"Like you said," Bolan replied, "it's all war-torn land."
The doctor shrugged and said, "True, true. Well ..."
"Let's say that we're in Korea," Bolan said, "ten miles from the field hospital. We're pinned down by enemy fire. What do we do for our patient?"
The doctor sighed. He used his pencil-flash to examine the girl's arms, then he sighed again. "Is she an addict?" he asked.
"I don't believe she gave herself those needle marks. She was a prisoner, under lock and key."
"Have you any idea at all what drug was being used?"
Bolan shook his head. "No. But the idea, I guess, was to keep her quiet."
Hensley removed a syringe from the medical bag and told the other man, "You're going to have to trust me, Mr. Bolan. For just about ten minutes. I want a blood analysis. I can't prescribe without it."
The blue eyes flickered briefly and a silence descended.
Hensley sucked on his cigarette.
Presently the outlaw told the medic, "Okay. But I couldn't trust my own mother, Doctor. I'll have to go in with you. And I have to keep you in sight at all times."
"Fair enough," Hensley murmured. He drew the blood sample, took another look into the patient's eyes, and headed immediately for the door.
Bolan thrust the dark glasses at him. "Security," was all he said.
Hensley nodded and donned the glasses. He opened the door and felt his way to the ground, then waited for the guiding hand.
Twenty or so paces later—he'd lost interest in the count—the glasses were removed and he stepped on briskly without losing stride.
The two men entered the hospital side by side.
They went straight to the deserted lab, and the tall man stood with that fine grace fully intact and watched while Hensley ran his tests.
Ten minutes later the quiet man with the interesting blue eyes murmured his thanks and accepted the written instructions and medicines which the doctor handed over.
Hensley brushed aside the show of gratitude with a wave of the hand, saying, "I'm going to report this, of course. But it's going to take me about another ten minutes to make up my mind that something is funny here, and then probably another five to find the telephone number for the police station. I don't know what you're all about, Mr. Bolan, but then neither do I know what I am all about. Good luck to you, sir."
The tall man grinned, the frostiness of those eyes melting to an incredible warmth.
He said, "Live large, Doctor," and spun away. Hensley stopped him at the lab door with a quiet all. "Sergeant Bolan! There's a telephone number on those instructions I gave you. It's an aid station, well clear of enemy fire. And the medic on duty does make house calls."
Another flash of friendly eyes and the phenomenon was gone.
Hensley was not at all surprised to find that his own death funk had vanished.
"What the hell have I done?" he wondered out loud.
He dropped onto a stool and gazed at his hands. Human hands, not Godly ones.
Who the hell ever said that medical doctors were supposed to be something a bit more than human?
But then, human hands and human thought could do quite a bit—yes, quite a bit. If any one wanted to know just how much, then they could ask the indomitable Sergeant Bolan about it.
The doctor picked up his bag, returned to the desk and signed back in, then went to take another look at that dying old woman in the cardiac ward.
5: THE ALLY
Bolan's "base camp" was a Holiday Inn on Interstate 20 in the stretch between Big Spring and Abilene. It had been established some days earlier, and from there Bolan had operated during the reconnaissance phase of the strike into Texas.
The disguised "war wagon," an Econoline van that had been dandied up with colours and decals of a fictitious oil company, returned to base camp on that spring morning at shortly after eight o'clock—just in time to evade a state trooper's checkpoint which at that very moment was being established along the exit from the interstate highway.
The motel lay within sight of the roadblock.
So, sure, Bolan had known that the girl would cost him. The cops were just reacting a bit quicker than had been anticipated.
He parked the van right at his door and went inside for a quick check-out of the room, then he wandered over to the lobby for a brief and casual recon of that area, then on to the coffee shop.
He bought a carry-out pot of coffee and a bag of Danish pastries and took them to the room. Then he brought the girl in, covered from head to toes and slung casually over a shoulder.
It was not likely that anyone had noticed that operation. There was very little life around the motel at that hour. Most of the early risers had departed; the others were still on their pillows or in the coffee shop; the maids had not yet begun to stir.
He put the girl to bed, hung a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, and moved the war wagon to an open spot on the back of the lot, to which he would have an unobstructed view from his room.
The doctor had assured him that the girl would be okay. The drug in her system was "a simple sedative." Bolan should allow her to "just sleep it off." The medicines provided were no more than high-potency vitamins and "something to combat a possible nausea."
The Executioner had no intention whatever of allowing Judith Klingman to "just sleep it off." There was no time for sleeping.
He returned to the room and stripped to his underwear. Then he wrapped a towel around the girl and cinched it in tight at her waist.
He carried her into the shower and held her beneath a spray which was several degrees below comfortable temperature, talked to her, and gently patted her face.
He took her out of there as soon as she began to stir and lay her on the carpeted floor, soaking wet. He worked on her, then, with the wet towel, vigorously rubbing and massaging from the soles of her feet upward, talking to her all the while in reassuring tones.
The girl was tingling red all over and beginning to quiver when he switched from wet to dry and started buffing her with a fresh towel. She came out of it fighting, arms and legs flailing, eyes as round as saucers and scared as hell.
He had a hand ready to shut off any screams, but the terrified girl had not yet found her voice, and Bolan's own gentle tones turned the trick.
"Stop that," he commanded, quietly but firmly. “Behave yourself. I'm not your enemy, Miss Klingman.”
She fell back to the floor, chest heaving, relaxed in surrender but eyes still locked to his. "Wh-what're you doing?" she gasped in a hoarse whisper.
Bolan told her, "Trying to get you off your back and on your feet, believe it or not." He smiled and draped the towel lengthwise upon her body. "You've been out of it. I've just been trying to bring you back."
Sure, she was some kind of beauty. Don't even notice the long, beautifully tapered legs and flaring thighs, the creamy little mashed-potato belly and voluptuous quarterdeck. It was that Texas co-ed face with the deep-pool eyes that seized Bolan's emotions and made him aware of his own semi-nude condition.
He left her lying there and snared a towel for himself from the bathroom rack, knotted it about his waist, and went for a cigarette.
When next he checked she was sitting upright, the towel held in tight little fists just beneath her chin, giving him a frankly curious stare.
He asked, "How do you feel?"
"All over," she replied.
Bolan chuckled. "Hope I didn't wear away any skin. I, uh, had to . . ."
"Yes, I understand. Thank you."
It was a nice voice, intelligent, with it—despite the drug fuzzies. Very definitely Texan, pleasingly so.
He told her, "I have plenty of coffee. Some pastries, too, if you'd like. And if you're feeling a bit seasick, I even have something for that."
"Coffee sounds fine," she said.
Those eyes had not left him.
He found a couple of cups and poured the coffee; then he went to the bathroom and tossed her another towel. "Only thin
g I can offer in two-piece ensembles," he said. "Sorry, it's that or nothing."
She said, "I've had plenty of nothing."
Great. A sense of humour could be her greatest asset at the moment.
He turned his back to give her modesty a fighting chance but then had to whirl and grab her as she stumbled to her feet and pitched forward. He held her there, upright but swaying, and affixed the towels to her himself.
She smiled drunkenly and murmured, "Pretty much of a wasted effort by now, isn't it?"
Bolan said, "Believe me, it's not."
He led her to the dresser and anchored her there. "Stay on your feet," he advised. "The swimming will stop if you'll fight it through."
Her eyes were trying to focus on the black skin suit and the Beretta rig which Bolan had laid out on the bed. She said, "No dream."
"What?"
"I thought it was a dream. The black knight. No dream."
He understood, although not completely. "I pulled you out of the Wells," he explained, trying to fill in blanks for her.
"Yes. Thank you."
He held the coffee to her lips and she sipped it. Pretty soon she was gulping it, and then holding it for herself, watching him with luminous eyes above the rim of the cup.
He told her, "When the room stabilizes, you might try walking some."
"You're not a policemen, are you."
He shook his head. "I'm Mack Bolan."
"My gosh!" She set the cup down with a clatter and beat a staggering path to the bed, sat down, sprang right back up, and walked a circle of the room. "The wobblies are leaving," she announced.
Bolan told her, "You're pretty tough."
"So are you. I should have known—I would have known if I'd been in my right mind—I mean, the minute you came crashing in. I've been following your—your career almost from the start. You are quite a famous man, you know."
"Notorious," he replied, "is the word."
"No. Famous, too. Lots of people are rooting for you, Mr.—oh, no, this won't do, this mister and miss business. I mean, not with nothing but a couple of towels between us."
She was sounding giddy, and seemed to be having trouble with the focus of her eyes.
Bolan suggested, "Too much too fast, Miss Klingman. Cool it a little. Try some more coffee."
"But I can't call you Mack, can I? It just doesn't sound like a whole name."
"It's all I've ever had," he assured her. "Come on. Coffee time again."
She lurched toward the dresser. Bolan had to steady her while she went to work on the second cup.
Those eyes were working him over again, too. He grinned at her. She grinned back and grimly stuck with the coffee.
Between gulps she told him, "I feel honoured." He said, "Well, that makes us even."
"I kept expecting someone to rescue me. But my gosh. Look who came."
He asked, "How long were you there?"
"Oh, well, since—what day is this?"
Bolan told her.
The deep-pool eyes flattened out somewhat but then bounced back quickly. "Well, no wonder it seemed like forever," she said.
Bolan was digging this girl more and more by the minute.
"I guess it was about—well, a week ago. When they started jabbing the needles at me. I almost escaped. Daddy will be very proud of that. But they were furious. They took all my clothes away and locked me in. And started the march of the needles. Every time I'd start rising up out of the fuzzies, wham, another needle. I figured I was growing old and haggy in that darned room. Maybe I did." She craned her head toward the mirror, made a face at it, and said, "Yep. Damn them."
Bolan chuckled and told her, "You look great. Are you saying that you were held for only a week?"
"Oh, no. I've been out there since January. Under house arrest. Can you imagine? Right here in the United States of America? Right here in the heart of Texas? Something like that happening? I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't. And then I had to, because it just went on and on."
He asked, "Why were they holding you?"
"You don't know why?"
He replied, "No. I'm asking you."
Those eyes had gone just a trifle wary. She said, "Well, I don't know why."
Bolan said, "Baloney."
"Some people think that you're secretly working with the government," she said.
"I'm not."
"Some people think so. So I'd better just keep quiet. For now."
He told her, "You'd better not. Look, Miss Kling- man, you're in a bad spot. The only reason you're alive right now is because the Mafia figured to gain something through the fact that you are alive. They—"
"The Mafia!" she gasped.
He blinked at her and said, "Who did you think? These people don't play silly games. They play for keeps. The mere fact that you are back into the world again could make you chief candidate for a hit."
The girl was still having trouble with that first idea. "The Mafia?" Her eyes were round and horror-stricken.
It could not have been an act. Bolan knew it could not, especially considering the state of her drug-impacted mind.
He said, "I assumed you knew that much."
"What have they done to my father?"
"As of about twelve hours ago, your father was alive and well in Dallas."
"How do you know that?"
"It's my business to know," he told her. "But I need to know a lot more. And I need your help. I need your help, Miss Klingman, like the flowers need the sun."
She pushed the empty cup toward him. "Fill 'er up," she demanded—and Bolan knew that some deep dimension of this girl was beginning to respond to the heavy reality of her situation.
He said, "You will help me, won't you?"
"Help you," she said. "I'll carry you piggyback all the way to Dallas."
Bolan had no doubts whatever that she meant precisely what she said. And she was about to get a chance to prove it.
The parking lot outside was suddenly filling with cops.
6: TRIPLE OPTION
Judith Klingman tumbled into the bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin, then whipped off her towels and fired them at Bolan. He relayed them to the bathroom and invested a few seconds of precious time on the girl's positioning.
The master of "role camouflage" knew that proper staging was all-important to the success of any illusion.
He stacked the pillows at her back and lifted her half-upright, then rearranged the covering sheet so that the top hem lay squarely across the ample bosom.
Finally he placed a Danish pastry in her hand, said, "Take a bite," and went immediately to the bathroom, taking skin suit and Beretta with him for concealment there.
He stepped into the shower and wet himself down, patted shaving lather on his face, draped a towel across his shoulders and cinched one about his waist, set the hot water tap of the basin to a slow trickle, and waited for the inevitable visitation at the front
door.
He'd freshened the lather twice and Judith had choked down half of the Danish before the law presented itself.
Bolan slumped his shoulders into a rounded curl and gave the girl a reassuring wink as he stepped past the bed to answer the summons.
She looked scared. He murmured, "Just cool it. Play it by ear, and off my cues."
She nodded.
He let the callers rap once more before he called through the closed door in a surly voice, "What? No maid, not now. See the sign?"
A respectful Texas drawl responded with, "Police, sir. Please open the door."
Bolan waited a couple of beats, then turned the latch and cracked the door to the limit of the chain travel.
"I didn't call any police," he muttered, peering through the crack. "How do I know . . . ?"
An eye met his through the opening, a troubled eye with apology and regret radiating from it, belonging to a diffident youth in a motel uniform.
"It's the sheriff's office, sir. I'm sorry. It's some sort of routine check. They'd apprec
iate your cooperation."
Bolan grunted and closed the door, released the chain lock, then opened wide and stepped back.
Cops with shotguns were prowling the parking area, peering into cars. The young clerk at Bolan's door was accompanied by two men in spit 'n' polish khaki and heavy leather, roll-brim Western hats and immaculate boots. The uniform shirts fairly blazed with impressive insignia and flap-pocket decorations. Both men were rather young and nearly as ill-at-ease as the clerk.
Pendleton, Don - Executioner 018 - Texas Storm. Page 4
