Eternal Triangle

by Don Pendleton

  The soldier's refusal to be scared off, his grim determination to proceed with what could only be a losing war, had frightened Weatherbee as much as they had angered him. He pictured streets awash in blood, as Bolan threw his martial skills against the legions of the underworld. As a believer in the odds, he knew Bolan didn't stand a chance in hell of walking out of that one-sided war alive.

  But he was wrong.

  The soldier had not only walked, he had been charging ever since, from coast to coast and God knows where — all overseas. The nervy bastard had not only wrestled victory from sure defeat in Pittsfield, but he had survived against the syndicate's shock troops in a series of campaigns that had left La Cosa Nostra reeling.

  From the first, when it was clear that Bolan had escaped from Pittsfield and was carrying his war abroad, police in other jurisdictions had been drawn to Weatherbee like moths to flame. They called, and sometimes flew cross-country, to pick his brains, absorb his impressions of the man they would never see. In Pittsfield, Bolan had been flesh and blood. Throughout the rest of it — New York, Chicago, on and on — the legend had run interference for him on both sides of the law. He was accused of crimes committed simultaneously, states apart, and every lawman with a "Bolan case" before him had sought initial guidance from the "Bolan expert."

  Some, he knew, had wanted to learn why Weatherbee had failed. They had searched his face, his files, for some discrepancy, some weakness that they would take care to avoid themselves. If any of the visitors had found his error, they had kept it secret through the years, and they had been no more successful than the Pittsfield team. No one had searched more ardently for errors of omission or commission than Al Weatherbee himself, and in the end he was compelled to accept that nothing had gone wrong with the investigation.

  Bolan had eluded Weatherbee's detectives as he had evaded teams of mafiosi, through his ability to strike then fade away. The sense of shame, of professional embarrassment that Weatherbee had carried with him in the wake of Bolan's Pittsfield war had long since faded into dusty memory. The brass, no doubt, still held him personally responsible for Bolan's getaway. Successive chiefs had clearly been annoyed by their force's exemplifying what not to do for lawmen all across the country. It wasn't fair, to Pittsfield or to Weatherbee, but someone had to take the heat, and shit had always run downhill.

  But now they needed Weatherbee again. He could imagine all the arguments Pappas must have used to sell the brass on his idea… or was he taking this one on himself, without informing his superiors? If anyone got wise, it could be passed off as a lunch with a friend, for old times' sake.

  It didn't play. Weatherbee was certain Pappas would have cleared his move with someone higher up. The crowned heads would have shaken ruefully before they finally nodded and gave the go-ahead. The taste of crow was nothing in comparison to the god-awful stink that would be stirred up by another Bolan war in Pittsfield.

  Weatherbee would have no official status. No salary. The brass would never risk involving him directly in the conduct of the case. He smiled at the idea of butting heads against the city fathers over something like a twisted ankle on the job, for instance. Their insurance carriers would hit the roof, and heads would roll.

  He chuckled to himself and shook his head. John Pappas was only looking for advice, no more, no less. A glance inside the soldier's mind, to see what made him tick.

  But Weatherbee could not provide that information. Not after all the years that had elapsed, the changes in Bolan's life, and in his own. He no more understood the Executioner today than he might understand a foreign head of state. America's most wanted fugitive bore small resemblance to the soldier who had faced Al Weatherbee across a littered desk at Homicide so long ago.

  Things change. And people, too. Or do they?

  Weatherbee had aged — the mirror told him that much every morning, every night — but his basic beliefs were still as firm as they had been when he first pinned on the badge. A certain cynicism had been added, but he still believed in right and wrong, the difference between good and evil. Black and white existed for him still, despite the modern tendency to think in shades of gray.

  Bolan, he suspected, just might feel the same.

  The soldier might not be so very different, after all.

  It would be worth a look, in any case, and if they froze him out when they were finished picking through his memories, so be it. There were other ways to see a problem through.

  Enough of that, he told himself, refusing to pursue that train of thought. John Pappas wanted information. Fine. It was ridiculous to think in terms of a personal involvement in the case. There might not even be a case, and if there was, Pappas was capable of dealing with it on his own.

  Like hell.

  You didn't "deal" with Bolan, you experienced the guy, the way you might experience an earthquake or a hurricane. For now, the brass were counting on Al Weatherbee to give them some vicarious experience up front, and he was happy to comply.

  For all the good that it would do them.

  He wished the bastards luck.

  8

  Home is where the heart is, so they say, and part of Bolan's heart would always be in Pittsfield. Where he had been born and raised. Where it had all begun. The old, familiar streets inspired a mixture of emotions for the Executioner: nostalgia for childhood pleasures, the pain of loss all mingled into something he could not easily define. The western Massachusetts city had its share of ghosts, and Bolan knew he would have to search among them, face them down, to solve the riddle that had drawn him home.

  There had been progress during the years of Bolan's war, dramatic changes in the face of certain neighborhoods, expansion of the city limits, but he recognized the areas that mattered to him easily enough. The Bolan family home was gone, together with its neighbors. Condominiums had been erected on the site. Bolan didn't like the change — it smacked of corporate profits at the expense of individuals. He wondered if the architects and wrecking crew had known the story of what happened here, the grim destruction of a loving family that sparked a worldwide struggle to the death.

  A few blocks from his former homesite, Bolan found the park and playground still intact. Against his better judgment, he stopped the rental Ford and got out to stretch his legs, wandering around the swings and teeter-totter, the simple steel merry-go-round that was driven by kid power, the slides and monkey bars. All was silent now, this early in the morning, but he could hear the distant voices, feel the darting shapes around him as he stopped to listen.

  His first encounter with aggression had been acted out right here. An inconsequential battleground in retrospect, but at the time, it had been everything to Bolan and his playmates from the neighborhood. They had relied on the playground and adjacent park, had exercised their bodies and their boyhood fantasies there; they had embarked on safaris through the hedgerows, waged ruthless war against one another with water pistols, staked out the so-familiar Martiah landscape in the name of Mother Earth. Until the bully came.

  His name was Richie Latham. Having repeated two grades, he was bigger than his classmates, and by the time he was twelve his size and willingness to throw a punch intimidated kids his own age and younger. What he lacked in intelligence, Richie compensated for in cunning and in cruelty. By the middle of his sixth-grade year, he had conceived a plan to claim the park and playground as his own preserve, allowing other children to use the facilities on payment of a small fee.

  It was a risky business, with the specter of parental intervention glaring over Richie's shoulder, but he shrewdly shaved the odds by leaving girls alone and concentrating on the smaller boys. Most sixth-grade boys would rather face a beating from their peers than run to Mom and Dad for help, a fact that Richie used to his advantage. He was careful not to overcharge — a nickel here and there, with discount rates for groups when he felt benevolent. Those who couldn't ante up took a sad walk home, before or after sampling a knuckle sandwich a la Richie.

  Mack Bolan
first met Richie Latham on a Saturday in spring, when he stopped by the park with friends. They might have played a game of war, or simply ridden on the creaking carousel… but Richie had appeared, demanding tribute. Mack Bolan watched, amazed, as his friends surrendered nickels, pennies, turned out their empty pockets to appease the bully. Bolan had a quarter in his pocket, but when Richie stood before him, waiting, he had stubbornly refused to produce it.

  "No pay, no play," the bully had informed him, angling a thumb behind him toward the street. "Take off."

  "I've got a right to be here," Bolan had responded. "You don't own the park."

  Surprise had been supplanted on the bully's face by anger. "Oh, yeah? We got a tough guy here."

  The bully feinted with his left, a sucker punch, and as Bolan responded, Richie's right exploded in his face. The ground rushed up to meet him, and Richie's laughter rang in his ears.

  It was a long walk home. When his father asked about the shiner, Bolan had responded, haltingly, embarrassed. Papa Sam had listened sympathetically, then delivered the advice that had stayed with his son through adolescence into manhood.

  "No matter where you go in life," he said, "there's always gonna be a Richie Latham, pushing people, taking anything that he can get. Avoid their kind if you can, but never — I mean never — be afraid to fight for what you know is right, for what's yours. The bullies in this world only understand one thing."

  Papa Sam had raised one hand, the fingers curling, closing slowly until they formed a fist. "Go play," the elder Bolan told his son. "It's Saturday."

  Back at the park Richie Latham waited for Mack, lounging on a swing. He did not rise as Bolan walked over and stood in front of him.

  "The tough guy." Richie bared yellow teeth in a grin. "So where's my money?"

  "You don't own the park," Mack Bolan told him softly. "I don't owe you anything."

  "I thought we settled that."

  Before the bully got to his feet Bolan punched the freckled nose with his fist. Then he swung both arms like a windmill, missing more than he connected, but riding Richie to the ground. The larger boy fought back, but weakly, startled by the ferocity of his intended victim. When a second blow connected with his nose and a third rebounded from his jaw, he folded, bleating for his parents.

  Bolan staggered to his feet and backed away, only then noticing the crowd that had gathered to watch the fight. The faces ringing Richie Latham reflected new emotions; no longer fear but satisfaction, confidence, contempt for the bully. They knew he could be beaten now. They were not afraid of Richie anymore.

  "Go home," Mack Bolan told the battered bully. "Go home, and don't come back."

  But Richie Latham kept on coming back over the years, wearing other faces, seeking other forms of tribute. Bolan had been running into bullies all his life — in high school, in the Asian hellgrounds, on the home front when a telegram had summoned him to stand before three open graves. The war was everywhere, the bullies all around him, and it seemed appropriate somehow that this time Bolan's war had brought him home.

  He left the playground, drove the rental north past Franklin High where he had graduated years before. Franklin's campus summoned up nostalgic memories of homework, football, dating and early exploratory sexual encounters. He drove the memories away and put the place behind him, rolling on in search of answers to the puzzle that had brought him here.

  If Bolan planned on walking out of this one, he had to concentrate on the beginning of his war, the origin of his crusade.

  And it came back to TIF.

  He drove the rental Ford down Commerce Street and past the storefront office that had served Triangle Finance in its salad days. Faded For Rent signs hung on the door and in dirty windows that had been painted over to discourage vandalism. Had any business prospered at 1430 Commerce Street since he'd put the loan sharks out of business, Bolan wondered. Had his retribution jinxed any new tenants of the building?

  Someone bore a grudge from Bolan's campaign. Someone still remembered, the hardmen who had been cut down outside TIF. Or was the business card a ruse, a lure to draw the Executioner home to Pittsfield? What enemy knew Bolan well enough to push those ancient buttons? Who remembered Bolan's first campaign? Who cared?

  Somebody.

  Bolan dared not underestimate his adversary. The destruction of his safe house in Connecticut, following the encounter in the cul-de-sac, had demonstrated that the Executioner was dealing with a pro. His own response would have to be professional, if he was to emerge victorious.

  And if he failed… what then? Was his war destined to end here, where it began?

  The soldier rejected pessimism, drove the fatalistic visions from his mind. If fate demand Bolan's death in Pittsfield, it could damned well come and get him. It would find him on the firing line.

  From Commerce Street, Bolan cruised the Liberty district, passed the apartment house where he had lived while working to infiltrate the local Mafia. The mob had tumbled to his game and sent a pair of heavies out to cancel Bolan's ticket there, but they had failed, the first of many paid exterminators dispatched to bring him down. All dead now. Dead and gone.

  He passed the former home of Leo Turrin, where he had been wounded in their first encounter, passed the tract house where he had been taken in by Val Querente in his time of need. Val had adopted brother Johnny, nurtured him to manhood, remarried, sure, and moved away, the smartest move she ever made. The soldier had been grateful for her love, her understanding and her sanctuary.

  Inevitably, Bolan's tour took him to South Hills, where the final bloodbath had been staged. The Pittsfield capo, Sergio Frenchi, had been a resident there. Confronted by Bolan's war, the aging don had drawn his troops around him, gone to ground on his walled estate. But Frenchi had failed to learn from Bolan's early moves in Pittsfield. The Executioner had found him in his lair, annihilated him and his troops as if they were cutout figures in a shooting gallery.

  Now Bolan parked the rental on a grassy knoll and locked it, followed a narrow footpath through the trees. The woods were rich and ripe on this bright spring day, so different now from the summer darkness of that night so long ago.

  Fifty yards from his car, the footpath disappeared and Bolan was surrounded by trees. He made his way unerringly across the sloping hillside, following a course that had been etched on his memory on a night of fire and blood. The clearing was overgrown with ferns and creepers, but he recognized it at once and stood a moment with his eyes closed, listening to echoes from the past. The booming of a big-game rifle, the crump of mortar fire, the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter gunship closing fast.

  And nothing.

  Bolan turned to stare across the wooded gorge, toward old Don Sergio's deserted ruin. It had been a palace in its day, but the corruption and decay on which it was founded had inevitably consumed it. The Executioner had helped the course of nature — and the firemen had arrived too late for Frenchi or the manor house. They saved the forest, though. That was all that mattered in the end.

  For a moment it seemed to Bolan as if the years had telescoped. For an instant, he felt he had never left his hometown, had never put the hurt behind him in pursuit of duty.

  There was some truth in that. The pain could never be absolutely wiped away. His loss was with him always — on the firing line and when he went to sleep at night. The soldier had not let old memories, old wounds, impede his progress. In the Special Forces, he had been taught to fight despite hostile weather, fatigue, injury or pain. He had learned to curb desire, control emotions, bodily reactions — to a point.

  For there was pain in coming home, and he could not deny the fact. Some wounds never healed completely. Bolan knew that he would miss his family as long as he survived. Underneath the cool, professional facade, Mack Bolan's war was personal.

  It always had been, always would be, intensely personal.

  He stood another moment on the sunlit hillside, silently reflecting on his war against the savages. The Executioner had lea
rned early that his opponents had many different names, wore different faces; but whether they were Communists or neofascists, terrorists or racist vigilantes, they all were sculpted from the same malignant slime.

  This time, the war had chosen Bolan rather than the other way around. His enemy was nameless, faceless, but it didn't matter in the end. It was still Mack Bolan going up against the cannibals, against the odds.

  As always, sure.

  There were no answers here. Bolan turned his back on the echoes of the past. The answers would be found in Pittsfield proper, not among the ashes of Don Sergio's estate. If TIF turned out to be the key, as Bolan half suspected, then the threat would come from living men, not from ghosts of campaigns past. His war was among the living and the soon to die.

  If Bolan was one of the latter, he was ready, had been ready since the beginning of his everlasting war. He did not choose to die in Pittsfield, but the choice might not be his to make.

  He set his sights on survival and performance of his duty. If the two were incompatible, he would go with duty. The soldier had no choice.

  No choice at all.

  9

  The hunter parked his two-door Camaro in his driveway and locked it, circled back to get his luggage from the trunk. There was no crime to speak of in the neighborhood, but he had taken time to set the tamper-proof alarm. Precautions made good sense.

  He had survived in Vietnam and afterward by nurturing a healthy distrust of fellow men. In Nam, if you allowed the other guy to handle your security precautions, you could get your ass shot off; so far it had been the same at home.

  Inside, he locked the door behind himself and checked out the interior of the house. The living room and kitchen, visible from the door, were all secure, but he checked the windows, anyway. In the bathroom, he removed a thread that he had tucked beneath the second layer of toilet tissue on the roll, and scanned the edges of the medicine cabinet mirror for fingerprints. None.