Книга - Hostile Odds

Hostile Odds
Don Pendleton


The illicit activities of an organized crime family draw Mack Bolan to California, where he uncovers a deadly power struggle. It seems a branch of this family tree extends to a small town in Oregon where the Mob's influence runs deep. Following the bloody trail, Bolan takes his war across the state line.Profits from prostitution, drugs and numbers rackets tied to several local businesses are being funneled to a radical ecoterrorist group more than willing to strike out against anything–and anyone–standing in its way. A war is brewing and the small town is under siege. Faced with mounting casualties, the Executioner will have to use his own methods to clean up the environment.









The Executioner burst into the back room and immediately crouched


The instinctual move saved Bolan’s life as the escapee burst from behind a desk and triggered two rounds that whizzed overhead close enough for him to hear their passage. He recognized the shooter instantly.

Bolan leveled his weapon and squeezed the trigger. The 9 mm slugs struck center mass, entering the body with an upward trajectory, and punched through lung and heart tissue before exiting out the upper back. The impact sent the man reeling into a filing cabinet with enough force to dent the thin, light gray metal drawers.

The sounds of battle died and Bolan rose slowly amid the smoke of gunfire and the smell of death. The air of violence and spent energies clung to the Executioner like a cloak. The battle had taken less than a minute but the threat had been quelled.

All that remained was to topple the head of the underworld. And it was a task Mack Bolan relished.




Hostile Odds

The Executioner


Don Pendleton






www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.


War grows out of the desire of the individual to gain advantage at the expense of his fellow man.

—Napoleon Hill

1883–1970

My war grew out of opposing those who oppress the weak and exploit the innocent. In that respect, it is a war the enemy has declared on itself.

—Mack Bolan




THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND


Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21




Prologue


Klamath Falls, Oregon

The two F-15E Eagle fighter jets streaked into the air with the thunderclap of sonic speed, their aluminum skins glinting silvery-blue with the twilight of dusk. Suddenly they lost altitude and crashed several hundred yards outside the perimeter fence of Kingsley Airfield.

The tower crew could only discern what looked like engine flameouts, and then the explosions of impact a heartbeat later, each red-orange fireball fed by twenty thousand liters of jet fuel. As one controller began to scream out the call signs of the two trainer fighters, the tower chief contacted the command duty officer at the USAF headquarters building. The CDO ordered an immediate lockdown of the base and surrounding area even as the tower dispatched emergency services to the crash site.

The tower crew would later testify they hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, even swore the flashes of light just prior to the accident could only have been reflections of the engine flameouts. What they didn’t know—couldn’t possibly have known at that time and what the government wouldn’t tell them—were that those flashes marked the points where surface-to-air rockets had struck the pair of trainer fighters.

Rockets fired from portable launchers in proximity to the airfield.

“Which meant is wasn’t an accident at all,” the chief investigator told the CDO and Colonel Harlan Winnetka, the wing commander, a week later.

“Any ideas who the hell might be responsible for these attacks?” Winnetka asked.

“I can’t be certain of anything right now, sir,” the investigator replied. “To be perfectly honest, there isn’t enough evidence to draw a definitive conclusion. The only thing we know for sure is that these craft were brought down by shoulder-fired weapons. The perpetrators were diligent to cover their tracks in the confusion, because we were too busy working this initially as an accident, maybe a midair collision. After all, these were trainers with students at the stick. We thought one of the students lost control and ran into the other, bringing down both birds in the process.”

“Except that those fighters were also attended by highly experienced pilots,” Winnetka said. “And with the evidence of antiaircraft weapons, we know different. Could this be the work of terrorists?”

Major Leonard Swope, the CDO on duty at the time of the incident, expressed incredulity. “You think these were…terrorists? If that gets out to the press, sir—”

“Well, then we just make damned sure it doesn’t get out, Major!” Winnetka’s face reddened. He jabbed a finger at the investigator and his eyes flashed. “And I don’t even have the details of this incident off to Washington yet, so you have to promise you’ll keep quiet about this until I can make a full report to the Chief of Staff. Is that understood, Captain?”

The investigator nodded. “Yes, sir, of course. But I must submit my written report within forty-eight hours.”

“I’m aware of the regulations, mister,” Winnetka said. “I have no desire to make this sound like a cover-up. I just don’t want a media circus. If either of you are approached by anyone about this, you simply advise them it’s still under investigation. In fact, better to just refer them to me.”

After he swore both officers to secrecy and warned of the consequences should they disobey his direct orders, Winnetka dismissed them. He spun in his leather office chair and looked absently out the window.

Winnetka had put out feelers and gotten just the response he expected—the shock of suggesting a terrorist group might be responsible for another attack on American soil had practically sent his two subordinates into a fit. What they didn’t know, either because they were too blind or too afraid to admit it, was that domestic terrorist activities across the Northwest had increased in recent months. Winnetka didn’t know exactly who or what, but he couldn’t ignore the signs. The Pentagon would call him paranoid, maybe even suggest he take some leave to reconsider his assertions without hard evidence, but at least he could prove this had been a wanton attack against the United States Air Force and not just a training accident. Either way, he needed help on this—a specialized kind of help.

And he had no idea where to find it.




1


Mack Bolan stared at a face of death through the crosshairs of a Bushnell 6 x 42 electronic scope.

He tightened the ergonomic stock of the SIG-Sauer SSG-300 against his shoulder and took a deep breath. The Swiss had designed the rifle to provide high accuracy stats, increasing the one-shot kill probability by a factor of ten, and the 7.62 mm NATO rounds averaged a muzzle velocity of eight hundred meters per second. The rifle would do the job nicely in Bolan’s hands.

Organized crime had brought the Executioner to the sleepy town of Tulelake in northern California. In fact, the Gowan crime Family had taken over all the vice action throughout Siskiyou County, from prostitution and drugs to a comprehensive numbers racket. The Executioner had spent the past month in meticulous soft probes of the communities throughout the county, and one thing remained consistent: Mickey Gowan’s fingers were into a very large pie. Mack Bolan had a plan to chop them to nubs.

He would start with Gowan’s right-hand man, Billy Moran.

Bolan would have preferred to do this at some other place and time, but he’d seen an opportunity to bring down one of the big players in the Gowan crime Family without endangering bystanders. Moran and Gowan were almost never seen together other than behind the ten-foot-high walls of Gowan’s estate, additionally fortified by several dozen well-armed house soldiers. Bolan hadn’t let that dissuade him, however, since Moran was like most human beings—a creature of habit and therefore predictable. The Executioner decided to exploit that vulnerability to send a message loud and clear.

He let out half his deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The big rifle boomed a thunderous report, but Bolan kept it rock steady against his shoulder until he verified the kill. Shock flashed across Moran’s face at the same moment his head snapped sideways at an odd angle. Blood and fragments of skull erupted from the wound, spraying the lieutenant who sat next to him, and then he disappeared behind the table at which he’d been sitting as the impact knocked him completely out of his seat.

Bolan played the bolt smoothly and chambered a fresh round before the three bodyguards at Moran’s private table on the back patio of the Irish café could react. Moran’s lieutenant went next. The Executioner caught him with a clean shot to the center of the chest. The shot knocked him off his feet, and he crashed through the lead glass top of a neighboring table.

Bringing another round home, Bolan sighted carefully on the third man, now concealed behind the thick ivy intertwined through the wrought-iron fencing that bordered the porch. Apparently, the goon figured the shooter couldn’t see him if he couldn’t see the shooter. He was wrong. Bolan took the guy with a shot center mass. The only sign of the hit was a geyser of blood that erupted over the top of the decorative fencing.

Bolan policed his brass, then broke from his position at a wood line about one hundred and fifty yards from the restaurant. He’d specifically selected the spot not only for its distance but also because it would take someone time to reach the area remotely, and even longer for them to actually figure out from exactly where Bolan had fired the shots. By that time, the Executioner would be long gone.

Bolan reached his rental car parked two hundred yards from the woods on a dirt access road. He buried the rifle in a predug pit just off the shoulder and covered it with natural leaves. He marked a tree near the brush with reactive chalk that would glow when sprayed with a reagent and then hightailed it out of there. If he did get pulled over by the local authorities, he certainly wouldn’t want them to find him with any weapons.

As he left the dirt road and entered the city limits of Tulelake, he considered his next move. Word had it that Gowan used the numbers rackets to help launder money for parties unknown, a lot of which took place in underground gambling joints scattered throughout Siskiyou County. Bolan couldn’t help but wonder how those parties might feel if a whole bunch of the cash running through those joints suddenly came up missing. The warrior figured he’d find out soon enough.

The Executioner just happened to have an address.



THE BROWN-AND-GRAY HAZE of cigar and cigarette smoke clung in low clouds throughout the dimly lit room. A jazz-funk mix blared from unseen speakers in the background, competing with the steady din of voices, laughter and shouts of excitement. People were scattered around gaming tables of different venues, and with the décor, wall-length bar, cigarette and drink gals in miniskirts to complete the ensemble, Bolan got the impression he’d entered a 1930s speakeasy.

After returning to his lodgings for a shower and change of clothes, Bolan drove to the popular joint just outside Tulelake on Highway 139. The Executioner paid his cover of five hundred in cash to a pair of gorillas watching the basement entrance and allowed them to pat him down. He felt naked without his constant companion, the Beretta 93-R, but drawing attention before the right time was the last thing he wanted to do. Better to play the game and wait it out, see what happened. Bolan mingled, played a couple hands of blackjack, cashed out when he reached two hundred dollars, and then lost the entire winnings along with an additional half bill at the only roulette table in the place. He played the other tables for the next two hours, keeping one eye on the game and the other on the room’s occupants, focusing on individual conversations.

The sounds of a mild disturbance at the front entrance caught his attention, and he let his eyes rove in that direction while maintaining a discreet posture. He saw the two thugs hassle a shorter man with a dark suit and a haircut that spelled Fed. The newcomer had the smell of cop all over him, and while the hoods at the door might have suspected it, Bolan knew it for a fact because he’d met him early the previous morning.

Bolan lost his final hand of the evening, dropped his remaining three chips on the dealer as a tip and moved toward the door at a casual pace. As he went to slide past the cop still trying to get in the door, the warrior slammed hard into the smaller man and nearly knocked him off his feet. The guy turned toward Bolan in irritation and opened his mouth, but the view shocked him into silence.

The Executioner took his mind off it before the idiot got them both killed. “Sorry, Tiny, didn’t see you there.” He flashed the door guards a semiwicked grin and then walked out.

The man continued arguing with the bouncers for another minute, probably just to make it look good, then joined Bolan outside the restaurant that sat directly above the underground club.

“Why do I feel the compunction to punch your lights out?” Special Agent Jeff Kellogg demanded.

“Lack of common sense,” Bolan said as he turned and headed for his car.

“Wait a minute, Cooper!” Kellogg called, using Bolan’s cover name for the mission. The Fed trotted to get ahead of Bolan’s long strides. He stopped in the Executioner’s path and held up a hand, careful not to touch the imposing form. “I don’t know where you’re from or who you work for, but I thought I made it clear yesterday to butt out.”

“I don’t take orders from you, Kellogg,” Bolan said flatly. “And don’t blame me because you couldn’t get in. You got any idea where you were just now?”

Kellogg tried to look confident but seemed to falter under Bolan’s scrutiny.

“I didn’t think so,” Bolan continued. “In case it escaped notice, you were facing off with Mickey Gowan’s boys.”

“What? That’s impossible!”

“And it’s exactly that kind of thinking that’ll get you killed one of these days,” Bolan said. “Count me out.”

“What proof you got Gowan’s running that operation?”

“Plenty. I tried to bring it to you nearly three weeks ago, and you didn’t seem interested.”

“I’m interested now. But I’m not a law unto myself, pal, and I damned sure can’t just go busting down doors without hard evidence. The only things you brought me were theories and conjecture. The FBI doesn’t operate speculatively.”

“Maybe you should start,” Bolan said as he walked around Kellogg and continued toward his car.

“You’re not bulletproof, Cooper!” Kellogg called after Bolan. “Don’t go doing something stupid, or I’ll bust you in no time flat.”

The soldier got into his car and split. Kellogg was too obtuse to realize Bolan had probably just saved his hide. Bolan considered his options as he drove back to his room at the Tulelake lodge. He’d just left one of many of Mickey Gowan’s operations. But while some of the people at that underground casino were helping to line Gowan’s pockets, Bolan couldn’t categorize them in the same class as the crime boss. Many were there simply to have some fun, and certainly hadn’t done anything worthy of the Executioner’s wrath. Besides, Bolan had what he needed. Something big was happening just over the border in Timber Vale, one of the lumber towns north of Klamath Falls. Less than a two-hour drive from Tulelake, it was filled with lumberjacks, mill workers and carpenters. The mill there also had a union, which was run by one of Gowan’s underlings.

As Bolan drew closer to the lakeside lodge where he’d been staying, he noticed two pairs of headlights swing into the review mirror. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He’d driven this road enough to know it was practically devoid of traffic this time of night. Despite the fact this was tourist season in Siskiyou County, he could chalk up a single vehicle to coincidence but not two.

Bolan increased speed as soon as he rounded a curve and the lights disappeared, then he pumped the brakes and swung the wheel hard left. Halfway into the turn he released the brake and floored the accelerator, jerking the wheel back to the right and then hard left again. Bolan maneuvered out of the power slide and stopped cold, his car now pointed the way he’d come. He kept one hand on the wheel while he reached over to the glove compartment, popped the latch and withdrew the Beretta 93-R. He placed it on the seat next to him and waited.

A few seconds elapsed before the first tail car rounded the bend and its occupants found Bolan’s rental directly in their path. Bolan caught the flash of surprise in the driver’s face as he cranked the wheel and slammed on the brakes to avoid a head-on collision. The Executioner dropped into low gear, depressed the brake and spun his wheels by putting pedal to metal in hopes his opposition would think he was trying to flee. The tactic worked and the tail car immediately swung around to pursue—right into the path of their backup car just now rounding the curve.

The second vehicle T-boned the first, and then Bolan released the brake and floored the accelerator. He put a little distance between the two vehicles and then pulled to the shoulder and backed into a private road leading into the darkness of the woods. When he’d proceeded about fifty yards he killed his lights and engine. Bolan reached beneath his sport coat and withdrew his cellular phone. He would have preferred to use a pay phone, given it had better security than wireless, but such weren’t always the luxuries of field operations.

The voice of Johnny Gray answered on the second ring. “What do you say, Sarge?”

Only two men had ever called him that: Jack Grimaldi, ace pilot for Stony Man, and Johnny Gray, Bolan’s brother.

“Hey,” Bolan replied. “We’re not secure.”

“Got you,” Johnny said.

“I need you to look into something for me,” Bolan continued. “Start gathering intelligence on a place called Timber Vale. It’s a logging town just north of Klamath Falls, Oregon.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Not sure yet…just anything unusual or different.”

“You thinking of heading that way?”

“It crossed my mind. Can you find out and get back to me?”

Johnny paused for a moment, and Bolan could hear the faint clack of a computer keyboard. A moment later, Johnny said, “Give me an hour.”

“You got it.”

As Bolan hung up the phone, he saw one of the pursuit vehicles race past the road. He smiled, placed the phone on the seat next to the Beretta and started the engine. He turned onto the road that would take him down the hill and eventually lead to Highway 139. He could leave his belongings at the lodge for now—he was paid up through the month. Something told Bolan the answers he sought awaited him in Oregon.

In a town called Timber Vale.



JOHNNY GOT BACK to his brother with the information in the time frame he promised.

“There have indeed been some eye-opening activities,” he told the Executioner.

“Like what?” Bolan asked.

“I hooked up a secure-shell Telnet to Bear’s system at Stony Man,” Johnny said. “About a week ago, two F-15E training fighters crashed as they took off from Kingsley Airfield. You familiar with that area?”

“Slightly,” Bolan said, searching his almost eidetic memory. “It’s an Oregon Air National Guard base.”

“Right. Preliminary information has already been fed through the Pentagon’s computer systems, which of course was no trouble for Bear to access.”

Bolan believed it. Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman, cybernetics wizard and leader of Stony Man Farm’s in-house technology team, had saved countless lives with his uncanny ability to deliver the right intelligence at the right time.

“Who’s in charge there?”

“A guy by the name of Colonel Harlan Winnetka.”

The name didn’t ring any bells, but Bolan filed it away. “What else you have?”

“Well, like I said, the official reports aren’t in but we think the jets were shot down, possibly by the Earth Liberation Front.”

The FBI had first classified the ELF a domestic terrorist organization in 2001. Membership in the ELF had sprung from the Earth First movement that originated in Brighton, England. Catching the ELF’s highest ranking members had proved more than difficult for the FBI and other agencies. Its rolls were highly secretive, its meetings held in diverse places and infrequently, and it almost never claimed action for acts that were clearly driven by concerns with ecology and ecosystems.

“That’s interesting but I don’t see how it ties to what I’m looking at,” Bolan replied.

“I would have agreed until I started digging deeper into the ELF’s history,” Johnny said. “For a lot of years their activities declined in the Northwestern states, particularly in Washington, Montana, Oregon and Utah. They sort of went silent in that area along with two other major domestic terrorist groups.”

“Who?”

“You might not believe it when I tell you.”

The Executioner chuckled. “Try me.”

“The Aryan Brotherhood and the Militia for Liberation from Government.”

Bolan took note as he passed the sign welcoming him to Oregon, and then said, “Probably both of which shared membership.”

“Right,” Johnny said. “And that means they also would have shared financing.”

“Sure. It’s no secret these types of groups dip into joint coffers. Pooling their fiscal resources makes them stronger.”

“Yes, but it’s interesting that only ELF-related activities are on the rise there again,” Johnny said. “Not those two groups or any others, for that matter.”

“Which means they’re now getting their money from someone else,” Bolan concluded.

“It’s a good bet, Mack.”

“Nice work,” Bolan replied. “And you’re right, it’s definitely interesting.”

“Mind if I ask a question?”

“Shoot,” Bolan said.

“Do you really think there’s a connection between Gowan’s activities and this latest incident? I mean, we don’t have any proof the ELF is actually behind this attack on the Oregon Air National Guard.”

“I’m not sure yet how it would benefit Gowan to fund the ELF, particularly when a lot of his work would seem at cross-purposes. But I know Gowan’s dug in deep in Timber Vale, and as that happens to be right near Klamath Falls and it’s a large source of revenue for the entire area, I have to think it’s worth checking out.”

“Fair enough,” Johnny replied. “I trust your instincts.”

“Let’s just hope I’m right,” the Executioner said. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Live large, bro.”




2


FBI Special Agent Jefferson Kellogg mentally rehearsed his announcement for a sixth time as he negotiated the winding drive that led to Mickey Gowan’s estate. Kellogg had warned Billy Moran to keep a low profile, and as usual the cocky Irish bastard hadn’t listened to him. Now he was dead, and Kellogg had the terrible task of breaking the news personally to Gowan.

Kellogg had no doubts about who was probably behind the hit: Matt Cooper. That guy had a habit of turning up where he was least welcome, and his nosiness didn’t set well with Kellogg. He had it under control, and he didn’t need some outsider meddling in his affairs. The fact Kellogg refused to admit he didn’t really have any control over the situation had nothing to do with it.

Kellogg parked his car, exited and tossed the keys to Gowan’s wheelman, who doubled as valet when he wasn’t chauffeuring the old man around.

“Take care of her, will you, Sid?”

The young man, who was barely twenty if he was a day, almost didn’t catch the keys but he managed to one-hand them at the last moment. Kellogg pretended not to see the dirty look Sid Harper fired his way, and a smile played across his lips as he sauntered up the flagstone steps and stabbed the doorbell. A melodious chime echoed from somewhere within and the door opened a moment later to reveal one of Gowan’s house soldiers. The guy looked unfamiliar to Kellogg.

“Yeah?” he rumbled.

Kellogg stepped inside and looked the man square in the eyes. “I don’t recognize you. New here?”

“Started last week,” he said. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’ll take care of this, Charlie Boy,” a gravelly voice interjected.

Both men turned to see Gowan’s personal assistant, Struthers Sullivan, dance down the wide steps at the other end of the reception foyer. “Sully” bore the full Hiberno-English accent and touted himself a pureblood Irishman because he hailed from Dublin, a fact that had elevated him to his current status in the Gowan crime Family. Mickey Gowan had always tried to remain purist when it came to those in his immediate company. He had no problem hiring a Scot or other loose kinsmen, even Irish-Americans, for the “scut” work, but he made damned sure his closest advisers were as close to Irish as Irish could be.

“Well, Sully!” Kellogg said as Charlie Boy closed the heavy front door and then disappeared. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you here. I thought Mr. Gowan sent you on a long trip.”

“He did,” Sully said with a good-natured wink. “Job turned out easier than I expected so I got back early.”

Kellogg nodded, well aware of Sully’s specialty. When Gowan needed a problem taken care of permanently, he sent Struthers Sullivan. Kellogg always liked Sully, even admired him on some levels, although he didn’t trust him at all. Then again, he didn’t trust any of them—he knew what they did for a living. He’d spent his entire career putting away men like Sully until he discovered exactly how much money he could make playing for the other team. When he agreed to come over and work for Gowan, he insisted on only two things: he’d answer only to the old man, and any remuneration had to be unmarked and untraceable cash. For a guy like Mickey Gowan, neither request seemed out of line. And fifteen hundred a week to get a federal cop at Kellogg’s level in his pocket was chump change.

“Where’s the old man?” Kellogg asked.

“Upstairs with the missus,” Sully replied.

Kellogg knew what that meant. Mickey Gowan actually had three or four in his little harem, all of whom lived in different states and traveled regularly. The one here was actually his legal wife and the others simply mistresses. As Gowan had once told Kellogg, “Running an enterprise like mine leaves a guy with needs no one woman could possibly satisfy.”

“Well, I don’t want to crash his party,” Kellogg said in an all-business tone, “but I got to talk to him right away, Sully. It’s important.”

Sully jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Come on, I’ll take you up. They ain’t doing nothing special.”

Kellogg followed Sully to the second floor, which was as spacious and fancifully decorated as the first, and found Mickey Gowan in the entertainment room, where Gowan spent most of his time with friends and associates. The space took up the entire east wing of Gowan’s mansion, and sported the most impressive display of electronics money could buy. A custom-built HDTV with its seventy-two-inch screen and sixteen-channel surround-sound theater system took up nearly one wall. Theater-style seating branched off the central viewing area. Just beyond the seats the low-rise steps spread onto a wall-to-wall raised floor with a full wet bar and a burnished oval table that could easily seat twenty people. Massive mahogany pillars carved with intricate designs sprung up throughout the room. Contrasting honey-oak shelves ran along the exterior walls and supported wood carvings and hand-beaten metal pieces. The term rustic came to Kellogg’s mind the first time he saw this room.

A fire crackled in a free-standing brick fireplace in the middle of the room, although it had to be at least sixty degrees outside with plenty of humidity. The rumor mill had it that Gowan suffered from some malady that caused him to be cold most of the time, so the guy always kept his place like an oven. Kellogg usually needed a shower after staying in the house any length of time, although he hadn’t attributed it to the psychological component of washing away the filth that surrounded him.

Music played quietly over the hardwired entertainment system. It sounded to Kellogg like something from the River Dance, but he ignored the Gaelic-style tune. He’d heard enough of that shit to last him a lifetime. Gowan was hunched over a pool table, his bushy white eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His wife, Glenda, sat on a padded leather barstool while she nursed a sweating beer. Although nearly fifty, Gowan’s wife had the figure of a twenty-year-old, and Kellogg had to force himself to avert his eyes from the shapely legs in fishnet stockings that dangled seductively from the denim miniskirt.

Kellogg started forward and opened his mouth, but Sully put a finger to his lips and blocked the approach with a hand against Kellogg’s chest. Kellogg stopped in his tracks and bit his tongue. He folded his arms and waited at a respectful distance until Gowan took his shot. He missed banking the green No. 6 into a corner pocket by a long shot. Gowan cursed as he straightened and only then did he recognize the two arrivals.

Mickey Gowan looked at them a moment before his scowl transformed into a smile as false as that of a crooked televangelist. Kellogg didn’t trust Gowan any more than he trusted Sully, and he genuinely liked Sully. Part of it had to do with the fact Gowan treated him more like a hired hand than a partner—not that Kellogg had any high ideals about their relationship. And at least Gowan had been true to his word, which was fine as long as the old man kept the money coming.

“Jefferson, good to see you,” Gowan said. He stepped forward and extended a hand.

Kellogg took it with reticence; the old man had a slimy shake. “Sure. You too, Mickey.” He hated it when Gowan called him Jefferson. Christ, even his mother hadn’t called him that, and she’d named him.

“You want a drink?”

“No, thanks,” he said. “Mickey, I have some bad news. I think maybe you’re going to want to sit down for it.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ old man, see? I think I can take whatever you have to tell me, so out with ’er.”

“Okay,” Kellogg said, surprised at his enjoyment when he blurted, “Billy Moran’s dead.”

The room was so silent Kellogg wondered for a moment whether Gowan had heard him. Something fell in the old man’s countenance. The light went out of his azure-colored eyes, and his face went nearly the same shade of white as the shock of unkempt hair matted across his head.

“Stop the lights!” Sully cut in. “You didn’t tell me that was the news, ya yonker. Sorry, boss.”

After the old man’s lip quivered for a time, he finally said through gritted teeth, “Who? Who did this, Jefferson?”

“I don’t know yet. But I got my suspicions.”

“Who?”

“Like I said, Mickey, I don’t know—”

“I don’t give a shite! I wanna know who yer suspect!”

Kellogg felt his face flush as he replied, “Cooper…a guy named Matt Cooper.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. But I think he might work for the U.S. government.”

“FBI? One of your guys?”

Kellogg shook his head. “Shit no, Mickey. If it were that simple, I’d already know about him right now. No, he doesn’t come up in anything I run his name through.”

“Well, what the hell does that mean?” Sully demanded.

“I’m not sure.” Kellogg shrugged and continued, “He could be a special operative of some kind, although black ops are technically illegal in the U.S. unless it has to do with terrorism.”

Kellogg couldn’t swear to it, but he thought he noticed a silent exchange between Sully and Gowan. Gowan was basically a glorified labor bully, with his fingers mostly into the most basic of the vices: illegal gambling, numbers and cons. He was also involved in prostitution and drugs, but Kellogg had learned to overlook that minor indiscretion. Recently, however, Gowan had got himself caught up in dealings with the Earth Liberation Front, and that little fact had started to make Kellogg nervous. Gowan wasn’t aware that Kellogg already knew about his relationship with the ELF. For the sake of plausible deniability and to protect his own interests, Kellogg decided to act as if he didn’t.

“If this guy’s onto us at all, boss, we need to get rid of him,” Sully declared.

Gowan nodded. “Ya, and it don’t mean shite to me if we can prove the bastard busted a cap on Billy or not.”

“That’s where I might be able to help,” Kellogg said.

“What do you mean?” Gowan asked.

“If he is operating illegally, then that would be enough for me to open an official investigation inside the Bureau. At best, he could be a freelancer, in which case he’s still operating illegally. And if he isn’t sanctioned and he did kill Moran then that’s homicide. We might be able to bring him in on that alone if I can get enough evidence.”

“Who’s looking into it right now?” Sully asked.

Kellogg shrugged. “Well, since it happened in Siskiyou County and Tulelake has no real police force to speak of, it will probably fall to the sheriff’s office and possibly the state if the locals call for help.”

“Naw,” Gowan said. “We’re already going to have enough cops crawling around here, and I don’t need that. Everybody knows Billy Moran was in my employ, and that’s going to bring some serious heat on my head.”

“Why didn’t you know about this guy before?” Sully asked.

“I did,” Kellogg admitted with a shrug. “But what the hell do you want me to do? I can’t just go rousting someone because he’s walking down the sidewalk.”

“That’s what you get paid for, Kellogg, to keep this kind of shit out of Mickey’s hair.”

“Never mind that!” Gowan’s face got red. “I want this matter cleared up, and I want it done in the next twenty-four. Sully, you’re in charge. Kellogg, you follow Sully’s instructions and do whatever you can to make sure this Cooper’s no longer breathing by Monday, sunrise. You think you can handle that?”

“Yes, Mickey.”

“All right, now both of you take a walk. I got some grieving to do.” A droplet of a tear had now formed at the corner of Gowan’s eye, but neither man dared comment on that. “And Sully, I want you to see to all Billy’s arrangements. We’ll make sure his old lady gets taken care of.”

“Yes, Mickey.”

“And his kids,” Gowan added. “You got that? We got to make sure we take care of Billy’s kids.”

“It’ll get done, boss.”

“And you’ll arrange it…personally?”

“Yes, Mickey.”

“All right.”



THE LUMINOUS HANDS of Mack Bolan’s watch read 0130 as he passed the city-limits sign for Timber Vale.

The road dipped down from the north side of the Siskiyou Pass, and a few winding turns brought Bolan to a level approach into Timber Vale. Traffic lights lazily winked red as Bolan slowed enough to take a look around him. He went about three blocks before the glow of a light shimmered through one of the storefront windows. Bolan pulled to the curb and watched for a moment. Three vehicles were parked directly in front of the building, which sported a decorative awning. Bolan eased his rental closer and saw Lamplighter Diner hand scrawled in paint on the glass.

It would be as good a place as any to start.

Bolan left his car and walked up the sidewalk. He checked the vehicles as he passed, verified no occupants and then pushed through the door. A bell tinkled over the squeak of door hinges as Bolan entered. Every eye in the place looked in his direction.

Bolan took an inventory. A middle-aged waitress with ash-blond hair and sun freckles greeted him with half a smile. Two burly men wearing baseball caps, one with a racing logo and the other advertising a well-known trucking firm, looked up from their beers and plates of half-eaten food. A man Bolan marked in his late sixties peered with little interest from around the edge of his newspaper. He wore a flannel coat—a bit crazy considering the heat even that time of the morning—and sported a white Fu Manchu mustache.

“Morning,” Bolan greeted them.

The old man went back to his paper, and the two men went back to their food after nodding in his direction. The waitress kept her attention on Bolan with an expression of half wariness, half interest. He walked to the other end of the counter before taking a seat in the booth where he could watch both the large window and the entrance while he kept his back to a solid wall.

“What can I get you?” the waitress asked.

Bolan thought hard a moment about just ordering coffee, but then realized he hadn’t eaten since lunch. “Got a menu?”

“Only thing Earl cooks this time of night is the special or fried chicken.” She smiled and winked. “We always got fried chicken, you know.”

“Any good?” Bolan asked.

She looked almost miffed. “Everything Earl makes is good.”

“Then in that case…”

Bolan didn’t have to finish his sentence. The waitress delivered another half smile, shouted an order to Earl in back and then poured Bolan some coffee unbidden. When she saw the Executioner’s questioning gaze, she said sheepishly, “You looked like you could use some joe. Don’t worry, it’s good, too.”

She returned the pot, cleared a few dishes and then said to him, “You new here or just passing through?”

Bolan shrugged. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“If I can find some work.”

“What do you do?”

“Little bit of everything, I guess,” Bolan said. He didn’t want to seem too obvious. He could already tell he’d garnered some attention from the two men who, having finished their meals, seemed to hang on every word of his conversation with the waitress. If he came straight out with something directly in their line of business, he might raise suspicions.

“I build houses, mostly,” he continued. “Do some electrical or plumbing work here and there.”

“Ah,” she said. “There’s always work to be had for a man who’s good with his hands.”

While the comment didn’t seem offhanded, Bolan could tell the waitress was making a show of flirting with him, particularly in front of the other pair. His eyes snapped quickly to her hand, he saw neither a wedding band nor the remnant of where she’d worn one, so either she was divorced, unmarried or nontraditional. She hadn’t made the remark to spark the two men into any type of action; they didn’t seem to care one way or another. In fact, it seemed that they had taken more than a passing interest in Bolan. Had he been followed? Were Gowan’s men on to him? If so, how had they managed to predict where he’d land?

It seemed too coincidental, but these guys were definitely more than they appeared.

“Do much working with wood?” the man in the trucker cap asked suddenly.

“Like I said, just building houses,” Bolan said.

“Never worked in a lumber mill?”

Bolan shook his head. “No, but I’m always willing to learn. Does it pay well?”

“It’s honest work,” said the man’s partner.

The first man withdrew a small card from his pocket and handed it to the waitress to pass to Bolan. “Tell you what, you show up at that address tomorrow morning and ask to talk to the lumber foreman. Louise here can give you directions. Give the foreman that card and tell him I sent you.”

“And you are?”

The man got up to leave with his partner and walked over to Bolan. He extended his hand. “Buck…Buck Nordstrom.”

Bolan held up the card with a nod. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said. “Grip like that and a guy your size…you’ll do a good job, I’m sure.”

With that, the two men walked out. It seemed almost too easy to the Executioner, but he decided to play it out and see how things went. Since logging and milling were the major industries in Timber Vale and he knew from casual talks at Tulelake that Mickey Gowan had his hands into everything in the town, all the odds were in his favor. He’d have to play it carefully; there was still a chance, however remote, he was about to walk into a trap.

But for now, the Executioner had his in.




3


With the waitress’s help, Mack Bolan managed to find a place to stay for the night. The shabby motel on the edge of town would make a remote and unobtrusive base of operations, but he politely declined Louise’s offer to join him. Once settled, Bolan stripped, showered and then crawled between the sheets for a few hours of sleep. The rest did him well, and he was up and moving by dawn.

Bolan dressed in his best working-man duds, a pair of jeans and plaid flannel work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and then drove to the address on the card. He didn’t know what to expect or even whom to ask for, but that didn’t seem to matter; the three large men who met Bolan at the gate had apparently been told to expect him. One man offered to park his car. Bolan agreed without reservation, since he’d elected to pack the Beretta 93-R in a modified shoulder holster that rode high under his left armpit, its bulk concealed by the loose flannel shirt jacket, and nothing remained in the vehicle that would betray his identity. He’d even left some fast-food bags and a few empty beer cans under the seat just to reinforce the cover.

The remaining pair escorted Bolan to a security guard for sign-in and then handed him a hardhat and hearing protection. He declined the muffs with a shake of his head, but one of the men insisted it was policy. Bolan shrugged and donned the equipment. They continued through the mill, and the Executioner used the opportunity to study his surroundings. The earmuffs did a lot to decrease the piercing buzz and whine of saws cutting through massive logs. A few separate areas were crowded with workers running band saws, jigs and even a couple of lathes.

At the other end of the mill, the men escorted Bolan up a flight of metal steps to a second-story landing. They followed a catwalk that eventually terminated at a massive office with a large glass overlooking the mill floor below. An old-fashioned potbelly coal stove stood in one corner. The men showed Bolan to a seat where they indicated he could take off the safety equipment and then made their exit through a side door.

Bolan sat in one of the three chairs positioned beneath the glass window. A young woman with blond hair and blue eyes sat at a computer terminal. He detected a faint clacking sound as the secretary’s fingers almost danced over the keyboard. Other than a single furtive glance and a smile she completely ignored him. Bolan considered speaking to her, but the sound of a door opening distracted him. He looked up to see a large man step out. He had red hair, large lips, square jaw and a broad face. He stood at least six-foot-six with meaty forearms and broad shoulders, and he moved powerfully.

His face broke into a grin and he extended a hand as Bolan stood. “How ya be, laddie? Come on in.”

Bolan stepped through the doorway into an expansive office that he could only have described as a first-rate pigsty. Books and papers were strewed across a massive desk and equally large tabletop such that no part of their surfaces went untouched. The garbage can overflowed, and the room reeked of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke. Bolan took a seat as the man wedged himself into a chair about two sizes too small between his desktop and credenza.

“The name’s Fagan MacDermott,” he began. The Irish accent when he pronounced his name left no doubts in Bolan’s mind whom MacDermott worked for. “I understand you’re new in town. Maybe lookin’ for work?”

Bolan showed him a wan smile. “Word travels fast.”

MacDermott shrugged in way of explanation and said, “No more than usual for a small town like this one.”

“I noticed you got quite a crew out there. Everybody work for the mill?”

“Hell, pal, the mill’s what keeps this town running!” MacDermott burst into laughter.

Bolan considered him uncharacteristically cheerful, but he decided not to push. Not yet. “I’m Matt Cooper. I’ve been on the road quite a bit, doing some odd jobs here and there.”

“On the run from the law?”

“No,” Bolan said.

MacDermott fished a cigarette from the pack on his desk, lit it, then sat back in his chair and studied Bolan through a cloud of smoke.

The Executioner remained impassive. He got the impression that if he’d said he was on the run, it probably wouldn’t make any difference but he decided not to make it up as he went along. He wasn’t working this one for Stony Man and thus he didn’t have time to put a real cover in place. If MacDermott decided to look into his criminal history, he figured it was better not to state he had one and then have to explain later why “Matt Cooper” not only had no record, but also had no fingerprints on file.

“It don’t make no difference if you got something to hide,” MacDermott said. “Best to be honest with me, Coop.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Bolan said with a sigh. “And I’m not running from the law. Just looking for maybe a place to settle down. Sleeping and eating out of my car gets a bit old after a while.”

MacDermott studied Bolan a moment longer, and then leaned forward and tapped his smoke into a beanbag ashtray. “Yeah, I’m sure it does. Okay, so you’re not on the lam and you ain’t done nothing to be guilty for, and that’s good enough for me. You see, I trust my people and expect loyalty in return. Who sent you?”

“A guy named Buck Nordstrom.”

MacDermott took another long drag and then stubbed out his smoke in the overflowing ashtray. “Yeah, Nordstrom’s a pretty good guy for a Swede. Not much for inside milling, but he’s a hell of a powder monkey.”

Bolan recognized the term for an explosives man. “Done a bit of that myself in times past.”

“Oh, yeah? When’s that?”

“Military.”

MacDermott nodded, but it didn’t seem to impress him one way or another. “Well, afraid I got no use for another explosives guy. How you think you could handle a position as a chaser?”

“Sorry, not up on these logging terms yet.”

“You’d work on the yarding line…that’s basically where they bring the logs into the mill here. You’d be responsible for disconnecting the chokers and seeing the logs get onto the right conveyers. It’s a tough job, but it’s what I got and you look big enough to handle it.”

“I’ll give it a shot.”

“Fine, pal, that’ll be just fine.” He lit another cigarette before adding, “How you want to be paid?”

“I prefer cash,” Bolan said.

That brought a smile to MacDermott’s face. “You know what? I do, too! You’re hired.”

Bolan stood with him. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” MacDermott said. “You’ll find I’m firm but fair. You’ll hear a lot of those in the yard call me Mad Mac. I know about it, and it don’t mean nothing, just a bit o’ harmless fun on their parts. But they don’t do it to my face. You show me respect—I’ll show you respect. You see?”

Bolan nodded.

MacDermott came around the desk and crossed in front of Bolan to open his office door. “Now, you give your details to Sally out there, and she’ll make sure you get on the payroll.”

“Okay, but how much?”

“You want to know the pay. Don’t worry about that, you’ll be well-compensated…more, much more than I think you’ll be expecting. Just go out and talk to Sally there and she’ll take care of you. Okay?”

Bolan decided to play a card and see where it led him. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. MacDermott?”

“Ya can call me Fagan when we’re alone, pal.”

“Okay. I’ve heard Mickey Gowan owns this mill. Is that true?”

Something dulled in MacDermott’s green eyes, and his expression flattened. A wisp of smoke curled off the cigarette that dangled from his mouth and caught his eye, but his face barely twitched. He studied Bolan for a long time, and the Executioner wondered for a moment if he’d called MacDermott too soon. Then the mill foreman seemed to move past whatever had struck the nerve and clapped Bolan on the back.

“Yeah, that’s right. Mr. Gowan owns this mill, but I’m the push. Ya take your orders from me, mind your p’s and q’s and you’ll be fine. We straight?”

“Yes, sir,” Bolan said. “I just wondered, is all.”

MacDermott nodded and then waved Bolan out the door.

After he gave his cover credentials to the blond named Sally, Bolan’s escorts reappeared and took him out the same way they came in. They left the mill and stopped at the yarding line, where one of the pair gave him a brief rundown of what he’d be doing, introduced him to the only other chaser they had and then led him to his car. Bolan had no doubt they had thoroughly searched it in his absence, but he gave no hint he knew it.

“Be here tomorrow at six o’clock sharp,” one of the men instructed.

Bolan drove out of the mill and as soon as he topped the hill just beyond the front gate, the Executioner reached for the cell phone on his belt. He dialed Johnny, who answered immediately.

“I’m in,” the Executioner said. He gave his brother the address.

Bolan listened to the clack of a keyboard for a moment, then Johnny said, “Yeah, Mickey Gowan definitely owns that mill.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he owned the whole town,” Bolan replied. “You find anything else connecting him to the ELF?”

“He’s funneling money through every business in the region. And what he’s bringing in doesn’t come close to matching the revenues for his business holdings. Weird thing is, Gowan has a lot of business holdings but all of this just comes down to a paper trail. In other words, a lot of unknown money coming into these businesses but very little goes out.”

“Sounds like money laundering.”

Johnny grunted assent.

Bolan continued, “What you’ve described to me sounds a lot like a reverse pyramid scheme.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gowan’s got business everywhere, most likely paper companies. He gets the common folks to invest, whether it be real estate, small-business buy-ins, stocks…whatever. He promises the money will come back but it never does. In this case, the average citizen around here doesn’t have the kind of money we’re talking about.”

“But an organization like the ELF would,” Johnny concluded.

“Yeah. I think Gowan’s taking their cash and running out on them. The ELF thinks it has funds to draw from so they increase activities. Unfortunately, they’re not likely to see a dime of it back, since nobody can really tie the Gowan Family directly to the money, so the ELF takes it out on innocent citizens who signed actual receivership.”

“Okay, but why shoot down military aircraft?”

“Military bases mean jobs for the surrounding communities,” Bolan said. “Put those bases on alert or attack private corporations and you decrease revenues. Ultimately, it adds up to unnecessary bloodshed and a breakdown in economic surplus.”

“That’s a hell of a way to stick it to the common man.”

“It’s also disastrous to public safety.”

“What’s your plan?”

“It sounds like it’s time to shake things up. I think I know where to start. I’ll be in touch.”

Bolan disconnected the call and drove into downtown Timber Vale. The streets were crowded with vehicles and an equal amount of foot traffic. He made a couple of passes before turning onto a side street and proceeding to an alleyway that ran along the back of a strip mall. He parked his rental in a discreet area and went EVA.

Something nagged at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He ran through the events since his arrival. None of this added up. If Gowan had his fingers into all of the local businesses and was making cash hand-over-fist from them, it wouldn’t encourage the guy to turn on the ELF. Even ecoterrorists knew how it worked. Gowan stood to make a lot more money from the local business trades in this area than he did from the cash holdings of a few small-time domestic terrorist outfits. It only made sense the ELF would focus its efforts on the local businesses if it discovered it was losing money. No, there had to be more to it than that. This town bothered him, as well. Things were almost too perfect here; everybody was friendly, willing to lend a stranger a helping hand. Men like Bolan still believed in the general goodness and charity of humankind, but that didn’t mean he took everything at face value. Some things required a closer, deeper inspection—the Executioner just couldn’t be sure where to focus his efforts.

And then it dawned on him: the waitress! She looked vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t figure why. Then he remembered he’d seen her before, earlier in the week at Tulelake at the FBI offices where Kellogg worked. She looked a lot older as a waitress, the heavier makeup and the world-weary expression, but he couldn’t forget the eyes. Bolan walked along the side of the building and crossed the street to the diner. A Closed sign hung on the door with a hand-scrawled note that read, “Sorry, Earl out sick.”

Not likely. He’d seen Earl just a few hours before and the guy looked fine.

Bolan cupped his hand to the door and peered inside; he saw a fleeting movement in back—something like two people struggling—and then descended from the narrow stoop and circled around back. He found a rear door marked for deliveries only and tried it. It opened without trouble. Bolan stuck his head into the semidark interior. He could hear angry voices inside, male voices, followed by a feminine yelp of pain.

The Executioner kicked it into high gear, opening the door just enough to slip inside as he brought the Beretta into play. He left the door ajar enough to let the morning sunlight illuminate his way and moved through the storage room to a set of swing doors. He cracked one enough to see two men standing with their backs to him. They were holding the waitress in check, and Bolan arrived just in time to see a third man slap her across the face.

Bolan shouldered through the swing doors and raised the Beretta. In a hard, cold voice he said, “Fun’s over, boys.”

One of the pair holding the waitress turned and emitted a yelp of surprise. The other stupidly clawed for something in the front of his pants. Bolan didn’t bother to see what it was. He leveled the sound-suppressed pistol nearly point-blank at the man’s head and squeezed the trigger. The subsonic cartridge let out a report not much louder than a cough, and the thug’s head immediately disappeared in a crimson spray of bone and brain matter. A large chunk splattered the side of his cohort’s face.

The second guy stumbled back and fumbled for his own weapon. The Executioner helped him along with a front kick that sent him reeling. The hood’s arms windmilled in an attempt to maintain his balance, but the momentum eventually got the better of him. He crashed into a side counter and brought a full plastic tray of silverware onto his head.

The remaining assailant went for cover, and Bolan saw the glint of light on metal in his hand. Bolan rushed forward and pulled the waitress out of the way just in time to prevent her from being struck by any of the five wild shots the gunman sent in her direction. He shoved her not too gently through the swing doors as he leveled the Beretta 93-R in the enemy’s direction and snapped off a pair of shots to keep the guy’s head down.

Bolan followed after the waitress and gestured toward the door as she recovered from his rough shove. “Head out the back.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Later. Now go,” he ordered.

She started to put her hands on her hips and stand there defiantly, but Bolan didn’t give her the chance to argue. He grabbed her arm and assisted her to the back, pushing her through the door with his bodyweight as he kept facing forward in anticipation the gunman would follow. The guy did just as Bolan predicted and burst through the swing doors. He leveled his Beretta and squeezed the trigger even as the gunman snapped off a shot of his own. The 9 mm round punched through the thug’s chest in a bloody spray, and the impact knocked him through the door. The shot he triggered went high above Bolan’s head and lodged in the wood frame of the doorway.

The Executioner emerged into the narrow alleyway in time to see a black SUV round a corner and roar toward them.




4


“Move!”

Bolan shoved the waitress away from the charging SUV and followed on her heels. They ran like hell and rounded the corner of the building in time to avoid being run down. Bolan heard the tires grind to a stop on the broken asphalt and crushed gravel of the alleyway, followed by the reports of automatic-weapons fire.

Louise emitted a sudden cry and stumbled, but Bolan caught her before she fell and helped her along the sidewalk. They reached the cover of the building front and then raced across the street. Bolan released her arm when he sensed she regained her balance. He took the lead and commanded her to follow him to his car.

As they climbed into the rental simultaneously and closed the doors, Bolan quipped, “Friends of yours?”

“I thought about asking you the same question,” she shot back.

Bolan bit off a reply as he peeled out to a side street, leaving hot rubber on the pavement. The SUV rolled up on their tail in no time flat. Bolan’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then he glanced at the waitress. He didn’t fail to notice the very nice pair of legs that emerged from the skirt of her uniform. Not the legs of a middle-aged woman. From that distance he could also see there weren’t the usual facial wrinkles, which left him to deduce she wasn’t in her forties as he’d originally guessed.

“That’s a good makeup job,” he said. “Your FBI contacts have real talent.”

“You know who I am?” she asked, although she expressed only mild surprise.

Bolan nodded. “I recognized you from the field office in Siskiyou County.”

“I recognized you, too,” she said. “That’s why I’d hoped you poke around for a few days, get bored and leave.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Bolan replied. “Think you can handle the wheel?”

The back windows shattered under the impact of fresh autofire before she could answer. Glass shards rained onto the pair, but fortunately didn’t injure either of them. When Bolan did a closer inspection of his occupant, however, he noticed her bleeding from her right arm. She’d probably been grazed back at the restaurant when they were fleeing on foot.

“I can do better than that,” she said. “Give me your gun.”

“What?”

“Your pistol.”

Bolan shook his head curtly. “No dice.”

“Listen, mister, I’m grateful for all your help, but this is FBI business.”

“It’s my business,” Bolan said but on afterthought he decided to hand over his Beretta. “Okay, I’ll drive, you shoot.”

“Such a gentleman,” she teased.

She twisted until her knees were in the seat and faced rearward. Bolan could see her level the pistol, expertly using a modified Weaver’s grip, her forearms braced on the top edge of the seat to the right of the headrest. A moment later, she squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession. She followed that with a second volley.

Bolan watched in his rearview mirror as the SUV swerved to avoid the shots. The first volley left sparks on the grille but didn’t appear to have any effect. The latter triburst spiderwebbed the windshield, effectively blocking the driver’s field of vision, and Bolan noticed the passenger’s side spattered with red. Obviously one of the woman’s shots had scored. The Executioner decided to take advantage of the driver’s obscured sight. He rolled down the passenger’s side window and grabbed hold of his new ally as he slammed on the brakes and steered into the deserted oncoming lane.

The SUV shot past them.

Bolan snatched the pistol from the woman as he accelerated and ordered her to take cover. He came parallel with the SUV and thumbed the selector to 3-round bursts before squeezing the trigger. The slide ratcheted obediently—extracted one casing after another—as the warrior put three 9 mm Parabellum rounds in the driver. The SUV swerved off the road, jumped the curb and collided with a massive pine tree. Bolan didn’t even slow down when the engine ignited. They were more than two blocks away when they heard the rumble of an explosion.

“Damn!” the waitress said. “Pretty nice work, mister!”

“Not bad yourself,” Bolan replied. “Now, let’s find some place to talk.”



THE PLACE ENDED UP being a forest preserve about sixteen miles outside Timber Vale. Bolan didn’t mind the drive. It gave both of them time to decompress while affording him the advantage to watch for tails. Once convinced no one followed, he turned onto a road indicated by his companion, stopped in a shaded area near a small lake and killed the engine.

“You want to explain what happened back there?” Bolan asked.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Not much for small talk, are you?”

“Not when someone’s trying to kill me.”

“You’re of no interest to them,” she said. “Besides, you don’t have anything to worry about. I’ll protect you.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So what do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with your real name, because I’m pretty sure it isn’t Louise.”

She extended a hand and replied, “Special Agent Sandra Newbury, FBI. I’m here on temporary assignment.”

“And your handler,” Bolan interjected. “I bet his name’s Kellogg.”

“How’d you know?”

“Same reason I knew you worked for the FBI,” Bolan said. “I recognized you when I was there.”

She laughed—a nice laugh. “Guess I’m getting sloppy.”

“Guess so. What’s Kellogg have you doing up here?”

“It’s a long story.”

Bolan frowned. “I have time.”

Newbury blew out a breath through pursed lips, then laid her head against the headrest and stared at the lake. “I was assigned here by Washington. I’m what they call a flip. I travel a lot, take undercover cases and then once the job’s done I move on. I specialize in fitting into particular areas or groups, but I’m never in for any long-term gigs. You probably hear or even know of the ones who go under for months and months, many times even years, and then after that they do regular fieldwork.”

Bolan nodded. He’d known many in the law-enforcement community who did such work—even a few he counted as friends.

“Anyway, I was assigned to get inside the Timber Vale community,” Newbury continued. “It’s gone a lot longer than maybe it should have. We’ve long suspected corruption by organized-crime elements up in this neck of the woods, and what I’ve seen in recent weeks makes me think more and more we’re right.”

“You’re talking about Mickey Gowan and clan.”

“Right again! Sounds like you know your way around here. You work for Washington also?”

Bolan shook his head. “No, but we’ll get into that later. Right now, I need to know everything you can tell me about Gowan’s operations up here.”

“Afraid I can’t tell you much,” Newbury replied with a shrug. “Especially since I don’t even know who you work for or your clearance level.”

“Much higher than yours. I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me on that and everything else I tell you. I don’t have any credentials with me to prove what I’m saying, not that I feel I have to.”

“Then what makes you think I should cooperate with you?”

“Mainly because I saved your tail back there,” Bolan countered. “That should be enough proof I’m on your side.”

Newbury’s resolve seemed to melt some, as did her defensive expression. “I suppose I do owe you one on that count. How about at least a name?”

“I gave it to you last night. Cooper.”

Newbury nodded. “Cooper it is, although I’m betting it’s a cover. Anyway, it was just luck of the draw you came along when you did. Thanks.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it. I’d planned to follow up on a lead I got with you, once I realized who you were and where I’d seen you before.”

“A lead on what?”

“About a week ago, a pair of F-15s was shot down at Kingsley Airfield.”

Newbury nodded and said evenly, “I heard about that. My brother happens to be a pilot for the Texas Air National Guard. I’m a little more sensitive when I hear about those kinds of things. It reminds me just how short life is.”

“It can be,” Bolan replied.

“But I thought that was ruled an accident,” she said.

“That’s what they’re telling the press. In reality, we think the Earth Liberation Front might have been responsible.”

“Doesn’t sound like their MO. And besides, what does any of this have to do with Mickey Gowan and my case?” she asked.

“I’m coming to that. My intelligence on Gowan shows he’s funneling monies through the local businesses all along this region for the ELF. Giving them a place to store their cash, launder funds, the works. Neither the Justice Department nor the IRS would look hard at a community of this size, particularly if the growth rate wasn’t significant. Timber Vale’s the perfect place for Gowan’s operations.”

“Okay, but for what purpose? If Gowan allows the businesses around here to get hurt, that’s only going to look bad on him.”

“Not if he’s using those business to pipeline cash but making the individual business owners sign receivership,” Bolan said. “Think about it. He fronts the ELF’s money to the business owners. He can show those as legitimate business transactions to the ELF, make them think he’s doing it to protect their funds. Then somebody defaults and he lets it get back to the ELF the receivers have stolen the money. The ELF then takes it out on the individuals and Gowan gets away squeaky clean with the embezzled funds.”

“And after it’s over, he then comes in and restores the thing at a quarter of the cost,” Newbury concluded. “Nobody’s the wiser!”

“Right.”

Newbury looked at Bolan with utter surprise. “It’s ingenious if true.”

“That’s a big if right now,” Bolan admitted. “What I need is some corroborating evidence. And I need you to help me get it.”

“How?”

“Keep doing what you’ve been doing,” he said.

“That’ll be tougher now that Gowan’s people are onto me,” Newbury replied.

“Those weren’t Gowan’s people,” Bolan replied. “They were too well-trained and -equipped. Gowan’s men are thugs and hoods, nothing more. Those guys weren’t maybe the brightest of the bunch, but they were definitely experts in their field.”

“But why would the ELF come after me?”

Bolan had to admit he didn’t have an answer to that question. He didn’t have any proof the men who attacked Newbury weren’t from Gowan, but his instinct told him otherwise and Bolan always listened to it. No, those men were after more than the rent money.

“What kind of questions did they ask?”

“They wanted to know where Earl was, who owned the place…stuff like that.”

“Mickey Gowan doesn’t own that restaurant?”

She shook her head. “Too small. I actually got hired there by Earl about two months back. Earl did all the resupply, ordered things whenever I asked him, signed all the checks. I just assumed Earl owned the place, so I figured it was a good place to keep my cover while I poked into other business ventures.”

“I know Gowan owns the mill,” Bolan said.

Newbury nodded. “As well as the mercantile, bank and just about everything else in Timber Vale. He doesn’t do much with the small businesses, but he’s got his teeth into all the major capital ventures.”

“Good,” the Executioner said with a nod. “I’ll need a list of those as soon as you can get them to me.”

Newbury batted her eyelashes and said, “Still not going to tell me who you work for?”

Bolan shook his head. “No, and I’d appreciate if you don’t ask me anymore.”

“Fine,” she said. She folded her arms and said, “So what now?”

“You have someplace safe you can go?”

She nodded. “I can wait at a friend’s house until Kellogg gets up here.”

“Not good,” Bolan said. “I don’t trust Kellogg, and I think it’s better if you don’t contact him.”

“He’s my handler,” Newbury protested. “I have to call him.”

“I don’t trust Kellogg,” he repeated.

Newbury sighed. “You think he’s in bed with Gowan.”

“Yeah. You?”

Something in Newbury’s eyes betrayed she had similar feelings. Bolan had wondered why the inaction on Kellogg’s part.

“I don’t have a shred of proof but…well, I’ve suspected for some time. It’s hard not to get a pretty clear picture of what’s going on in smaller communities like Siskiyou County or up here in Timber Vale. Kellogg knows a lot of people, and he seems to have trouble keeping a low profile.”

“Likes to be in the limelight,” Bolan cut in.

“Exactly. And when you mention you don’t trust him, then that just seems to confirm my own suspicions and tells me I’m not crazy.”

“So for now I’d say keep quiet and don’t rattle too many cages,” Bolan said as he started the car.

“We’re leaving?”

“I’ll drop you off at my motel, and then I’ve got a few more things to take care of before I start work tomorrow morning at the mill.”

Newbury scratched at her head and finally yanked off her wig in unceremonious fashion. Bolan could see the cause of her discomfort. She’d used an assortment of rubber bands and metal clips to wind her dark hair against her head. She began to pull them loose one by one as Bolan pulled onto the road.

“So you convinced MacDermott to give you a job.”

“You know him, eh?”

She nodded. “He comes into the diner all the time.”

“You trust him?”

“Hell no!” Newbury popped a stick of gum in her mouth before adding, “Mac’s a braggart and a loudmouth. He’s also known for tipping them back a little too often.” She made a drinking gesture.

“That should prove helpful,” Bolan said. “Heavy drinking’s a weakness. Maybe I can use it to get under his skin.”

“Just be careful you don’t get too deep,” she said.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Maybe…but keep your eyes open anyway. The MacDermott fan club has quite a membership.”

“Is he on Gowan’s payroll?”

“Better believe it.” Newbury completed the task of removing the hair restraints. She tossed her head back and forth and lowered the window, and her long, thick strands of red-brown hair blew easily under the high-speed breezes.

Bolan thought he smelled something like apples or strawberries, but the scent quickly faded. “What’s his angle?”

“Mac’s a piece of work. I know he resents working under Mickey Gowan. He’s been heard mouthing off about that more than once. I know he went toe-to-toe with one of Gowan’s right-hand men a few months back, a guy by the name of Billy Moran.”

“Yeah, Moran’s no longer with us.”

Newbury looked at Bolan in shock. From her expression she knew good and well what Bolan meant by the comment. He looked for something more there, but he didn’t get anything. He still had no real reason to trust Newbury, but for now he only needed her for information.

“Like I said,” Newbury said more quietly, “Mac hits the sauce pretty often and pretty hard. And he likes his women, too. Considers himself somewhat of a ladies’ man. He’s even hit on me a few times at the restaurant. Usually it’s after the bars close and he’s been out most of the night. I always just tell him I have a boyfriend and that seems to satisfy him.”

“Well, if you need somebody to actually stand in for the part, give me a call.”

Newbury burst into laughter. “You know, that’s about the most gentlemanly offer I’ve had in quite a while. Say, you mind if I ask you something?”

Bolan shook his head.

“This other business you have to do. What exactly is it?”

Bolan considered the question a moment and then shrugged. “When I went to the mill for my little job interview this morning, some of MacDermott’s guys searched my vehicle. I expected they would, so I didn’t leave anything incriminating inside of it. Still, that tells me they’re up to something. I need to find out what it is, make sure if I get chummy with this MacDermott I’m not going to get blindsided.”

“Okay, sure, but what exactly are you going to do?” Newbury pressed.

“Simple. I’m going to do exactly what they’re hoping I’ll do,” Bolan said.

“Which is?”

“Pick a fight.”




5


Jeff Kellogg never believed in putting his eggs all in one basket, which included the basket of the Gowan Family. Kellogg knew his only chance of emerging unscathed should Gowan get caught with his hands in the till would be to provide as much critical information to Gowan’s enemies as possible. Of course, information didn’t come cheap, and Kellogg took a distinct pleasure in double-dipping. Kellogg’s benefactor was a man who, according to his FBI profile, headed up the local chapter of the Earth Liberation Front.

Many who knew him described Percy Jeter as an outgoing and personable man—not a surprise considering he operated as head of the Western States Campgrounds for Challenged Youth. Jeter’s work with the WSCCY afforded him complete autonomy and discretion; after all, he had a lot of old money and influence backing him, not to mention assistance from the federal and state governments. That kind of wealth and power practically immunized him from prosecution, and most people didn’t give a tinker’s damn about his political affiliations.

The very thought of it sickened Kellogg, but the profit motive allowed him to find a way to see beyond the pettiness of it all.

Kellogg had specifically requested they meet in a popular park just outside Tulelake. He knew about Jeter’s secret location in the mountainous terrain surrounding Siskiyou Pass, but he didn’t like to meet there. Kellogg preferred neutral territory, and since Jeter liked his privacy and obviously didn’t trust Kellogg, he usually sent some lackey. This time though, Jeter had come himself.

The two men sat across from each other at a picnic table. The result of years of cushy living off tax-free donations lent Percy Jeter a groomed, distinguished appearance. Legally, Jeter received very little in the way of income, but he lived like a king. Nobody looked too hard, though, as he provided a number of services through the WSCCY, a not-for-profit cash cow. Salt-and-pepper hair and beard complemented the tanned skin and clear blue eyes that jutted from under pronounced orbits.

“To what do I owe the pleasure this time?” Jeter asked in a deep voice.

“We got to talk about what happened last week,” Kellogg said. He looked around. Nobody seemed to pay attention to them. Families played together, parents pushing kids on swings or feeding ducks or just enjoying a picnic, and joggers and cyclists took advantage of the nice day as they traveled along the gravel paths that skirted the park.

Jeter shrugged. “What’s to talk about?”

“How about what went down at Kingsley Airfield?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kellogg waved the flat of his palm as he countered, “Don’t be coy, Percy. You know damned well what I’m talking about. Why the fuck are you shooting down American fighter jets? That’s not your style.”

Jeter leaned forward in a menacing fashion. “That’s exactly my style. You promised to rein in Mickey Gowan, and nothing. You promised to protect our assets, and nothing. You promised we wouldn’t have to worry about outside interference while we build up our cash reserves, and nothing. We’ve paid you a lot of money, Kellogg, and you haven’t done a single goddamned thing.”

“I’ve done a lot.”

“Bullshit. You’ve collected from us and from Gowan, and I haven’t seen you do one thing to earn your keep so far. Well, the free ride’s over and it’s out of my hands. The Committee decided.”

There he went with his mysterious talk of the Committee. Allegedly, the Committee acted as the unofficial head of the Earth Liberation Front. It was chaired by some lackey who oversaw a handful of lackeys, one of them being Jeter, and who allegedly administered the entire western region from Washington to California and extending as far east as the Continental Divide.

“You can stop paying me if you want, but I can just about guarantee that I’m the least of your worries right now.”

Jeter didn’t look convinced. “Yeah, right.”

“Blow it off, then. But just remember that Gowan’s going to continue robbing you blind, and the small amount you’re paying me is a pittance compared to the millions of dollars you’re going to lose if you continue to trust him.”

“Maybe we just plan to rub him out of the picture entirely,” Jeter said.

Kellogg let out a snort. “Sure…whatever you say. The FBI’s been after him for years and they still haven’t come up with squat.”

“We’re not the FBI.”

“No, you’re not. And I think that’s the first thing we’ve agreed on since we formed this little partnership. Listen, it’s none of my business how you screw this up for you and your precious Committee, but I’m sure as a hell not going to let you screw it up for me.”

Jeter sighed. “You still haven’t told me why you called this meeting.”

“I came to tell you about the return on your investment,” Kellogg said. “All that money you think you wasted on me is about to pay off.”





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