"All right, Tom, I was only saying..."
"Get a move on, will you? We can waste time jawing when we're finished."
He had scanned the layout on arrival, double-checking the location of their target on a map displayed outside the rental office. Bowers had apartment 213 upstairs, with only one way in and out. A balcony no bigger than a Ping-Pong table jutted off the sliding glass doors of his living room, but from the bedroom windows it would be a twelve-foot drop to thorny hedges, minus any kind of safety net.
The place was dark, and Neece allowed the fact to boost his spirits. Too damned much to hope that the two would be asleep already, but at least if they were going at it, Bowers would be slow reacting to the entrance of his unexpected visitors. They only needed seconds, time enough to crash the door and find the party, put a few rounds through the bull's-eye and retreat. It would be simple.
Should be simple.
The night was warm, but under his shirt the perspiration felt cold and clammy. Neece would not admit it to himself, but he was worried, even frightened, by the move he was about to make. He had reviewed the file that Freeman had passed along to Mason Ritter, with its notes on Bowers's military service, all the things he had been up to since his discharge. Tommy Neece had never killed a man, unless you counted Theo Brown — and everybody had taken a shot at him, so who the hell could ever say for sure they did the job? But he was up against a killer now, without a doubt. The record had been crystal clear on that. Neece was not encouraged by the nature of his backup, either. Carlyle did all right at whipping helpless niggers, but he talked a better battle than he fought, and Billy Putnam was an unknown quantity, the kina who grinned a lot when there was nothing funny going on.
If I was smart, Neece thought, I'd let them take the point. But it was still his job, and Ritter was counting on him. More important, he was counting on himself, for Bobby's sake. He owed the bastard one, and it was time to pay the tab in full.
They climbed the narrow stairs in single file, Neece leading, Carlyle close behind, with Putnam bringing up the rear. As far as Neece could tell, the neighbors were asleep, but some of them were bound to put in an appearance when the fireworks started going off. He only hoped none of them got crazy, trying to play hero. All he needed was to get his ass shot off by some old lady with a blunderbuss. The perfect climax to a fucked-up evening.
They crowded on the landing, elbowing one another, three men occupying space that would have been uncomfortable for two.
"Give me room, goddamn it!"
"Ain't no room to give."
"Shut up, for Christ's sake!"
Pivoting to face the door of 213, Neece gripped his shotgun tightly, cursing his sweaty palms. He hit the panel with a solid kick, an inch or so above the lock and slightly to its left. Incredibly, it held.
Again.
And nothing.
"Jesus H., get on with it!"
Neece aimed his snubby 12-gauge at the doorknob, closed his eyes and fired.
Bolan heard the first kick and was moving by the second, rolling Lynn away from him and off the bed.
"Down! Stay down!"
His shoulder rig was crumpled on the floor beside the bed. Bolan was crouched with the Browning autoloader in his fist when sudden thunder ripped the silence of the small apartment and his shattered door flew open, slamming against the wall with enough force to dent the plaster. Muttered curses in the darkness, covered by the sounds of shuffling feet as his attackers rushed the bedroom.
Bolan nailed the first one through the door with two rounds in the chest, a stunning double-punch that lifted him completely off his feet and hurled him backward toward his comrades. On his way to impact with the floor, the dying man squeezed off another buckshot round that loosed a rain of plaster from the ceiling, the concussion numbing Bolan's ears.
Behind the leader, other shotguns roared in the darkness, firing high on the assumption that Bolan would foolishly be standing to meet his enemies. Beside him, Lynn was moaning softly, wriggling to hide herself beneath the bed. Bolan left her to it, squeezing off a round in the direction of the nearest hostile muzzle-flash. Impossible to say if he had missed or not until both weapons answered him together, spraying lethal double-ought around the tiny bedroom, peppering the walls and tacky furniture.
In other circumstances, Bolan might have held off the gunners indefinitely, but he knew police would soon be on the way, responding to the firefight and reports from frightened neighbors. Even if the riot squad's arrival scattered his assailants, he could not afford to linger and discuss the problem with detectives. Not with Lynn there and a dead man stretched out on the threshold. Not with weapons and munitions hidden in his car downstairs.
One item of his armory had been carried up, however, with an eye toward future need. Somehow he would have to reach the closet. Just six feet from the bed to closet door, but with a pair of shotguns blasting at him, it might as well have been a mile.
He had to pin the gunners down, discourage them enough to buy himself the second and a half he would need to duck inside the closet. Once there, he had only to find his weapon in the darkness, stay alive to use it and emerge to kill two shooters who were waiting for him, covering the only exit from his hidey-hole.
He found the Browning's extra magazine by feel and palmed it, braced himself to run. Beyond the bedroom door, he heard the gunners shifting, thought he heard one reloading. There would never be a better time to make his move.
He burst from cover, diving toward the closet, emptying the pistol through the open bedroom doorway in a single burst of rapid-fire. The startled shout from one of his assailants might mean anything or nothing, and he was not counting on an easy kill as he threw back the closet door and slumped inside.
A storm of shotgun pellets slammed the door behind him, faint illumination from the windows streaming in through random holes. He tugged the Uzi from its carrying case and drew back the bolt, thumbing off the safety. Counting down, he gave the gunners time to gain new confidence, then kicked the riddled door open, hunching lower in the closet as all hell broke loose.
He counted five new thunderclaps and saw the closet door disintegrate before he made his move, firing the Uzi for effect. Stark naked, Bolan felt intensely vulnerable, but there was no time to hesitate; a suit would not have stopped the buckshot rounds, and it was time to do or die in the attempt.
One of the raiders fell, a tumbling silhouette, his weapon spinning free of lifeless fingers, clattering across the chintzy coffee table. Tracking on, the parabellum manglers took a bite out of the doorjamb, chewed through plasterboard and found the sole surviving adversary on the other side.
The guy broke out of cover, staggering, already wounded, trying to defend himself. A rising figure eight snuffed out the final spark of life and punched him over backward, deadweight walloping the floor with force enough to set the ceiling fixtures rattling downstairs.
The Executioner snapped the lights on, ready with the submachine gun if his enemies showed any signs of life, relaxing slightly as he saw that they were finished. Stepping outside the door, he scanned the corridor, half expecting backup to arrive and finish the job. Instead, a sleepy-looking woman with her hair in rollers stood and gaped at Bolan for a moment, hastily retreating toward the safety of her own apartment.
Back inside, he spent a precious moment stripping ski masks off dead faces, trying to identify his enemies. He recognized Carlyle from the fracas at the Blackboard, and the first man down was one of Mason Ritter's bookends, Bobby Shelton's friend. Tom something. Number three was new to Bolan, but it did not matter who he was. He had confirmed the Klan's involvement in the strike, and that was all he had to know.
Somehow, by luck or accident, the wizard had seen through his tale of last night's raid. His cover was officially defunct, and there was no time left to fret about mistakes he might have made along the way.
"Come on," he barked to Lynn. "Get dressed. We have to leave right now."
"I'm coming."
She looked ashen in the artificial light, but she was not in shock. Not yet. Her movements might be jerky, uncoordinated, but at least she had her wits about her. Dressing automatically, with an economy of motion that surprised him, she was done before the soldier, stowing underthings and stockings in her crowded handbag. Bolan bagged the Uzi, shrugged his shoulder harness on and grappled with his jacket en route to the door. He could afford to lose the clothing that he left behind, and all his other gear was in the car.
Before they reached the car they heard the wail of distant sirens. Though he had expected something in the nature of an ambush, he and Lynn saw no one outside the building. The wheelman must have cut and run when it had become apparent that his passengers would not be coming back. The word would get to Mason Ritter soon enough, but Bolan was not worried for himself.
Lynn Halsey was a different matter altogether.
"Uncle Jacob!" she said suddenly when they were under way.
"He should be fine. That crew was after me."
"But why?"
"Somehow they've cracked my cover."
"Then you'll have to leave."
"Not yet. I've still got work to do. But you should go."
"Go where?"
"Away. It really doesn't matter at the moment. Anywhere the Knights and Vanguard can't find you for the next few days. Beyond that, you should be ail right."
"You said those men were after you."
"They have to figure I've been using you to gather information. Even if they didn't think so earlier, they can't afford a living witness to tonight's performance."
"So they'll have to kill me, too."
"If they can find you. But they won't have time to chase you very far.''
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because, from here on out, I plan to occupy their time."
She hesitated for a moment, finally blurted out, "I have to see my uncle, Mike."
He recognized her iron resolve and nodded. "But we'll have to check it out before you show yourself."
"Don't worry," she replied. "I won't let Ritter get his hands on me."
His hands.
And suddenly he knew. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. The certainty was sudden, absolute. He had the answer.
All he had to do from this point on was use it to his best advantage. For openers, he had to stay alive.
17
"What do you mean, they missed him?"
"Well..."
"Goddamn you, spit it out!"
"I mean he got away. They got away. Tom Neece is dead, a couple of his boys. No sign of Bowers or the girl."
"You idiot!"
"Now just hold on..."
"Hold on, my ass! A simple tag inside the target's own apartment, and your men not only screw it up, they get themselves killed in the bargain! What kind of half-assed operation are you running?"
"He was waiting for them."
"Bullshit! If your men can't take a target while he's getting laid, they can't do anything."
Ritter bristled. "I don't see you offering troops from the Vanguard to help."
"You'll have backup, don't worry. I'm calling the shots from now on, and the first man who screws up his job or ignores his instructions is going to wish Bowers had blown his head off!"
"Don't threaten me, Freeman. I've got as much riding on this deal as you have."
You think so, he thought to himself. But you don't know the half of it.
"Fine. I can count on you, then?"
"Absolutely."
The plan had already been formed in his mind. From the moment he had learned of the Bowers fiasco, his brain had been racing to find an escape hatch, a sideshow to cover his tracks when he ran.
"Mason, we need a diversion."
"What kind of diversion?"
"Oh, I don't know... something involving the union, to take off some heat while we pin down Bowers and get rid of him."
"Him and his bitch."
"Absolutely." He feigned concentration, brow furrowed, and broke into a well-rehearsed smile as he hatched the idea. "Wilson Brown."
"What about him?" the wizard inquired.
"He's been gathering followers, trying to fill his son's shoes." He could see Ritter's mind working, small cogs attempting to mesh, not quite making it. "What say we take him out, just for the hell of it?"
"Take him out how?"
"Why not go with a full-dress affair? Let him be an example for all of his people. His boy was a 'martyr.' Like father, like son."
"That means more heat, not less."
"It means different heat, Mason. It means heat somewhere else. While the locals and Feds are out chasing their tails over Brown, wasting time with the leftovers, we can tag Bowers, and bingo! We're out of the woods."
"You don't figure he's talked?"
"In the past thirty minutes? I doubt it." In fact, he was not at all sure, but he no longer cared. One more day, at the most, and he planned to be out of the bigotry business, with cash in his pocket and time on his hands. He would have to arrange an appointment with Andrews, of course, lay his cards on the table, but Freeman was certain the banker would wish to provide the funds he needed for travel abroad. He was certain the man would insist.
"Doesn't take thirty minutes to put through a phone call," the Klansman reminded him.
"Not ordinarily, no. But it might if you're running and hiding, with men out to kill you, a broad on your hands and nowhere in the world left to go."
"He could run to the damned FBI."
"Which you're watching, of course."
"Yeah, it's covered, but still..."
"Don't be paranoid. One fucking Judas does not have to be a disaster."
"He's taken out thirteen good men in two days!"
"I'm aware of that, Mason. Thirteen or a hundred and thirty, I'm not rolling over because of a setback, and neither are you."
"No one said I was rolling."
"All right, then. I want every man you can raise on the streets in an hour. I'll roust out the Vanguard while you put the Knights on patrol. We'll have two thousand men tracking Bowers before he can make a decision to fish or cut bait."
"If you say so."
"I do. Now get after it. I've got my own calls to make."
And the first one belonged to the banker — oh, yes. Andrews would not enjoy being awakened from sleep on the high side of midnight, but it would be good for him, start getting him used to a long list of other unpleasant surprises. His instant response would be outright denial, of course; he would bluster and bluff for a while, until Freeman laid out the specifics, a taste of the evidence he'd compiled in the past eighteen months. If Andrews argued too long or attempted to talk down the price, a reminder of what lay in store for him should be enough to complete the transaction. Considering every alternative, Freeman regarded himself as a bargain.
A going-out-of-business sale, perhaps. And then again...
He had already proved it was possible to change identities, erase the past and start from scratch in old familiar hunting grounds. It was a tried-and-true technique. If he could do it once, there was a chance that he could pull it off a second lime.
Except that he had yet to pull it off this time. He would not be home free until he had the cash from Andrews safely in his hand and he was out of Arkansas. No, make that out of the United States. He needed a vacation, and he had no time to waste. In another day or two, the atmosphere in Little Rock and Chatham County might be lethal for him.
For all the confidence he displayed to Ritter, Freeman had no doubt that they were blown. It mattered little whether they caught up with Bowers now or not. By now his sponsors would have a good idea of what was going on from periodic contacts, and the Vanguard leader's disappearance would be frosting on the cake. The necktie party Freeman planned for Wilson Brown was merely window dressing, more confusion added for the benefit of anyone who might come looking for him prematurely.
He would let the Knights and the Vanguard take care of themsel
ves when they were done with Brown. A lynching carried out in full regalia should be just the kind of bonus Andrews would appreciate, a little something extra for the propaganda mill. Once he had dropped the tired charade that cast him as a closet racist, they could get around to talking business, man to man.
Although, in Freeman's reckoning, they might be one man short.
* * *
Lynn was relieved to find the back door open, thankful for her uncle's absentmindedness. She had not wished to raise a fuss by knocking, and she dared not go around in front. Not while the men out there were waiting for her in the darkness.
Passing through the kitchen like a shadow, moving cautiously along the corridor, she found her uncle in his study, huddled in his favorite easy chair. At first she thought he was asleep... and then she saw the bottle, nearly empty on his desk, within arm's reach. For a moment, in her surprise and consternation, she forgot her mission. She had known about the bottle hidden in the kitchen cabinet, but she was sure Uncle Jacob had not touched it since the day of her arrival.
Until tonight.
Her touch woke him, and she was frightened by the brief contortion of his features.
"Lynn? Thank God you're safe."
What did he know? "I'm not," she said. "I mean, I can't stay, Uncle Jacob. Neither one of us is safe."
A shadow seemed to pass across his face, as if he understood her words too well, but he was still compelled to ask, "What do you mean?"
"They tried to kill us. Mike and me. He's waiting for me now."
"Who tried?"
"Tom Neece, some others. Klansmen, Uncle Jacob."
"God in heaven!"
"There are others waiting on the street outside. That's why I had to come in through the back."
"Outside? Damned reprobates! I won't allow it!"
He was on his feet and moving toward the door before she caught his arm and held him back. "No, Uncle Jacob! They won't listen to you now. For all I know, you may be on their hit list, too."
"Don't be absurd." But as he spoke, a sudden doubt appeared to cross his mind. "Why did they try... what has he done?"
The Fiery Cross Page 17
