by Larry Bond
Burke and McGowan were in front. Keller sat in the back.
“Get in,” the older man ordered.
Halovic obeyed, careful to keep his hands in plain view at all times. He didn’t like the tone of Burke’s voice or the strain he could see on his face and those of Keller and McGowan. These men were operating on a hair trigger and that was dangerous—both for him and for them.
With McGowan at the wheel, the Chevrolet skidded out of the motel parking lot and turned north onto Route 250. They crossed the James River in silence and headed east on Route 6.
After several minutes, Halovic risked a question. “Where are we going?”
“Richmond,” Burke replied tersely.
Richmond? Why there?
Keller handed him a manila envelope. “Read this.”
Suppressing any questions, Halovic leafed though a sheaf of newspaper clippings and typewritten pages. They all concerned one man—a prosperous local black businessman named John Malcolm. The first clipping, a few years old, described a new youth training program launched by Malcolm. Other articles described the success of the program and his further ventures. He was active in several social circles, and he was a popular speaker at local schools and community meetings. One of the last clippings speculated on Malcolm’s chances as a candidate in an upcoming congressional race.
The typewritten pages were a detailed dossier on Malcolm. They listed his home and business address, his children’s schools, his wife’s work, his church, his closest associates, and every aspect of his daily routine.
Halovic was impressed. Someone had done a great deal of research on this man and his movements. Its purpose was obvious. Malcolm was targeted for some sort of action by Burke’s group. He was precisely the sort of black man they would hate and fear most—prominent, successful, and socially accepted. Judging by the dates, it was something they had been planning for quite some time.
He finished reading and looked up at the older man. “For what reason do you show me this?”
“We want you to kill him.”
Halovic nodded slowly. Two possibilities confronted him. If these men really were neo-Nazi radicals, this was a test of his sincerity, and by their standards, of his bravery. That was understandable. On the other hand, if Burke, McGowan, and Keller were police informers or agents, this was a trap—a ploy to have him condemn himself out of his own mouth.
To buy time to think, he stared for a moment at the quiet wooded countryside streaming past before glancing back at Burke. “And if I do?”
“We’ll deal. Weapons for cash.”
Halovic considered his chances coldly. If they were serious, his course of action was clear. Killing Malcolm meant nothing to him. All that mattered was the risk of discovery. Of capture. Of failure. Of course, refusing would also mean failure. Burke and his followers would never risk continued contact with a man they did not trust. That much was certain.
He studied the dossier again. The material it contained was well organized and complete. There were no airy assumptions, no unnecessary rhetoric. It was all very professional. And his companions, while reactionary, did not appear excessively sloppy or wholly stupid.
Questions swirled in his mind. Why hadn’t they assassinated this man themselves? He wasn’t naive enough to think he’d just happened to show up at the right time.
Halovic sensed the others waiting with mounting impatience. He had taken a reasonable amount of time to ponder his answer, but if he waited any longer, he would be stalling, both them and himself. There was no other data to be had. And delay could be fatal in more than one way. Decide, he told himself sharply.
Stung into action, he nodded. “Very well. I will kill this black man for you.” Almost by reflex a workable plan popped into his brain. “You have a weapon for me?”
Burke glanced at Keller. “Show it to him, Dave.”
The younger man reached into a brown paper bag between his feet and pulled out a brand-new pair of gardening gloves, a 9mm automatic, a separate eight-round clip, and a bulky, cylindrical silencer.
Halovic recognized the weapon as a Smith & Wesson Mark 22—a silenced model first used during the Vietnam War by U.S. Navy commandos. They had called it the Hush Puppy.
“There’s a rifle in the trunk if you want it instead,” Burke said.
Halovic shook his head. He would complete this operation at close range. “The pistol will suffice.”
“It’s cold,” Keller said reassuringly. In answer to Halovic’s questioning look, he explained, “It’s not traceable. A dealer at a gun show traded it to us years ago. He doesn’t keep records.”
“That is very good.” Halovic slid the clip into place, worked the action, and screwed the silencer into the pistol’s muzzle. He nodded, satisfied by what he saw. The weapon was in excellent condition.
He looked out the window again. There were more houses and stores lining the highway. A sign informed him they were nearing the outskirts of Richmond.
Burke watched him closely. “You got any idea of how you want to do this thing, Karl?”
“Ja.” Halovic thumbed through the dossier until he came to a map showing Malcolm’s movements. Then he leaned forward and jabbed a finger at the spot he wanted. “Drive here, to Elkheart Road. We will go directly to his office.”
Burke nodded slowly after studying the map himself. “Okay. Do what the man says, Tony.”
McGowan complied.
Ten minutes later, they were in a quiet, suburban section of Richmond. The small professional building that housed Malcolm’s office lay a few tree-lined blocks from a large shopping mall. A parking lot surrounded the two-story brick and glass structure on three sides.
“Pull in here,” Halovic ordered. He pointed to an empty space near the exit to the street. “There. Back in.”
Sweating now, McGowan cranked the wheel over hard and carefully backed the Chevrolet into place between two other cars.
Moving slowly and methodically, Halovic donned the gloves Keller had given him and began to carefully wipe the metal surface of the pistol with a handkerchief. He was aware that all three men were staring at him. Burke seemed pleased. McGowan was wide-eyed and looked increasingly nervous. Keller was poker-faced.
The three Americans exchanged quick glances and then nodded to each other.
“We’ve seen enough,” said Burke. “We believe you.”
“Excuse me?” Halovic said. He tucked the pistol under his jacket.
“I said, we’ve seen enough,” repeated Burke. “That’s it. You were ready to go through with it. That’s all we wanted to know.”
Halovic frowned inside. His first contemptuous suspicions had been right. All of Burke’s talk about waiting for the right moment, his elaborate plans, their stockpiled weapons, it was all just a fantasy.
He stared hard at the older man and shook his head. “No. It is not enough.”
“Huh?” Burke was clearly bewildered. “What do you mean, Karl?”
“This was a test, true? To see if I would kill?”
The older man nodded rapidly. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Halovic smiled coldly. “Very well. I accept that.” He pointed toward the office building. “Now I will test you. This black man will die and you will be a part of his death.”
He glanced at Keller, the man he judged the toughest and most reliable of the three. “You. You will come along as my lookout.”
The younger man stared at him for a moment, plainly taken aback.
“Hold on just a minute, Karl,” Burke interrupted. “There’s no need to go off half-cocked. I told you that we’re satisfied you’re one of us. We don’t need to take any unnecessary risks here today.”
A pale, terrified McGowan mumbled his agreement with his leader.
“Risks? You fear risks?” Halovic said scornfully. “And yet you call yourselves soldiers?” He shrugged. “My people will not deal with cowards or shirkers. Either this black man dies, here, today, or you will see no advanced weapons fr
om me. Is that clear?”
He waved a hand toward the office building. “I tell you that your plan is good. This man can be killed with ease. But you must act—not sit and dream.” He turned back to Keller. “Decide. Will you come with me?”
The younger man stared first at Halovic and then at Burke. “Jesus, Jim … what do you think?”
Clearly torn, the older man chewed his lower lip. He wanted those grenade launchers and explosives. He just hadn’t expected to be asked to help kill anybody to prove his own good faith. Finally, he shrugged. “It’s up to you, Dave. We need those guns.”
“You are afraid,” Halovic said flatly, forcing the issue. “Stay behind, then.”
“Hell, no!” Keller flushed, unwilling to admit his fear. “If you really want to kill this nigger, I’ll help you do it.”
Halovic popped open the car door and got out quickly, before the stunned Burke could say anything else. The Bosnian worked hard to keep his expression neutral. These American fools were about to learn the difference between fantasy and deadly reality—a reality he already knew all too well.
Keller followed him without evident hesitation.
That was good, Halovic decided. He had no intention of trusting his life to this man, but at least he showed some backbone.
The office building’s glass double door led into a small lobby. He checked the building directory, reconfirming the information contained in the dossier. Malcolm’s offices were still on the second floor—suite 215.
Nobody else was in sight.
With Keller at his heels, Halovic walked down a short hall to a door marked “Stairs.” He ignored the elevator.
Two flights of bare concrete steps led up to an unlocked steel fire door. Halovic paused long enough to make sure that it could be opened easily from either side. If anything went wrong in the next few minutes, a rapid exit might prove to be the difference between life and death.
The door opened up on a long hall that ran the length of the building, widening in the middle for the elevators. John Malcolm’s office was down at the far end of the hallway.
With Keller still following him, Halovic walked briskly past a series of other offices. The sounds of typing and soft music filtered out from behind closed doors. The hallway was empty.
He stopped just outside suite 215. Painted lettering on a frosted glass door identified it as the offices of Malcolm Accounting. After checking the hallway again, he slipped the bulky Smith & Wesson out of his jacket. Then he turned toward Keller, measuring him one last time.
The American licked his lips, clearly nervous, but still in control of himself. Halovic knew the look well. He’d seen it on dozens of men just before their first real action.
Readying his automatic, he commanded softly, “Do not let anyone in behind me.”
Keller nodded quickly.
With the pistol held out of sight, Halovic opened the door and walked through it into a reception area. Dark wood furniture, soft carpeting, and original oil landscapes on the walls conveyed a reassuring air of stability and success. A middle-aged black woman with snow-white hair sat behind a desk.
She looked up with a polite smile. “Good morning. Can I help you gentlemen?”
Halovic smiled back. “I certainly hope so. Is Mr. Malcolm in?”
“Yes, but he’s with a client …”
Good enough. Halovic brought the Smith & Wesson up in one smooth motion and shot the woman in the chest. Blood spattered across the painting hung behind her. Even silenced, the pistol’s report seemed shockingly loud, like someone dropping a heavy telephone book on a tile floor. He worked the slide rapidly, chambering another round, and fired again.
The woman slumped forward across her desk, scattering papers and a bound appointment book onto the carpeting.
“Oh shit.”
Halovic glanced behind him. Keller’s eyes were wide, almost white with shock. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the carnage. He had clearly completely forgotten his duties. The Bosnian had expected that. The American’s only real function was to act as a witness.
“Shut the door and be silent.” Halovic swung away toward the entrance to Malcolm’s inner office.
He knocked twice and went in without waiting for a reply. There were two men inside, one seated behind a large mahogany desk. The other occupied a Queen Anne chair in front of the desk. The furniture looked expensive, the men prosperous.
Malcolm, his primary target, was the one behind the desk. He matched his newspaper photos perfectly. A large, balding black man in his mid-fifties, he wore a subdued gray suit and conservative red tie. The other man, also black and similarly dressed, was younger. Halovic didn’t recognize him, and didn’t care. His presence here marked him for death.
Both looked toward the door, clearly surprised at being interrupted.
“You are Mr. John Malcolm?”
The man behind the desk nodded slowly. “That’s right.”
Halovic took three steps into the room, moving left to clear his field of fire. Perfect.
“Look, who are you?” Malcolm asked, still perplexed.
The Bosnian brought his pistol up, fired at Malcolm, swiveled slightly, and fired at the younger black man—all within a single murderous second. Both shots struck home.
Without hurry, Halovic strode to the desk. Malcolm sprawled back in his chair, a bright red stain spilling across his stomach. One hand clutched at his belly wound, but the other just twitched feebly, pawing toward a phone just out of reach. The businessman’s eyes were open but unseeing, glazed with pain.
He had fired too low, Halovic thought coolly, displeased by the evident imperfection of his marksmanship. Stomach wounds were rarely immediately fatal.
This time he aimed carefully at Malcolm’s head and fired twice more. The black man’s face dissolved into red ruin and his body twitched violently as each 9mm round tore a path through his brain.
Without moving, the Bosnian turned to check the other man. Malcolm’s visitor was still alive. He’d fallen forward out of the chair onto the carpeted floor. Now, moaning loudly, he was crawling through his own blood—inching in agony toward the open door.
“No, no, my friend,” Halovic said softly. “You do not escape.” He walked toward the crawling man, stood behind him, and fired two more shots into the back of his skull. Brains, blood, and skull fragments sprayed across the carpet. The young man shuddered once and lay still.
Halovic quickly stepped back and behind the desk, double-checking Malcolm’s throat for pulse. Nothing.
About thirty seconds had passed. He walked out of the inner office. Again acting on trained reflex, he checked the white-haired receptionist, making sure she was dead. She lay as he had left her, facedown on a desk almost completely covered in her own blood. He dropped the automatic. Nothing about it would lead the police back to him, so there wasn’t any need to risk being caught with it later.
Keller stared at him both in horror and in admiration. “Oh, man. You did it. You killed everyone. Didn’t you?”
“You saw me,” Halovic said coldly. He motioned the American out into the hallway, turned the snap lock on the door, and closed it behind him. They were done here.
He half expected to find Burke, McGowan, and the car gone, but the Chevrolet was still parked where they had left it. He and Keller piled in and he ordered, “Drive. But take your time. No traffic accidents, please.”
“Sure. Sure. No problem.” McGowan put the car in gear and drove slowly away. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
Burke furtively studied the two men in the backseat. From time to time he opened his mouth as though to ask exactly what had happened inside Malcolm’s office, but each time, he closed it without speaking. Halovic ignored him, calmly studying the city streets, checking to make sure they weren’t under surveillance.
Still pale and in a state of shock, Keller slumped back against the rear seat, staring straight ahead, shivering occasionally. But when they turned onto the high
way leading out of Richmond without any sign of police pursuit or even interest, he seemed to settle down. His shivers died away and his color began coming back.
Halovic watched the younger man with some interest. Keller was apparently learning how to come to terms with the bloodbath he had witnessed. That was good. Given time, he might even learn to control his fears and to act with the discipline and ruthlessness a successful secret war required.
They were ten miles outside the Richmond city limits when Keller leaned forward, closer to Burke, and nodded toward Halovic. “Jesus, Jim, you should’ve seen it. Karl blew that damn nigger away like you’d put down a stray dog! He offed two more of ‘em, too. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers.
Burke stared at Halovic. “You shot three people?”
“It was necessary.” The Bosnian shrugged. “One man or three—it makes no difference.” He smiled crookedly. “You cannot keep count in a war, Mr. Burke.”
His own calm was not an act. He had killed many times in Bosnia, so many that he had lost track somewhere along the way. The faces of the dead sometimes came to haunt him in nightmares, but they faded in the waking day. Besides, eliminating Malcolm had proved to be child’s play—an act without significant risk. These Americans were all so open, so unprepared—so unsuspecting. Killing them required less real effort than posting a letter.
“Then all this stuff about your group, about the alliance, about the guns and bombs you can get for us … that’s all true? No bullshit?” Burke asked rapidly.
Halovic could hear the excitement building in the other man’s voice. This was the reaction he had hoped for. Confronted for the first time by a man who would do what he had only dreamed about, Burke was beginning to see the prospect of his hate-filled rhetoric bearing real fruit.
He nodded somberly. “What I have told you is true. My comrades and I in Europe have the weapons … and the will to use them.” His eyes narrowed. “The question I put to you, Mr. Burke, is this: Do you and your men of the Aryan Sword have the courage to join with us in this war? Can you really kill to save the white race in America?”
