"I'm not that innocent."
"You'll always be that innocent to me."
"I love you, Uncle Jake."
"It has occurred to me that you've postponed your education long enough. Do you ever think about finishing college?"
"We can't afford that now."
"I've made a few investments recently. We're not on easy street, by any means, but college shouldn't be a problem."
"What investments?"
"Business deals. With Mason and Mr. Freeman."
"Uncle..."
"Never mind. You were so close to graduation, Lynn. I want you to consider going back. For my sake, if no other reason."
"I'll consider it."
"All right." He hesitated, searching for the words. "About this new man, Bowers..."
"Please don't worry."
"Someone has to."
"I'm a big girl, Uncle Jake."
"Precisely. That's the problem."
"I can take care of myself."
"Your father thought so, too."
"I'm stronger."
Halsey searched her eyes a moment, finally nodding. "I believe you are, at that."
"If I go back to school, will you come with me?'
His smile was infectious. "I believe I'm just a bit old for the freshman class."
"I mean it. There are lots of things that you could do. I'll bet that you could find yourself a church, no problem."
"Lynn, my work is here."
"What work? Mason Ritter's? Freeman's?"
"I have duties here. I swore an oath."
"You swore a higher oath when you became a minister."
"I know it's difficult for you to understand..."
"I understand, all right. What hold does Ritter have on you?"
"I'm not a hostage, Lynn. And I am not a child. A crisis is upon this nation, and our leaders have no strength or will to see us through. That task may fall on other shoulders, mine among them."
"Uncle Jake..."
"A change is coming, Lynn. You may not see it now, but I assure you, it is coming. I mean to see it and do everything I can to help that change along."
"What are you saying?"
"I have personal commitments here. I have a duty to perform."
"I thought your duty lay within the church."
"The church is everywhere, in every man."
He spoke with grim determination, but Lynn caught a hint of doubt behind his eyes. She sensed an insecurity within him, something she had never seen or felt before.
"We wouldn't have to tell Mason we were leaving, Uncle Jake. He'd never find us."
"Would you have me creep away like Judas in the middle of the night?"
"You don't owe Ritter anything. You certainly don't owe your life to Freeman."
"I can take care of myself."
"Like Daddy?"
Trapped, his own words turned against him, the pastor found himself unable to respond. Instead, he turned away from Lynn. "You'd better get some sleep."
She started for the stairs, arrested by his voice before she got there.
"Please be careful with these Klansmen."
" You're a Klansman, Uncle Jake."
As Lynn undressed for bed, she replayed in her mind the conversation with her uncle.
His evident concern for her was touching, but it raised more questions than it answered. He was obviously fearful of the escalating violence in Chatham County and around the state, afraid that it would touch her more directly than it had. She thought he might be frightened for himself, as well, but he was stubborn — like her father, damn it — and he would not run away from what he thought to be his duty.
Bowers was another problem. He was not the man she had anticipated, though he carried danger with him like the scent of musk. He would be capable of fearsome violence, but beneath the gruff facade she recognized a tenderness, as well.
What did she feel for him exactly? Was she simply falling prey at last to eighteen months of celibacy, weakening before a handsome face and a masculine physique? There had been other offers — many of them, often crudely phrased — and Bowers had not even made an offer. Yet.
He would, though. That was certain.
If he didn't, for whatever unimaginable reason, Lynn thought she might take the initiative for herself. Before it came to that, however, she would need to know the man much better. She would need to have her first impressions verified, confirmed by personal experience and contact.
Contact.
It was something to anticipate with pleasure, and she was smiling as she drifted off to sleep.
12
Bolan stood before his wilted "troops" and watched them sweat. Shaves and haircuts had done something for their appearance, but they were still a ragtag bunch of amateurs, and they were none too happy with him at the moment.
A forty-minute round of calisthenics followed by six hours in the woods and on Camp Nordland's tough assault course had removed their starch and left them sagging in their sweat-soaked uniforms.
"Tomorrow," he told them, savoring the impact of his words, "we do it all again. Some of you still can't cut the woodland run, and frankly, gentlemen, your time on the assault course sucks!"
One of the Klansmen — Jeeter, according to his name tag — raised a grimy hand.
"What is it?"
"Guns," the trooper croaked. "When do we get to shoot 'em?"
"When you're ready. Fitness is the combat soldier's first priority. An eighty-year-old woman in a wheelchair can be taught to fire a rifle and never miss, but I wouldn't want her covering my ass in battle. Any other questions?"
One more hand went up. The tag identified its owner as Martello.
"Yes?"
"Will we be learning any unarmed combat? Hand-to-hand, that kind of thing?"
"You will if you survive the basics. Anybody else?"
No hands. Bolan sent them to the showers with a reminder to return at eight the next morning. He was walking back across the compound toward the hut that held his dressing room and private shower when he noticed Bobby Shelton standing on the sidelines, smiling like a well-fed cat.
"Looks like you mean to work their asses off," Shelton commented.
"Most of them have a couple extra pounds of ass to spare."
"I'd say you're right. You all played out, or would you care to try a little action on for size tonight?"
"What kind of action?"
"Well, that hadn't rightly been decided yet. Let's say a couple of the Ku Klux feel a need to cluck."
"And I'm invited?"
"If you want. Of course, if you've got something more important going..."
"No, tonight's wide open. Count me in."
"You got it, Mike. Why don't you swing on by the meeting hall, say nine o'clock. You can leave your car there, and we'll take the battlewagon."
"Battlewagon?"
"Just wait and see. You'll love it. See you later?"
"I'll be there."
Bolan took his time in the shower, adjusting the water from steamy hot to ice-cold and back again, rinsing away the forest dirt and giving himself time to think. The invitation to participate in a nocturnal action by the Klan had come as a surprise. Traditionally, Bolan knew, rookies were not chosen as night riders, for security reasons if nothing else. The exception in his case might mean the local Klan was short of talent, though an estimated membership of seven hundred should have yielded enough volunteers for a bit of "clucking." Bolan was inclined to view the invitation as a test — of his abilities, of his loyalty to the movement — and he could not afford to let it pass. There might not be another opportunity for him to get inside the Klan's hardcore commando group, and after all, that had been the point of his mission.
It bothered Bolan that he knew no details about the night raid. If it was aimed at members of the farmers' union, he had no way of warning them beforehand. If the Klansmen meant to target blacks or other citizens selected off the streets at random, he would not have time to contact t
he authorities. There was a possibility, of course, that he could intervene with force, prevent the raiders from committing some atrocious crime. But doing so would sacrifice his cover, blowing any chance he had to get closer to the Klan and Vanguard leader.
Toweling off, the soldier made up his mind to preserve his cover if he could. With no indication of the chosen target, their itinerary for the night to come, he would be forced to play the lethal game by ear. There might not even be a target yet; he knew it was fairly common in some parts of Dixie for the Klan to launch "patrols," relying on the team leader to choose his mark and handle all the details on the spot.
He would keep his date with Bobby Shelton and attempt to be prepared for anything. If there was murder to be done, or other bloody work, he would evaluate the situation as it came. In the meantime, he could take a few precautions, warn a few people.
When he got back to his apartment, Bolan's first call went to Wilson Brown. He would have to take the chance that no one in the Klan or the Vanguard had expertise enough to tap his phone. He reached the former lineman at his motel room in Parrish.
"Lucky thing you caught me. I'll be moving out tonight."
"You're leaving?"
"No such luck. The union's found a place for me to stay awhile. I'll save some money, and it puts me closer to the union hall."
"I guess that answers my next question."
"Yeah, I'm in. For Theo, mostly. Anyhow, it started out that way. I've got to tell you, though, it kind of grows on you, this standing up for what you think is right."
"I've heard that."
"So what's shaking?"
"That's the problem; I'm not sure. A few of Ritter's Kluxers want to cluck, and I'm invited, but they wouldn't tell me anything about the program."
"When?"
"Tonight."
"I'll pass the word. Our people mostly travel armed these days... since Theo. If you try to take a union man, you'll need to watch yourself."
"I'm hoping it won't come to that."
"Tonight, next week, it's coming, man. You know that, well as I do."
"I'll see what I can do to head it off."
"Don't blow it, Sarge."
"Stay frosty."
"All the time."
The Executioner was not surprised to learn that Wilson Brown was staying to continue the battle his son had started. Pride and family honor were at stake, along with all the other lives Theo Brown had touched before his own was savagely cut short. The ex-lieutenant might have lost a foot in Vietnam, but his sense of justice was intact, and he could no more turn away from Theo's mission than he could decide to give up breathing for a day.
Bolan's second call, long-distance, went to Leo Turrin.
"Justice here."
"That's what I need."
"Hey, Striker, what's the rumble?"
"I'm invited to a hayride, courtesy of the Teutonic Knights."
"So soon? You're coming up in the world."
"Feels like down."
"Any word on the target?"
"They're playing it close to the sheet," Bolan told him. "The truth is, I'm hoping the Bureau has someone inside who can find out before things get heavy."
"No sale. They've been trying, but Ritter and Freeman are cagey. When one of their clique gets cold feet, you can bet he'll be having an accident soon."
"No defectors?"
"A few from the fringes, but none from the core. They recruit on two levels, you know. Rank and file go to meetings, dress up, scream and shout, all that hoopla. The hard core hangs tough; once you're in, there's no out but the boneyard."
"And so far they're solid."
"Like steel. Rumor has it the Bureau would cough up six figures for someone who fingers a cyclops or better. No takers so far."
"That's unusual."
"Very. Most Klansmen would rather turn fink on a brother for money than shout hallelujah in Sunday school. Freeman and Ritter must have some kind of discipline going."
"I'd say. Does the Bureau's Little Rock field office keep up surveillance?"
"Whenever they can. They're spread pretty thin. So what else is new?"
"Yeah. Have them do what they can, will you? I don't know who we'll be hitting or where; I just know it's tonight. If there's some way to minimize damage..."
"You've got to play straight with these guys while you're building a cover. If Ritter or Freeman sniff out what you're doing, you're dead."
"I can't promise you anything, Sticker."
"You've done this before. Different players, same game."
"Not exactly. Before, if I had to audition, the mark was some guy I'd have probably iced later anyway. This time, who knows?"
"I don't envy you, guy."
Bolan shrugged off the little Fed's sympathy. "Once I'm inside the hard core — if I make it that far — I'll be looking to tag Freeman's backers. I'll need any background you have."
"I can pull it together this evening. Watch out for Mike Andrews, okay? He's not only big money; he's cold. Over twenty-odd years, he's been playing both sides of the fence, funding hate groups regardless of race, creed or color."
"That's weird."
"Justice thinks so. A banker from Dixie who slips a few bucks to the Klan on the sly isn't all that unusual, sorry to say. But a banker in Dixie who also pays rent for the Panthers and Muslims is one of a kind."
"What's his angle?"
"Who knows? If he's crazy, he's been damned selective about his donations. If not... well, your guess may be better than mine."
"I'll look into it."
"Thought you might. Listen, I know I'm wasting my breath, but..."
"Be careful?"
"Okay, so you're reading minds now."
"Later."
"Sure," Leo muttered. "I hope so."
Bolan hung up the phone, little wiser than before, then headed down the street to get something to eat at the little cafe a stone's throw from his rented quarters.
Back in his room an hour later, he considered his weaponry for the night's excursion. He went with the Browning again, and the Colt in its ankle rig, slipping some spare magazines in his pockets before he went out to the car.
At midnight on the dot, Bolan pulled up in front of the warehouse-cum-meeting hall used by the Teutonic Knights. Bobby Shelton was waiting outside with three men Bolan recognized as cellmates from the Blackboard incident: McCullough, Jackson, Thorndyke.
Shelton introduced the "brothers" briefly, adding first names: Skeeter, Amos and Barry. Bolan shook hands all around, then climbed into the back seat of the waiting car with Thorndyke and McCullough wedged in tight on either side.
"You packing?" Shelton asked when he was settled in the shotgun seat with Jackson at the wheel.
"I always come prepared."
"Good deal. We shouldn't need the hardware, but you never know. I'd rather be judged by twelve..."
"Than carried by six. Yeah, we know," Jackson finished, and everyone laughed at the seemingly well-known routine. "First time out?"
"First of many, I hope," Bolan responded, and caught Shelton's grin in return.
"That's my boy. Like the car?"
"It's okay."
Shelton snickered. "Okay? Boy, she's one of a kind. Got your reinforced bumpers for ramming, a supercharged engine for speed and enough hidey-holes for a decent-size arsenal."
"Yeah?"
"Show him, Skeeter"
McCullough reached forward and depressed a catch on the side of the driver's seat, dropping the back of the seat in their laps like the door to a large glove compartment. Inside, held in place by elastic and Velcro, two shotguns surmounted a tommy gun fitted with a 30-round box magazine.
"You're sitting on some more," McCullough said, "and we got other stuff in back."
"I take it this is the battlewagon."
"Son, you take it right."
"So what's the action?"
"This evening we're into remodeling," Thorndyke advised him. "Like urban renewal, you know?"<
br />
"There's a preacher in town who's been getting a little bit uppity," Shelton explained. "Telling niggers they ought to go big for the union, and all kinds of bullshit like that. We're obliged to remind him what color he is and advise him to stay in his place."
Alarm bells went off in Bolan's skull, but he kept a straight face. Shelton had said they shouldn't need their guns. From the sound of it, they were intent on destruction of property rather than lives.
"Time to time, niggers need a refresher. You know what I mean?"
Bolan nodded, said nothing, intent on the street signs and landmarks they passed in the darkness. Too late now for a phone call to warn Turrin or Brown. He would keep his fingers crossed, praying that Shelton and company would be content with a building for now. If their hatred spilled over, endangering lives, he would be forced to act, to blow his cover in lieu of being a witness to murder.
He thought he could take them all down if it came to that. They were armed and presumably competent with their weapons, but he was a "brother" and, as such, above their suspicion. With timing, surprise on his side, he might just pull it off.
And he might ruin everything else in the process.
Again, Leo's warning came back to him. Don't blow it, Sarge. There was far more at stake than some property damage, he knew, but a life in the balance would change things. For all the blood on his hands, all the scars on his soul, he could not sit back idly and watch while the Klan killed an innocent man.
'Here we go," Shelton said to no one in particular. Jackson turned left down an alleyway running behind seedy shops, a small market, a restaurant. Killing the headlights, he finished the last thirty yards with some help from the moon.
"There she is."
On the opposite corner, a church thrust its steeple toward heaven, its bell silent now, windows darkened and blind. A sign out front identified the church as Bethany AME.
"Let's take her," Jackson growled. He sounded hungry and eager.
They scrambled from the car, and Bolan followed as they gathered around the trunk expectantly.
"Get to it, Amos."
Jackson raised the lid, revealing rifles, shotguns, lengths of chain and metal pipe cut down for use as clubs and flails. Wedged in beside the spare, a cardboard shoe box had been cushioned by a folded bedspread to keep it from jarring out of place.
The Fiery Cross Page 12
