver's eyes were studying him, not without a trace of curiosity, in the rearview mirror.
"Shortcut," said the Executioner before he put the pedal to the floor.
The Fiery Cross Page 24