Annotation

I am not their judge. I am their judgment. I am their executioner.

With those words Mack Bolan, a Vietnam hero, embarked on an odyssey of blood that would mark him as the most controversial warrior of modern times.

With ultimate faith in his ability to make a difference, the justice fighter saw it his duty to protect the weak and the innocent from all-consuming evil.

Now, on trial for his life, the soldiers beloved America is prepared to show him no mercy.

Who will be the executioner?

- Don Pendleton's Executioner

- Prologue

- 1

- 2

- 3

- 4

- 5

- 6

- 7

- 8

- 9

- 10

- 11

- 12

- 13

- 14

- 15

- 16

- 17

- 18

- 19

- 20

- 21

- 22

- 23

- 24

- 25

- 26

- 27

- 28

- Epilogue

Don Pendleton's Executioner

The Trial

Truth fears no trial.

Thomas Fuller, Gnomologica

Justice is truth in action.

Joseph Joubert, Pensées

Every man stands trial for his actions at one time or another. I have no fear of universal judgment or the verdict that, inevitably, must be handed down. My only apprehension is that no one may be left to carry on the fight.

Mack Bolan

To Justice

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contributions to this work.

Prologue

"You're sure it's gonna work?"

The rancher spent a moment firing up his fat cigar before he answered. The stogie lit, he blew a cloud of smoke toward the veranda ceiling. "I'm sure. If everybody does their part, it's in the bag."

"You better see they do their part."

The threat was thinly veiled, but the rancher ignored it, drawing deeply on the fine Havana leaf. His companion was obviously nervous, and it gave the rancher all the edge that he would ever need. "I've got it covered. Trust me."

"Listen, this guy has done it to the best, you unnerstand? The freaking best. My people want assurances. They don't trust anybody, dig?"

The rancher smiled through drifting smoke. "You picked me because I get things done. An' you know damn well I don't make mistakes, comprende? If I say it's done, you take it to the bank."

"You don't know who you're dealing with. This guy..."

"I read his clippings. Tommy. I know his rep, an' it don't mean a thing to me. I've got this county locked up tight."

"The sheriff knows that, does he?"

"Close enough." The rancher bristled at his squat companion's tone. "What I want done gets done, okay? I never failed you yet."

"The rest of it is small potatoes next to this guy. This one is the main course, unnerstand? He's steak with all the trimmings."

"He'll be turkey when I'm finished with him, Tommy. Wanna save yourself a drumstick now?"

"I like your confidence. Too bad there ain't enough to go around."

"I got enough for all of us," the rancher told him. grinning broadly. "Jus' relax an' tell your fancy friends up north to do the same."

"They don't know what that means, okay? They worry for a living, an' it always rolls downhill."

"Like shit."

"Tha's exactly right. An' if this deal of yours falls through, we're all in it up to our necks."

"It won't fall through," the rancher said, plainly irritable now.

"I hope not, guy. Because when all that shit starts comin' down, I'll haveta look for higher ground."

The rancher kept his mouth shut, the muscles in his jaw rippling as he concentrated on his fat cigar.

"I just might have ta step on you to keep my head above it all, you unnerstand?"

"I hear you, Tommy."

"Good. We unnerstand each other then."

"We do."

"Okay, so what the hell. Good luck."

The rancher tried for a smile but failed. "I don't need luck," he said when he could find his voice. "I've got a plan."

"You'll need 'em both before you're finished." His companion chuckled, rising from his chair. "I gotta run. They're waiting for me in Fort Worth."

"Safe trip."

"No sweat. The trouble's all right here."

"It's taken care of, Tommy. Go on home."

"We'll all be waiting for your call."

"Jus' check your morning papers. You'll find it all in black an' white."

"I hope you've got a happy ending written, man."

The rancher tapped his forehead with a chubby index finger. "Right up here."

"Don't let it get away. I'll miss your smiling face if anything goes sour."

He was gone before the rancher could respond. The big man was alone with his cigar and his ideas. He took another pull on the Havana leaf and realized it had gone out. The ash was cold and dead. He crumbled the cigar between his fingers, then reached for the telephone that sat beside his chair. The rancher had some calls to make, and he was running out of time.

1

The predawn probe had been a monumental waste of time. Mack Bolan mentally juggled the pieces, trying to put the puzzle together, but there was something missing that he couldn't put his finger on. It lingered just beyond the rim of conscious thought, its presence taunting, giving rise to anger that would nibble on the edges of his stomach through the coming day.

It should have worked. His information had been solid, the source reliable. He should have had his target in the bag.

From all appearances the compound was a natural. It had the look and feel of other hardsites he had busted in the past. From razor wire to lookout towers, dusty airstrips, Quonset huts and narrow gravel road, it would have served the border smugglers well.

Except that there hadn't been a living soul around the camp. It was abandoned — probably had been for weeks or months — if the dust that covered everything, the tumbleweeds piled up along the fence, was anything to go by. The compound had that ghost-town feel.

It was supposed to be a combination landing strip and cutting plant for drugs from Mexico and all points south. In fact, his intel had told him it was a major clearing house that plied a trade in every kind of contraband, from inbound aliens to outbound arms and female flesh, sedated for the flight to Venezuela, Paraguay, Brazil. The Executioner had come prepared to close down and trace the poison to its source. But now he had to stop and think again.

No camp in operation meant no contraband.

And no contraband meant no leads for him to follow and home in on the dark, malignant heart.

But there was no heartbeat here. Bolan faced the possibility — the probability — that he had been betrayed.

But how?

The why was plain enough, with any one of several possibilities to choose from. He was wanted by the government — by several governments — together with a host of rabid splinter movements and the Mafia. The Mob would gladly pay a million dollars for his head, and there were others, on the ''right side" of the law, who were prepared to match that price.

So Bolan had the "why." And yet, the "how" refused to play.

He had been scouting the battleground for two full days. A federal force would certainly have closed the net by now and tried to bring him in, alive if possible, but any way they could if push came to shove. The Mafia, for its part, should have had an army on the streets, prepared to slaughter anything that moved and fitted the general description of their mark.

But there was no indication that his presence had been noticed in the small West Texas town.

An alarm was going off inside his head, and Bolan knew that it was time to leave. He had already stretched his numbers badly out of shape, and there was nothing for him here. He needed space, some time to sort it out and have a heart-to-heart with his obliging source. There were so many missing pieces.

First he had to check out of the motel. It had been risky, going public with a rented room, but he had gambled that a camper in the middle of the desert would attract attention quicker than a salesman passing through and playing by the book. So far he had been right, but it was time to leave.

A pair of scraggly palm trees marked his destination. They towered over telephone poles and leaned dangerously toward the motel. The owner had displayed an arid wit by naming his motel the Blue Oasis, banking on the palms and the lonely road to guarantee a small but steady clientele. These days the business tended more toward small than steady, and the only hint of blue at the Oasis was the fading paint outside. An ancient neon sign out front depicted camels drinking from a murky-looking pool.

He drove past the darkened office, circling back and through the lot to park his rental car outside number six. He was alone except for a Toyota halfway down at the door of number twelve. Bolan knew that the occupants, a pair of newlyweds who had checked in the night before, would not be setting foot out of their room this early in the day. There would be time enough for him to pack his meager things and hit the road before the Blue Oasis started showing signs of life. His room was paid up through tomorrow, and the manager had seen enough of him already, for the soldier's taste.

Mack Bolan wore his blacksuit underneath a knee-length trench coat, the Beretta 93-R snug beneath his left arm in its custom sling. His other armament — the AutoMag, an Uzi submachine gun, M-16, grenades — were locked up in the rental's trunk, and he would leave them there. He had some clothes and toiletries inside the room, and it would only take a moment to retrieve them now. No point in leaving anything behind.

The door locked automatically behind him, and he found the light switch and flicked it on.

The soldier froze, his attention riveted upon the bloody bundle stretched across his unmade bed. The woman's eyes were staring at him from a ravaged face, her silent, gaping mouth expanded by the knife blade so that it stretched from ear to ear. Her body — what was visible beneath the twisted, blood-soaked sheet — had seemingly been caught between the grinding teeth of some colossal death machine. And Bolan instinctively knew that no portion of the naked body had been left unmauled.

Bolan's stomach did a sluggish barrel roll, and he controlled it with an effort, fighting down the bile that filled his throat. He sidestepped automatically, a cautionary glance inside the tiny bathroom telling him that he was alone with the dead. The person who had turned his room into an abattoir was gone.

He crouched beside the bed, looked more closely at the blood-smeared face and felt a sudden chill of recognition race along his spine. The woman was familiar to him. Straightening, the soldier realized that he had seen her, spoken to her, in a roadside diner hours earlier. A hooker, familiar with the truck-stop trade, she had been offering, and Bolan had declined, preoccupied with other things. The lady had continued on about her business, seeking other marks, but now, impossibly, she had returned to Bolan once again.

Except that it was not impossible of course. The evidence was there, dissected like a med-school specimen. He recognized the situation for what it was — a trap — and understood at once the riddle of the abandoned desert compound.

It had been a suck from start to finish. He had bitten hard, consuming bait and line and all, and there was nothing left to do but wait until they reeled him in.

Except that Bolan wasn't waiting, wasn't standing still for anybody now. There might be time to shake the Blue Oasis, put some ground behind him, before the trap sprang shut. They might not be expecting him so soon.

And who the hell were "they"?

No time for pondering the question now. He had to move while time remained, if he had not already stayed too long.

He swept the bathroom clean, stowing his handful of belongings in his zipper bag and cursing himself for leaving anything behind. It was a careless, stupid error, but he had been counting on a soft reconnaissance around the desert camp, another day to kill before he made his strike. According to his source, the heroin was due tomorrow night, arriving from Coahuila in a Piper Cub.

The suck.

And he had fallen for it like a rookie.

No time for self-recrimination now. There would be time for studying the pieces after he was free and clear. His source had much to answer for, and there was someone else... the butcher who had left this token in his bed... but later. First, he had to save himself.

The door exploded inward, driven by a heavy boot heel, and he spun to face the enemy, his fingers wrapped around the sleek Beretta's grip before he recognized the riot shotgun leveled at his face, the uniform behind the gun. McLary County deputies were crowding through the doorway, weapons trained in his direction, fingers white inside the trigger guards. He counted three more shotguns, two revolvers and a Thompson submachine gun ranged about him in a ring of steel. Outside the door there was another flying squad of officers, all of them bristling with iron.

"I wish you'd try it, boy," the nearest deputy and first man through the door proclaimed. "I surely do."

His crooked grin was hungry, anxious for an opportunity to start the dance.

With glacial caution, Bolan dropped the 93-R and raised his empty hands to shoulder level, standing silent while a pair of deputies frisked him thoroughly. Cold eyes darted toward the bed, and an angry murmur ran around the circle when they found the slim stiletto in a pocket of his nightsuit. From the direction of the doorway, retching noises told him that a member of the backup team had seen enough.

They manacled his hands behind his back, the stainless-steel bracelets biting deep into his wrists. The barrel of a shotgun prodded hard between his shoulder blades as the apparent leader of the team produced a laminated card and started rattling off his rights.

"You got the right to keep yore mouth shut now, an' anything you say can go against you in a court of law. You got the right to see a lawyer prior to any questioning, an' if you caint afford one, the taxpayers have ta spring for it. You understand these rights, asshole?"

The soldier nodded. "Perfectly."

"You wanna waive that shit an' get this off your chest right now?"

"No thanks."

The crooked grin was back in place.

"Awright." The man in khaki jerked a thumb in the direction of the bed. "I reckon we might have enough of whatcha call that circumstantial evidence to hold yore ass for trial. You think so, hotshot?"

A chuckle from the man behind him, and the shotgun prodded Bolan's spine. Strong fingers gripped his arms on either side, and he was hauled in the direction of the door.

Outside the cars were being brought around from their concealment in the rear of the Oasis, their colored lights revolving now, challenging the pale roseate dawn. The Texas lawmen had been waiting for him out of sight, and he had fallen for it.

He could have taken one of them, two at most, before they cut him down inside the dingy room, but Bolan doggedly refused to drop the hammer on a man in uniform. As an alternative, he could have forced their hand and compelled them to annihilate him. But while he lived a slender chance remained.

Of vindication? No. Too many charges waited for him, even if he beat this bogus rap.

Of flight? The Executioner would have to bide his time.

A hand was placed on his head, protecting him from contact with the door frame as they placed him in the backseat of the squad car. They were playing by the numbers, showing more restraint than Bolan would have looked for in a rural force — or any force, considering the sheer enormity of his purported crime. They were professionals, and they had taken him without a shot.

The cruiser's engine rumbled into life as deputies wedged in on either side of him. The team's leader took his place beside the driver, and they pulled away from the Oasis. Bolan risked a backward glance and saw a pair of men in uniform already pawing through the rental car.

He would be interested in their reaction when they reached the trunk and found the hardware there. The weaponry was bound to raise some eyebrows — to say the least — and append a few more charges to the growing list. That is, of course, if anyone equated the possession of illegal weapons with evisceration of a helpless human being.

Christ.

A sudden urge to laugh out loud swept over Bolan, and he fought it down. With all the blood that had stained his hands and soul since his everlasting war had begun, it was the crowning irony to be arrested for a murder he had not committed, or even fully understood.

He understood enough, however, to appreciate the frame. The working girl had not been butchered in his room by chance. There was a method to the madness here, and he would have to reach inside another's twisted mind and find the key before he had a hope of wriggling out from under what appeared to be the perfect trap.

And he was running out of time.

As sure as Bolan recognized his plight, he knew that he would not survive for long inside a cage.

2

Whatever its beginnings, modern-day McLary County, Texas, hadn't made the headlines in living memory, but that was about to change. Events unfolding at the Blue Oasis were about to catapult the sleepy Texas backwater into national prominence, turning the spotlight of public attention on McLary County and its people for the first time in history.

Mack Bolan made the three-mile drive from the Oasis to the county seat in silence, staring through the window of the squad car at the desert panorama rolling past outside. His mind was occupied with other thoughts, however, churning out survival strategies to see him through a grim captivity in hostile hands. He wasn't meant to come out on the other side alive. The soldier had known that much from the beginning.

He would refrain from letting slip his true identity at any cost. The architects of his predicament were well aware of who he was, but Bolan had convinced himself by now that these did not include the local law.

With countless charges hanging over him, an officer who knew his whereabouts would have no need to fabricate a murder case. Nor would they send a dozen deputies to bring him in when there were state police, the Army's CID, the FBI and CIA snapping at his heels. There would have been an army at the Blue Oasis if they had known whom they were bringing in.

So Bolan had to stall and prevent his true identity from leaking to the feds or the press. A standard make through Washington would leave the locals empty-handed, giving him some time to plan.

The bogus name inscribed on Bolan's driver's license and assorted other travel documents would likewise lead them nowhere. "Michael Blanski" had no past, no real existence to the best of Bolan's knowledge, and his record would be clean. He had no prior arrests, no military service record, had never filed an income tax return or contributed to social security. The very unreality would raise a momentary smoke screen while he sought a way to extricate himself.

A trace on Bolan's weapons would reveal, no doubt, that they were stolen over time from military reservations or the loading docks in San Francisco, Cleveland or New York. He had obtained them from a dealer in L.A., without the benefit of federal registration forms, and tracing any single weapon to its point of origin would be a fruitless task, if not impossible. Again, the mystery could help him if he played his cards correctly, staying on a full alert for any opening.

The squat McLary County jail stood next to an ornate but crumbling courthouse. Renovated in the early sixties with the Ruby-Oswald incident in mind, it was connected to the courthouse by an underground tunnel, facilitating transport of the county's prisoners to trial. As time had gone by, the rumblings of revolution in the late sixties had caused the jail to be remodeled yet again until it now resembled nothing quite so much as an adobe bunker ready to repel assaults that had never come.

The cruiser drove around in back and down a narrow ramp to reach the underground garage. The stench of grease and stale exhaust was stultifying as they left the squad car, striking off in lockstep for the double doors that opened on the booking room and cells inside. Bolan was relieved to feel the air-conditioning and took the opportunity to scrutinize the layout with a practiced eye.

There is a kind of healthy paranoia in America's police mentality. Conditioned by years of revolutionary rhetoric and violence, the men in uniform had come to see themselves as a visible minority under siege. McLary County had no history of violent incidents against police, but they were ready just the same.

Inside the double doors an officer observed them from an armored cubicle, examining their faces, lingering on Bolan's for a moment, finally waving them along the narrow corridor. Beside him on the wall hung a riot shotgun, its muzzle toward the door, and Bolan knew the hallway could become a deathtrap for any uninvited visitor.

The booking room was small but organized. His captors had led him to the wooden counter where a red-faced, balding officer prepared the booking forms in triplicate.

"Your name?"

The soldier met his level gaze and said nothing.

"Name?"

And nothing.

"Smart ass, huh?"

On Bolan's left, the meaty deputy in charge stepped forward, opening the wallet they had lifted from him back at the motel.

"I got it here," he said, extracting Bolan's false id. "We got a Michael Blanski here. What kinda nationality is that?"

"American."

"Uh-huh."

He rattled off the date of birth and the meaningless address in Sacramento, California.

"You got a birthday comin' up here, boy. Might be we could arrange a little celebration for you there. We could let ya hold a coupla sparklers when they strap ya in the chair and pull the switch."

"What charge?" the deskman asked.

"We got a murder one for openers. Probably kidnap and rape. Concealed weapon. There'll be some others when the boys get back with all the stuff, but that'll do for now."

"I guess it will."

After booking he was guided to the far end of the counter where a desk had been arranged for fingerprinting purposes. The handcuffs were removed while two of Bolan's captors stood back cautiously, their hands on holstered Magnums, ready if he should attempt a break. The soldier flexed his fingers and stretched, making no resistance as the deputy in charge gripped one wrist, then the other, rolling out his prints on numbered cards. They let him clean his hands with liquid soap and paper towels before proceeding to get his mug shot.

"Say cheese."

He faced the camera deadpan, turning into profile as they ordered. Photographs would be a problem down the road, and he would have to deal with that in time. Hell, mug shots, fingerprints would be the least of it, if he couldn't get out of this mess. Besides, he was certain he could count on Hal Brognola's help in getting rid of any files...

Bolan dismissed it. He had more pressing problems now.

"I'll need them leo-tards," the ranking deputy informed him, nodding toward a swinging door on Bolan's left. "Get on in there an' skin 'em off."

The chamber was a combination locker room and shower, with a sloping floor and a single open stall downrange. With half a dozen lawmen looking on, he shed the overcoat, untied his shoes and stripped the skinsuit off. The shorts were last, and Bolan dropped them with the rest of it.

"We gotta check you out, you unnerstand? Make sure you ain't got any contraband or anythin' like that."

The ranking officer stepped close to Bolan, right hand clasped around his holstered weapon, flourishing a pencil flashlight in his left.

"Le's see them teeth."

The soldier opened wide and waited, lifting his tongue on command, relaxing when the deputy was satisfied that there was nothing hidden in his mouth.

"Jus' one more stop. Assume the position."

Bolan turned his back on the officers and bent forward.

"Awright, spread 'em."

He followed orders, unembarrassed by the posture, concentrating on survival, noting every small detail of his surroundings.

"Okay, go shower down. An' don't miss anything."

He lathered quickly beneath the stinging, icy spray. When Bolan finished, he was chilled and shivering. A deputy was standing by with towel and denim uniform.

"Get dressed."

He toweled off briskly, then put on the scratchy denims, relieved that it was not a tighter fit. The deputies had guessed Bolan's size and come up large, allowing him some room to breathe inside the jailhouse uniform.

"It ain't exac'ly panty hose, but it'll do," the grinning officer in charge declared. "This way."

The cell block stood behind a double set of locking doors, controlled by jailers on the outside who could scrutinize the block on color monitors through a tiny window in the outer door. After a signal from the ranking deputy, they went through the outer line, then delayed while someone closed and locked the door behind them and released an electric signal to the second locking mechanism in its turn. The inner door rolled back on hidden tracks, and Bolan was escorted through.

"You might as well get useta this. It's home."

He scanned the block, six cells on either side, devoid of windows, skylights, any contact with the outside world. The double doors controlled his only exit from the cage, and Bolan knew at once that he could not escape from this point. When it came, his move would have to be upstairs, inside the station proper, or within the court itself. He could do nothing here.

A claustrophobic feeling nibbled at the corners of his mind, and Bolan shook it off, dismissing it as the reaction to a new and dangerous environment. He was aware that bars of steel could not protect him. He was a sitting target for the men who had conspired to frame him and he would need his wits when they came.

And they were coming.

Bolan felt it in his gut. They had him caged, and they would be along for him when the time was right.

But soon.

"I've got a phone call coming," Bolan said to no one in particular.

The ranking deputy stared coldly at him for a moment, chewing on his ample lower lip.

"Tha's right, you do. Down here."

The telephone was set against one wall beneath a plastic bubble that provided something less than perfect privacy.

"The first one's on the house. So make it count."

His guards stood back against the wall, watching with contempt etched deep into their faces. They were barely out of earshot, but it would be enough to satisfy the strictures of the courts. If Bolan was consulting with a lawyer, they could testify the privileged conversation had been unobstructed by the state.

The phone would almost certainly be tapped, but Bolan didn't care. He dialed the sterile number from memory and waited, listening through the distant trilling tones until the switches went to work a thousand miles away.

The pickup phone was in a safe apartment overlooking San Diego harbor, with a view of the Pacific that he had enjoyed on more than one occasion lately. When it wasn't answered on the second ring, a relay switch would automatically transfer the call to Johnny Bolan's base of operations, Strongbase One, outside of town.

Two rings, and then two more before he made the link. A distant humming on the open line, and Bolan knew that he was talking to the tape. He made his message short and to the point, secure in knowing that they couldn't trace the call to his brother if they tried. At worst the safe apartment would be sacrificed... along with any chance of a successful prosecution once it leaked that local deputies had traced a confidential call.

But it would never come to that, he knew.

The men who had devised his frame did not intend to see him in court. They would have other means of dealing with him now that he was caged, unarmed.

But not defenseless.

As long as he was still alive, the Executioner would never be an easy mark. And when they came for him in jail, he would be ready, waiting, to defend himself.

He replaced the receiver, confident that Johnny would be checking on the tape within an hour, two at most. It was a ritual, established to protect them both, and it had worked out well so far.

But what could Johnny do?

Employ a lawyer? Doubtful. He could not afford to get involved in any public way, attracting dangerous attention to himself.

He could assist with any plans for flight, of course, but it would be a risky undertaking, hampered by the fact that he couldn't communicate with Bolan in the jail. Johnny would be flying blind unless they could devise a way of getting messages beyond the walls.

"Le's move it, boy."

He was conducted to the last cell on the left, surrounded by the beefy deputies as if they feared that he might make a break for freedom in the narrow corridor.

"I need it open here on number five."

A disembodied voice responded, an affirmative that issued from a ceiling vent, and then the door to number five clanged open, offering an unobstructed view of Bolan's cell. He scanned the stainless-steel toilet, tiny sink, the single bunk bed bolted to the wall.

A rough hand shoved him in, and the door clanged shut again behind his back. He heard the shuffle of departing feet and sensed instinctively that one man had remained behind.

"Ain't quite as nice as the Oasis, is it?" There was grim, sardonic laughter at his back. "I guess you'll have ta jus' make do without the company. Doc Ferris gotcher girlfriend now, wha's left of 'er. But don't you worry, you'll be seein' her again. Real soon."

Bolan turned to face the deputy, and there was something in his face behind the graveyard eyes that struck the officer speechless and drove him back a pace into the corridor. His mouth worked silently for a moment, then he cursed and turned away. His boot heels clopped off along the corridor, receding in the distance and leaving Bolan alone at last.

Inside his cage.

3

The telephone rang as Johnny Bolan tossed in troubled sleep. In misty dreams he pursued a faceless woman down a narrow, winding corridor that echoed with her screams. She needed him; he knew that much instinctively, and yet she ran, compelling him to chase her through the darkness at a breakneck pace, unmindful of the dangers that might lie ahead.

Why was she running, dammit? Johnny tried to call her name, but the exertion of his run had left him breathless. Worse, he found that he could not recall her name, and with that knowledge came a burning pang of guilt that twisted through him like a white-hot corkscrew.

Ahead of him, the slamming of a heavy door eclipsed the sound of running feet. He reached the door and threw himself against it, feeling it yield slowly. Another rush, another jarring impact, and he half fell through the open doorway, stumbling into a chamber hewed from stone.

Blood was spattered everywhere around the room. Its centerpiece and only furniture, a stainless-steel operating table, bore what seemed to be a side of beef. He knew better, instinctively, and his stomach was already starting to roll as he approached the table on faltering legs. From twenty feet he recognized the once human form, and with chilling certainty he knew precisely who it was.

The mutilated face was turning slowly, painfully, in his direction, staring at him with one remaining eye. The bloody mouth, already stripped of lips and teeth and tongue, was gaping to emit a mindless scream that shattered Johnny's sanity.

Sweet heaven, Sandy, no, I'm sorry, no NO NO.

And he realized at once it was the jangling of a telephone. It took a moment for his mind to clear, but he was wide awake before the answering machine kicked in on the second ring, silently acknowledging the message from his safehouse by the bay.

He checked the bedside clock and found that it was 5:45 a.m. It would be Mack, of course, but Johnny checked the sudden urge to lift the receiver and hear his brother's voice direct. They had agreed upon the cut-out number for security. If there was an emergency, he could be back in touch with Mack in moments at the number that his brother would be sure to leave.

The tape shut down, and Johnny hastily rewound it to the leader, turning up the volume so he wouldn't miss a word. There was a momentary hissing as the relay made connections, then his brother's voice filled up the little bedroom like a living presence.

"This is Blanski," brother Mack informed the answering machine, relying on his code name of the week. "I've been arrested in McLary, Texas, on a murder charge. I'm in the county jail. You'll have to take the necessary' steps as soon as possible."

There was a pause, and Johnny's reeling mind attempted to digest the message. Then the quiet voice came through again.

"Whichever way it goes, stay hard."

Johnny killed the tape, rewound it and listened through it once again. There had been no mistake — but what the hell was going on?

His brother was in jail. The "how" and "why" of that apocalyptic thought would have to hold for later when he had the time. A murder charge, and yet his brother had been using the Blanski name.

Which meant that the authorities in McLary, Texas, had no real idea who was sitting in their jail. It meant he still had a chance of saving something from the situation.

If he could get to Mack in time.

Mack in a cell would be Mack dead before much longer. Johnny knew it without a doubt, but there were preparations to be made before he hit the road. They had discussed the different possibilities in depth, and while arrest had never been a serious concern, there were contingencies for everything.

And there were calls to make before the day got any older. Johnny calculated time zones swiftly, deciding that it didn't matter if some people lost their sleep. His brother's life was riding on the line.

He found the card file, thumbing through it quickly and pulling out the numbers he would need. Two calls would do for openers, to give his brother something in the way of minimal security while he was still en route. If he could only bring himself to trust in others now before it was too late.

He had no choice, of course. A road map told him that it would be after midnight when he reached his destination, even if he drove nonstop. He couldn't fly, not with the military hardware he would need, and there would be no time to get a reservation now. The others would be swifter in reacting.

His hand was trembling as he reached for the receiver, and he drew it back, compelling it to grim rigidity with strength of will alone. No time for breaking down when Mack was counting on him. He had blown it once, with Sandy Darlow, and he would not make the same mistake again.

He would not hesitate to kill, to die if necessary, in his brother's cause. And if he came too late, he was prepared to carry on the war alone.

Beginning with the bastards who had locked his brother in a cell.

May God have mercy on them all. There was no mercy left in Johnny Bolan's soul.

He lifted the receiver and with a steady hand began to dial.

* * *

Susan Landry turned off the shower and nudged the frosted sliding door open. She was reaching for a towel when she heard the shrilling of the telephone.

"Damn."

It never failed. They caught you in the shower every time — or when your nails were wet, your dinner burning on the stove.

It had to be a business call, of course. She had no friends in Kansas City, none at home who had the name and number of her room at the TraveLodge Hotel. She snared the towel and wound it once around her naked body, betting on the local bureau as she padded toward the phone beside her unmade bed.

It was an hour yet before she would be due in court, but someone at the local might have gotten some ideas about a sidebar piece. They could forget about it, Susan told herself, and damn the consequences. She was concentrating on the Gianelli trial, preparing to drop some bombshells of her own once the jury was safely sequestered. The local bureau could send out its stringers to cover the sideshow action.

"Hello?"

She didn't recognize the voice at first, but its message arrested her, commanded her attention, wiping every trace of irritation from her mind.

"Who is this? How did you get this number?"

He told her, and the answer was simplicity itself.

"If this is some kind of joke..."

The quiet voice assured her otherwise, and Susan caught the tone of urgency, communicated through the long-distance wire like a tingling electric shock. She felt the gooseflesh rising on her arms, despite the steamy heat that radiated through the open bathroom doorway.

Susan Landry dropped her towel and sat on the bed's rumpled sheets and blankets, resting her elbows on her knees. She felt as if the room was spinning momentarily, but then the feeling passed and she was back in cool control.

"How long ago?"

That long. There were connections to be made, and she was running out of time.

"All right. I'll see what I can do. Thanks for calling."

And thank you for disrupting everything — the biggest story of the year, a normal life, the comforting day-to-day routine.

Mack Bolan in jail? In Texas yet. They had him on a murder charge except that no one seemed to know precisely who he was. The caller wanted her to check it out, and she had instantly agreed, forgetting Marco Gianelli and his bribery trial — forgetting everything, in fact, except the grim emergency mechanics of securing a flight to Texas now.

There hadn't been a choice once she had convinced herself that it was not a scam.

If Bolan was in jail, his life in peril, she had to go and check it out. She had to see what she could do, and if nothing else, chronicle the final moments of a warrior run to ground.

The man had saved her life a couple of times when there appeared to be no hope at all. She owed him that at least, aside from any private feelings of her own.

The lady shivered, knowing it had nothing whatsoever to do with the temperature of her motel room.

Susan Landry was a trained professional, adept at separating her emotions from the job at hand. Except, perhaps, where one Mack Bolan was concerned.

She was afraid, for Bolan, for herself. If he was caged, then pure deductive reasoning informed her that the end was near. The jailhouse grapevine would inform his enemies, providing that they didn't know already, and providing that they hadn't staged his arrest in the first place. Inside a cage, the Phoenix warrior was as good as dead.

There might be something she could do.

The lady knew her limits, although she never let them restrict her from attempting the impossible. She would do everything within her power to assist Mack, and failing that, she was prepared to write the man one hell of an obituary.

Susan Landry owed him that as well, no matter what the cost to her career might be.

Her bureau chief would not be pleased when she informed him she was bugging out on Gianelli's trial, but he would cope.

Susan retrieved her fallen towel and dried herself briskly, rubbing harder than she needed to, trying to restore the feeling to her body. The news of Mack's arrest had numbed her like a shot of Novocain, but she was recovering.

Mack Bolan needed her. If she could help him out from under, fine. If not... there were some king-sized whistles waiting to be blown, and Susan Landry was prepared to bring some houses down.

She owed the soldier that much, too, and she was on her way to pay some debts.

* * *

Hal Brognola was stoking his first cigar of the morning when his secretary buzzed him on the intercom.

"Line three."

"Who is it, Sandy?"

"A Johnny Gray. It's new to me. He says it's an emergency, but I can put him off."

A little chill had started at the base of Brognola's skull, and it was spreading out across his scalp, bringing the short hairs erect on the back of his neck.

"No, thafs all right." He hoped it sounded casual. "I'll talk to him."

Another moment passed and then the lines connected with a faint, long-distance hissing in his ear.

"Good morning, John."

"I'm sorry it had to be the office, Hal. I tried your house, but you were gone."

"Early meeting," the grizzled Fed answered. "You just caught me."

"I won't be long. My brother's been arrested on a murder charge."

Brognola's stomach dropped in the direction of his shoes. It took a moment for his mind and voice to function as a team.

"Where is he? When?"

"McLary, Texas. That's the southwest part. And I got the call about an hour ago."

The clock on Hal Brognola's desk read 9:05. He did some quick subtraction for the time zones and arrived at an approximation.

"How much do you know?"

"You've heard it all. I'm on my way, but it'll take some time. I have a hunch I might get there too late."

Brognola understood. "I won't." Unless it's too damned late already. "I'll scare up a pilot and head on down there."

"Thanks."

"I didn't hear that, son. Hang up now, we've got work to do."

Goddamn it!

He had dreaded this since he had turned from hunting Bolan to assisting him, covertly in the early days, then with the blessings of the President, and now, again, beyond the pale. How many times had he expected Bolan to be busted or killed by overzealous lawmen in the field? Too goddamn many times, for sure.

And yet somehow Brognola never quite believed that it would happen. Not this way. The hellfire warrior might be shot and killed, might even sacrifice himself rather than fire on police, but never in his wildest dreams had Hal believed that Bolan would be taken in alive.

It was a miracle, of sorts... and a potential tragedy. Confined, the soldier was deprived of any combat strength, the edge that had ensured his tenuous survival up to now. Without that room to run, he was a sitting target, and there were countless enemies who would not leave him sitting still for long.

There was a limit, certainly, to what Brognola could achieve by flying south. A federal presence might ensure an extra measure of security, but after that his hands were tied. It would be hard enough for him to justify the flight for openers. If he began to interfere in local cases, some indignant sheriff just might raise a howl that echoed all the way back to Washington — and the administration was averse to stepping on local toes of late.

As for the Bolan angle, he would be kissing off an almost-thirty-year career if anyone got wind of what the hell was going on. it gave Brognola pause, but only long enough to get another start on his cigar. The risks were frightening, but the alternative was sheer anathema.

He couldn't leave the soldier sitting in the lion's den without attempting to assist him, legally or otherwise. It would have been betrayal of the crassest sort — betrayal of their friendship, of the cause that they had served with every fiber of their beings from the day their lives had become entwined.

Bolan was a friend, and more. He was a valued comrade in the grim, one-sided war against the savages. Brognola might not have the power to save him now, but it was in his power to try, and he would do his best before he laid the burden down. If his career became a casualty along the way, so be it. If it blew up in his face, the chances were that he would not survive to read the reprimands in any case.

Brognola shook his head. It was incredible the way a thirty-second phone call could upend your world and send it spinning off through space in the twinkling of an eye. If he had missed the call somehow, by accident or otherwise...

But he hadn't.

The message had come through, loud and clear and inescapable.

The man from Justice had a job to do, and he was going to miss that early meeting. The rest would carry on without him. There was nothing on his desk that couldn't wait... except the matter of a friend in jail.

Brognola snared the phone and started barking at his secretary, startling the sweet young thing with brisk demands to raise a pilot, cancel his appointments for the next few days, accumulate some things that he would need before he left.

McLary, Texas?

Right.

The big Fed had a date that he could not afford to miss. Not even if it meant his badge. Not even if it meant his life.

4

"We've got enough right now to fry his a... I mean to say..."

"I know exactly what you mean to say."

The prosecutor smiled, and Sheriff Bo Kendricks felt the color rising in his cheeks. Dammit, he would never grow accustomed to the women who were moving in on law enforcement, taking over jobs that had traditionally belonged to men.

It wasn't that he doubted these gals' abilities — unless it came to wrestling some psycho or some hopped-up biker for a weapon — but they definitely cramped his style. You couldn't talk to women like you could to men, for instance, sharing your experiences in a language that the two of you could relate to from the gut.

Bo Kendricks didn't see himself as any kind of chauvinist. He had respected women from his youth, and part of that respect was in believing there were certain jobs a woman shouldn't soil her hands with. Lubing cars was one example. Picking over mutilated corpses was another.

Amy Stone, the new assistant prosecutor for McLary County, would have disagreed had Kendricks given her the chance. The sheriff had been wise enough to keep his observations to himself so far, however, and if she could read them in his face, his attitude, she likewise kept her own opinions under wraps. From what he knew of Amy Stone, the sheriff rated her a slick professional... but she was stepping into an entirely different ball game now.

In office seven months, the lady prosecutor had a string of courtroom victories behind her, and a growing reputation that might give her boss second thoughts around election time. Appointed to fulfill a campaign promise to McLary County's female voters, Amy Stone had proved herself a slick professional indeed, but this would be her first involvement in a murder case, and it was shaping up to be a three-ring horror show.

"Have we identified the victim yet?"

Her question startled Kendricks. She had caught him staring at her, and the sheriff blushed again. The prosecutor was attractive, with her honey-colored hair and fashion model's clean good looks. But he was old enough to be her father, dammit, and he had to keep his mind on business now. He cleared his throat and shuffled through the papers on his desk, grateful for the distraction.

"Alma Jennings. Been in town a year, eighteen months. She was a regular at Manny's and a coupla the other joints."

"A working girl?"

Bo Kendricks shrugged, embarrassed by the casual reference to prostitution coming from a woman.

"No priors, but that just means we never caught her on the job. I'll have my people check it out."

"Okay. I'll need to see the body."

Kendricks felt his stomach rolling. He had seen the body, dammit, and he didn't ever want to see its like again.

"You ought to know... I mean..."

"I understand the nature of the damage, Sheriff. Thank you." She was smiling at him now, but there was steel beneath the velvet. "It's my job to study all the evidence."

"Doc Ferris has her now. We could run over there... or you could take a look at these."

He pushed a flat manila envelope across the desk, using his fingertips as if he feared contamination from contact with the evidence inside.

"Photographs from the scene?"

Kendricks nodded, watching her closely.

She picked up the envelope, opened it and withdrew the sheaf of glossy eight-by-tens. One glance and the color seemed to drain out of her face. She stiffened, nostrils flaring as she took a swift, deep breath.

The sheriff half expected her to put the photos back inside the envelope once she had seen the first, the mildest of the batch. It was a distance shot, encompassing the bedroom with its grisly centerpiece. The other shots were more detailed, a string of anatomic close-ups meant for use at trial when it was jury-shocking time.

The lady prosecutor looked at each and every photograph, not once, but twice. Her face was pale and haggard when she finished, but her fingers didn't tremble as she carefully replaced the evidence and slid the packet back across his desk.

"I'll need a set of those," she said.

"Okay."

The sheriff felt a grudging new respect for Amy Stone. The lady had some guts to go along with all the rest of it.

"What kind of man would do a thing like that?"

"You mean, is he a nut?" The sheriff shook his head. "Not so you'd notice, anyway. A psycho, sure, no fu — no doubt about it, but he knew what he was doing when he sliced her up. The FBI boys in Washington are calling 'em recreational killers. His kind hunt people, women mostly. It's like a sport."

'That sounds insane."

"Abnormal, maybe, but the law defines insanity."

"I know the legal definition, Sheriff." The irritation in her voice was not very subtle, and Kendricks knew that he had overstepped his bounds. "I'm interested in what compels a man like this to kill. What makes him tick?"

"Who knows? Remember Bundy, down in Florida? He was a straight-A law student till his girlfriend dumped him and somethin' snapped inside. You look at pictures of the girls he killed — before he killed 'em, anyway — and anyone of 'em could pass for the one who put him down."

"So, it's the woman's fault?"

"Hell, no. I don't mean that at all. Some of these freaks are workin' out a hatred for their mothers, some of them are homosexual. Remember that Gacy fella up north there? He bagged thirty-three boys before the smell comin' out of his basement gave him away."

"All of those were in some major city. Why McLary County, Bo?"

He shrugged, secretly pleased that she had called him by his first name.

"Hard to say. You remember Lucas an' Toole? They killed more'n three hundred people, coast to coast, most of 'em in small towns like this. Now the Mounties think they may've done another hundred up in Canada. Toole used to eat part of the bodies, but Lucas wouldn't touch it. Know what he told the Rangers when they asked him why?"

The lady shook her head.

"He said, 'I don't like barbecue sauce.'"

Another shade of pale emerged beneath the light cosmetics.

"That's revolting."

"Sure it is. But is it crazy? Every one of them I named was competent for trial, according to the courts, an' every one of 'em is sitting on death row right now, waiting to fry."

"I'll want a psychiatric workup on this Blanski, anyway."

"You bet. No point in lettin' the defense attorney get first crack."

"Has he requested counsel yet?"

The sheriff shook his head.

"My guess is they'll appoint one for him at this afternoon's arraignment."

The prosecutor nodded.

"Your preliminary paperwork makes reference to weapons at the scene."

"Tha's right. We took a knife away from him — it's on its way to Austin for a blood-type match — but he was also packing automatic weapons and a load of other shi — other munitions."

Scanning down a sheet of yellow legal paper, Kendricks started reading off the list.

"One Beretta selective-fire pistol, 9 mm, model 93-R. One Uzi submachine gun, also 9 mm, Israeli manufacture. One M-16 assault rifle, .223 caliber. One .44 Magnum AutoMag handgun, semi-automatic. Twelve hand grenades, fragmentation variety. Assorted ammunition magazines, fully loaded, together with approximately thirteen hundred rounds, assorted calibers."

"Sounds like he was looking for a war."

"Could be."

Amy Stone was frowning thoughtfully. "Does that seem out of character to you?"

"Wha's that?"

"This Blanski has enough military hardware to take out half the town and yet he kills his victim with a knife?"

Kendricks shrugged again. "So, figure nuts."

"You said he wasn't crazy, Bo."

"I never said that he was rational."

"All right. We've been discussing homicidal maniacs. Repeat killers. Is there anything to indicate our Mr. Blanski fits that category?"

"From the nature of the injuries sustained by Alma Jennings, I would say she's not his first. It takes a while to generate that kind of hate."

"Makes sense. But can we back it up in court?"

"I'm checking other jurisdictions now for similarities. Off the record, I've got my eye on half a dozen murders north of here, extending into Oklahoma."

Amy Stone's eyes widened in surprise. "The I-40 killings?"

Kendricks smiled thinly. "Off the record, remember. There are similarities."

"You think that Blanski..."

"It's a possibility. Right now, that's all it is."

"Well, dammit."

"Yes, indeed."

"If we could crack the 1-40 killings..."

She let it trail away, but Kendricks saw the wheels turning behind her eyes. This was one ambitious, in addition to being damned sexy, woman. She would recognize the inherent potential in breaking the state's biggest multiple-murder case of the year.

"We'll need substantial evidence to sew it up."

"I have a hunch our suspect might confess."

Amy Stone eyed him closely. "Careful, Sheriff. I don't want any heavy-handed third-degree to spoil this case."

Bo Kendricks was offended and didn't try to hide it. "We're no sloppy rednecks here," he told her bluntly. "I've never beaten a confession out of any prisoner, and I never will. One of my deputies tries it, they'll take him out of here in a sandwich bag."

"I was out of line. I apologize."

The smile was charming, and he felt himself beginning to melt inside. "Okay. An' what I meant to say was that these types confess a lot, you see? They like publicity... that is, when they're convinced that they can't get away. They'll cop to anything."

"Including things they haven't done?"

"I'll triple-check whatever might shake loose. Leave that to me."

"It's in your hands."

The eyes were still uneasy, and he recognized that Amy Stone was troubled by the case, though it could be just the aftershock of seeing Alma Jennings gutted like a deer.

"We've got a solid case on this one, ma'am." The sheriff couldn't bring himself to call her by her given name. It would have been like reaching out to touch her uninvited. "Piece of cake."

"I hope so. Sheriff."

As she rose to leave, the whisper of her nylons came to Kendricks loud and clear. He swallowed hard and pushed his chair back. Rising, he showed her to the door.

"I'll be in touch," she told him as she cleared the office threshold.

"I'll be looking forward to it."

Yes, indeed.

She had more grit than Kendricks had suspected, and the lady had already proved she knew her way around a court of law. Too bad she couldn't be a few years older...

He shrugged it off and concentrated on the prisoner downstairs. This Michael Blanski was certainly a strange one. A butchered woman in his bed, a carload of the latest military hardware, and still he was as cool as ice. He should have started sweating bullets, begging for a lawyer, maybe even for a priest, but he was like a frigging sphinx down there.

And from appearances he was a man without a past. The sheriff had run the name they had found on his person through Washington, checking his record through the National Crime Information Center, but the FBI's computer files had come up blank. The suspect — hell, the killer — had no military service record, no arrests, nothing in the files. His California driver's license was as phony as the day was long, and ditto for the other pieces of id he had been carrying. His fingerprints were not on file in Texas or California. Nor did the FBI have them...

The Blanski name was certainly an alias, but it would have to do for now. If they could not work out his true identity, then he would go to trial — and to the chair — as Michael Blanski, late of California.

And if he spilled his name, who knew what might come out? Who knew what kind of crazy shit he was involved in, anyway? The Alma Jennings thing might be a drop in the bucket compared to what was finally revealed.

The sheriff took a breath and made himself relax. The lady prosecutor's optimism was infectious, but a cautious lawman took his job the way it came, and that was one step at a time. He had one murder now, with six or seven others waiting in the wings. If they proved out, then they would have the time to shop around for more.

But first things first.

And first things, this time out, were grim enough for all concerned.

He wished that Amy Stone had taken Alma Jennings's "still-life" portraits with her. Kendricks didn't like them sitting on his desk and staring at him through the manila envelope. On impulse he retrieved the package and dropped it in a bottom drawer. It would be there if anybody needed it again, but in the meantime he preferred to have the photos out of sight and out of mind.

The images of Alma Jennings in the flesh, now, that was something else again. It would require a pint of bourbon, minimum, before those began to fade. The sheriff checked his watch and saw that it was barely noon. Too early yet for drowning ugly images. He had to be in court for two o'clock for Blanski's arraignment on an open murder charge. The automatic weapons counts were window dressing and would probably be jettisoned if Blanski copped a plea to murder one.

Except that Kendricks didn't think this one was going to cop a plea. Despite his reassuring words to Amy Stone, the man downstairs didn't feel like a confessor. He would be taking all his secrets to the grave unless the sheriff missed his guess. And it couldn't be too soon to suit the top lawman in McLary County.

They had enough to fry his ass, yes, sir, and no confession would be necessary. They had caught the bastard with the goddamned corpus delicti leaking all over his rented bed, and there was no slick lawyer in the world who could talk his way around that. Not in front of a conservative McLary County jury. No damned way at all.

Perhaps one drink to celebrate. The sheriff owed it to himself, and he could hide the smell of it with chewing gum before he went to court that afternoon.

One drink.

Or maybe two.

With any luck at all, he would forget poor Alma Jennings in the process. For a little while at least.

But in the long run Kendricks knew he would be seeing her again — in troubled dreams.

5

The arraignment was strictly pro forma, a five-minute nod toward the legal niceties designed to head off a reversal of convictions farther down the line. Escorted under heavy guard, in irons, the Executioner walked along a narrow corridor that echoed with the footsteps of his jailers.

They were underground, and he was reminded of newsreel footage from another time — Lee Oswald, in another Texas jail, surrounded by a flying squad of Stetsons who were careful to remain behind him as a grim, determined gunman elbowed through the crowd.

But Bolan was encircled by deputies with riot guns and scowling faces who were clearly bent on getting him to court and back again. He recognized a number of them from the Blue Oasis, and he felt the animosity — the hatred radiating from them like a foretaste of the baking summer heat outside. He couldn't blame them for their feelings — couldn't blame the honest ones at any rate. He wondered which ones — if any — knew that he was being framed.

The corridor led directly to the courthouse holding pens, and they did not encounter any newsmen on the way. No flashbulbs, shouted questions, probing microphones. No Ruby-Oswald confrontation here.

Mack Bolan wondered if the local media had been apprised of his arrest. If the news was slow to spread, his chances of survival would be markedly improved. His enemies already knew his whereabouts, of course. But always there were others who would hungrily descend upon McLary if they knew that he was caged, unarmed, a sitting duck.

So long as it was under wraps, he had a chance of sorting out the problems as they came, if it should break, if he should be identified outside of the immediate vicinity, those lethal problems would increase tenfold.

The soldier had already come to terms with death. From the beginning of his endless private war, and even earner, amid the Asian hellgrounds of his youth, Bolan had realized that it was not his fate to meet a peaceful death. He had expected death in combat — looked the Reaper in his hollow eyes a thousand times — and always he had walked away.

Until this time.

The odds were not just long this time; they were impossible.

But experience had taught him that there were no positive impossibilities as long as hope survived. When men and women lost their will to fight, they made defeat inevitable. While they clung to life, to hope, they could accomplish miracles.

And it would take a miracle to spring him from his present plight.

The courtroom, smaller than he had anticipated, had a musty smell about it. Its balcony and rows of wooden benches were worn and stained with time. He glanced in the direction of the prosecution table and found a slender woman, stunningly attractive, watching him with cool, appraising eyes. Another moment passed and she turned away, continuing to write on a yellow legal pad.

A hulking bailiff shuffled in and called the nonexistent crowd to order. Bolan stood between his captors as a wizened black man, dressed in flowing robes, emerged and mounted the bench. When he was seated comfortably and the court recorder was in place, the judge allowed his bailiff to proceed.

"Court is now in session for McLary County," he proclaimed in ringing tones, "the Honorable Oliver Price, presiding. Preliminary hearing in the State of Texas versus Michael Blanski, defendant."

The judge spent several moments riffling through some papers, then finally focused on Bolan from behind rimless spectacles. From that perspective, he assumed the aspect of an old, emaciated owl. The burdens of his years, his people, were inscribed upon his face.

"Young man, you're charged with murder in the first degree, a capital offense. The other charges filed against you now include kidnapping with bodily harm, aggravated assault, possession of automatic weapons, possession of a silencer, possession of explosives and destructive devices. How do you plead?"

Bolan faced him squarely. "Not guilty."

A little nod. The old man had expected nothing less. "Are you represented by counsel?"

"No, sir."

Another nod. "Counsel will be appointed by the court. You are, of course, at liberty to hire your own attorney if you so desire. Be seated."

Strong hands guided Bolan into a straight-backed wooden chair. Above him, on the bench, the judge had swiveled toward the prosecution table.

"Madam prosecutor?"

"Thank you, Your Honor."

She rose in a fluid, catlike motion. The lady had presence, and she was using it to full advantage now as she began to list the evidence against him. She was straightforward and totally professional.

The Executioner was not surprised.

He had the judge's full attention now.

"Michael Blanski, I find sufficient evidence to hold you over for trial without bond. The date of trial will be determined at a second hearing after you have had a chance to meet with counsel in your own defense."

The wooden gavel rose and fell. Strong hands were on his biceps, lifting him and leading him away before the bailiff could declare the court adjourned. With a sidelong glance, Bolan caught the woman watching him again before they reached the swinging doors and pushed on through, a flying wedge of khaki homing in on the tunnel and, beyond it, on the cage that had become his temporary home.

Alone with private thoughts once more, the Executioner could only wonder what was going on outside. How close were his assorted enemies? Outside the jail? Inside? Among his jailers? Bolan knew the probability of infiltration on a rural force was high, and he determined that he would not give his captors any chance to use their weapons "accidentally" or otherwise.

It would be easy to take him inside the jail. Many prisoners were killed each year trying to escape or while assaulting guards. Bolan knew that there would be few questions asked if a suspected maniac should try to make a break for freedom, stopping several bullets in the process.

But the Executioner refused to make it easy for them by attempting to escape — at least before he had a chance to swing the odds. He knew that Johnny would be on the way by now with help.

But what could his brother do against McLary County's force of deputies? No daylight raid to blast him out of maximum security, of course. No Jeep backed up in darkness with a rope around the window bars. If Johnny found a way to help him out of this, it would be through the outside strings that he could pull, the nerves that he could touch by picking up a telephone.

There still might be a chance, of course — there had to be a chance...

The sound of footsteps brought him to his feet and out of his private reverie. Two visitors, one larger than the other by their sound, were approaching with easy strides. The soldier sat and waited for them, putting on a casual air he didn't feel inside.

He recognized the leader of the raiding party that had bagged him at the Blue Oasis. The deputy's companion was a younger man, too slender for the business suit he wore. His close-cropped hair did nothing to relieve the first impression of a high school student playing grown-up, and the briefcase in his hand appeared brand-new, as if he had purchased it that afternoon.

"This here's your lawyer, Blanski. Daniel Fleming. And that's Mr. Fleming to the likes of you."

A signal from the deputy, and Bolan's cell was opened electronically. Instead of entering, the deputy stepped back a pace and beckoned Bolan out.

"You're goin' to the conference room," he growled. 'The Soo-preme Court don't reckon you can talk to your attorney in a cell, I guess. It sucks, but tha's the law."

Bolan rose and waited for the two of them to step aside before he left the cell. The deputy kept one hand wrapped around the handle of his holstered Smith & Wesson. Bolan glanced at the deputy's nameplate — Musgrove — and met his eyes briefly, seeing the the man flinch before he turned to face his court-appointed lawyer.

"Mr. Fleming."

"Call me Dan."

"Move out!"

Deputy Musgrove took a half step forward, reconsidered, then kept his distance. He jabbed a shaky index finger toward the far end of the corridor where light was spilling from an open door marked Conference. Bolan followed his attorney down the narrow corridor, certain that the lawman was itching for an excuse to draw the revolver and fire.

Not today, Bolan promised himself. Not this time.

When they were both inside the tiny conference chamber, Musgrove closed the door and locked it from outside. He keyed a hidden intercom, his voice remote and tinny as it reached the soldier's ears.

"He's yours," the disembodied voice told Fleming. "Any trouble, hit the panic button there."

Bolan saw that Musgrove meant it literally. In the middle of a little table that was bolted to the floor, a bright red button had been mounted on a junction box. He had no doubt that punching it would sound immediate alarms throughout the cell block, bringing jailers on the run.

"You won't need that."

"I never have."

The lawyer's voice was older than his face, as if his job, the things that he had seen and done, had aged him prematurely. It was a weary soldier's voice, but speaking from a different kind of war zone, where the casualties were toted up in prison terms.

They sat, and Fleming took a thin manila folder from his briefcase, thumbing through the papers that it held.

"I've been appointed by the court to take your case. You know that much. If you'd prefer another lawyer, to assist or handle all of it..."

He waited briefly, and Bolan shook his head. "There's no one else."

"Okay. From what I've seen so far the state appears to have a solid circumstantial case for everything except the kidnap charge. The woman has — that is, she had — a reputation locally. It shouldn't be too tough to prove that she accompanied you voluntarily to the Oasis. For the rest of it, I'm reasonably sure that we can bargain off the weapons charge in exchange for murder two. They waive the chair — or should I say the needle — and we save the state a costly trial, psychiatrists..."

"No good."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Find another way."

"I don't believe you understand..."

"I'm innocent."

Dan Fleming hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Of what, exactly?"

"Murdering the woman at the Blue Oasis. Kidnap and assault."

"I he weapons?"

"They were mine."

"I see." And it was clear that Fleming didn't see at all. "What did you need with all that hardware?"

"That's irrelevant."

"I think the prosecution may take issue with your turn of phrase."

"I'm innocent," the soldier said again.

"I'd like to seek a competency hearing if you don't object."

Mack Bolan knew that his objections would not matter in the least. "All right."

The lawyer seemed surprised that he did not resist the notion of examination by psychiatrists. "Well... fine. I have a few more questions..."

"Fire away."

"When did you meet the Jennings woman?"

"Never."

"What?"

"I think I saw her once. A greasy spoon outside of town."

"And when was that?"

"Last night."

"The night she died."

"That's right."

"You didn't leave together?"

"No."

"Where did you go from there?"

"I'd rather not go into that right now."

"As your appointed counsel, sir, I must advise you..."

"...that you can't do anything to help me if I don't cooperate. Is that the line?"

"That's it."

"I don't believe it matters, Mr. Fleming."

"Dan."

"All right."

"I don't believe I understand your attitude."

"You're not expected to."

"The charge against you is a capital offense. This state has executed half a dozen murderers in the past two years. You can't expect to live a sentence out on death row anymore."

"I don't believe it will ever go that far."

"Why not?"

"Let's say I've got a hunch."

"Okay. And does your hunch include the outcome of your trial?"

"I'll be surprised if this one ever comes to trial."

"Ah-ha. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to enlighten me on the alternatives."

The soldier's voice was level, icy, as he answered Fleming's question. "Counselor, I'm being framed. By experts. I'm in jail right now because they want me here, a sitting target. Odds are I'll be dead before you could select a jury for the case."

"So, you expect that someone may attempt to kill you here in jail?"

"In jail, in court — it really doesn't matter. The result will be the same."

Skepticism and curiosity were wrestling with each other in the lawyer's eyes. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Now, Mr. Blanski..."

"Bolan."

"What?" The counselor was staring at him, curiosity and faint suspicion mingled on his face.

"The name isn't Blanski. It's Bolan. Mack Bolan."

It took another moment for the counselor to understand, and then the color left his face, as if someone had pulled a plug to let his normal pigment drain away.

"I see."

It was a whisper from the bottom of his soul, and wheels were turning there, behind his eyes, as he attempted to assimilate the news. He was already thinking past the moment and into his next encounter with the court.

"So you believe that someone... ah, presumably the underworld ... has staged this incident to engineer your death?"

"I don't believe it, Counselor. I know."

"Of course." Dan Fleming didn't sound convinced, but he was getting there. "This changes everything."

It was the understatement of the century.

"Our only chance — my only chance — is if we bring this thing to trial before they make their move. Tomorrow if possible."

Dan Fleming looked bemused.

"That won't be possible, of course. There are formalities to be observed. We haven't had a chance to build a case."

"There isn't any case to build. I want to take the stand."

Fleming shook his head. "Too risky. Anyway, selection of a jury could run for several days."

"I'll waive the jury then. I have that right."

"You do indeed. But still..."

"We don't have any time to waste."

The court-appointed lawyer stared at Bolan for another moment, then finally shook his head in resignation. 'This is a mistake."

"I'll take that chance."

"I'll see what I can do. Of course the prosecution may object."

"I don't see why. They're holding all the cards."

"This is irregular at best. There may be charges filed in other jurisdictions when the word gets out."

"I'm counting on it," Bolan told him.

"I can't promise you anything."

"Understood."

"But I'll try."

"Fair enough."

"Jesus Christ."

Bolan smiled thinly, appreciating the attorney's frustration. That was Fleming's problem, though, and fighting for a speedy trial would keep him out of Bolan's hair at least.

For now the soldier's task would be a simple one.

Survive.

Until the "trial."

Until his brother could arrive.

Until the morning.

No easy task from what the Executioner had seen so far. But he would give it all he had. And when they came for him he would be waiting for them, yeah.

His executioners were in for a surprise when they arrived.

Their sitting duck was still an eagle with all his claws intact.

6

Susan Landry found a space marked Visitors and parked the rented Ford against the wall of the McLary County courthouse. As she killed the engine and slipped the keys inside her purse, she was surprised to find her hands were trembling.

A case of nerves? Not likely after twelve years on the job confronting mobsters, terrorists and hardball politicians day to day. She wasn't nervous, Susan realized; she was afraid.

Afraid that it would really be Mack Bolan in jail.

Afraid that it might not be Bolan after all.

Could her informant have been wrong? Considering the source, she didn't think it likely, and the certainty that he had not been wrong was tying her in knots.

She owed Mack Bolan her life, but there was little she could do to help him here. She might not even get to see him if security was tight. But still she had to try.

And she was stalling now, the lady told herself, as if remaining in the car and baking in the Texas heat would solve her problem. Cursing underneath her breath, she locked the rental and went to find the entrance of the jail.

Inside, the air-conditioning was marginal at best, but it was better than the afternoon heat that radiated from the street outside. An older woman in an information booth directed Susan through a corridor that led her to the sheriff's office in the west wing of the courthouse complex. There, a strapping sergeant heard her out, examined her credentials and instructed her to wait. She found a chair and settled in.

She had expected something of a runaround, but now she saw a portly officer approaching, curiosity and consternation mirrored in his face. He towered over her, and Susan shifted in her chair uncomfortably, uncertain whether he was studying her face for future reference or merely staring down the neckline of her blouse.

"I'm Sheriff Kendricks," he informed her when it seemed that he had seen enough. "You're here for Michael Blanski?"

"Yes... that is, I'm here about him."

Susan rose to cut the height advantage, and she found that he was still a good head taller — close to six foot four, with muscle obvious beneath the softness that was creeping in with middle age. She offered him her press credentials and waited while he looked them over, glancing back at her from time to time as if to verify the photograph was genuine.

"This way," he said, returning her credentials as he led the way through swinging gates and behind the counter where a pair of secretaries pecked away at piles of correspondence. Susan followed down a narrow corridor until they reached an office, and he ushered her inside. She sat across the desk from Kendricks, staring at him openly, insisting that he meet her eyes.

The sheriff did not flinch.

"So, what's your interest in our prisoner?"

"I'd like an interview if possible. I'm working on a feature story dealing with the wave of random killings in the past few years. With any luck at all, it may turn out to be a book. I've talked to several other killers recently, with full cooperation from the agencies involved. I could provide you with some references."

"How did you hear about this case?"

"The wire. My syndicate is tied directly into UPI, Associated Press, Knight-Ridder."

"Well... we've got a problem that you haven't been informed of, ma'am."

She felt the chill begin to creep along her spine and hid it with a frown. "Such as?"

The sheriff cleared his throat as if uncertain where to start. "Our prisoner originally misidentified himself."

"I see. But if he isn't Michael Blanski..."

Susan hesitated, half afraid to take it any farther on her own.

"Turns out we've bagged ourselves some kind of a celebrity by accident," the sheriff said. "Your Mr. Blanski is, in fact, the Executioner. Mack Samuel Bolan."

Susan Landry didn't have to feign the shock that hit her like a fist below her heart. The sheriff watched her closely, satisfied that his announcement had surprised her. It took a moment for the lady to control her quaking voice.

"Does anybody else... I mean, have other newsmen heard about this yet?"

The sheriff shook his head. "They won't from me. But Bolan's lawyer now... well, who knows what he'll say or do? We got a First Amendment hereabouts, ya know. I'd guess it won't be long."

"How did you break his cover down?"

"We didn't. Bolan sprung it on his lawyer, 'bout an hour ago, an' told him he was interested in a speedy trial."

Of course. It was the only kind of trial that had a chance of coming off at all. She had her wits about her now, the cool professional machinery ticking over like a fine Swiss watch.

"This makes it all the more important that I get that interview."

"I don't believe he fits your 'random killer' profile anymore, at least if what I've heard about him's halfway true."

"Forget all that. You're sitting on the story of a lifetime. Sheriff. I'm convinced my syndicate would lay out seven figures for a firm exclusive."

Kendricks bristled, and the lady knew that she had gone too far. "I'll just pretend I didn't hear that, ma'am. 'Cause if I did..."

"I didn't mean to question your integrity," she told him quickly, cursing herself for the impulsive statement. "I thought, perhaps, some local fund to benefit your officers, in case of injury and so forth?"

"I'd have to run it past the county managers."

"Of course. But in the meantime..."

"Bolan's lawyer might object."

"Let's call him, shall we?"

Kendricks glanced in the direction of the telephone and frowned. He seemed to reach a difficult decision in his mind.

"I'll require a waiver, stating that your article or articles would not pronounce the suspect's guilt before a trial. We can't afford to let him wriggle out from under based on premature publicity."

"Of course."

"If he agrees to talk, you'll report his words verbatim. Any editorial conclusions are your own responsibility."

"Agreed."

"And you won't discuss the case with any member of the sheriff's office while you're here."

"Where do I sign?"

He frowned again, stood and left the office. Susan Landry fought to keep the butterflies inside her from breaking loose. She was expecting him when he returned, release in hand, and still she almost jumped at his approach.

He handed her the single sheet of paper and waited while she read it through. It was essentially an effort by the sheriff to protect himself and his men from any criticism down the road. If she decided to report the case — which hadn't been decided yet, by any means — the document she held would not restrict her in the least.

She signed. "All done."

"Okay," the sheriff drawled. "Let's see the man."

* * *

Mack Bolan heard them coming, knew it wasn't mealtime and wondered why his court-appointed lawyer would be returning so soon. He was prepared for anything — except the sight of Susan Landry standing outside the bars, observing him with eyes that seemed about to overflow.

"Miz Landry, Mack Bolan," the sheriff introduced them. "I'm afraid this is as far as it goes. We can't afford to lock you up with him, acourse. No tellin' what might happen."

"Certainly." There was a catch in Susan's voice. "I understand."

"Ten minutes."

"Fine."

The sheriff disappeared, and Bolan heard his steps retreating down the corridor, muffled at last by slamming steel.

"My God."

Her voice was almost prayerful, barely audible. A solitary tear tracked down her cheek, glistening in the fluorescent light.

"Longtime."

"Too long."

She glanced around his cell. "Are we alone?"

"As far as I can tell."

She read the caution in his tone and nodded. "'Kay."

"What brings you out?"

"I got a call."

"I see."

"What happened?"

Bolan didn't see the need for any sugar-coating.

"So far I've been accused of murdering a woman, Ripper-style. They've got some other charges for insurance, counts related to some weapons found around the scene."

"You're innocent."

He was relieved as hell to realize that it was not a question.

"Someone's put me in a box."

"I'll say."

"It's good to see you, Susan."

"Sure. I wish I could say the same."

Her voice had almost cracked again, and now she hesitated for an instant, making a show of running through her mental checklist, determining the priority of her questions.

"Did you know the woman?"

Bolan shook his head. "I saw her once — the night she died. From all appearances she worked the local trade."

"She must be known, a town this size."

"Safe bet."

"I'll check it out."

"Okay. I doubt if it'll help."

There was a flash of the familiar fire behind her seeping eyes. "Don't tell me how to do my job, okay? I'd say you've got some problems in that area yourself."

He forced a grin... "I guess."

"What were you working on?"

He weighed the answer, wondering how much of it he dared reveal to Susan. They were alone inside the cell block; he was certain of that much. And he had checked the cell for microphones, although there was no way of running any check outside the cell, or in the vents provided for the heat and air-conditioning.

It was a gamble, and he took the chance.

"Reports of smuggling," he told her, almost in a whisper now, his face pressed close against the bars. The smell of her perfume this close was overpowering, demanding a response. "I checked it out, but it was cold. I was about to pack it in when someone left a package in my room at the motel."

"And they were waiting for you?"

"Signed and sealed."

She asked the obvious. "Who knew you were in town?"

"The leak that brought me in."

"I'll need a name."

He thought about it, then shook his head. "No good. Don't get yourself involved."

"I am involved, goddammit!"

The explosive outburst seemed to startle Susan Landry more than Bolan, and she flushed a brilliant crimson.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just stand clear and let it run."

"I can't."

"You can. You must."

"Damn you."

"Too late."

"I'm sorry." Susan hesitated, trembling. "God, I'm starting to repeat myself."

"You're here to find a story," Bolan told her. "Keep it that way. Play it straight. If things go sour, I don't want anybody on my mind."

"Or in your way?"

"That too."

"I'll do my best."

"I know you will."

"But if I should find something out..."

He didn't try to head her off this time.

"You're the pro."

"Damn right."

"I'm glad you came."

He couldn't quite conceal the sadness in his voice, and it was reflected in the lady's face.

"I had no choice."

They understood each other perfectly, and Bolan only wished he could have held her in his arms. Instead, he slipped one hand between the bars and brushed her fingertips with his.

"Take care."

"You, too."

They heard the clang of metal and the echo of boot heels along the corridor. The sheriff's voice surrounded them inside the echo chamber of the cell block.

"Time to go, Miz Landry."

"Yes."

She dabbed her eyes and turned away from Bolan, but not before giving him a sidelong glance sufficient to reveal her pain.

She didn't have to say the words, and Bolan didn't have to answer that unspoken truth. They simply knew.

And she was gone before he had a chance to take it in and assimilate the knowledge that she cared for him as something other than a headline, something more than just a man who had retrieved her from the edge in other times, on other battlefields.

The lady cared, damn right, and Bolan knew that given time he could return the feeling from his heart.

But time was something that the soldier didn't have. He had been living on the stolen moment since his hopeless, endless private war had begun, and it was catching up with him. Bolan recognized the truth of that with numbing certainty.

He had no power to control the ending of it, but by God he could still plot some twists and turns along the way. The Executioner was down, but he was far from out. And he would keep on fighting until they stuffed him in a body bag and put him in the ground.

7

Hank Musgrove nosed his cruiser in behind the rose-pink Cadillac and killed the engine, sitting for a moment in the driver's seat and listening to the engine's ticking. It was the only sound that reached his ears, a faint metallic heartbeat cutting through the silence of the countryside.

The silence always bothered Musgrove, though he'd never admit as much to any living soul. A Houston native, he had grown up on the noise that comes with cities, and the desert's stillness always set his teeth on edge. It seemed as if all life on earth had disappeared without him noticing, and he had somehow been abandoned in a silent wasteland.

Bullshit, Musgrove told himself. It was the same uneasiness he felt whenever Ethan Peck commanded his appearance at the ranch. The man was money, power, and he radiated strength the way an old wood-burning stove threw off heat. To be around the rancher was to feel his strength, his power. To be summoned by him... well, now, that was something else again.

To hell with it. It wasn't as if the bastard was about to have him on the carpet. Just the opposite in fact. When he found out how well their plans were proceeding, he would want to celebrate.

Of course, he might know everything already, might have other eyes and ears inside the jail.

The deputy's anxiety was tempered by an undertone of anger as he thought about the prisoner he had arrested, based on Peck's instructions, just that morning. Michael Blanski, shit. They told him now that it was one Mack Bolan sitting in a solitary cell downstairs, and Musgrove felt the trembling in his hands again. He clenched the cruiser's wheel, white-knuckled, until the shaking passed.

He could have been killed if Bolan had been waiting for them with the military hardware that the lab men had recovered from his car. It would have been like frigging Vietnam on Highway 38.

But it had all worked out just fine.

So far.

No point in stalling any longer, Musgrove knew. Peck would be waiting for him on the wide veranda, slouching in his favorite wicker chair, and it would be a grave mistake to keep him waiting. Then he would be angry, and Musgrove didn't need that shit today. No way at all.

The deputy reflected on the circumstances that had brought him into contact with the rancher who had been instrumental in recruiting Musgrove for McLary County's force. The trouble down in Houston hadn't put Peck off a bit. In fact, the incident had probably made up his mind in Musgrove's favor. It had let him know precisely whom he would be dealing with. And if the two men didn't see precisely eye to eye, they did understood each other well enough to recognize their mutual needs.

Hank Musgrove had needed somewhere to hide until the heat had died down, a place to build another life.

And Ethan Peck had needed someone on the inside of McLary County's force, a man who could become chief deputy within the year on the basis of his past experience and courage under fire.

The sheriff didn't have to know about the incident — hell, any of the incidents — in Houston, and it had been relatively easy for the files to be mislaid. That is, it had been easy for the likes of Ethan Peck, though Musgrove, on his own, could never have achieved it in a million years.

So he owed the rancher that... Musgrove grimaced as he thought of the dues he had been paying around McLary County the past three years, and still he hadn't laid a finger on the principal.

A nagging certainty — that he would never be released from what he owed Ethan Peck — had preyed on Musgrove's mind of late. It worried him, but every time he tried to find an escape clause in the contract he ran up against a cold, dead end.

This time, perhaps. He knew that Peck was counting on this play to set him up with backers in Fort Worth and farther north. The rancher never said as much, but it was obvious to Musgrove anyway. A lawman had his ways of checking out these things, and any piece of knowledge gleaned about his benefactor might prove useful somewhere down the road.

It wasn't that he minded working with the Mafia. There had been plenty of their kind in Houston, and their power rivaled that of any major oil concern. The Wops were just another irritant to Musgrove, power wheels that kept on turning, running over anyone and anything that might obstruct their path. You learned to get along with them, providing that you planned to get along at all, but Musgrove never got around to liking it.

Someday he would have juice enough to call the tune and watch some others dance. For now, however, he was on the string, and it was Ethan Peck who called the tune.

For now.

The wide veranda was in early-evening shadow, but he picked the rancher out at once and homed in on the glow of Peck's cigar. He felt the rancher's weasel eyes upon him, taking him apart and scrutinizing everything inside.

"It's running smooth as silk," he said, before the big man had a chance to speak.

"O' course it is. You sound surprised."

Hank Musgrove cursed the quiet self-assurance in the rancher's voice. The bastard could have spared a single thank-you.

"They held him over on the murder charge, no bail." Even before he spoke, the deputy was certain Peck knew everything, that it had been a wasted trip.

"All right."

He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "You mighta tole me it was Bolan, Mr. Peck."

The rancher didn't blink an eye. "What difference does it make?"

The deputy could not believe his ears. "It makes a lotta difference in the way you go about a thing like this, the way you take 'im down."

"You did just fine."

"It coulda been a friggin' massacre."

"It's over. Hank. Don't make it any worse than what it was."

"This changes things."

"This changes nothing," Peck informed him flatly.

Musgrove felt the old anxiety returning, wrapping icy fingers around his heart and threatening to hold it fast.

"You wanna take him down tonight?"

The rancher thought about it, drawing on his fat cigar, and finally nodded in the shadows.

"Might as well. No point in wasting time."

"You know the Feds are gonna come down here in force. The media..."

"Will be relieved when Bolan's gone," the rancher interrupted him. "Oh, hell, there'll be some stories on the passing of a hero, all that kinda shit, but when the smoke has time to settle in a day or two that bastard will be just another mad dog killer gone to hell like he deserves. Don't fret yourself."

"I think there may be more to this than what you say."

It was the closest he could come to frank defiance, and the rancher shifted in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, the glowing ember of his fat Havana like a cyclops eye as it examined Hank Musgrove in the dusk.

"You think about it, boy. Nobody's gonna mourn this smart ass when they see him tied in with the murder of the woman. Hell, he's finally snapped. The killin' got inside him till he couldn't stop, and there you are. Another mad dog, like I said."

"Could be."

"You bet your ass, 'could be.' An' if we cap this hole before the federals come pokin' in, it stops right here."

The deputy was startled by a sudden inspiration. "Hell, I feel a jailbreak comin' on," he said as he grinned. "One desperate prisoner's about to bite the dust while tryin' to escape."

It was a tried and tested method. He had used it more than once himself before the roof had fallen in around his ears in Houston. It was perfect... but the rancher merely shook his head, expelling clouds of smoke like a disgruntled dragon.

"No."

Hank Musgrove frowned. The execution was supposed to be his end, and now he felt himself about to lose control.

"Well, Ethan... Mr. Peck..."

"No good," the big man said. "We can't afford to tip our hands. Now can we, Hank? I mean, it wouldn't do to have my number two involved in something like this here."

The deputy was startled, taken off his guard. If he was Ethan's number two...

"Well, if it's not a break..."

"Our Mr. Bolan is about to tangle with another prisoner," the rancher said, and he was smiling now around his stogie. "Inmates kill off other inmates every day in prison. It's a fact of life."

Hank Musgrove shook his head. "He's isolated on the block. Nobody will believe another prisoner could reach him there."

"It happens," Peck replied laconically. "Somebody dozes off, or hits the wrong damn switch. A simple case of negligence."

"There won't be any simple explanation," Musgrove told him stubbornly. "When Kendricks sticks his nose in, there'll be hell to pay."

"I've got it covered, Hank. Don't fret yourself." He took another draw on the cigar. "I understand Billy Putnam's on tonight."

Hank Musgrove shrugged. "Could be. I'd have to check."

"No need. He's on."

Of course. And Peck would know because he damn sure had at least one other pair of eyes inside the sheriff's office. The deputy wondered just who might be watching him, reporting back on his every move from day to day. It made him angry and a little frightened all at once.

"It won't be easy," Musgrove said, still clinging to his tried-and-true original idea.

"Of course it will. An' if we have to sacrifice ol' Billy Boy before we're through... well, tha's a damn sight better than yourself. Wouldn't you agree?"

And Musgrove didn't have to think about that answer very long. A sudden image of himself attempting to explain a fabricated jailbreak and the killing of an unarmed prisoner had raised the gooseflesh on his arms despite a warm breeze wafting in across the patio.

"There won't be any 'ifs' about it," he informed the rancher. "They'll be after Billy's ass."

"A meager price, I'd say."

"He isn't all that solid. He could spill."

"I've got it covered, Hank. Relax."

As if the shit would stop with Billy Putnam once it hit the fan. As if the sheriff wouldn't have some questions for every man and woman on the force.

Hank Musgrove took a breath and held it momentarily, releasing it slowly through his teeth. Then he did it again. It was a trick he had learned on stakeouts down in Houston when he'd been a member of the shotgun squad and had had to hole up inside some pharmacy or jewelry store and wait for asshole burglars to arrive. No prisoners, and hadn't that been some sweet job before the frigging ACLU lawyers had gotten involved.

As usual the breathing exercise began to calm his nerves right away. His mind was still alive with questions, doubts, but it would do no good to voice them now. The rancher had made up his mind.

"How long?"

Peck didn't have to check the diamond-studded Rolex on his hairy wrist.

"Not long. A couple of your boys are pickin' up a nasty drunk right now downtown. Except this nasty drunk ain't drunk. Just nasty, if you get my drift."

"An' Billy puts him in the wrong cell..."

"By mistake," the rancher finished for him. "That's the ticket."

"What about the cleanup once he's done?"

"I told you we might have to make some sacrifices, didn't I?"

And Musgrove saw it clearly now. The hit man didn't know it yet, but he was on a suicide detail. When he was finished with their prisoner, he would be killed — perhaps by Billy Putnam — while "resisting" efforts to restrain him in the cell. That left one loose end still dangling in Musgrove's estimation.

"Putnam hasn't got the balls to keep his mouth shut if the sheriff starts to sweat him."

"Well, I guess we'll have to see if we can strengthen his resolve."

Another sacrifice.

Musgrove wondered where it all would end. His ass was hanging out a mile already with the staged arrest and manufactured evidence, not to mention the death of Alma Jennings. Now they were about to carry out an execution in the jail itself, employing outside talent in place of tried and proven methods, and the rancher was discussing Billy Putnam's death as if it was a friendly game of Chinese checkers.

An execution for the Executioner, by God.

Well, knocking off a whore was one thing. The murder of a famous prisoner was something else again. Still, it was something that could be explained. But the elimination of a cop, no matter how you went about it, could produce a shitstorm that would blow them all away.

And the alarms were going off in Musgrove's mind. He found himself searching for an escape hatch. He could take his long-accumulated sick days now, before the whole thing blew up in his face... but how far could he run? Would there be any place where Peck — or Peck's employers — couldn't find him if they really tried?

It was a dismal thought, and Musgrove pushed it quickly out of mind.

Too late for bailing out. He was already in, and he would have to do his best to guarantee that no one dropped the ball before they crossed the finish line. It wouldn't be an easy job, but when your life was riding on the line you sometimes found yourself possessed of new, surprising skills and ingenuity.

Hank Musgrove hoped so anyway.

But at the moment he was feeling neither skillful nor ingenious. In fact, the only thing he felt at all was scared.

He wished that he had never seen Mack Bolan, never heard of Ethan Peck. The trouble down in Houston was a sign, but he had been too dense to read the writing on the wall, and here he was again, neck deep in shit without a life preserver.

There had to be a way for Musgrove to preserve himself, no matter what it cost. If things got hairy after Bolan's death, if Kendricks or the FBI should sniff too close, he was prepared to give them Ethan Peck, but only in exchange for full immunity and another name and face. Another life.

They had facilities and funds for cases such as his. He would be safe enough.

Like hell.

Hank Musgrove never read if he could help it, but he watched tv whenever possible, and he was well aware of widespread problems in the federal witness program. He had seen the hooded witnesses on those nighttime talk shows, rattling off their grievances through microphones that had made their voices sound like Daffy Duck on helium. And he had seen the mug shots of the ones who couldn't tell their stories for themselves — the ones who had been eliminated by the long arm of the underworld.

Musgrove shivered despite the summer heat.

Security, my ass.

You made your own security, and that meant taking care of business now. He would ensure that Ethan's plan came off like clockwork with no mistakes. If Billy Putnam tried to double-cross them now, he was as good as dead. And if he did his job, well, there were sacrifices to be made.

Hank Musgrove was going to be the guy who held the knife, not the one stretched out on the sacrificial altar, waiting to be carved like Sunday's roast. No martyr complex here by any means.

One man remained between the deputy and true security — Mack Bolan, squatting in the county jail, a panther caged, defanged, declawed.

Deballed, you bet your life.

And Musgrove knew he had already done precisely that.

He had already bet his life, and it was riding on the line.

8

Mack Bolan willed his mind to rest, and for the first time in many years it would not respond. Too many thoughts crowded in upon his overloaded mind to let the warrior sleep. It was just as well, for he had learned from grim experience that soldiers who relaxed too much in combat situations seldom saw another sunrise.

It was quiet on the cell block, the fluorescent lighting muted now in deference to the hour, but the stillness was deceptive. There was no safety here, and in any case Bolan knew he was marked for execution, so long as he remained in custody. While he remained alert, there was a chance, at least, that he could also stay alive.

Deliverance from his cage was the solution, and he knew that it would never come through normal, legal means. Too many charges were arrayed against him now, and by tomorrow evening there would be detainers pouring in from close to thirty states and half a dozen foreign countries. Even if, impossibly, he were to beat them all in court, it would require a lifetime to conduct the trials... and in the meantime he would be a sitting target for his enemies.

He wondered who had engineered the grim charade with Alma Jennings at the Blue Oasis. Mafia? The KGB? The CIA, perhaps? Bolan put his money on the Mob, with cautious side bets on the Company. It had required a kind of native flair to set the trap precisely, touch the nerves that activated Western jurors in a time when random violence was a prime concern. A foreign faction might have planted drugs or stolen documents; more likely, having finally identified his location, they would have simply waited in a lethal ambuscade for his return.

No, it smelled of Mafia. Bolan knew enough about the syndicate to recognize a guiding hand behind the scenes.

The Mob was ailing, so they said. Its mortal illness was proclaimed in Newsweek, Time and a dozen other periodicals across the nation. The television networks sent obituaries beaming into countless living rooms across America.

But they were wrong. The soldier felt it in his gut.

And he had heard it all before of course. So many lives ago, when he had carried off his second-mile offensive in six short days, preparing for his entry and rebirth as Colonel Phoenix, Bolan had been assured by his official sources that the Mob was wounded, even dying. Still, the Executioner had kept an eye out for his ancient enemies... and he had found them in abundance coast to coast, their scattered warring factions working slowly toward a new alliance that might dwarf the first. Today there were informers in the Brotherhood, the leaders of New York's five families were facing trial and prison, sure, but the Mafia endured.

The multiheaded Hydra, Bolan knew, could not be finally dispatched by any single wound — or even by a host of smaller wounds. The serpent could turn out to be immortal, but a determined warrior could restrict its movements, given half a chance. He could eliminate the separate heads when opportunity arose, and watch for the emergence of replacements as they grew.

The problem of a multiheaded monster was that you could only deal with one head at a time. While that head was being severed, while its mates were busy feasting on assorted bits of carrion, there always seemed to be another head, prepared to strike the weary soldier from behind.

And he was in the Hydra's grip right now, clutched tight between the drooling jaws. It would require a superhuman effort to prevent himself from being eaten alive.

Providing that he had the opportunity to face his enemies when they made their move.

Unaccustomed as he was to fighting a defensive war without the weapons of his trade, the Executioner would have to find a way to cope if he intended to survive. He couldn't afford a momentary lapse, and when the need for sleep came he would still remain alert inside, employing tricks that he had learned while struggling against another Hydra's head in Vietnam.

He slept. How long? No matter. Bolan was awakened by a slamming door, the sound of steel on ringing steel.

The access door. Of course.

No watch, no wall clock, but he felt as if he had only dozed for a few moments. Wide awake now, he stretched out on his bunk and drew the lightweight blanket up beneath his chin. Feigning sleep, he faced the door and watched the eight-foot stretch of corridor through narrowed eyes. Footsteps sounded on the concrete, and Bolan counted the approach of only one intruder.

One man.

The warrior sensed a purpose in the stride as the stranger sought out Bolan's cell. The new arrival seemed to know his way around.

A shadow fell across Bolan's face. The man was large — at least six foot four, broad-shouldered, muscular.

And he was not a deputy.

The denim attire was standard issue in McLary County. Bolan wore the same material himself, but now it struck him as a warning flag.

The soldier waited, tension building until he felt as if he would explode.

Outside the cell the new arrival glanced in the direction of the exit at the far end of the corridor and raised his hand. The signal was received, a switch was thrown and Bolan's door began to open, granting access to his cage.

He waited while the door reached full extension and the stranger stepped inside with a catlike movement full of deadly grace.

He waited while the metal frame slid shut again, the lock engaging with a hollow, ringing sound.

He waited as the new arrival cautiously descended on his bunk, the tongue of stainless steel in one big hand reflecting muted light from the corridor.

And when he moved it was explosive, taking his assailant by complete surprise. He spun the blanket with a flourish, fanning it the way a matador might fan his cape, enveloping the hitter's head and shoulders in a clinging woolen shroud.

Bolan vaulted off the bunk and slammed the heel of one hard palm against his adversary's forehead, driving him back against the bars. The blademan's spine made jarring impact with the steel, propelling air from startled lungs. But he recovered instantly, professionally. His blade sliced through the blanket, opening a rent for him to see through, and his free arm swept the rest away.

The hitter was prepared when Bolan reached him, shifting to the left and going low inside the killing thrust of stiffened fingers that had been directed toward his larynx. He reacted swiftly, bringing up his steel in what was meant to be a disemboweling sweep, and it was almost good enough.

Almost.

The Executioner recoiled instinctively and felt death's finger graze his ribs as the momentum of his thrust unbalanced him, propelling him into a collision with the bars. The knife blade opened up his denim shirt and sent two severed buttons rattling across the concrete floor.

The razor edge was coming at his face now, whispering condolences, and it was Bolan's turn to hit the crouch, one forearm rising to deflect the thrust, his free hand driving toward the hitter's groin. He missed by inches, bruising his knuckles on abdominals made of stone. The blademan grunted, hesitated, then grinned and forged ahead.

Bolan circled, keeping space between them, searching for the combat stretch that he would never find inside the tiny cell. No bargain-basement street thug here, hastily employed to do a one-time job. The bastard was in shape and he exuded confidence, experience, as he advanced on Bolan, tracing little patterns in the semi-darkness with his flashing knife.

Experience could make the difference, the warrior thought, but how much did this hitter have? How many of his adversaries had been professionals adept at all the killing arts? How many times had this one ventured out with death in hand and found it staring back at him through graveyard eyes?

Bolan stood his ground until the final instant when the knifeman could advance no farther short of contact with his prey. The stranger's eyes were glittering with excitement and a primal hunger that was deep and savage and barely in control. He was clearly enjoying the unaccustomed challenge, drawing out the moment like a lover's fond caress.

"Okay."

The voice was deep, surprising in its softness. Bolan almost had to strain his ears to catch the single word.

And then another.

"Now."

The hitter rushed the soldier, knife hand thrusting up and out to lead the charge, and Bolan let him come. Split-second timing was required to make it work, and he heard the numbers falling, felt them in his soul as he remained immobile for another heartbeat, making himself the perfect target for that whispering steel.

Far enough.

Bolan sidestepped, feinting left, then ducking to the right beneath the blade. His left leg shot out, a muscled rocket streaking forward, sinking his heel inch-deep into the hard pectorals. Gasping, his opponent staggered backward, almost lost his balance, then finally lost the knife instead. It clattered on the floor, spun once and came to rest between them, razor tip directed primly toward a neutral corner of the cell.

With arms outstretched, the soldier thrust forward his fingers, straining for the steel. But through his pain the silent adversary saw it coming and knew that if he couldn't save the weapon for himself he must at least deny it to the enemy. A sloppy backward kick sent the slim stiletto spinning through a gap between the bars and concrete floor and halfway across the corridor outside.

The thrust became a flying tackle, and Bolan's human target was off balance now, unable to resist the force that lifted him and drove him hard against the bars a second time. The edge of a bony hand impacted Bolan's shoulder blade, and excruciating pain exploded down his arm, preventing him from following up the tackle with a lethal jab. He grunted, tasting blood and bitter failure on his tongue before he rolled away.

The hitter crouched where Bolan's rush had driven him, his back against the bars, knees bent, as if some nonexistent chair supported him. Across the cell and out of reach, the Executioner was down on one knee, flexing numbed fingers, willing them to respond.

His adversary wasn't smiling now, and Bolan took some momentary satisfaction from the blood that smeared the hitter's nostrils, streaming from a broken nose. They spent another minute sucking wind and staring at each other silently before the hitter spoke.

"You're good. I knew you would be."

Bolan didn't waste his breath on any answer. He was already circling, seeking the angle he would need to make it work this time. And it would have to work this time, he realized, if it was going to work at all.

He had already taken punishment that might have killed a weaker man, and it was little consolation that his adversary felt the pain as well. A weary, battered soldier makes mistakes, and when the battle was hand to hand a single slip was all it took to bring the curtain down.

The hitter followed Bolan's moves, appearing rested despite the blood that smeared his mouth and chin. The guy was hurting, but he had learned to hide it, projecting strength and confidence to shake an adversary's resolve. Bolan wondered just how many times the trick had worked.

Another moment passed and they reversed positions once again, with Bolan's back against the bars, his enemy in a ready half-crouch near the stainless-steel commode.

Suddenly the hitter rushed, and the move might have taken lesser opposition by surprise. But Bolan had been waiting for it, and now he let his adversary come until the guy was close enough to kiss, his hands outstretched to lock around the soldier's throat.

Except the soldier wasn't there. He had already sidestepped, bringing up a knee hard against the guy's solar plexus, emptying his lungs and stomach simultaneously. The big man doubled over, driven by his own momentum on a hard collision course toward steel and stone.

With fingers interlaced, Bolan hammered a double-handed blow against the hardman's skull behind one ear, slamming his bloody face against the bars. A pivot, and he was behind the kneeling enemy, one arm encircling his throat, a knee pressed tight between the shoulder blades. He twisted, put his weight behind the move... and knew that it was finished when the straining vertebrae responded with a sickly crunch. He was a deadweight now in Bolan's arms. The soldier stepped away and let him fall.

There was another sound, barely audible above the pulse that hammered in his ears, and Bolan listened to the surreptitious footsteps drawing closer to his cage. Adrenaline was racing through his system as he caught his second wind, preparing himself instinctively for fight or flight — except that there was nowhere left to run, no way the soldier could defend himself against an armed assault by any mop-up team.

He backed away until his legs collided with the bunk. Bolan took a deep breath, held it briefly and let the air escape between clenched teeth. His enemies might watch him die, but there was no damned way that they would ever see him cringe and hide. No way at all.

A portly man in uniform appeared outside the cell, his features indistinct in the fluorescent backlight. Even so, the Executioner could read the stunned surprise on his face, surprise that told Bolan everything he had to know.

The deputy had set him up, supplied the hitter with forbidden access to the target's cage, and now he was recoiling from a score gone sour. There would be some awkward questions, no matter how it played from this point on.

"You lose," he told the quaking uniform.

And that was all it took. The jailer bolted back along the corridor and through the outer access doors, pausing only long enough to throw the switch that slammed them shut behind him.

Any way it played, the deputy was on a hook now, swinging in the wind, and it could only hurt Bolan's enemies to have the plot exposed. They would not be deterred from their attempts to murder him. Slowed down, perhaps, but ancient enmities ran deep and dark, too strong to be diverted by a single botched attempt.

At best a new investigation might succeed in buying him some time. And he would use that time to best advantage, aware that every moment yet to come might be his last.

There were a thousand ways to reach him in his cell.

But they had failed this time, and for the moment that would have to do.

Bolan was determined to make use of every moment left.

Determined to keep fighting while life remained.

Determined that his case would come to trial before a poisoned meal or sniper's bullet brought a hasty verdict in ahead of time.

The Executioner would have his day in court.

9

Bo Kendricks was angry when the telephone woke him from a particularly vivid dream involving prosecutor Amy Stone. His anger deepened as he listened to the night man's jabbering explanation of what had happened at the jail, an explanation that required Kendricks to insist that the night man repeat the whole damned thing.

Before he finished pulling on his uniform, the sheriff had progressed from angry to furious, and he was livid by the time he nosed the cruiser into his reserved space in the courthouse parking lot. The deskman read suspension on the sheriff's face and wisely kept his eyes averted, concentrating on his duty log.

The station was alive with deputies recalled for extra shifts, and Kendricks shook his head in sour disgust. Too late, goddamn it.

Someone was going to pay for this. Some frigging heads were going to roll for letting shit like this come down inside his jail. A prisoner assault was bad enough, but an assault upon this prisoner was news from coast to coast.

He detoured by the watercooler, stalling, making time to let himself cool down. The way he felt right now he was as likely to assault the night-shift jailer as to question him, and Kendricks wanted everything precisely by the book. No loopholes for the media or state investigators or the FBI to poke their noses into, sniffing for something rotten in the wind. If someone had fucked up — and someone definitely had — Kendricks was prepared to nail them on his own, without assistance from a troop of meddling strangers.

And he was looking forward to it in a twisted sort of way. There were so many open questions now, all begging to be answered yesterday.

Precisely who had tried to kill Mack Bolan in his cell?

What had possessed the jailer to incarcerate a stranger with the Executioner when there were half a dozen empty cells available? Was it incompetence or something worse?

Was the attack spontaneous, or should he be prepared for more determined bids the next day?

And Kendricks knew the answer to the last question.

As long as Bolan was a prisoner in his jail, he should be ready for the worst. A goddamn fortress would have been appropriate, but he would have to work with what he had.

The sheriff spied Hank Musgrove at the far end of the corridor in urgent conversation with Jim Kephart, night-shift deputy in charge. They heard him coming, and both of them shut up, swiveling to face him as he closed the gap. Hank Musgrove was in civvies, having been recalled from home short hours after clocking out, and Kendricks smelled the beer on his breath. The deputy in charge was waiting for the worst, a nervous tic beneath one eye.

"Let's have it from the top."

The night man cleared his throat and winked a half dozen times before he found his voice.

"Sylvester and Nash popped a drunk down at Roxie's two hours ago. I've got copies of their reports. White male, six-three, about two hundred..."

"I can read."

"Yes, sir."

Another wink as Kephart hesitated, skimming through his notes.

"They checked him in through booking at half past ten. He gave his name as Joseph Smith. Subject carried no id, but we were going to run his prints tomorrow."

"Do it now."

"It's on the wire." Another hesitation while the night man found his place. "The prisoner was issued blues and taken downstairs."

"Who's on tonight down there?"

"Uh... that was Putnam, sir."

"Go on."

An edge of steel had crept into his voice, and both men standing there in front of him could feel it rasp across their nerves. They would not have exchanged their lot in life with Billy Putnam now at any price.

"Apparently, when Billy checked the subject in he put him into Bolan's cell. We still don't know exactly how it happened."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"He's gone."

"Goddammit, who's gone?"

"Putnam."

"What?"

"He spotted what had happened, after... well, when it was over... and he rang in the alarm before he... left."

"Left where?"

"Left here. I figured he would go straight home, but we've been calling and he doesn't pick it up. He could be anywhere, I guess."

"You guess." Bo Kendricks didn't try to veil the anger and disgust that filled his voice. "So, what about this Joseph Smith?"

"Doc Ferris has him down in number three. They'll take him out as soon as he can finish the preliminaries."

"Bolan?"

"Minor cuts and bruises. He was lucky, too, considering the knife."

"What knife?"

"The one Smith tried to gut him with."

"You're telling me a prisoner was checked in here tonight without id and someone missed a knife, for Christ's sake? Are you telling me that someone here could be so fucking stupid?"

"Well..."

"Shut up." He turned to Musgrove, feeling angry color in his cheeks and fighting to control his tone. "I want those prints run through the national computer on a top priority. Pull any strings you have to and refer the questions back to me."

"It's done."

"I want the two arresting officers here within the hour for a full debriefing on this mess."

"They're on the way."

"Keep trying Putnam's house and send a cruiser by there for a look-see. If he's home — if anybody's home — I want to know about it, but the deputies should not approach."

Jim Kephart shifted anxiously. "We ought to pull him in, and..."

"No. He's mine. I want to see his face when I come knocking on his door."

And when I kick his sorry ass, the sheriff thought, but kept the notion to himself.

"Dan Fleming been around?"

The night man shook his head. "We haven't called him yet."

"Do it now. We're knee-deep in the shit already. No damn point in adding Sixth Amendment problems to the rest of it."

"Okay." And Kephart was beginning to relax a bit until the sheriff's eyes met his and bored on through to find his quaking soul. "I mean, yes, sir."

The night man scuttled off along the corridor to try and save his job. Bo Kendricks had already made up his mind not to fire the man, but it would serve him right to keep him guessing for a while.

"Let's go."

Hank Musgrove trailed him to the elevators, and they made the short ride down in silence, each man occupied with private thoughts. For Kendricks it was still incomprehensible that this had happened in his jail. There were precautions to prevent this kind of thing from taking place. The sheriff could not make himself believe that all of it had taken place by sheer coincidence. There would be more — it had the smell — but he would wait until he spoke with the arresting officers, until he got his hands on Billy Putnam's scruffy throat, before he made up his mind.

He could wait that long before he started lifting scalps.

The other part of it, however, couldn't wait at all.

They found Doc Ferris emerging from the cell that had become a makeshift morgue. He was slipping his jacket on, making ready to depart. Approaching sixty, he looked ten years older beneath the cold fluorescent lights.

"Some mess you got here, Bo."

"I guess."

A glance inside the cell told Kendricks all he had to know about the cause of death. Their "Joseph Smith" was stretched out on a bunk, the white mortician's sheet pulled up no farther than his waist, his denim jailhouse shirt discolored with the rusty stains of drying blood.

His face was turned away from Kendricks — all the way — and the sheriff didn't need a coroner's report to diagnose the broken neck. A lot of power was required to kill that way, and Kendricks grimaced now, imagining the sound as bones gave way and separated, ripping through the spinal column, snuffing conscious thought, sensation, life, in one excruciating flash of pain.

Goddamn, why did it have to happen in his jail?

"What can you tell me, Doc?"

"I'll need to get the particulars, but off the cuff I'd say they fought an' this one lost. His neck's been wrung like Sunday's chicken dinner, Bo."

"Your other patient holding up?"

"He'll live... for now. A slice across the ribs from this, but it was superficial."

As he spoke, the doctor lifted up a plastic sandwich bag and let Kendricks see the wicked knife inside. The blade was double-edged, commando style, and it was no damned homemade shank.

"Where was it?"

"In the corridor. From all appearances it got kicked out between the bars somehow."

"A lucky thing for Bolan," Musgrove offered, sounding sullen.

"That one makes his own luck, boy," Doc Ferris answered. "He's a cool one, right enough."

"He tell you anything?"

"Just where it hurts. He took some lumps. Don't get me wrong. A lesser man just might have cashed it in. But there's some fight in that one yet."

"I'll keep that fact in mind."

"You do that, Sheriff."

Ferris brushed on past them, heading for the exit. He left "Joseph Smith" uncovered to the waist.

"Get rid of that," Kendricks ordered Musgrove, nodding in the corpse's direction. He was moving toward Bolan's cell before the deputy could form a suitable reply.

In the last cell on the right, Bolan lay stretched out on the bunk, his new shirt open to reveal the bandage taped across his ribs. A mottled bruise was forming beneath one eye, but otherwise the prisoner appeared unharmed.

"We need to talk," Bo Kendricks said.

"I don't have anything to say."

"Well, you can listen then. Your lawyer's on his way, and I'm conducting an investigation into what happened here tonight." He read the subtle incredulity on Bolan's face and felt the anger flaring up inside him again. "I won't have shit like this inside my jail."

The prisoner sat up and swiveled toward him, flinching slightly when the movement cost him pain.

"You're just a little late," Bolan said.

Bo Kendricks frowned. "Before I'm done, I'll know what happened here and why."

"You know the what and why already. Sheriff. All that's missing is the who."

"I won't believe that anyone in my department would conspire to pull a stunt like this," he snapped. But even as he spoke the lawman felt a nagging pang of doubt.

"Believe whatever makes you happy," Bolan answered. "Maybe it'll help you sleep at night."

"I sleep just fine."

"Well, that explains it then."

"Explains what, dammit?"

"You're asleep right now. In fact, you're dreaming if you think that your department is immune to the corruption that's been documented in a thousand other places, coast to coast."

"My force is clean."

"Okay."

"You don't believe me."

Bolan's smile was hard, ironic. "Does it matter, Sheriff?"

Kendricks felt the color rushing back into his cheeks. "I came down here to offer my apologies... for everything."

"No need," the Executioner replied. "You're not responsible."

"It happened in my jail."

"Forget it, Sheriff. Go on home. Go back to sleep."

Bo Kendricks watched for a moment as the former soldier lay back and closed his eyes. The sheriff wanted to respond, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

The goddamned guy was right of course.

No accident, no simple negligence, was able to explain away what had happened here tonight. He didn't like what he was thinking, but he had to face it anyway.

Someone on his department had been bought and paid for — by the Mob, by someone.

Billy Putnam had been reached and bought, but the idiot had run out on his post when things had gone sour.

With a bit of luck he might turn out to be the only rotten apple in the barrel, but Bo Kendricks wasn't counting on that kind of luck. Not anymore.

He would be forced to check the goddamned apples one by one and weed out any of them that couldn't withstand a searching scrutiny. Beginning now.

He cursed Mack Bolan for his goddamned self-assurance, for the knowledge of corruption in a force that Kendricks had been serving with for more than twenty years. He cursed the former soldier for abandoning his duty years ago, for bringing his own private war into McLary County with a vengeance.

The prisoner in number five was in trouble, but while he was in Kendricks's care it was the sheriff's job to see that he remained alive and fit for trial.

No matter what it cost.

10

"Sheriff Kendricks will see you now."

Brognola left his cup of tepid coffee on the floor beside his chair and trailed the deputy along a corridor that seemed unusually crowded for the graveyard shift. He had no doubt that the beehive of activity was caused by the presence of a single, special prisoner in the McLary County jail.

Mack Bolan had a way of making waves.

The sheriff's private office was devoid of all the luxuries Brognola was conditioned to expect in Washington. The man who stood to greet him was a bear in human guise; he seemed uncomfortable in his khaki uniform. The hand he offered to Brognola was as coarse and hard as rough-hewn wood.

"Bo Kendricks. I'm the sheriff of McLary County."

"Hal Brognola. Justice."

"Don't believe I know the name."

"No reason that you should. I'm in from Washington."

The sheriff frowned. "It travels fast."

"What's that?"

"Bad news."

Brognola saw the wariness behind the county lawman's eyes. He recognized the dark suspicion local lawmen frequently reserved for interlopers out of Wonderland. It was a natural reaction under the circumstances, and it came from being frozen out of federal operations in the past, when G-men — be they FBI or DEA or Treasury — had stepped on local toes and wounded fragile egos in some hot pursuit across state lines. He had encountered that reserve before, and knew that he could beat it nine times out of ten, provided that he had the time.

Which was exactly what he didn't have right now.

"You might be pleasantly surprised."

"I hate surprises... but I don't suppose you're gonna let that slow you down?"

Brognola smiled. "'Fraid not."

The sheriff sank into his chair and heaved a weary sigh. "Okay, so let me guess. You want to talk about a prisoner of mine. A special prisoner, let's say. An' you're concerned about his welfare now."

Brognola spread his hands. "You're psychic."

"Not by half. Let's say I've been around this way a time or two before."

"That's fair enough." Brognola had decided it was time to let the sheriff see his cards. "I have a feeling I can help you out."

"How so?"

"By taking this one off your hands before it hits the fan." He saw the troubled frown begin to coalesce on Kendricks's face but forged ahead. "This time tomorrow, you'll be eyebrow-deep in uniforms from twenty-seven states that I can think of right offhand. Forget about the newsmen. They'll be coming out of your ears. This time next week you'll need interpreters to handle delegations from a dozen foreign countries — and I'm only talking Western Hemisphere."

The sheriffs frown became a scowl, but he was listening, and Hal Brognola sensed that he had made his point.

"With your cooperation I can spare you some of that."

"I see."

"Your prisoner is basically a federal problem anyway. The army wants him on desertion charges, and I've got enough on interstate conspiracy alone to lock him up until the Tricentennial."

"I've got him on a murder one right here."

It was Brognola's turn to frown. "I've heard about your case. It's thin."

The sheriff bristled. "Thin? My people found him with the body. Dammit, man, she wasn't even cold."

The man from Wonderland retained his own composure with a force of will. "You know his record." As he spoke, it struck Brognola that they had not called the Executioner by name, as if omission of identity might handily reduce him to the status of a chess piece on a playing board. "He's worked your state before. The Rangers have a file, in case you haven't read it yet. He's never carved a woman in his life."

"First time for everything," the sheriff growled. "Could be the strain caught up with him, an' somethin' snapped inside. Up here." The lawman tapped a callused index finger against his skull to emphasize his point.

Brognola's voice was firm as he replied. "No chance."

"You startin' up a fan club here, or what?"

The big Fed felt the angry color rising in his cheeks and fought it down. The sheriff's words were too damn close, he realized. He needed more reserve. "Hell, no. It's just that I've been after this one for a long, long time. I know him inside out."

"Well, now he's inside, an' I'm not about to let him out without an order from the governor."

"I understand your feelings, Sheriff, but..."

"The hell you do," Bo Kendricks cut him off. He leaned across the desk to stab a finger in Brognola's face. "I wish I'd never seen the bastard in my jail, or heard his goddamned name. He's caused more trouble here the last twelve hours than I've seen in fifteen years."

Brognola felt the short hairs rising on his neck, and something in the sheriff's tone convinced him that the Bolan "trouble" would be more than excess paperwork and busybodies flying in from Washington to waste a working lawman's time.

"What kind of trouble?"

Kendricks hesitated and rocked back in his chair, appraising Hal Brognola with suspicious eyes. "I woulda thought you'd know already."

Easy now, Brognola told himself. Hold on and take it one step at a time.

"The red-eye flight's not very big on news."

"Uh-huh. You're tellin' me you don't know anything about attempted murder in my jail?"

Brognola felt his stomach knotting like an angry fist. He had wasted too much time in getting out of Washington, and now it was too late.

But wait. The sheriff had said attempted murder. Relief flooded Hal Brognola in a sudden rush. He felt giddy, and his skin was tingling, but the twisted stomach would require some time and gentle handling to settle down.

He found his voice with difficulty. "Is he okay?"

"A little frayed around the edges, but nothing permanent."

"What happened?"

Kendricks filled him in, and as he listened, Hal was alternately filled with anger and relief that Bolan had survived the first attack. But it would only be the first of course; the man from Washington was confident of that.

"It's even more important now that I take Bolan off your hands," he said at last, "before they have a chance to try again."

"Don't sweat it, friend. My men screwed up, but they damn sure won't be doing it again."

Brognola knew that he could not afford to step on any toes if he intended to secure cooperation from the local law.

"No criticism, Sheriff. Hell, we've lost our share of people in the federal witness program. You know that. No jail's impregnable. But I believe we have a better chance of keeping him alive in federal custody, and he's too valuable to throw away."

The sheriff cocked an eyebrow at him, shifting in his chair and propping boot heels on the corner of his desk.

"The man's a murderer," he growled. "God knows how many men — and women — he's disposed of through the years. You talk about him like he was some kind of goddamn natural resource."

Brognola felt the anger rising in his throat but held it in. He was already skating on thin ice and could not afford to blow it now. Not when he was this close.

"I know exactly what he is, and what he's done. I also know that he has information that could help us break the syndicate. We don't intend to let that slip away."

The sheriffs face and voice were stern. "You'll have to stand in line," he said. "We prosecute our criminals in Texas, 'stead of passing out rewards."

Brognola sensed that he was losing, and he tried a different tack.

"Your little fumble here tonight might be interpreted as something more than carelessness," he said.

The sheriff sat bolt upright, the color rising in his cheeks.

"I clean my own house, mister. And I run an honest force."

"The fact remains..."

"The fact remains that we can still protect a prisoner right here, all by ourselves, without you federates sniffing at our heels."

Brognola's voice was tempered steel as he responded. "The U.S. code establishes my jurisdiction in a case involving civil rights infringement by police. That's Title 18, Section 52, in case you want to look it up."

"What's that to me?"

Brognola shrugged. "If Bolan's lawyer were to file an action based upon your proven inability to keep him safe in custody, I'd say your ass would end up hanging out a mile."

"I'll take my chances," Kendricks said, but there was newfound caution in his tone.

"Suit yourself. The maximum for civil rights conspiracy resulting in a homicide is life imprisonment."

"That's bullshit," Kendricks snapped. "You know damn well..."

"Refusal to accept assistance might be viewed as willful negligence... or worse."

"You've got your fucking nerve."

"And you've got problems, Sheriff. Washington is interested in your prisoner. If he gets tagged in custody, someone will have to answer for it."

"Mmm."

Brognola knew that he was crawling along a very shaky limb. If Kendricks realized that he was bluffing, he could lose it all. He watched the sheriff's face, alert for any sign that Kendricks was about to call his hand. Instead, the county lawman rocked back in his chair, a thoughtful frown etched deep into his face as he mulled over the big Fed's comments for one excruciating moment.

"What exactly did you have in mind?" he asked at last.

Brognola felt his heart begin to beat again. "I can relieve you of your headache, Sheriff. It will take some paperwork, but we can make some calls, wake up some people..."

Kendricks shook his head. "Too much. The most I could accept before the trial would be your help with the security. Now, once we've got a verdict in..."

"It could be too damned late," Brognola finished for him.

Kendricks spread his hands. "It's still the best I can do without an order from the governor."

Brognola knew that even if he started on the paperwork tonight, it would be days before he got an answer from the governor in Austin. There was protocol to be observed, and egos to be stroked before the chief executive of Texas granted his permission to surrender the most wanted fugitive in the United States. In the meantime Bolan was a sitting duck in the McLary County jail.

"I can let you have some marshals by this afternoon," he said. "I also have a man in Washington who specializes in security for diplomats and federal witnesses. I'll have him on the next plane out."

The sheriff's nod was noncommittal. "Couldn't hurt."

But would it help? Brognola knew from grim experience that everyone was vulnerable at every moment of the day. No prison cell, no federal safehouse, was impregnable against attack. The tragedy at Stony Man Farm had proved that, and the rare but costly losses in the witness program had served to emphasize the point. A killer with determination and a willingness to risk his life could score with any target.

And Bolan was living proof of that. Throughout his war the guy had specialized in pulling off "impossible" penetrations, and he had never failed to find his mark. There might not be another Bolan waiting in the wings, but Hal Brognola knew that there were other guns at large and other gunners who would go the limit for a price, or for the reputation they would instantly attain by bringing Bolan down.

He was a goddamned sitting duck, and all that Hal could do for now was plant some extra bodies on the firing line. His man from Washington could check the calls, suggest some new procedures to the local troops, but they were not obliged to act on his suggestions in the end. Brognola knew that he had come up short, and he began to smell defeat.

He almost jumped as Kendricks's phone shattered the tense, expectant silence. The sheriff picked it up before it had a chance to ring a second time.

"Hello?"

Bo Kendricks stiffened in his swivel chair, his fist white-knuckled as it gripped the telephone receiver.

"All right. I'm on my way. No, dammit, you stay clear. You understand me, Hank? Stay clear unless he tries to leave. Five minutes, right?"

He replaced the receiver and got to his feet. Moving toward the corner hat rack, he picked up a pearl-gray Stetson as he spoke. "I've gotta take a little ride. You find your own way out?"

Brognola rose. "I'd like to see your prisoner before I go."

The sheriff frowned, debating with himself, and finally shrugged away his doubts.

"No harm, I guess. I'll have the night man check you through."

"Appreciate it."

Kendricks held him with his eyes. "You're talking to him, nothing else."

"That's right."

"He stays exactly where he is for now."

"We understand each other, Sheriff."

"Good. This way."

Brognola felt his stomach knotting at the prospect of an eye-to-eye with Bolan in his cell. The man from Washington had never seen the hellfire warrior when he wasn't in control, at liberty to come and go in the pursuit of everlasting war, and now the Fed wasn't looking forward to examining the other side.

The Executioner at bay. Locked up inside a cage and waiting for the ax to fall. A goddamned sitting target for the Mob or anybody else who got the word that it was payback time.

The man from Justice shook it off. There was no time for personal regrets. Brognola had a job to do; he had to save Mack Bolan's life, regardless of the cost.

Brognola had a job to do, damn right.

He also had his duty as a man.

And he could only hope the two would finally be compatible.

11

Despite the hour and the sheer exhaustion that enfolded him, Mack Bolan did not sleep. The numbers were running dangerously close to zero; the soldier sensed that now, and he could not afford to waste a moment in pursuit of bloody, fitful dreams.

He lay stretched out on the hard, unyielding cot, eyes focused on the shadowed ceiling overhead. So little time, he knew, and still his mind was racing after answers, strategies, solutions. It would be so easy to relax and let it go. Surrender to the darkness and consign his mission, still unfinished, to the universe.

Except that the soldier could not find it in himself to lay the burden down.

There was a great deal more at stake than one man's life, however large and thunder-filled that life had been before today. There was a world outside his cage, and the predators were still at work there, ravening for flesh and blood. There was a war still raging just beyond the steel and cinder blocks that held him prisoner, and Bolan felt the call to battle in his bones.

He meant to answer that insistent clarion if he could only free himself from this captivity.

The odds were damn near insurmountable this time.

But the soldier's endless war had taught him many things, and chief among them was the need for perseverance. When it seemed that every hand was turned against him, he had learned to look for friends and allies in the most unlikely places. When weary muscles threatened to desert him in his time of direst need, the warrior had learned to search for greater, untapped strength within.

A born survivor, Bolan could not force himself to wait impassively for death. He did not know the meaning of surrender to the savages; he would not make it easy for them, even now, when it appeared that they had won.

The game would not be over until they put his broken, lifeless body in the ground. And if it came to pass tomorrow, or the next day, he would make his enemies work for it.

A sound of footsteps in the corridor outside recalled the soldier's mind to the present. He sat up, instantly alert, his shoulders pressed against the wall of cinder blocks so that he faced the open bars.

Two men, and out of step. The corridor's acoustics told him that as the footsteps drew closer to his cage.

He didn't think the enemy would try again so soon, but anything was possible. And in the wake of the fiasco with their starting lineup, someone in the hostile camp might feel compelled to try again without delay.

The soldier waited, willing his muscles to relax. He questioned his ability to cope with two men in his exhausted state, but he wouldn't have a choice if it came to that. If they were armed...

Two figures loomed beyond the bars of Bolan's cage. He saw the badge, the Sam Browne belt and pistol, and let himself relax away from full alert. The second figure — dressed in a trench coat, with a snap-brim hat pulled low over his shaded face — was suddenly familiar, raising Bolan's hackles, setting off alarm bells in his mind.

"I'd like to speak with him alone," Brognola said, the familiar gruff voice like music to Bolan's ears.

The deputy considered it, a shadowy frown etched deep into his face. "I guess that'd be all right," he Finally said. "Be careful, though."

"No sweat."

The jailer raised a hand, his index finger cutting little circles in the air. Somewhere out of the soldier's sight a switch was thrown, and Bolan's door clanked open to admit Brognola, closing behind him once again when he was safe inside.

"I'll call you when I'm done," Brognola told the deputy, and waited while the man in khaki nodded, clomping back along the corridor with heavy-laden leather creaking at his waist.

When they were finally alone, Brognola spent a moment prowling Bolan's cubicle, examining the walls, the fixtures, probing shadowed corners with his narrowed eyes.

"Clean place," he said at last. "No dust, no bugs."

"You never know."

Brognola was not concerned with cleanliness, of course, but with electronic ears that might be concealed inside the cell. Bolan had already checked it out, but points of vulnerability remained. The heater duct. The corridor outside.

"Aw, what the hell."

Brognola turned to face him, hand outstretched, and Bolan clasped it in his own. The lawman's grip was firm, as he had remembered it, but Bolan was surprised to note a trace of moisture in Brognola's palm.

The man from Washington was nervous, sure, as he had every right to be. The wrong word, overheard by hostile ears, could finish his career in government. But there was something more behind the eyes, and Bolan quickly realized that Hal's predominant emotion was not personal anxiety but rather a concern for the survival of a friend.

"We've got ourselves a mess this time."

It was a classic understatement, but the big Fed's use of "we" had not been lost on Bolan.

"It's a frame."

Brognola waved the words away. "Hell, I know that. You didn't need to tell me." He sounded hurt, as if his friendship had been questioned. "Anyway, this local beefs the least of it. This time tomorrow you'll be ass-deep in uniforms flown in from Hollywood to Timbuktu. How did they get your name?"

"I guess I let it slip."

Brognola snorted, knowing that the hellfire warrior hadn't made a slip like that in all his life.

"I guess you had your reasons."

"I was buying time. And that reminds me. There'll be files to burn."

The man from Justice nodded. "I'll see to it." Then he frowned. "It seems to me that you were buying trouble."

Bolan shook his head. "The trouble was already waiting for me here. Somebody set me up. They knew that I was coming and they ran me through a classic suck. They didn't miss a trick."

"Who's 'they'?"

The soldier's shrug was almost casual. "An enemy."

"That helps. I'd say it cuts the suspects down to roughly half the population of the globe."

Bolan recognized frustration in his old friend's voice, but there was no time to soothe the Fed's injured feelings. Survival was the top priority, and it would soon demand all his attention.

"Offhand, I'd say it was the families. I don't see any foreign tracks."

Brognola met the soldier's eyes. "All right. I'll see what I can do."

"You can't do anything," the warrior told him flatly. "Let it go."

"Like hell." There was an angry spark behind Brognola's eyes. "They've got you staked out here like 'gator bait. I've started rattling some cages. I'll have a troop of marshals in by eight o'clock tomorrow."

Bolan sat down on the rigid cot, leaving room for Hal at the other end. A creeping weariness seemed to possess him now, and he repulsed it with a force of will.

"You won't get anywhere with jurisdictional disputes," he told the man from Washington. "The murder takes priority. We both know that. The state won't extradite until they're finished with the trial."

Brognola looked surprised. "You're counting on a day in court?"

The Bolan smile was fatalistic, almost peaceful. "I'm demanding it as soon as possible. If I can get that far..."

The soldier let the sentence trail away, and Brognola made a show of studying his dusty shoes. It took a moment for the Fed to find his voice again.

"The opposition doesn't want you on a witness stand."

"I'm counting on it," Bolan answered. "The longer I stay locked up here, the better chance they have to pick me off. Out there..." he nodded toward the far end of the corridor "...at least I've got a chance."

"Some chance."

"We play the cards the way they fall."

"Somebody's dealing second on you here. We need to even up the odds."

"There's nothing you can do."

"Goddamn it!"

Silence stretched between them for a moment, and Brognola was the first to breach the wall. "I'm bringing in the marshals anyway."

"Okay."

"It can't hurt." Mack Bolan sensed his friend was talking almost to himself, as if to fill the void, and did not interrupt. "We've got an angle now, with civil rights, security, the whole damn thing. I'm going to keep the pressure on. Material witness, vital information, that kind of thing."

"It can't hurt," the soldier echoed, knowing that it wouldn't really help him either.

"Right." Before the silence could envelop them again, Brognola raised his eyes to meet the soldier's own. "What happened here tonight?"

"I guess they filled you in upstairs. I had an unexpected visitor."

"The jailer set you up?"

The warrior shrugged. "It wouldn't be unheard of. Anyway, I gather that the guy in charge is AWOL at the moment. They've been looking for him high and low."

Brognola's eyes and voice were hard. "I'd like to have a word with him myself."

"No point. He'd say he took his orders on the phone and picked up payment through a drop somewhere. He's at the bottom of the food chain here."

"There's still a chance that he could lead us back to bigger fish," Brognola growled.

"It's local," Bolan answered. "And you can't afford to step on any toes."

"I've got a stake in this," the man from Washington replied almost defensively. "You're still a federal fugitive, remember?"

Bolan grinned. "It's nice to be wanted."

"Well, shit."

Brognola's smile was hesitant at first as if the very thought of levity in these surroundings summoned pangs of guilt. And still it was too much. After a moment his booming laugh reverberated through the cell block, echoing along the corridor.

Bolan joined the laughter, easily, the tension flowing out of him. It was a therapeutic moment, sharing much in common with a damned good cry, but neither man could summon tears.

The moment passed, and Hal was staring at his oldest living friend self-consciously, embarrassment giving color to his cheeks.

"We ought to take this on the road."

"When do we leave?"

They didn't laugh this time. It was enough to smile and to clasp their hands together in what might be temporary parting, or a last farewell.

"I'll be around. You're not alone in this."

But even as he spoke the hollow words, Brognola's eyes were mirrors of the truth.

Mack Bolan was alone, as much as he had ever been since the beginning of his private, everlasting war against the savages. He was alone inside his tiny cell in the eye of the impending storm. When everything exploded, the Man from Blood would stand or fall as he had lived.

Alone.

He shook the morbid thoughts away, refusing to adopt defeatist attitudes. Deep inside the soldier knew that he had never truly been alone. There had been Johnny — even in the days before the "kid" had become a man and had opted to enlist beside his brother in the long crusade. There had been Valentina, Leo, April Rose... and many more.

The cell was crowded suddenly with memories and friendly ghosts, surrounding Bolan, pressing in upon him, lending warmth like some invisible but hearty flame. It would have been a claustrophobic moment under other circumstances, with another man, but warrior Bolan welcomed the company and silently invited them to stay a while.

As for Brognola, it was time to go. Bolan's longtime ally reluctantly released the soldier's hand, retreating toward the door on leaden feet.

"You watch yourself," he ordered gruffly, turning to avert his face before fluorescent lighting caught the hint of moisture in his eyes.

Almost in time.

"I will," the soldier told the Fed's retreating back. "You do the same."

"Damn straight."

Brognola hailed his escort, and the deputy responded with alacrity. Another silent signal was made to the turnkey, and the door was opened long enough for Hal to make his getaway.

"I'll be in touch," Brognola called out to the warrior from the far side of the bars.

"I'll be right here."

The sound of their footsteps faded, finally lost behind the slamming of the cell block's outer door.

And Mack Bolan was alone again with all the friendly ghosts.

12

The sheriff killed his cruiser's headlights half a block from Billy Putnam's house and coasted down the narrow residential street in darkness, his eyes and other senses rapidly adjusting to the night. There were no streetlights here, and there was no illumination from the aging tract homes lining Elm. It was a neighborhood of honest working men and women and they would be asleep by now, unmindful of the squad car as it rumbled to a halt behind another of its kind.

Hank Musgrove ambled back to meet the sheriff, big hands clasped around the buckle of his pistol belt. The Stetson cast a shadow on his face, but Sheriff Kendricks caught the bare suggestion of a smile beneath the wide-brimmed hat as Musgrove leaned over to greet him through the driver's window.

Bo Kendricks had no time for the preliminaries. "Still inside?"

Musgrove nodded his head jerkily, wobbling the Stetson's brim. "As far as I can tell. His car ain't moved, an' there's some kinda light on in the back. I haven't seen him, mind you, but you said..."

"I know what I said. He still not answering the phone?"

"Nobody's tried since I reported in."

"Try him now."

"You got it."

Musgrove ambled back to his cruiser, reached in through the open window and snared the dashboard mike. He raised the night dispatcher and issued orders, then he and Kendricks waited in the darkness across the narrow street from Billy Putnam's one-bedroom house.

Soon the muffled trilling of a telephone was barely audible from somewhere in the house. Bo Kendricks waited, counting off a dozen rings before he satisfied himself that Putnam wasn't coming on the line.

"Enough."

Hank Musgrove muttered something into the microphone and then dropped it on the driver's seat. Across the street, Billy Putnam's phone fell silent once again.

"I'm going in," Bo Kendricks said at length.

"I'll back you up."

The sheriff thought about it briefly, then shook his head. "Stay put. If Billy rabbits, you'll be here to close the door."

"I'll slam it on his friggin' head."

Kendricks nailed the deputy with penetrating eyes. "You'll do no such goddamn thing. I want him fit to talk. You understand that, Hank?"

"I hear you."

"'Kay."

The sheriff drew his weapon, a big Colt Python. The weight of it was reassuring as he crossed the darkened street and made his way over Billy Putnam's scrubby lawn. He kept to the grass, eyes scanning darkened windows for any sign of movement as he paralleled the driveway, circling around the side and toward the rear of Putnam's tract house, knowing it would do no good to try the bell.

Putnam wasn't answering the phone, and he would damn sure not be answering the door. Bo Kendricks sensed it as a hunter sometimes feels his prey. He knew that Billy was prepared to run, that he would clear out before he had to answer for the grim fiasco at the jail.

As Musgrove had described, there was a light on in the rear of Putnam's house. Kendricks reached the small backyard and recognized it as the bathroom light, providing scant illumination through a frosted windowpane.

Looks like I caught you with your pants down, Billy. Kendricks smiled at the thought, but he was still cautious as he mounted the concrete steps to stand outside Putnam's kitchen door.

An image came to Kendricks as his fingers closed around the doorknob. It would be unlocked, and as he'd ease the back door open, he'd catch a heartbeat glimpse of Putnam standing in the darkened kitchen with a double-barreled twelve-gauge raised to greet him, muzzles like two trash cans aimed directly at his face. And that would be all, before the silent night would explode in his face and he'd be blown across the scruffy yard like so much garbage in a rising summer wind.

The moment passed, and Kendricks gripped the doorknob tighter to prevent his hand from trembling. Perspiration beaded on his forehead beneath the Stetson's brim, and Kendricks forced his mind away from grisly images of death by concentrating on the knob, the lock, the pistol in his hand.

The door was unlocked, and Kendricks inched it open, bracing for any hint of sudden movement within the dark interior. When nothing stirred, he stepped back, gave the door a gentle push and let it swing wide open on its own momentum.

Darkness beckoned Kendricks on inside the house, a different darkness, without the dappled moonlight of the yard outside. His eyes required another moment to adjust, to find the glimmer of the bathroom light that spilled from a doorway just ahead.

Alert to any sound, the sheriff eased his way across the kitchen, stopping dead and cursing underneath his breath when he collided with the corner of a table, fearing that the muffled sound might carry throughout the house and warn his prey that he was coming.

But Billy had to know as much already. He wasn't stupid — not that stupid, anyway. He had been smart enough to break for it when things had gone sour at the courthouse, though his mind had not been swift enough to realize that it couldn't have ended any other way. If the imported killer had succeeded in eliminating Bolan, there still would have been a million searching questions to be answered. The jailer hadn't thought of that, or else had thought of it too late to save himself.

And he was in it now. Hip-deep and sinking fast. There still might be a chance for him to save himself, to salvage something from the wreckage of his thirteen-year career, providing that he leveled with the sheriff and gave all the answers Kendricks sought.

The sheriff's hand clenched tighter on the Python's grip. He gained the open doorway and edged around the corner, feeling terribly exposed and vulnerable in the corridor. Putnam might be waiting for him in the darkened bedroom dead ahead, or crouching down behind the sofa in the living room to Kendricks's left, prepared to open up with God knows what the moment a target was presented. Kendricks fought a sudden urge to creep along the corridor on hands and knees, the sudden fear replaced by anger and determination.

And whatever happened here tonight, Bo Kendricks meant to face it standing.

The corridor was narrow and short in relative proportion to the tiny floor plan of the house. He recognized the bathroom door, distinguished by the wedge of yellow light that seeped beneath it, casting ragged shadows where the carpet pile was worn unevenly. The light could be a trap, but he would have to take the chance.

A floorboard creaked beneath his weight, and Kendricks held his breath, the Magnum braced in both hands now as he advanced on the bathroom door. At last he stood before it. He crouched, deciding in an instant that he could not let Putnam have an edge if he intended to succeed. If he intended to survive.

A flying kick to the doorknob sent the flimsy wooden frame and cheapjack locking mechanism inward. The door banged against the plaster wall, rebounding, and would have slammed back in his face if Kendricks hadn't blocked it with his shoulder, filling up the narrow doorway with his bulk. The sudden glare of light was almost blinding to his narrowed eyes.

The bathroom was a slaughterhouse.

It took a moment for the sheriff to take in the ghastly scene that lay before his eyes. Then came the shock, a numbing sickness that began in Kendricks's stomach and immediately touched his soul.

The one-time jailer, Billy Putnam, faced him from across the tiny room, his dead eyes staring back at Kendricks, locking with his own. Reclining in the bathtub with his back against the tile, his legs and feet suspended from the rim and dangling limply toward the floor, the deputy was still in uniform. His khaki shirt was drenched in dark, congealing blood; the tub and tiles were smeared and spattered with it, dripping with the crimson evidence of Billy Putnam's life.

The jailer's fleshy throat was open, slashed not quite from ear to ear, but wide and deep enough to do the job. A mottled flap of skin hung down across his collar like a limp cravat, exposing severed larynx and arteries beneath the harsh, uncompromising light. In retrospect the sheriff could imagine how the blood had spurted from that massive wound, propelled by the convulsive action of a dying heart. And glancing up, on impulse, Kendricks was revolted by the drying, brownish raindrop patterns on the ceiling.

His jailer was a frigging human geyser — or he had been — before the juice had run out.

Bo Kendricks slipped the Python back inside its swivel holster, sensing that he was alone now in this house of death. He edged around the larger of the bloodstains on the floor, intent on leaving evidence intact, and bent to take a closer look at Billy Putnam's remains.

The bone-handled straight razor was still clutched between the fingers of a limp, dead hand. The blade and handle, pudgy fist and dirty fingernails, were caked with drying blood.

The sheriff studied Billy Putnam for another moment, hard eyes noting every detail of the corpse's posture and attire, and when he straightened Kendricks knew that there was nothing more for him to learn inside the bathroom abattoir. He was already moving toward the door, retreating, when he heard a furtive movement in the corridor outside.

The Python found his hand, and Kendricks sighted on the open doorway, squinting down the barrel rib, already tightening his finger on the trigger, anxious for a target now. A heavy footfall scuffed against the carpet just beyond his line of sight.

Come on, you bastard. Come and get it.

"Easy, Sheriff, hold the phone!"

Hank Musgrove raised his hands, and the sheriff felt himself relax inside. The vanishing disappointment was replaced by sweet relief and that in turn gave way to sudden anger.

"Dammit, Hank, you were supposed to wait outside!"

"I did. We got some backup, and I left 'em to it. Figured you could use a hand in here."

The sheriff stepped aside to let him catch a glimpse of Putnam.

"We're too damned late," he said.

The deputy brushed past him, stopping at the outer limits of the sprayed blood, standing on his toes and straining for a better look inside the makeshift killing vat. Bo Kendricks had already seen enough. He turned away and sought the clean, cool air outside. Hank Musgrove caught up with him in the yard.

"Do you believe that nervy bastard?" There was awe and something like suppressed excitement in his voice. "I mean, to cut his own damned throat that way."

"He didn't."

"What?"

"How long since Putnam joined the force?"

"Well... I dunno. Long time, I guess. He was already on before I made the move."

"Long time is right. You ever notice anything about him?"

"Uh... like what?"

"He was a lefty, Hank."

"A communist?"

The sheriff grimaced, then shook his head. "He was a southpaw."

"What?"

"Left-handed, dammit!"

"Oh." The understanding dawned on Musgrove's face, and with it came a trace of disappointment as the red conspiracy went up in smoke. "Oh, yeah, I see."

"You do?"

"Well, now..."

"The razor's in his right hand, Hank."

"Aw, shit."

"You said it."

"But if Billy didn't do it to hisself..."

"Then someone did it for him. Right again."

The silence stretched between them for a moment, broken only by the distant, static crackle of a squad car's radio. The sheriff cleared his throat, and Musgrove almost jumped, as if the sound had startled him awake.

"Stay put. Secure the scene until I get a chance to send some people out. There may be fingerprints or something we can use."

But even as he spoke the sheriff knew there would be nothing for the team of lab technicians to discover.

Whoever had had the balls to open Billy Putnam's throat and watch him paint the ceiling with his blood would damn sure have the brains to clean up when he had finished. The job had been professional as hell, and it had almost worked.

Almost.

Bo Kendricks, lawman that he was, enjoyed a sense of order in his daily life, extending to his job and everything around him. Now he felt as if the earth had slipped its axis for a moment, wobbling from its orbit and reversing its poles as it careened off through empty space like some demented pinball. His cherished sense of order had been blown to smithereens.

Within the span of one short day, McLary had been witness to a pair of grisly homicides, with yet another one attempted in his jail. On top of that the nation's — hell, the world's — most wanted fugitive was locked away in one of Kendricks's holding cages, and the morning light would bring a pack of state and federal bloodhounds baying on his trail.

Bo Kendricks didn't give a damn what any of them thought about his county. He had paid his dues and he had nothing left to prove to anyone.

Unless, perhaps, it might be to himself.

It would be good to know that he could handle anything the big boys threw his way. Not only handle it, but turn it right around and ram it down their stinking throats while he was at it, sure. Somebody had the gall to think that they could use McLary County for their private killing ground, but they had made a serious mistake.

A grave mistake, you bet your ass.

Bo Kendricks didn't go along with any of that Wild West crap some other sheriffs lived for, but there was a strain of rugged independence in his soul that brooked no interference with his life, his town, his jurisdiction. Someone had taken the McLary County sheriff for a goddamned fool, and they would live to rue the day — at least until he knew their faces and their names.

And after that, they might not live at all.

13

The Alamo Hotel had been constructed in an age when air-conditioning was thought of as a luxury reserved for the elite. Remodeling attempts in later years had been restricted to the installation of ungainly window units, which succeeded largely in obstructing views and fire escapes while doing little to relieve the heal inside the twenty-seven "suites."

Still, the Alamo was a cut above the sleazy Blue Oasis on the edge of town, where air-conditioning was all they had. At the Alamo you got precisely what you paid for, and if your interest was nothing more than no-sweat sex, then you could take it down the road.

For Hal Brognola the attraction of the Alamo had been its proximity to the McLary County courthouse and the sheriff's office. He could live with perspiration and the ancient plumbing for a while if it would help the man locked up in Sheriff Kendricks's jail. Brognola only hoped the backup force of federal marshals he had ordered would arrive before it was too late.

Too late for what?

To save the Bolan cover? That was blown already, from the moment he had been photographed and fingerprinted at the booking desk. The brand-new face and altered prints were now on file and would soon be fed into the FBI's computer banks in Washington.

The soldier's words came back to him. There'll be files to burn. Brognola made a mental note to wipe the warrior's record clean before he left McLary, Texas.

No matter, though, Brognola told himself while waiting for the creaky elevator to arrive. The cover only mattered while the man was free to run, and all the indicators said those days were gone. Bolan wouldn't need a cover in the joint, and no amount of secrecy would keep him safe for long behind those prison walls.

The most that he could hope for would be to save Bolan's life.

Brognola gave up waiting for the elevator, cursing as he headed for the stairs. His room was on the topmost floor — the fourth — and he would need another change of shirt before he reached the lobby and the coffee shop. It was not yet eight o'clock, and the morning promised another scorching day. Hal could almost feel his energy evaporating in the claustrophobic stairwell.

He reached the hotel lobby and was already moving toward the coffee shop when a familiar voice reached out to touch him from behind.

"Long time," it said.

Brognola swiveled, bracing for trouble, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth before his mind made conscious recognition of the very familiar face.

"Too long," he answered, reaching out to clasp the hand of David Ecclefield.

They had cooperated briefly in Atlanta, and again in Memphis, when the Bolan juggernaut was rolling through its last days of the old-line Mafia campaigns.

Dave Ecclefield had been a Justice lawyer on the rise, and in the wake of Memphis he had been promoted regional commander of a strike force targeting the Dixie Mob. He knew what Bolan meant to Hal Brognola, but that would not prevent him from accomplishing his mission in McLary County. And the mission wouldn't be a mystery.

It would involve a federal extradition, certainly. Perhaps a special prosecutor — maybe Ecclefield himself — to lead grand jurors through a labyrinth of information dealing with the Bolan "crime wave." He would be prepared to offer deals, "security" and sanctuary in return for testimony, Joe Valachi-style And if the Executioner refused to play along, there was the state of Texas and a score of others waiting with a load of offenses that would land him on death row.

But any jail would be death row for Bolan now. Brognola understood that basic fact of jungle life, and it was gnawing at his guts behind the bright, reflexive smile.

"No need to ask why you're here."

"Same reason you are," Ecclefield responded. "And we're not alone."

"That quick?"

"Time waits for no man, guy."

"Goddamn it."

"If it's any consolation here, I think we've got the inside track."

"No consolation, David. None at all."

The prosecutor saw Brognola's pain and tried to lighten up.

"Well, anyway, spilt milk. You want to meet the troops?"

"Why not?"

The coffee shop was nearly empty, and he had no trouble picking out four men in business suits, all looking hot and huddled at their corner table, muttering among themselves. At Ecclefield's approach, they raised their eyes and cut off the conversation at once as if afraid of being overheard.

"Let's see if I can do this right."

The federal prosecutor started on his left and went around the table clockwise, introducing Hal to each in turn.

"John Tatum, chief of homicide, from San Diego."

Brognola leaned across the table and shook a hand as tough and hard as seasoned leather. He remembered Tatum's name from Bolan's Southern California wars, although the two of them had never met.

"Bob Williams, from Miami-Dade."

"How's Hardcase?"

Williams grinned. "It's obsolete. We've got a whole new world out there."

Brognola nodded. Right. It was a whole new jungle, with the same old predators on top.

"I heard about John Hannon. Sorry."

Williams lost the grin and nodded at the painful memory of absent friends.

"He was a damn good cop," Brognola said.

"The best."

"Meet Andy Foster. LAPD, Major Crimes."

"You work with Captain Braddock?"

"Used to."

"Oh?"

Brognola felt another warning prickle creeping up his neck. So many gone.

"He pulled the pin a few months back and moved up north."

The man from Washington relaxed. "The good life, eh?"

"There's no such thing."

"Al Weatherbee, from Pittsfield. He was in at the beginning."

Brognola shook the gray-haired lawman's hand and took a seat beside him at the far end of the table. David Ecclefield pulled up a chair and ordered coffee from the waitress who was hovering behind him, pad in hand. Brognola, hungry when he had woken, had lost his appetite and settled for the same.

He studied Weatherbee as casually as possible, with sidelong glances rather than a probing stare. Brognola would have recognized the man eventually, though the photos in his dossier portrayed a younger, thinner face. It would have taken time, and yet the eyes, the deep-etched lines around his mouth. were still the same.

And Weatherbee had been a part of Bolan's war from the beginning. In Pittsfield he had been among the first to see the Executioner in frenzy mode, before the soldier had learned to tame his grief and concentrate on larger goals. It had been Weatherbee, from all accounts, who had first revealed Mack Bolan's double life as would-be mobster cum avenger, boring from within the brotherhood to bring it down. And when the early cover had blown it was Al Weatherbee who had tried, in vain, to stem the blood tide that had run in his streets.

The man from Pittsfield was a Bolan "expert," sure, and it was no surprise to see him here. The Bay State had a claim on Bolan — several dozen claims if you took time to tally the body count — and Weatherbee would be the man to deal with Bolan one-on-one if it came down to that.

Brognola glanced around the breakfast table, putting on a narrow smile.

"I was expecting more," he said.

"They're on their way," Dave Ecclefield assured him. "I've already spoken to Joe Daley in Detroit, and Philly's got a Captain Tompkins on the next flight out. Before we're finished this will be SRO."

Standing room only. And Brognola could believe it. He wondered if the Alamo Hotel could handle what was coming, if the shabby Blue Oasis could accommodate the overflow. The media contingents hadn't surfaced yet, but they would not be far behind.

"We're going to have a goddamned circus on our hands," Brognola growled.

"You sound surprised."

"Just disappointed, Dave."

Miami's Captain Williams cleared his throat. "So, how's this thing supposed to work?" he asked the group at large. "Is it seniority? I mean, who had him first? Or do we go by body counts?"

A chuckle ran around the table, dying when it reached Brognola.

"The locals think they have a dead-bang case," he said to everyone. "They're not inclined to budge."

"What's your assessment?" Foster asked.

Brognola frowned into his coffee. "It's a frame." He raised his eyes to sweep the table and found himself the center of attention. "If Bolan was accused of knocking off a pusher or a pimp, I'd go along. But carving up a hooker in a cheap motel is definitely not his style."

"I'd say you're right," Al Weatherbee concurred. "The guy is lethal, but he's not a maniac."

"Suppose he cracked?" The question came from Andy Foster of L.A. "I mean, how long can any one man take the strain of living on the run and shooting anything that moves? It's got to take its toll."

"No good." Brognola shook his head in an emphatic negative. "The man's as sane as you or I."

"Oh, well," John Tatum drawled, "if he's as sane as Andy here..."

Foster dug an elbow into Tatum's ribs before the San Diego officer could get it out, and everyone was chuckling again. Brognola recognized the tension in their laughter, and he knew that some of them had little stomach for their missions in McLary County.

All of them had seen the Bolan war up close, and one or two had grudgingly been forced to shift from instant opposition into a reluctant admiration for the man. They might deplore his methods in the open light of day, but in the darkened corners of their souls, they realized that he was doing something, taking action in the face of problems that the rule book couldn't cope with anymore.

The guy was trying, dammit, and he had slain a score of dragons in every city represented at the breakfast table. The soldier had scattered the savages, leaving law enforcement with a small degree of breathing room. They owed him that, and no one in the group seemed overly enthused about his job.

"You think we'll have to wait around until they have a trial?" Bob Williams plainly didn't like the thought of lingering around McLary County any longer than was necessary.

"Probably," Brognola answered. "If it gets that far."

"How's that?"

He told them about the bid on Bolan's life and of the jailer Sheriff Kendricks had discovered with his throat slashed, first presumed a suicide, but now suspected as a grisly execution aimed at guaranteeing silence from the middleman. When he was finished, momentary silence cloaked the table and its occupants.

It was Al Weatherbee who broke the ice. "They won't give up that easily," he said.

"The sheriff recognizes that. He was... reluctant to accept the risk initially, but he's no fool."

"Can he defend the jail?" Miami's Williams asked. "I mean, if someone really wants to get inside?"

"Hell, no," John Tatum groused. "You couldn't keep Mack Bolan safe in Alcatraz."

"So, how about Fort Knox?"

The levity was strained at best, and Hal could read the mix of anger and frustration in their voices as they chimed in with suggestions, half in jest, half serious. When it had run its course, Dave Ecclefield turned back to face Brognola squarely.

"Is there anything that we can do?"

Brognola shrugged. "Our options are extremely limited. I've ordered some marshals, and the locals have agreed to let them hang around, provided that they don't get in the way. As far as custody, we'll have to wait in line."

"That's gonna be some line," Bob Williams said.

Every head around the table bobbed up and down.

Brognola drained his tepid coffee, then pushed the cup and saucer back. The waitress made a beeline for their table, but he waved her off.

"I think we'll have to wait it out," he told his grumbling audience. "If any of you want to catch the next flight home..."

"Like hell."

"I'll stick."

"I'm in for the duration, dammit."

"Who the hell can go home empty-handed?"

It was unanimous. The men who knew Mack Bolan best, aside from Hal Brognola and a handful of the nation's undercover warriors, would remain until their job was done. If it became a deathwatch in McLary County, they would stand the watch together.

"The guy may have a few surprises left," Al Weatherbee remarked to no one in particular. His eyes were on Brognola as he spoke.

Bob Williams snorted. "Shit. Houdini couldn't wiggle out of this one, man."

"Houdini wasn't Bolan."

"This one's been in other corners, Bob."

"He isn't in a corner, now. He's in a box."

"He's in a frigging coffin, if the families decide to take him out."

"What 'if'? You think that guy last night was the Red Cross?"

Brognola tuned them out, his mind traveling across and down the street to the McLary County jail. The prisoner would be awake by now, assuming he had slept at all, but what would he be feeling as he paced his cage or sat in stony silence with his back against the wall?

The guy may have a few surprises left, Al Weatherbee had said. And maybe so.

Brognola hoped with all his heart and mind that it was so. He would have prayed except that he had lost the knack somewhere along the way.

Bolan would be needing some surprises, some mighty aces up his sleeve if he intended to survive captivity. As for escape... well, that was fantasy.

No matter how he looked it over, Hal could not shake the feeling that a segment of his own life was coming to a close. Whatever happened here he would survive, but in the cellar of his soul he knew that it would never be the same.

Bolan was a part of Hal Brognola, part of his world, and he was not prepared to let that go without a fight. The man from Washington might have a few surprises left himself.

As for the Executioner, Brognola knew it didn't pay to second-guess the hellfire warrior, and he didn't try to do so now. Whatever Bolan had in mind, the big Fed vowed to assist in any way he could, with men and guns, logistical support, whatever. If it meant his job, his pension, then to hell with Washington, the desk, and all of it.

And if it meant his life...

Brognola thought about his wife and wished now that he could touch her face, explain to her the way things were, the way things had to be. And in the heartbeat that it took to visualize her, etch the loving portrait on the inside of his eyelids, Hal was certain that she understood already.

Yes.

Whatever happened here — tonight, tomorrow, the next day — she would understand. And, if it came to that, she would forgive.

It was the most that he could ask. And in the end it might be all that he would need.

The man from Washington would watch, and wait, and he would be available when duty called. Whichever way the thing went down, he meant to be on Bolan's side, and if they found him there when it was over, when the battle smoke cleared away, then he would have fulfilled his duty.

And, still, he would have dearly loved to see his wife again.

14

"Of course. I understand your feelings, Senator."

Bo Kendricks shifted in the swivel chair, the telephone receiver wedged between his shoulder and his ear. The deep long-distance voice was soft but firm, respectful but insistent.

"Naturally, the safety of a prisoner awaiting trial is paramount. And we appreciate your interest, sir. That's right. Good day to you."

McLary County's sheriff replaced the receiver, scowling.

Dammit.

It was bad enough that he was carrying the Bolan albatross around his neck, surrounded by the media and officers from half the fifty states. On top of that he had the frigging politicians to contend with now. A senator, no less, and one who pulled a lot of weight in law-and-order circles.

Michael Culp.

He recognized the name from campaign spots that made the network news and from the post-election stories of Culp's drive to open up a brand-new federal push against the syndicate. But there was something else, and Kendricks couldn't put his finger on it. There had been something in the press, way back, before the guy had taken Washington by storm. Some dirt about Culp's family — a daughter? — and some kind of off-the-wall religious cult in California.

The sheriff put it out of his mind. It was irrelevant, and he was wasting precious time. The call from Washington had rattled him, and he hoped he hadn't let the tension show. But the strain had intensified the burning in his gut.

Culp had been concerned about Bo Kendricks's prisoner. The senator had heard some "rumors" of attempts on Bolan's life in the McLary County jail, and Culp had mentioned the Judiciary Committee's grave concern that justice must be served in open court. And was there anything that Culp could do to help?...

"Goddamn it!" Kendricks swore.

Things were getting out of hand, and the sheriff loudly cursed the day when Mack the Bastard Bolan had crossed the county line. They had no syndicate around McLary County anyway. Some grass and coke among the youngsters, certainly, and half a dozen bookies tapped into the Dallas wire, but there was nothing for the Executioner to do.

Except to get himself arrested at the Blue Oasis and bring all kinds of heat down squarely on the sheriff's burly shoulders.

Kendricks would have liked to take the federal man, Brognola, up on his suggestion that they place the Executioner in federal hands, but it was not within his power now. The pitiful remains of Alma Jennings would be buried in the morning, but the coroner's report demanded action right away, and prosecutor Amy Stone was not about to look the other way while Kendricks let their perpetrator walk.

Incredibly, a seed of doubt had sprouted in the sheriffs mind. He wasn't ready to discount the evidence — the mutilated corpse in Bolan's rented room, the knives and other military gear — but there was more to this than met the eye. His own department had been breached, and the shaky link had been eliminated in a vain attempt at simulating suicide.

Two murders, then, not forgetting the death of one "Joseph Smith" in Bolan's cell. The sheriff was prepared to write off the hit man's killing as self-defense, but Billy Putnam was another matter altogether. A member of Kendricks's force had been corrupted, used and finally killed when he had outlived his usefulness. The McLary County lawman couldn't let that go, no way.

No way at all.

A soft knocking on the office door snapped Kendricks out of his reverie.

"Come in."

Amy Stone didn't have a smile for Kendricks as she closed the door behind her, found a chair across from him and settled into it, her briefcase on her knees.

"You've had a busy night." There was no trace of humor in her tone.

"And morning," Kendricks added, nodding toward the phone. "We're logging calls from Washington about this thing."

"You're not alone. But first things first. What happened here last night?"

He went directly to the bottom line. "Somebody tried to ice our prisoner. They failed... this time."

"An inside job?"

"Looks that way. One of my jailers, Billy Putnam, checked the hit man through. Billy split when Bolan turned the tables on his boy."

"Where is he now?"

"The jailer or the hit man?"

"Take your pick."

"Doc Ferris has 'em, over at the clinic."

"Dead?"

"I'd say."

"Both dead?"

He nodded grimly. There was nothing more to say.

"But how?"

"The hitter blew it," Kendricks told her simply. "Bolan took him hand to hand, and that was all she wrote. My jailer had his throat slit, but the killers tried to make it look like suicide."

"My God. That means we have a killer still at large."

"I'd make it killers. And I think it's safe to say we haven't seen the last of Bolan's fan club yet."

"They'll try again," she said, and it was not a question now.

"They can't afford to let it go."

"What are you doing for security?"

The sheriff spread his hands. "The best I can with what I have."

"Will it be good enough?"

"I hope so." Kendricks saw her frown and hastened to defend himself. "I mean, the Secret Service can't protect the President of the United States these days."

"The President is not a prisoner in the McLary County jail."

The lawman feigned surprise. "You mean he's broken out?"

"I don't appreciate your attitude."

"Well, ma'am, I don't appreciate your..."

Kendricks stopped himself before the words escaped. It was a no-win situation, and he would be needing friends before the week was out.

Try again.

Softening, he told her, "I'm doing everything I can. The Rangers have a couple of boys en route from Austin, an' we've got a federal man in town who mentioned calling up some marshals if I felt the need."

The lady prosecutor frowned. "Be careful there. If we can get the troops without surrendering our edge, okay. But I intend to try this case right here. We will do nothing that might jeopardize our jurisdiction. Clear?"

"As crystal."

"Fine." She, in turn, softened slightly. "What exactly did the federates want?"

"The moon as usual. They would be glad to take this problem off our hands. You know the drill. I've got a hunch they're looking for a songbird."

"Well, they'll have to get in line."

"That's what I told their boy."

"Okay. Have any other jurisdictions been in touch?"

"They're turning up. We haven't talked, but I expect that I'll be hearing from them. It's like a gold rush over at the Alamo."

"It's good for business."

"Whose?"

The lady prosecutor risked a haggard smile and checked her watch. "I've got a date to talk a deal with Bolan's counselor. He seemed receptive on the phone."

The sheriff frowned. "You gonna bargain down?"

"No way." The lady's voice was firm. "I can offer life without parole if he agrees to plead, but that's the limit. This is murder one, and that's the way it's going to stay."

The sheriffs frown was deepening, and Amy Stone was visibly disturbed by his reaction to her words.

"Is something wrong?"

"It's nothing I can put my finger on. I thought we had this bastard dead to rights, and then..." He suddenly remembered where he was and who he was speaking to. "I mean..."

"I know exactly what you mean," she said impatiently. "And you can spare us both the chivalry. What changed your mind?"

"It isn't changed," he answered. "Let's just say I've got some questions that I'd like to answer first before we pull the plug."

"Like what?"

"Like, why does Mr. Green Beret give up on popping mobsters an' decide to gut a hooker at the Blue Oasis? Why?"

"You answered that yourself just yesterday. He's cracking under the strain. God knows what's going on inside his mind."

"I guess. But I don't know, an' that makes all the difference in the world."

"Don't tell me you're having second thoughts?"

"I'm up to thirds and fourths by now," he said, and flashed a grin across the desk. He became serious in an instant and told her, "All this business with my deputy last night has left me wondering exactly who I can afford to trust."

"I recommend you start with me."

He felt the rising blush and cursed it silently.

"I wasn't doubting you," he told her quickly, earnestly.

"We can nail this down together. Whatever plays from there, we'll always know we did our jobs."

Bo Kendricks wondered when he had surrendered the assurance that he found in Amy Stone. Unable to recall, he finally decided that he had never possessed that kind of confidence at all. He knew his job and he was good at it, but when it came to faith in simple qualities like "right" and "justice," well...

He hadn't been inside a church for thirty years and had ceased to pray even longer than that. Before that, he had gone through the motions at the stern insistence of a mother who had been eaten up with cancer and had had only a few months to live. Her passing had been the end of it for Kendricks. He had seen her own titanic faith rewarded only with a slow and agonizing death. From that day forward he had believed in the reality of here and now. No more, no less.

And yet he almost envied Amy Stone her quiet confidence. The lady had backbone underneath those luscious curves, and she believed. She recognized that abstract "good" was being served by bringing Bolan to the bar. She was determined to see him there no matter what the cost to Kendricks, his department or herself.

But Amy Stone had glimpsed the inmate only from a distance, briefly, as the deputies had rushed him back and forth to court. She hadn't seen his eyes up close, the way Bo Kendricks had. She hadn't seen the soul reflected in those graveyard eyes or sought the spark of madness that could drive a man to maim and mutilate a woman in a cheap motel.

Bo Kendricks had been looking for the spark, and he had come up empty.

The sheriff recognized a killer when he saw one, and he liked to think that he could recognize a murderer as well. The two were worlds apart, although their handiwork might sometimes be identical, and Kendricks knew the Executioner for what he was.

They had a killer locked away downstairs. No doubt about it.

And they had a murderer — or murderers — at large.

The acid burning in his stomach had returned full force. Kendricks draped a hand across his paunch as if his touch could cool the fire inside.

The telephone trilled once, a signal from his secretary at her desk outside. The sheriff snared it, listened briefly and then replaced the receiver.

Nodding toward the door, he told the lady prosecutor, "It's your date."

As she rose to leave she said, "I thought it would be best to meet him here. We may need access to the prisoner before we close our deal."

"No problem," Kendricks said, and Amy Stone left the sheriff's office.

No problem, my ass, Kendricks thought. He now suspected — hell, knew — that he was sitting on a classic frame. Mack Bolan hadn't butchered Alma Jennings at the Blue Oasis any more than he had murdered Billy Putnam in the jailer's dingy bathroom last night. The frigging guy was innocent — of charges filed, at any rate — but it had slipped beyond the sheriff's hands. All the evidence was against the soldier now, and it would matter little to a jury that someone had been bent on killing him in jail. Most likely they would never hear that story; it would be suppressed as supposition and ruled irrelevant. The suspect's reputation had preceded him, and there would be no way on earth to prove that he had been framed precisely so that he would be a sitting target in McLary County's jail.

Bo Kendricks bristled at the gall, the sheer audacity behind the plan. His force had been corrupted on a scale that he could only hope to learn by winnowing the ranks. One down... and how damn many left to go?

The sheriff meant to have that answer for himself, and soon. Before the Bolan trial if possible. He would enjoy repaying any other venal deputies for their disloyalty, and he was looking forward to interrogating someone — anyone — about the source of dirty money in the ranks.

Bo Kendricks was a simple county lawman working in a one-horse town, but he could not be bought by the scum that overflowed from larger cities to the north and east. He cherished no illusions of his own ability to break the mob, but he could draw a line and meet them when they crossed that line.

The verdict on Mack Bolan had been written when the soldier had first picked up the gun. His reputation was his own worst enemy, and Kendricks couldn't do a thing to change the Bolan destiny. But he could ensure that Bolan got his day in court, and the sheriff meant to do that much no matter what the odds.

The soldier's enemies were still around, hell, yes. The sheriff smelled them, even from a distance, and he knew their numbers were increasing by the hour. If he couldn't hunt them down outside the jail, prevent them from collecting in his quiet little town, at least he could be ready when they tried to breach the jail.

And they would try.

No matter what the verdict and the sentence.

Because they had no choice.

Because their "honor," their survival, would depend on eliminating one who dared to stand against them. If the soldier lived they would lose face, and so much more.

They had to kill him here before he could be swept away and hidden in the federal witness program, and that grim imperative might work against them in the end.

It put them up against Bo Kendricks, and if they made the grave mistake of underestimating Kendricks, that was fine. A bit of overconfidence in the opposition only helped when it was time to make the kill.

And he would have to kill, the sheriff knew that much with certainty, before his job was done. The question wasn't if, but when?

The question was how many? Who?

Would it be someone he knew? Someone that he had carried on the payroll? Shared his coffee with? Regarded as his friend?

Bo Kendricks closed his mind to all of the unanswered questions, knowing he would have the answers for them when the time was right, when it was time to act, and conscious thought gave way to the survival reflex in the end. And in the meantime he would strengthen his defenses.

It was time to call the man from Washington.

15

The conference and interrogation room was small and windowless with a single door providing access to the corridor and world beyond. A pair of deputies was posted there, arms folded over beefy chests, their faces hard, their eyes and ears alert for any sound of violence from the room behind them, any hint of danger from outside.

McLary County's jail was going hard, but Bolan recognized the effort for precisely what it was — too little and too late.

Inside the fortresslike conference room he faced the county's svelte assistant D.A. across a wooden table scarred by cigarettes and ballpoint-pen graffiti. Bolan's court-appointed counsel sat beside him, frowning more from habit than from anything that had been said so far on either side.

Amy Stone cocked her head and studied Bolan's face. "I hope you realize that last night's incident was... unforeseen."

"It sounds like negligence to me," Dan Fleming said. "The sheriff should have known..."

"Forget it." Bolan's voice was soft, but it arrested Fleming's argument at once. "It's over with... for now."

The counselor was glaring at his client, color rising in his cheeks, but something in the soldier's voice, his attitude, persuaded Fleming to retreat and let it go.

"The sheriff has increased security of course," the assistant D.A. told them both. "There won't be any further problems from... outside."

Bolan felt the smile before he realized that it had crept across his face. A chill was radiating from a point below his breastbone, tingling along his arms and raising the short hairs on his nape. He recognized the feeling, sensed the enemy around him even now and fought a sudden urge to laugh out loud at Amy Stone's misguided faith in the machinery of law and order.

She was staring at him, confusion written on her face. "Is something wrong?"

"I want to go to trial."

The words were out before he knew it, and they brought a little groan from Fleming. Across the table Amy Stone was frowning into Bolan's eyes. "I understand. We should be ready for selection of a jury in a week, perhaps ten days."

The warrior shook his head. "Too long. I may not have ten days."

"I told you, Mr. Bolan, the security..."

"Is no damn good if someone really wants my head," he finished for her. "And believe me, Counselor, they do."

"I understand your situation."

"Then you know I haven't got a lot of time to spare."

"The people are as interested in a speedy trial as you are, sir."

"Okay. Then let's start tomorrow."

Amy Stone was silent for a moment, blue eyes shifting from the prisoner to his defense attorney, then back again.

"That isn't possible," she said. "We couldn't possibly select a jury by..."

"I'll waive the jury," Bolan told her flatly.

On Bolan's left, Dan Fleming slapped the table with an open palm.

"Just wait a second here," he snapped. "My client doesn't understand..."

"I understand my rights," the Executioner replied, his sidelong glance enough to silence Fleming. "And I intend to waive a trial by jury in this case."

The lady prosecutor's face was pinched in an expression of concern. "I must advise you..."

"Wrong. That's his job." Bolan cocked a thumb at Fleming, who sat slumped back in his chair. "And I repeat. I waive a jury trial."

"You're making a mistake," she told him earnestly.

"It wouldn't be the first."

"Your waiver must be made in open court."

"No problem. How about tomorrow morning?"

"There are other cases on the docket. It would take... at least a week."

"Postpone the other cases. Counselor. It happens all the time. You wait a week on this, you're bound to come up one defendant short."

From the expression on her face, Bolan knew the lady understood him. And she believed. Enough, at any rate, to take him seriously now.

"I'll see what I can do," she promised.

"Fair enough."

"And in the meantime I'll have the sheriff double-check security."

"Don't bother. He's done everything he can."

"We have a vested interest in your safety, Mr. Bolan."

"So do I. And it's impossible to guarantee inside a cell."

The lady rose to leave. "You'll have your day in court," she told him solemnly.

"I'll see you there."

Dan Fleming stayed behind a moment, scrubbing at his glasses with a tissue, then finally snugging them in place. His eyes were weary, hopeless, as they locked with Bolan's.

"You're committing suicide," the lawyer said, his voice reminding Bolan of a sigh.

"It's all a matter of perspective, Counselor. For me the suicide is waiting, sitting still."

"But even if you get your trial tomorrow — and I don't believe in miracles — you'll still be sitting through the arguments, the testimony, cross-examination, the consideration of a verdict."

"It's a chance I have to take," the soldier told him. "I'll be safer in an open court than here."

A sudden thought occurred to Fleming, deepening his frown. "She didn't try to bargain down," he said. "I should have tried to deal."

The soldier's smile was natural, serene. "The lady can't afford to bargain this one down," he said. "McLary County's underneath the microscope. They're first at bat, and she's afraid to take it in a walk."

"But it's a standard move..."

"And this is not your standard case," the Executioner reminded him unnecessarily. "They've got the evidence. They've got the stage. Careers are built on trials like this."

Dan Fleming's frown was carving furrows in his cheeks. "About that evidence... it stinks."

"You don't believe I killed the lady?"

Fleming thought about it for another moment, then finally shook his head in a reluctant but emphatic negative.

"No way. I've followed your... career... through media reports. I have a fair idea of what you've done. But this one smells. It positively reeks."

Mack Bolan grinned. "I hope the judge has got your nose."

"His nose is fine... but there's a problem."

"Only one?"

"He may not let you waive the jury trial."

"I have that right."

"Of course you do. We'd fight it on appeal."

"I haven't got that kind of time."

Dan Fleming shrugged. "So keep your fingers crossed."

"Is that your best advice?"

"It couldn't hurt."

Mack Bolan liked this man and regretted that the lawyer's life had been entangled with his own. Fleming appeared to age before his eyes as if a heavy weight had settled on his shoulders, threatening to pull him down.

"Don't let it eat at you," he told the counselor. "You've done your best with what you had. It was a lemon going in."

"That doesn't make it any easier to live with."

"Living's tough enough without the extra baggage. Lay it down."

Dan Fleming met his eyes, a sudden spark of anger flaring there. "You firing me?"

The soldier hesitated, then finally shook his head.

"Then spare me the condolences. This isn't over yet."

Bolan smiled, appreciating Fleming's nerve. The lawyer had to know by now that simply standing next to Bolan placed his life in jeopardy. Defending Bolan in a court of law could be the kiss of death, but something in the counselor's makeup would not let him back away.

And Bolan didn't have to search for fancy labels to describe that quality.

He called it guts.

Integrity, damn right.

As court-appointed counsel, Fleming knew he had three strikes against him. He lacked the state's investigative facilities, cash reserves, the sheer ability to sway a verdict through the power of a title tacked behind his name. His client's notoriety would be strike two. Strike three, the butchered woman found in Bolan's rented room along with other "evidence" collected at the scene.

Elimination of a jury shaved the prosecution's lead by placing the decision in the hands of one experienced and educated man. If Fleming smelled the stench behind a frame, the judge might also notice something in the wind, assuming that he was honest and unconnected to the syndicate by any ties past or present.

If Bolan drew a judge who had been bought and paid for... well... it was a gamble that he had to take. Selection of a jury spread the risk around — but it would also give the Mob a greater range of targets to select from when it came to serving up threats, or promises of a rich reward.

He felt a reasonable certainty that he would be safe in court unless some trigger-happy moron slipped his leash. There would be deputies and bailiffs standing by to deal with any overt threats, and Hal Brognola could be counted on to have some troops behind the scenes. A raid in open court would bring down heat enough to fry the mafiosi in their burrows, and for now that was the only life insurance Bolan had.

The soldier did not think beyond tomorrow and his day in court. He might not see the sun set on another day, but death did not intimidate Mack Bolan. He had come to terms with the inevitable early in his endless, hopeless war, accepting the realities of his selected course. So far he had not only named the game but also had effected some surprising changes in the rule of play. And yet the soldier knew that he could not escape or second-guess the final hand.

The odds had been against him from day one. He had defied them, had mocked the laws of probability and had walked away with mind and body more or less intact. The soul was something else again, and Bolan's bore the scars of countless wounds inflicted by his enemies. From time to time the pain would stir inside him and Bolan would be forced to scan the roll call of the lost. So many lives, and in the end it all came down to a McLary County cell.

But if the cell became his final bivouac, if they should cut him down in transit, or decide to field another team inside the block itself, the soldier would be satisfied that he had done his best. One man could make a difference, could defy the odds.

One grim, determined man could move the world — or stop it cold — depending on his methods and his goals. How many times had one demented gunman altered governments and changed the course of history? How many lone, obsessive madmen had disrupted cities, states or nations with their brutal fantasies?

Too many.

Bolan was the balance weight, a single force against the cannibals, someone who was determined that their savage appetites would not be satisfied today.

Tomorrow, sure, would have to take care of itself.

The Executioner would give tomorrow all the aid and comfort that he could... but first, he had to help himself.

And that would be no easy task.

For openers it would be necessary to convince a judge that justice would be served by the avoidance of a jury trial. A conscientious magistrate might not agree; he might insist that Bolan plead his case to twelve impartial people.

But if he was forced to waste the time involved in the selection of a jury panel, Bolan was as good as dead. He recognized that truth, and it would be his task to make the court accept that simple fact.

Without a jury, and without delays, he had a chance.

The slimmest, most anemic chance.

If death was the inevitable end to any soldier's private war, the soldier owed it to himself to choose the time and place. But failing that, if he could not select the killing ground, he could at least resist the final curtain call. He could fight back with all his strength and grim, ferocious energy until the enemy overwhelmed him and brought him to earth.

Mack Bolan was prepared to go down fighting — in the cell block, in the courthouse, any way it came.

The Executioner would have his day in court, or die in the attempt. And take along a couple of the cannibals.

It was the very least that he could do.

16

Johnny Bolan had been driving for the better part of twenty hours, fueled on truck-stop coffee, greasy burgers and the burning urgency that ate him up inside. He had pushed the 4 x 4 Jimmy at a steady pace, avoiding speed traps in New Mexico and Arizona, skirting larger towns with their police and traffic lights unless he needed food or fuel. And he had made it through without an incident.

Almost.

His full attention had been focused on the radio, an hourly newsbreak in the endless flow of strident rock, the announcer's voice declaring that the fugitive, Mack Bolan, had been locked up in McLary County, Texas, facing charges in a local homicide. Authorities from around the nation and the world would be arriving in the days to come, each staking out a claim until the jurisdictional disputes could be resolved.

The news flash left Johnny feeling dizzy, undecided whether he should scream or laugh hysterically. They knew his brother now, and they should not have known him — after surgery, the alteration and erasure of his fingerprints, the cover that he would have carried on his Texas run.

They knew him, and it had to mean that Mack had let the information slip deliberately or otherwise. The miserable alternative was too much to contemplate now, and Johnny thrust it out of mind, returning his attention to the road, his rearview mirror... and the flashing lights of a police cruiser on his tail.

His mind had not been on the road, on the speedometer, and he had missed the city limits sign staked out a good five miles before the tiny desert town was visible. No time to wonder which dusty crossroad was approaching now. He had to shake the cruiser; he couldn't let its driver scrutinize the automatic weapons and other paramilitary gear that he had stowed behind the Jimmy's driver's seat.

He floored the gas pedal, knowing that he could not outrun the squad car's powerful Police-Pak on the open road. But he had four-wheel drive and rugged off-road tires to see him through maneuvers that the standard street cop's chariot could never hope to emulate. Johnny had no doubt that he could evade the rural squad car, leaving its occupant with nothing worse than bruises to his dignity.

The siren wailed behind him, eerie in the desert night, and Johnny smiled, his mirror image green and ghostly in the dashboard light. The officer would have his license number now, but that would be the least of Johnny's problems. He kept a set of spares, complete with registration papers, but he would need some time and space to make the switch. Some time and space without a screaming cruiser on his ass.

The younger Bolan cut his wheel hard left and dropped the Jimmy into four-wheel drive before he cleared the shoulder of the two-lane blacktop. Accelerating, Johnny kicked the headlights onto high beams and momentarily lost his pursuer in a cloud of roiling dust and sand. The siren faltered, seemed to momentarily choke, and then took up the howl of the pursuit once more.

He hated taking time to play this game when there was so much to be done and so little time. Unmindful of the sand and stones and sagebrush whipping past beneath the Jimmy's undercarriage, Johnny pushed its engine to the limit, rocking with the motion of its progress on the rough terrain.

A blowout or a broken axle now would finish him — would finish Mack — and Johnny knew the risk that he was taking when he left the road. Maybe he should have simply taken the citation with a smile, but then again...

One Bolan locked away was bad enough. Two Bolans caged would be the end of everything, and there was more at stake.

His brother's war, his life and soul, were riding on the line, and Johnny knew that he could not afford to gamble on the odds. There would be time enough for that when he reached McLary and saw how best he could assist his brother in escaping from his cell.

It never once occurred to Johnny Bolan to do nothing, to just simply let the chain reaction of events proceed along its charted course. If there was one thing he had learned from Mack, from life, it was the lesson that a single man could make a difference, anytime and anywhere, no matter what the odds.

Standing on the gas, he slowly brought the Jimmy back around in the direction of the highway. Behind him, the pursuer's headlights wavered crazily, now pointing to the heavens, now just as swiftly nosing down again and flattening against the rocky earth. The cop was catching hell back there but hanging tough. He would have placed the call for backup by this time. Johnny knew they might be waiting for him on the highway, but he would have to take that chance.

And he was watching when the trailing headlights disappeared.

The sudden, swirling darkness was so absolute that it was blinding. Johnny braked and sat idling for a silent moment, listening for the siren, but in vain. He cautiously reversed his track now, navigating through the settling dust clouds with his rearview mirror, dousing his own lights just in case the officer was trying to take him by surprise.

And in the desert darkness Johnny Bolan almost missed the lip of the ravine.

It had been fate, perhaps, that had made him miss the gully on his headlong charge to nowhere, pure dumb luck that had led the officer to cut his wheel hard right instead of veering left. The cruiser had survived a drop of seven feet with minor damage to the grill, where it had burrowed deep into the sandy bank, the engine dead on impact, robbing power from the beacon lights and siren. A scuffling movement behind the dusty windshield told Johnny that the driver had survived. He would be hailing reinforcements soon with his mounted microphone.

Johnny found the pavement more by instinct than by navigation, running dark against the possibility of other cruisers waiting for him on the highway, but he was alone. He took the Jimmy up to eighty-five and held it there until he crossed the Texas line, and only then did he allow himself to wind her down to find a turnout and switch the license plates.

Soon he passed the highway sign that told him he was entering McLary County, Texas. Twenty minutes more and he was in the town itself, the Jimmy rolling on past dusty, faded storefronts, past the redbrick courthouse, homing in on the Alamo Hotel. The parking lot was filling up with rental cars, and there was a sprinkling of vans with tv network logos painted on their sides.

Johnny found a space in back beside a service entrance that probably opened on the kitchen if his first impression was correct. He locked the scaled-down utility and walked around to enter through the lobby, thankful for the small relief provided by the ceiling fans inside.

The desk clerk was a balding man in shirtsleeves, sporting half-moon perspiration stains under his arms. He eyed the new arrival with sullen curiosity.

"Help you?"

"I could use a room."

"How long?"

"A day or two. It could be more."

"You with the networks?"

Casual, but with cautious animation creeping in, thought Johnny. The desk clerk had attained a small degree of secondhand celebrity, and he had a story, sure, if someone cared enough to roll the tape and cross his palm with coins.

"I'm free-lance," Johnny told him noncommittally.

The desk clerk nodded knowingly, pretending that he understood. "In town to do a story on this Bolan thing?"

"That's right."

"I knew it." The clerk's caution was disappearing now as Johnny finished filling out the registration card and pushed the first night's rent across the counter. "I was working when they brought him in, you know."

"In here?"

The desk clerk looked confused. "Well, no... not here. They took him to the jail, right there, across the street."

"I see."

"You couldn't miss him. It was like Clyde Barrow come to town or somethin'. He was six foot seven if he was an inch, I swear to God."

"I always thought he was a small man."

"Who?"

"Clyde Barrow."

Brief confusion gave way to irritation on the desk clerk's sallow face. "I meant that Bolan."

"Oh, well, my mistake."

Johnny snared the key and turned his back before the clerk could formulate an answer. He passed into brilliant, baking sunshine once again. He would retrieve his meager baggage from the Jimmy, bring it through the service entrance to avoid another meeting with the sage in residence... and he would try to sleep.

It was the only sensible course, considering the time of day and the weight of sheer exhaustion that had settled on his shoulders. He could do nothing for Mack in daylight, and his search for evidence could wait another hour, two at most, until his energy reserves had been replenished from the drive. When he was rested...

What?

He would survey the battleground for openers. And it would be a battleground, this little desert crossroads, if they tried to take his brother down in jail. Or if they tried to take him out of jail. Any way it played, it would be Johnny's job to save him.

But first he needed sleep. Then he would begin unraveling the skillful frame that had, at last, ensnared the Executioner.

* * *

The soft, insistent trilling of the telephone demanded Ethan Peck's attention. He put the VCR on pause, arresting naked bodies on the twenty-six-inch screen. It was his private line, goddammit, and he knew that he could not afford to ignore it. A nagging sense of apprehension was already churning in his stomach as he shouldered the receiver.

"Yeah?"

"We're waiting, Ethan."

And he recognized the voice at once.

It was the last voice in the world he wanted to intrude upon his tight, intensely private world.

"I ran into a little problem here."

"We heard about your little problem, Ethan. Fix it."

"I've got people working on that now. Another couple days..."

"You're stalling."

There was something worse than anger in the deep, familiar voice. An icy finger traced the flabby nape of Ethan's neck and brought the short hairs there to attention.

"Hey, you know me, right? I've never let you down before. Your hitter dropped the ball. You can't hold me responsible for that."

"Of course we can."

"I'm gonna patch things up," he told the disembodied voice. "Don't worry, huh?"

"We're paying you to worry, Ethan. If you don't think you can handle it..."

"They've got his ass in maximum security. It's gonna take some time."

"You haven't got a lot to spare."

"I've got some people on the local force..."

"We know your people, Ethan. Some of us have noticed that they haven't been much help so far."

"They put him in the bag now, didn't they? They got him where you wanted him."

"We want him gone."

"He's on his way."

There was a ringing silence on the other end, more sinister than anything the caller might have said. Peck felt the dark intelligence that radiated from the telephone receiver, sensed the power that would crush him like an insect if he failed.

The rancher cleared his throat. "A few more days. You can relax."

"Some of us are concerned about what might be happening tomorrow, or the next day. Let's imagine your canary starts to sing."

"What could he say?"

"Too much. He's been around."

"I'd say his ass is in a sling."

"That makes him more inclined to deal."

The VCR hummed into life, its freeze-frame time running down, the camera zooming in to focus on a pair of mammoth, heaving breasts. A long, unearthly moan erupted from the speakers as he fumbled the remote, recovered it and killed the picture with an angry snarl.

"You with us, Ethan? Am I keeping you from anything?"

"Right here. I understand your problem."

"Excellent. So good of you to take it off our hands."

He flinched as if he had received the kiss of death, which in a way he had.

"You can relax," he said, projecting confidence he didn't feel. "I wouldn't let you down."

The line went dead, the irritating dial tone buzzing in his ear. Ethan Peck replaced the receiver and slumped back in his soft reclining chair, angry and frightened, all at the same time.

There had been nothing left to say of course. He had a job to do, and if he blew it he was dead. There wouldn't be a rat hole in the Western Hemisphere where he could hide himself away from hungry guns if Bolan made it through the weekend. They were itching now — he had been able to detect the nervousness beneath his caller's cultured tone — and when they started scratching they would start with Ethan Peck.

Unless he brought the contract in on schedule.

The rancher thought about his life, the climb from ragged poverty to filthy affluence, and knew that he could not afford to fumble now. He had achieved the dream of generations past, the wasted generations who had scrabbled at the hard, unyielding soil, attempting to preserve a tattered legacy whose time had come and gone.

If his father and the rest could see him now, they would have been bewildered at the empire he controlled. They might have shunned his motives, sure, but the proof was in the pudding. And these days he was washing down his pudding with champagne instead of chasing fatback with a stale, warm beer.

The thought of his success gave him momentary strength.

Aware that he could lose it all — tonight, tomorrow — Peck was livid. Seething. At the Dallas crowd for making him accept their burden as his own. And at himself for falling into line so readily, contributing the final touches to a plan that just might boomerang and cut him off below the knees.

Mack Bolan wasn't Ethan's problem — hadn't been until the man from Dallas had asked him for a favor and he had hungrily agreed. The rancher had seen dollar signs, and he had known the Dallas crowd was lavish in expressing righteous gratitude. A favor of this magnitude, if executed properly, would set him up for life.

For life.

Except that life would be a rare commodity if Ethan muffed it one more time. The men in Dallas were known for holding grudges, and for burying mistakes. Their fabled generosity was rivaled by the energy with which they punished failure in the ranks, and Peck did not intend to finish out his days as a statistic on some Texas Ranger's missing persons list.

He would succeed — and not because some overrated son of immigrants had threatened him long distance.

Ethan would deal with the goddamned Executioner as he had with every other obstacle along the rags-to-riches road. He would obliterate the stumbling block and grind the shattered pieces underfoot before he went about his business, confident that he was still the best. And if the Dallas crowd took issue with the obvious, well, there were ways of dealing with that kind of problem, too. It would require some thought, but Peck was good at that. They would be sorry if they tried to throw their weight around McLary County.

But first he had to deal with Bolan.

Swiftly and efficiently.

If Bolan went to trial...

The rancher smiled as a plan took shape in his mind. It just might save his ass and everything that he had worked for, fought for, all these years.

A little subtlety might do the trick where plain brute force had failed, a change of pace to throw the enemy off guard.

And if the rapier in his right hand didn't turn the trick, he would rely on the meat-ax in his left. Whichever way it played, the frigging Executioner would never leave McLary County's jail alive.

The rancher's smile had spread from ear to ear, and now he could not pen the laughter up inside. It overflowed to fill the paneled study, echoing along the corridor outside and drawing puzzled glances from the Hispanic kitchen help.

He felt like dancing, but he would have to wait until the necessary groundwork for his plan had been completed. Later, when the time was right, there would be time enough to dance.

On Bolan the Bastard's grave.

17

The slender black man sipped his bourbon, found it satisfactory and set the glass aside. He liked nursing the single drink allowed to him by overcautious doctors, making it last throughout the morning. The amber liquid warmed him, radiating welcome heat through organs and extremities, anesthetizing all the little aches and pains that came with age.

At sixty-three he had already reached the pinnacle of his career, expecting no promotions, no surprises. But the Bolan case had managed to surprise him all the same.

In younger days the black man had believed that he had been born to wear a judge's robe. His very name was borrowed from the wisest jurist in Supreme Court history, and loving parents had prepared him for the bar before he had been old enough to understand the words that they had repeated and impressed upon him. Justice. Liberty. Equality before the law.

Those concepts had been incomprehensible to Southern blacks at the time of his birth and unknown throughout the years of segregated schooling. He had worked and fought to squeeze a decent education from facilities that were, inherently, both separate and unequal. He had missed the revolution of the sixties, born too early for the sit-ins, marches, voter registration drives and brutal violence that had torn the South apart. Conservative by nature, busy with his practice and a growing family, he had been there to pick up the pieces with others and to reassemble something that approached the working definition of a free society.

And Oliver Wendell Price no longer believed in destiny. He could not make himself believe that any man was born to a specific role in life, that an unseen guiding hand controlled the fate of humankind. He could believe in work and perseverance, even plain dumb luck, but Price had lost his childhood faith in anything beyond the present. He still believed in justice, though the definition sometimes blurred before his aging eyes, and he believed emphatically in every man's equality before the law.

And, yes, Price had also witnessed injustice and inequality before the law. He had seen the "brothers" — poor, uneducated black men in their prime — sign up or accept being drafted for military service in Vietnam, perhaps for no other reason than to allay perpetual hunger pangs. At the same time more privileged white boys had been safely sequestered in colleges — in academe — across the nation.

When the "bloods" had unwittingly found themselves entangled in a conflict that they were neither trained for nor understood, Price had heard their anguished cries reach across eight thousand miles as they had died, impaled upon punji stakes and shredded by Vietcong artillery.

The judge reflected wryly on the condition of his people, who had been shanghaied into slavery from their safe jungle homes so many generations before, then sent back in the here and now to a different kind of jungle.

But it didn't matter, Price told himself, because the eyes of the world were focused on America as she paid lip service to a different kind of oppression that was running rampant in South Africa. Did America really care? Had the "massa" mentality really disappeared? Price didn't think so...

His own rise from private practice to the Texas bar had been achieved through politics, the seedy give-and-take of government where principles were sacrificed too often on the altar of expediency. It had been possible for Price to be a judge in 1970 as it had been impossible for Price's father or for any other black to rise so high a decade earlier.

Beyond the possible, it was desirable, conferring a belated halo of compliance on McLary County's hidebound, arch-conservative establishment. A token black, he had survived the seventies with reputation unscathed, and he had seen the civic dinosaurs begin to totter off in the direction of a well-deserved extinction. Price had managed to outlive them all, his scruples more or less intact, and he was justly proud of his achievements on the bench.

But he was troubled, too.

There was a malady alive and growing in America, malignant tendrils worming through the body politic, subverting law and order, festering within the shadow of the flag. A modern vigilante spirit had been spreading through the nation like a Texas bushfire, sparking hatred and fanning random violence into angry, paramilitary flame.

The Klan, the Posse Comitatus and a host of pseudo-Christian, neo-Nazi splinter groups were crawling out of burrows and from underneath their stones to batten on the fears of middleclass Americans.

The judge had dealt with psychopaths and super-patriots before. Throughout his life there had been confrontations with the sort of racist bullies who required an underdog to make them feel superior. He had observed the Klansmen of the thirties as they had marched in torchlit columns down McLary's main street, chanting words of hatred, breaking ranks to harass blacks or Mexican-Americans along the route.

In later years, as an attorney serving those whose race or income kept them from obtaining uptown legal talent, he had grown accustomed to the sneers of redneck deputies who had falsified arrest reports to justify the beatings they had inflicted on a whim. He had encountered bigotry in military service, and before the bar, but he had never grown accustomed to its sting.

The new-wave vigilantes worried Price. They frightened him, and now the case of one Mack Bolan had arrived to focus all his apprehensions, all his doubts and fears. The former Green Beret epitomized a rough-and-ready justice that defied established law and jeopardized the system that, with minor hiccups, had been running smoothly for two hundred years and more.

Except the system wasn't running smoothly now. The aging jurist sometimes wondered how — or why — it ran at all. The trend toward bartering with criminals, to minimize their penalties on everything from misdemeanors to major felonies, had never gone down well with Price. He understood about the crowded calendars, the overcrowded prisons... and he understood about the victims, too.

He recognized the need for safeguards on the rights of the accused, but during forty years of studying the Constitution and the law, he had discovered nothing that proclaimed the predators more worthy of protection than the citizens on whom they preyed.

And he could understand the gut appeal of vigilante justice, certainly. Despite his heritage, his race, Judge Price was not immune to outrage at the news of an atrocious crime. His background merely tempered the instinctive fury with a knowledge of what vigilante justice could become if it should be allowed to run amok.

He wondered where Mack Bolan fitted, precisely, in the scheme of things. The soldier was an outlaw certainly; he had killed, prolifically and with premeditation, since his one-man war had begun. He had been wanted by the state of Texas long before he was arrested in McLary County, and there would be countless other jurisdictions waiting for him when the current case ran its course. But none of that concerned Price at the moment. He would sit in judgment on a single case, the death of Alma Jennings, and that crime had bothered him increasingly since Bolan had let his true identity be known.

Judge Price had been aware of Bolan's war from the beginning. Like countless others, he had once believed the soldier dead, and part of Price had been relieved that it was finished. But the one-man army hadn't died, and he was sitting down in Sheriff Kendricks's jailhouse now, awaiting trial for butchering a woman.

It was the nature of the crime that nagged at Price, the savagery and choice of target. Bolan was a killer, certainly, and other women might be included in the body count, for all Price knew. But with Alma Jennings it had been... different. He had already seen a sheriffs photograph, depicting the carnage at the Blue Oasis, and he had recognized the grim, irrefutable evidence of sadistic madness in the killer's handiwork. If Bolan was responsible, the man had lost his mind. It was as simple — and as damnably complex — as that.

The strain of waging a relentless private war would be enough to break the average man. It would have been enough to break a superman, but had it broken Bolan? If the soldier's mind had slowly snapped, there should have been some warning signs amid the orchestrated chaos of his violent "normal" life. If, instead, he had somehow suddenly collapsed, then Alma Jennings's murder might be the first sign of madness.

The jurist stopped himself, one hand poised, reaching for the bourbon glass. He was assuming Bolan's guilt before he heard a single shred of evidence, and Price could not afford that error in a case so fraught with perils as the one before him now. His first responsibility was to the law, to justice, and he would reserve his judgment until he had the evidence in hand.

No matter what the soldier represented, he deserved the same impartial trial as any other suspect in McLary County. And he would receive no less while Price was on the bench.

As for the future... the jurist closed his mind to what would follow, and the implications of the several verdicts Bolan might receive. Whichever way it went, the one-time Green Beret had nothing waiting for him but a string of lonely cells and fortresslike courtrooms.

But here and now were all that mattered, and the wall clock told him that he had a special hearing on the soldier's case in slightly less than ninety minutes. It was the proximity of that encounter that had led him to the bourbon and had set his nerves on edge.

He wasn't looking forward to pronouncing judgment on a man who had, by all accounts, done valiant service for his country in her time of need. What had followed was something else again, and Price would gladly have agreed to a change of venue if it had been sought by either side. But he would not get off so easily this time. The case was his, and he would have to see it through.

The liquor scorched his throat, its heat immediately fading, mellowing, diffusing through his body as he sat back in his padded swivel chair. If he had been a praying man, he would have asked for guidance, but the jurist had no shortage of self-confidence. He would be called upon to make some tough decisions, but he was equal to the task.

And in a most peculiar way Price grudgingly admitted that he was looking forward to it.

He was about to peer inside a lonely, violent mind, rummage through its darkest corners, searching for the key to what made it tick. He was about to look into Mack Bolan's heart and soul, to travel through the labyrinthine corridors of one man's sojourn in hell.

It was a trip that Price had made before, with other cases, but always on a smaller scale. The case before him now could be the pinnacle of his career — or it could end that same career abruptly. Price did not delude himself that he was operating in a vacuum, that his court was somehow sacrosanct, untouchable. He meant to run the trial according to the inbred principles that he had used as guidelines all his life... but if he swam too far, he might be swept away. There were a hundred different means of toppling judges from the bench and damned few ways to minimize the damage such a fall would have on his career.

Price recognized the risks inherent in the Bolan case, but he would forge ahead in spite of them. No, that was wrong. The jurist would proceed because of all the dangers. It was his duty to the law, to justice, and he meant to guarantee that every man was equal in McLary County's courts. His robe, his very life, was dedicated to equality before the law. Whatever the soldier had done, whatever had compelled him on his violent run, the prisoner locked away in Sheriff Kendricks's jail deserved no less.

And once again the nagging thought came back to Price that Bolan might deserve a good deal more.

He pushed the renegade idea out of conscious thought. Price would consider all the evidence, instruct his jurors with impartiality, and in the case of a conviction, he would do his best to make the final sentence fit the crime.

And if the jurors found Bolan innocent? What then?

He shrugged the thought away, secure in the knowledge that a verdict wouldn't be a problem. If the panel found defendant Bolan innocent of killing Alma Jennings, he would remand the prisoner to the custody of Texas Rangers, FBI or whoever the hell might be waiting to claim him next. Whichever way it played, the odds against Mack Bolan ever being free again were astronomical. And then some.

That wouldn't be the judge's problem — or his burden — either way.

Except that he would be responsible for everything that happened in the courtroom, for admitting or denying each item of evidence that would decide a jury's verdict in the end. It would be his decision, no less than a jury's, and there would be no way for him to escape that burden now.

The life of yet another individual was riding in his hands, and Price could feel the sheer weight of responsibility descending on him like a shroud.

A frown was etched across his burnished ebony face as Price debated, reconsidered and finally reached across his desk to fill the bourbon glass a second time. The simple gesture broke a lifelong habit, but he recognized that this would be a day of firsts in a life that had become predictable and commonplace.

If only he had been a praying man...

18

The courtroom began filling by ten o'clock. The press and the law-enforcement personnel had arrived early, filling their allotted seats, while the townspeople waited in an endless line outside. They jammed the outer corridor until the deputies were forced to herd them against one wall, their numbers spilling through the marbled lobby and out into the street. The people of McLary County, and from jurisdictions all around, had come to see Mack Bolan face his day in court.

Security was tight, and solemn deputies were busy checking handbags, brandishing their metal sensors, pulling this or that civilian out of line on the slightest suspicion. There had been three arrests before the gallery was filled — two teenage youths — one discovered in possession of an air gun, the other with a switchblade knife — and an intoxicated farmer from the hinterlands who loudly voiced his wish to shake Mack Bolan's hand.

The deputies had been expecting worse, already primed by locker-room discussions of the Mafia and rumored multimillion-dollar contracts on their star defendant, half expecting crowds of men in pin-striped suits and snap-brim hats, suspicious bulges prominent beneath their arms. Instead, they had to deal with housewives, students, used-car salesmen — men and women they encountered every day around McLary and surrounding hamlets. It was as if the carnival had come to town, and no one planned to miss the show.

Mack Bolan, star attraction, was among the late arrivals. Hobbled, weighted down with chains, surrounded by a flying squad of sheriff's deputies, he negotiated now familiar corridors with shuffling strides, unable to accommodate impatient officers by picking up his pace. They rode the elevator up in silence, his security detachment bristling with guns, and point men swept the narrow hallway clear before he was conducted through a side door granting access to the court. The armed detachment would remain outside, their presence deemed an imposition on the stately courtroom atmosphere, but they would be accessible in case of any unforeseen emergency.

Bolan scanned the gallery and picked out some familiar faces. Hal Brognola down in front, with David Ecclefield, the federal prosecutor, seated on his left. Al Weatherbee, from Pittsfield, was a mild surprise, and Bolan nodded to the captain who had picked up the pieces from his first campaign against the Mafia so long ago.

The dour faces flanking Weatherbee each struck distinct and separate chords of memory, recalling different hot spots on the endless hellfire trail. Miami. San Diego and Los Angeles. Detroit.

There would be others, too, before the trial ran its course, and each of them was waiting for a turn at bat, another trial with Bolan in the dock.

Except there would be no more trials. Whichever way it went there in McLary, Bolan knew that he would never see the inside of another courtroom. If he was convicted, there would be another hit man waiting for him in the lockup — and another after that, on and on until the job was done. If he should be acquitted, there would be countless warrants and detainers waiting for him, countless opportunities to pick him off in transit to another jail, another jurisdiction.

This would be his only day in court, the soldier realized, and he would have to make it count.

He spotted Susan Landry, seated with the other members of the press, her face a pallid study in determination. She was holding it together with an effort, taking notes and glancing up to meet his gaze as he approached the table set aside for the defense. A gutsy lady, sure, possessed of self-assurance, style... and something else. Another time, another place, and Bolan would have gladly searched her secrets out... but here and now were all he had.

Dan Fleming rose to greet him and saw his client settled in a wooden chair before returning to his own. The yellow legal pad in front of Bolan's lawyer was a maze of cryptic notes with nervous doodling around the margins where he'd tried to pass the time.

"We're good for a continuance," he whispered, leaning close to Bolan, radiating urgency. "If you would only change your mind..."

"I'm out of time," the soldier told him flatly. "A continuance would see me dead."

"All right, if you're determined to proceed..."

"I am."

The lady prosecutor. Amy Stone, entered with a flourish from the wings. She nodded an acknowledgment to Fleming, glanced at Bolan fleetingly and settled at the prosecution table, digging into her briefcase for some notes. She radiated confidence and poise, commitment to the task at hand, and Bolan could admire that. She had a job to do, and his position on the firing line did not diminish Bolan's gut respect for her professional approach. The circumstances of their meeting had precluded friendship, but he could appreciate a righteous soldier of the same side anytime.

"All rise."

The bailiffs voice brought lawyers, newsmen and civilians to their feet. Bolan rose beside his counselor, refusing to acknowledge the manacles and chains that slowed him down.

"Superior Court is now in session, in and for the county of McLary. Judge Oliver Wendell Price presiding."

The slender black man took his seat on high, surveying the participants and hangers-on with eyes that seemed both sad and worldly-wise.

"Be seated."

Clanking chains, the theme song of a prisoner, resounded over shuffling feet as Bolan took his seat. Beside him Fleming riffled through the pages of his yellow legal pad in search of something that apparently eluded him. In front of them the bailiff struck a rough approximation of parade rest.

"State of Texas versus Mack Samuel Bolan," he intoned. "Defendant charged with murder in the first degree, kidnapping with intent, unlawful possession of automatic weapons and destructive devices."

The bailiff stepped back, standing down. It was the judge's turn.

"The defendant, through his counsel, has entered a plea of not guilty as charged. Is the defense prepared for trial?"

Dan Fleming cast a final sidelong glance at Bolan, and the soldier nodded affirmation.

"Go."

His counsel faced the bench with weary resignation. "Yes, we are. Your Honor."

Amy Stone was glaring daggers at him from the prosecution table, and for just an instant Bolan thought the judge's face had registered surprise. If so, he had covered it quickly, swiveling to face the blond assistant D. A.

"And is the state prepared for trial?"

There was a heartbeat's hesitation as the lady brought her thoughts together, shrugging off the momentary consternation.

"Frankly, we anticipated a continuance, Your Honor. We have not assembled all our witnesses in court this morning."

"Do I hear a motion for continuance?"

Dan Fleming filled the gap before his adversary could respond.

"Object, Your Honor. The defense is ready to proceed, and there is evidence that a continuance might jeopardize my client's safety." Fleming's voice was stronger now, already warming to the game. "The statutes are explicit on the right of a defendant to a speedy trial, but if the state is not prepared..."

"We are prepared, Your Honor. In the matter of our witnesses..."

The jurist raised one dark, appeasing hand. "Miss Stone, I trust your witnesses are local residents, considering the nature of the case?"

"They are, Your Honor."

"And selection of a jury panel should allow you ample time-"

"Defense will waive a jury in this case, Your Honor."

Fleming's words ignited something in the courtroom, sparking muttered comments from assembled newsmen and the gallery. Bolan glanced across one shoulder and found Brognola huddling with Ecclefield, their faces etched with carboncopy frowns.

"Is that your client's wish?"

The court-appointed lawyer swallowed hard. "It is."

The jurist turned to Bolan, circumventing counsel for the moment.

"By your motion you are giving up the right to trial by jury on the several charges filed against you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"You realize this court alone will be responsible for judging guilt or innocence if you should waive a jury trial?"

"It's been explained to me, Your Honor."

"And it is your wish to waive a jury at this time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your Honor..."

Amy Stone was agitated now, the color rising in her cheeks, eyes flashing as she turned from Bolan's table toward the bench.

"Miss Stone?"

She hesitated, seemed prepared to offer some objection, then finally reconsidered.

"We request a recess until one o'clock, at which time all our witnesses should be available."

"If the defense has no objections..."

Fleming glanced at Bolan, and the warrior shook his head. Another couple of hours wouldn't matter.

"Providing that security is properly maintained, we won't object, Your Honor."

"Very well. This court will recess until one o'clock."

"All rise."

The bailiff was on station once again, his dark eyes scouring the courtroom, daring any mother's son to keep his seat once Justice Price had risen. No one took the bait, and Price was gone, his swirling robe already lost to sight behind the closing door to his chambers.

"Well, we're in it now," Dan Fleming tersely told his client in the moment left before a pair of deputies could shepherd him away. "We've burned our bridges, Mr. Bolan, and there's no place left to turn."

The soldier's smile was narrow and wan. "This bridge was burning when you came on board," he told the court-appointed counselor. "We've cut our losses. It's the best I could have hoped for."

Fleming shook his head. "But, dammit man..."

The deputies were flanking Bolan now, their presence ominous, inhibiting, and Fleming let the statement die unfinished, shrugging in his helplessness.

"I'll see you after lunch," Bolan said.

The lawyer forced a smile he clearly didn't feel.

"Damn right."

He was a fighter, that one, but his hands were tied, and it was eating at him. Naturally. The Executioner could sympathize, but there was no alternative. The game was making up its own damn rules as it proceeded now, and he would have to play along if he intended to survive.

Of course, survival would be the problem. His very presence in the county jail was tantamount to a sentence of death. If he survived to face his day in court, the soldier might retain the thinnest chance of pulling out intact. It was the gamble of a lifetime, and once again the solitary gambler had no choice.

Bolan had no courtroom strategy per se. He intended to let the prosecution state its case, contesting any shaky points along the way, and counter with a statement of his own. If nothing else the courtroom would become his forum, Bolan's only chance to speak his mind in public.

A jury might listen to his case with greater sympathy, but Bolan recognized that chances for a full acquittal were remote. If there was any chance of proving that he had been framed, the Executioner would trust a judge's learned legal mind above the vague collective reasoning of twelve men and women. A judge would be more likely to accept the notion of police corruption and complicity, providing that the evidence was firm, and Justice Price would be acquainted with the local law enforcement personnel. If there was prejudice or negligence among the sheriff's ranks, Price would have heard about it, seen some evidence along the way. If there was anything for Bolan to secure his hopes on, it would be the judge's keen, discerning eye.

Unless, of course, the judge was part of it.

The soldier had already weighed that possibility and had chosen to disregard it in the end. If Price was bought and paid for, there was nothing to be done, but Bolan's gut reaction to the man on the occasion of their brief encounters weighed against the doubt. He had no reason for believing Price was clean, but he believed it all the same, and would believe it until circumstances proved him wrong.

The Executioner had lived this long primarily by trusting in his wits, his combat intuition and his experience. And he was betting now that Justice Price would listen fairly to his case and that a decision from the bench would be determined on the evidence instead of by some contract made in chambers.

With everything at stake, the Executioner was wagering his life on Price, on justice, and on his own ability, for what it was worth, to sell the truth. When he was on the stand...

A momentary chill raced down Bolan's spine and then was gone.

If he survived to take the stand.

If prosecution witnesses did not consume another day or two, providing outside enemies with other opportunities to keep Bolan off the stand.

With everything to gain and nothing left to lose, the animals would be afraid of what the Executioner might say in court before an audience of law-enforcement officers and journalists. He might begin to throw out names, disclose the details of a hundred operations still in place, still churning out a daily profit for the Brotherhood. In court the soldier's mouth might prove to be more lethal than his AutoMag. God only knows where it would lead, where it would end.

But it would have to end with Bolan, no matter how the game fell out.

And it would have to end before he took the stand.

The Executioner had come to terms with death in Vietnam, and he had taken up his lonely home-front war in full acceptance of the fact that he would not, could not, come out of it alive. The enemy had always been too numerous, their cash and arms reserves too vast, for him to cherish any hope of lasting victory.

But he had stung them long and hard, damn right.

And he was far from finished.

The soldier meant to extract every ounce of life from every solitary moment left on earth. Unbidden, a snatch of high school Shakespeare came to mind — "Let the end try the man."

And let the man determine how that trial would end.

Having come to grips with darkness, with the ending, Bolan knew he would not approach it gently; he would not offer up his life in trembling hands as a wasted sacrifice.

The Executioner had come in fighting, and he would be going out the same damned way.

19

The Blue Oasis, viewed in glaring Texas daylight, didn't live up to its name. It had once been blue, but desert sun and wind had peeled the paint down to a dingy primer gray, and bald, unfinished two-by-fours were showing through in spots. Out front the neon palm trees were extinguished, standing pale and lifeless by the roadside.

The place appeared to be precisely what it was — a dump. Its bargain rates lured randy high school couples, and fuzzy drunks who stumbled hot and wanting from the handful of McLary County bars downtown on weekends, but by daylight, in the middle of the week, the Blue Oasis was a tomb.

The parking lot was empty save for tumbleweeds that danced and skittered on the old, eroding blacktop, and the only car in evidence — a battered, aging Cadillac — was tucked away against the far end of the rambling structure, close beside the door marked Manager.

Johnny Bolan nosed the Jimmy into the parking area outside room one and spent another moment checking out the dusty motel. His brother had been captured here, he knew, just yards away from where he sat, and still the young man could not bring himself to face the grim reality of all that that fact implied. There had to be an out, a way to beat the awesome odds, and with a bit of luck he just might find it here behind the screen door that responded flaccidly to any hint of desert wind.

He locked the Jimmy out of habit — no point in taking any chances here, where everything had gone so hideously wrong — and stalked across the sunbaked asphalt toward the office of the motel's live-in manager. It was a place to start, a handle on the grim charade that had ensnared his brother's life, that now threatened to end it right here in godforsaken nowhere.

The screen door banged behind him, cutting off a measure of the glare, and yet the room was neither darker nor appreciably cooler than the street outside. A battered old electric fan sat on the counter, doing little more than stirring up the oven draft of outside air and circulating dust from place to place around the dingy room. As it made the rounds it oscillated weakly, stirring pages of a day-old newspaper and disturbing sluggish flies that hovered darkly over what appeared to be a pile of doughnuts under cellophane.

A sign behind the counter offered Continental Breakfast for a mere $2.95, and Johnny grimaced as a fat bluebottle settled on the nearest doughnut, claiming breakfast free of charge.

He stepped up to the counter, found the stainless-steel bell complete with caption — Ring for Service — and complied with that request. The tinny chimes were answered by a grumbling that issued from behind a curtained doorway, which clearly marked off the living quarters of the manager.

There was a shuffling of footsteps, and the curtain rattled back along its rod, revealing an emaciated figure dressed in faded jeans and sleeveless T-shirt. Red-faced and balding, the man regarded Johnny from beneath a pair of caterpillar brows that merged above his nose. His mouth was full of something, working on it gingerly, apparently incapable of finishing the job and swallowing.

"Are you the manager?"

There was a shrug, accompanied by more chomping on the shapeless cud. "The manager, the owner... I'm the whole damn shootin' match. You lookin' for a room? I got myself a houseful of vacancies."

Johnny shook his head. "I'm looking for some information," he replied.

The Blue Oasis manager regarded him with new suspicion, but there was a crafty gleam behind those bloodshot ferret eyes.

"You ain't the sheriff's office. I know all them boys." The sudden smile was full of masticated food and rotten teeth. "I reckon you must be the mee-dya."

"Right."

"You network?"

"Free-lance."

"Mmmm."

If there was any sort of understanding behind the eyes, it struggled to remain invisible, but he seemed to be satisfied. With one elbow on the counter, Johnny Bolan's host reached out to snare a fly-infested doughnut, scattering the airborne troops as grimy fingers rummaged down inside the cellophane.

"You must be..."

"Schofield," he replied, before a Herculean bite of doughnut joined the rest of it. "But you kin call me Gem. Just see you spell my name right, hear? Tha's S-C-H-O-F-I-E-L-D. An' don't be gettin' me confused with any of them no-count Schofelds livin' down to Elmerville. I swear, you never seen such trash..."

"Got it," Johnny interrupted him. "I'm interested in the incident you had out here two days ago."

"Hell, I know that. What else would anybody from the mee-dya be wantin' in this dump? I got your story, right enough, an' it'll cost ya, too."

"I'm sure we can come to some agreement."

"Who'd you say you worked for?"

"Free-lance."

"Mmmm." The curtain dropped in place again behind the ferret eyes. "That so."

"Before we can discuss a price, I need to get some general idea of what I'm bidding on."

Clem Schofield swallowed cud enough to let his mouth accommodate the doughnut. He wedged it between discolored teeth and continued speaking through his food.

"I seen it all, exceptin' for the murder, 'course. There weren't no eyeball witnesses to that. But I seen all the rest of it, you bet. Them deputies were Johnny-on-the-spot, you betcher."

"How many were there?"

"Huh?"

"The deputies. How many?"

"Plenty, yessir. An' you'd best believe that they were loaded up for bear."

"They came expecting trouble then."

"I hope to shout."

"Is that the usual response to a motel disturbance hereabouts?"

Clem Schofield glowered from beneath his caterpillar brows. "It wasn't no dissturbuns, boy. That was a piece of pur-dee butcher's work. I seen the mess myself."

"But no one knew that, did they? I mean, before they had a chance to look inside."

"'Course they...hole yore horses now." The weasel faltered, fighting to recover from the fumble. "What the hell you gettin'at?"

The younger Bolan tried a different tack. "Who called the deputies?"

A pause. Too long.

"I called 'em. Shore 'nuf did, an' tha's a fact."

He was repeating it as if to validate the statement to himself, rehearsing for an audience of one.

"You knew there was a problem then?"

"A problem?" Schofield's voice was scornful. "Looked more like a goddamned massacre to me."

"But that was after."

"After what?"

"The raid."

"You tryin' to confuse me, boy? I don't sit still for nonna that malarkey in my own hotel."

Johnny flashed a smile devoid of artifice, inviting trust.

"I'm trying to make sure I get my facts straight, Mr. Schofield."

"Well..."

"You didn't actually observe the crime?"

"Hell, no. What kinda man would set an' watch a thing like that? You gotta be..."

"And so, you didn't know there was a murder on the premises before you called the deputies."

"Now, if you put it that way..."

"So, I'm wondering exactly why they came all loaded up for bear. I wonder if you could explain that for me, Clem."

"Yore twistin' ever'thin' I say until it don't make sense no more. An' I'll be damned if I'm obliged to tell you anythin' at all. Fact is, this interview is over, Mr. Free-lance. An' don't let the screen door hit you when you leave."

"They'll want to hear it all in court, you know. I hope you have a more convincing story by the time you take the stand."

Clem Schofield's face was turning redder by the moment, angry blood collecting in his cheeks and throbbing in the network of distended veins around his nose. He seemed about to vault the counter, but he reconsidered after taking stock of Johnny Bolan's lean, athletic build.

"Don't fret yourself on my account," the manager retorted, grinning like a skull with doughnut caught between its teeth. "I'll do jest fine in court. You rest assured o' that."

"I'm sure you will." The Bolan eyes and voice were hard as flint. "It wouldn't do to cheat whoever's picking up the tab."

"Goddamn your eyes..."

Clem Schofield was about to round the counter, throwing caution away, but suddenly he hesitated, angry eyes directed past Johnny to the parking lot. A cautious sidelong glance revealed a sheriff's squad car grumbling across the dusty asphalt, nosing in beside the Jimmy. Deputies in khaki were climbing out and hitching up their gun belts, wiping sweaty foreheads on their sleeves.

The Blue Oasis manager retreated to a neutral zone behind his counter, finally swallowing the cud he had been working on since he had appeared. With nervousness approaching fear, he watched the deputies ambling toward the hotel.

The screen door creaked interminably, then finally slammed, announcing their arrival in the office proper. Johnny turned and nodded to the uniforms, noting brief surprise, supplanted by a thinly veiled hostility, on the face of the taller, heavier deputy. The young man kept his face impassive, blending with the woodwork.

"Got yourself some company, hey Clem?"

The taller deputy was watching Johnny as he spoke.

"Another goddamned joor-nalist," the weasel answered, flicking an uncertain glance at Johnny. "He's been askin' questions."

"Well, I reckon tha's his job." The meaty lawman hooked both thumbs behind the shiny buckle of his gun belt, sagging back against the counter. "Interferin' with a witness, now, tha's somethin' else."

Clem Schofield stiffened, ruddy color fading from his cheeks. His fear was obvious, but he was still uncertain how he should react. While he was chewing on it, Johnny Bolan filled the silent gap.

"No interference, Deputy. Just looking for a story that'll pay the rent."

"Uh-huh." The lawman turned to Clem. "That right?"

There was a heartbeat hesitation while the weasel thought it over, but the grim expression of the deputy made up his mind. "I reckon."

"Well, tha's fine. 'Cuz you're about to take the stand."

Clem Schofield blinked, then swallowed hard. "What say?"

"You heard me right. This Bolan's up an' waived a jury trial. They're startin' after lunch this afternoon, an' you're on tap."

"Well, I dunno..."

"You dunno what?"

The deputy's tone was harsh, and Schofield flinched as if expecting to be struck.

"I never testified in court before," he whined.

"Firs' time for ever'thin'. Go get some decent clothes on, now. We gotta go."

"I'll have ta get somebody in to watch the office here."

The lawmen shared a smile between themselves.

"I guess you'd better, Clem," the tall one said sarcastically. "With all this business comin' in, an' all."

Clem Schofield shuffled off in the direction of the curtained doorway, glancing back across his shoulder.

"Won't be long," he groused.

"You better not."

The curtain riffled shut, and Johnny was alone inside the office with the deputies. The larger of them, Hank, was eyeing him suspiciously and fingering the grips of his revolver.

"Guess you'd better run along," he said.

"I guess." But Johnny hesitated in the doorway, fingertips against the screen. "You say the trial begins this afternoon?"

"Tha's what I said. You gonna be there?"

"Might."

"You'd best go get in line right now. Gonna be standin' room only for the main event."

"Thanks for the tip."

"My pleasure."

The screen banged shut behind him, cutting off his view of khaki uniforms and dark, suspicious eyes. Retracing his steps to the Jimmy, he could feel those eyes upon him, boring in between his shoulders like the muzzle of a gun.

Clem Schofield had been lying; that much was clear. His story would require some more rehearsal in the interim before he took the stand, and with a little skill, Mack's lawyer should be able to dismantle Schofield's shaky testimony easily.

The weasel was a tool, a sideline player. Johnny knew Clem Schofield hadn't called the deputies who had busted Mack. His testimony was a cover, and if the rest of the machinery was as carelessly maintained, there just might be a chance.

He had expected some delay before the trial began. The dashboard digital informed him that he had an hour, maybe less, before his brother reappeared in court to face the prosecution's battery of bought-and-paid-for witnesses. He would be going in against the odds, alone.

No, whichever way it went in the McLary County court, Mack wouldn't be alone. Johnny would be riding lookout on his flank, and if he had to buy a seat inside the courtroom, loiter in the halls — whatever — that was fine.

With witnesses sequestered now, there would be nothing for him to accomplish on the street. If there was any hope of pinning down the frame, of learning who had pulled the strings and pushed the buttons, it would lie in court, where perjured witnesses would have to strut their stuff in public.

The younger Bolan would be watching, waiting, as they spun their lethal web. He would be watching, too, for any sign that court security had sprung a leak. He would be ready and waiting if a threat to Mack materialized.

Despite the baking heat, a little chill wormed down the nape of Johnny Bolan's neck. He would be going in unarmed. If he tried to sneak a weapon past security and was caught, it would destroy whatever slender hope his brother had of coming out of this alive.

Johnny was the only person left between Mack and his host of enemies. The sheriffs men — some of them — would do their jobs, but only to a point. No man could be protected absolutely, be he President, prisoner or Pope. There was a way of killing any man, at any time, if you were willing to expend the energy, the cash, perhaps your life itself.

The men who came to kill Mack Bolan next time would be willing to expend their lives, or they would fail. Because Johnny was on station now, prepared to kill, to die, in the defense of one he held more precious than the air he breathed.

If he could save his brother, dying in the process... hell, it would be cheap at half the price.

The man awaiting trial in a McLary County cell had saved his life, his soul and sanity, not once, but several times.

Some debts could never be repaid in full, but that did not absolve the debtor. Johnny Bolan would continue paying until the tab was clear. Until his time ran out, if it should come to that.

And it might come to precisely that before the day was out.

Fine.

Johnny recognized his duty, knew exactly what he had to do, and recognized the full potential risk.

If this should be the day, then he would do his best, and make his brother proud before their time ran out together.

20

"He waived a jury trial. What can I tell you?"

Perspiration made the telephone receiver slippery and unpleasant in his hand despite the air-conditioning, and Ethan Peck suppressed an impulse to be rid of it, hang up and break off the conversation. He quickly dismissed the urge. He might be agitated, but he damn sure wasn't suicidal.

"You can tell me what that does to all your plans," the grim, familiar voice replied.

A lump had formed in Ethan's throat. "Hell, it slows things down. I wouldn't try to tell you otherwise. We're in this thing together, right?"

The momentary silence on the other end was ominous. "You've got a job to do," his caller said at last.

"I know that, dammit. An' I'm workin' on it."

"But you've been working on it now for three days. Our friends would like to see results."

"The bastard comes to trial in thirty minutes. Nothin' in the world I can do before they get him back in court."

"I see."

"That doesn't mean I'm givin' up," he blurted, recognizing sudden panic in his voice, and hating it. "Whichever way it goes, I'll have another crack at him before he leaves."

"Whichever way it goes." The voice was mocking him, and there was nothing he could do about it. "Our friends were counting on your promise that it wouldn't get this far."

L"I realize they're disappointed."

"Do you, Ethan?"

"Well, I mean..."

"They don't take disappointment well. Sometimes... things happen."

Peck could feel the dampness underneath his arms, between his shoulder blades. "I'll make it up to them."

"They're very disappointed, Ethan."

"Well..." He strangled on the rest of it and never got it out.

"We're sending down some boys to keep an eye on things."

A chill raced down the rancher's spine, and Ethan felt the short hairs on his neck begin to rise. "I don't believe that's necessary."

"Your employers disagree."

"If I could only have more time..."

"You have today," the caller told him simply. "No one has a guaranteed tomorrow."

"I can do this thing."

"I hope so, Ethan. And our people may be able to assist you. Think of it as an incentive program."

"Yeah."

"If all goes well, they should be home within a day or two. If not... well, they should still be home within a day or two."

And no one had to spell that out for Ethan Peck. The Dallas team would be returning home with Bolan's head, or his, and with the caliber of men employed by his associates it wouldn't matter greatly to them either way.

He swallowed pride and all the rest of it and made a bid for life.

"I wish you'd pass on my apologies to all concerned."

"That's touching, Ethan. It'd look good carved in stone."

Ethan Peck grimaced. A headstone, sure.

"I'm putting pressure on my inside people. I can guarantee results."

"And so can we. Whichever way it goes."

"I understand."

The line went dead. Ethan replaced the receiver and wiped a sweaty palm along his thigh. He couldn't fetch the bourbon quick enough, and he was on the second shot before its liquid heat began to ease the trembling in his hands.

Goddamn it, anyhow! They knew the problems he was facing here, and no one up in Dallas could provide a slick solution. How many times had they failed to stop this man? How many times had he eluded armies of their soldiers, wasting seasoned gunners like they were a bunch of green punks fresh from school?

Mack Bolan had been making monkeys of them since the lid had blown off that first time in New England somewhere, and the boys in Dallas had a frigging lot of nerve to threaten Peck because he hadn't nailed the bastard down within two days.

Three days, his mind corrected automatically.

And that was just the problem.

He had already nailed the bastard down, had caged him in a cell, and it was something that the Syndicate with all its money, all its muscle, had been totally unable to achieve. The boys had listened to his promises, had seen what he could do, and they were waiting now for him to finish it.

Except that Ethan Peck had lost control.

The rancher wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but he had missed his chance with Bolan when the bastard had been fresh inside a cell, and now security was so damned tight he couldn't risk a move. Hank Musgrove dicked around and promised action, but his tin star wasn't worth a shit as long as Sheriff Kendricks guarded Bolan personally. Musgrove didn't have the balls to turn against his boss, and that left Ethan Peck with one hellacious problem on his hands.

Mack Bolan had to die — if not tonight, tomorrow at the latest. The Dallas group was getting jittery about the things he might let slip if he survived to take the witness stand.

Well, Peck would let them quake. There wasn't much that he could do to keep the bastard off the witness stand unless he mounted an assault against the courthouse on his own. It was a wild idea, and he dismissed it after only brief consideration. Peck had worked too long and hard to build his image in McLary County, and he was not about to blow it all on some harebrained commando raid.

The Dallas crew would be breathing down his neck and prodding from the moment they arrived, but it was something Peck would have to live with... if he was to live at all. Their orders would be simple and direct — eliminate Mack Bolan, or dispose of Ethan Peck. It wouldn't make a lot of difference to the soldiers either way.

But it would make a difference to Ethan Peck.

The rancher had arranged a trap for Bolan, had snared him, and had delivered him to his associates. Except the voice from Dallas didn't speak of an association anymore; the money men were Peck's employers now, and it rankled. Peck had fumbled once, had recovered slightly with the elimination of the weak link, Billy Putnam, but he didn't plan to take Bolan's place on any sacrificial altar.

The Dallas hitters could take a crack at Bolan if they wished... and if they wanted more, well, Ethan Peck might just be able to accommodate them. His sprawling range could always use a little extra fertilizer, and the Dallas boys were full of shit, no question there. If they came with any thought of throwing excess weight around, they had a rude surprise in store.

Peck wasn't lying down for anybody, now or ever. If they wanted him, they knew where they could find him. The rancher had a few tricks up his sleeve... and if his repertoire ran low, he had a few escape routes charted, too. He had grown up in Texas, loved the arid plains, but if it came to that, there were a thousand other places where a man of strength and vision could apply himself and build an empire from the dust.

Still, it would be easier if Bolan would accommodate them all and hang himself in jail. The next best thing would be for him to stand before an open window long enough for cross hairs to align themselves upon his frigging skull. But whatever way it went, they shouldn't look for Ethan Peck among the casualties.

A born survivor. Peck would dance on Bolan's grave one day — and on some others, too.

It was his destiny.

* * *

Bo Kendricks closed the office door behind him, circling the desk and settling heavily into his swivel chair. Across the cluttered desk top, assistant D.A. Amy Stone was watching him intently.

"Well, they're bringing in Clem Schofield. He's the last."

The lady prosecutor's dour expression lifted slightly. "We're ready then?"

The sheriff spread his hands. "I'd say so. We've got the coroner's report, your witnesses are standing by. Unless you've thought of something else..."

She shook her head. "That's all."

But there was hesitation in her voice, and Amy Stone could not escape the feeling that it was all happening too fast somehow.

"Why d'you s'pose he waived the jury, anyway? That kind'll usually stall for time."

She thought about it for a moment. "I don't believe you've met his kind before," she said at last. "I know I haven't, anyway."

"Is somethin' wrong?"

She eyed the sheriff, reading his concern as genuine, and wondered how much of her uneasiness she ought to share.

"It's sour," she replied at length. "I don't know how to spell it out..."

"You don't believe he's innocent."

It wasn't quite a question, but a different sort of doubt had found its way into the sheriff's eyes and tone, as if he might be pondering her sanity.

"Of murder? No." She shook her head emphatically. "We've got a killer on our hands, no doubt about it. But of this crime?"

"Jesus, Amy..." Kendricks caught himself, remembered they were not precisely on a first-name basis, then tried again. "You've got the body in his room, for cryin' out loud. What more..."

She raised a hand to still the questions. "I can't explain it, Sheriff. It's a feeling I have...but, anyway, you're right. We're going with the evidence."

"Well, I should hope to shout..."

"It is peculiar, though. I mean, the man's insistence on a trial today."

"Could be he thinks he's running out of time."

The implications worried Amy Stone, and it was clearly written on her face. "I trust you haven't had another problem with security?"

"No way. I'm sleeping in, if it's a consolation to you, and we're screening everybody on the block. He'll survive until we pass him on to Huntsville, anyhow."

"And then?"

The lawman's shrug was enigmatic. "I'm too old to look for miracles. This boy's got enemies that he ain't even heard of yet. If someone wants him bad enough to try an' kill him in my jail, they'll try again."

"I want him out of here before that happens."

"Gotcha covered there," he said, smiling. "The crown jewels oughta be as safe as Bolan is right now."

"All right, then... once more from the top. We've got Doc Ferris to establish time and cause of death. The lab reports from Austin will substantiate. Clem Schofield placed the call that brought your people to the Blue Oasis, and the deputies will spell out what they found."

"Tha's it."

"With any luck, I should be able to conclude sometime tomorrow at the latest."

"Any clues on the defense?"

It was the lady prosecutor's turn to shrug. "I filed discovery. They've got no witnesses except the man himself. As of last night, he plans to take the stand."

The sheriff whistled softly in anticipation of the Executioner as witness in his own behalf.

"That oughta sew it up," he said at last.

She wished that it was possible to share the lawman's confidence, but something dark and indistinct was eating at the assistant D.A.'s mind, ingesting bits of scattered information and regurgitating doubts. If she could only pin it down...

"What time did Schofield place that call again?"

Bo Kendricks scratched his double chin reflectively. "I wasn't on, but if I recollect the log it was around 4:45."

"And he reported a disturbance?"

Kendricks nodded, following along.

"According to our lab reports, the victim had been dead... how long before he called?"

"A coupla hours," Kendricks answered.

"Right." The lady mulled it over for a moment. "Why would anybody hang around a slaughterhouse that long unless he wanted to get caught?"

"Might be your boy was lookin' for exactly that. Might be a lotta things." The sheriff frowned, recalling some distasteful bit of information. "There's a few o' these ole boys who like their women cold, ya follow?"

Amy shook her head.

"We have no evidence of intercourse before or after death." She noticed Kendricks's grimace at her choice of words and chalked up one for womankind. "I wish to heaven we had a recent psychiatric profile."

"Nothin' in those papers you got from Washington?"

"The military psychiatrics? Hardly. Based on them, our boy is arrow-straight. He comes off sounding like a paragon of sanity."

The sheriff's frown reminded Amy to avoid the two-dollar words, but he was following her meaning.

"I'd say your motive was the least of it," he told her flatly. "Hell, you've got the world's most wanted fugitive, arrested in a motel with a mutilated corpse. It's cut and dried... no disrespect intended toward the dead."

But was it cut and dried? For Amy Stone the case had seemed that way at first, and no solid evidence had surfaced that would change her mind. But after meeting Bolan in the flesh, and after hearing what he had to say, however briefly... dammit all, she wasn't sure.

If there was the slightest doubt, it was her duty to investigate, to wipe all doubts away. But in the absence of exculpatory evidence, the lady prosecutor had no choice at all.

She must proceed and prosecute the evidence as it existed, casting all her hunches and her intuition to the wind. If she should falter now and stall the greatest single prosecution of her life — of any prosecutor's life — she would become a laughing stock, a monument to feminine incompetence.

From childhood Amy Stone had taken pride in what she was, in what she could achieve without relying on the favored treatment girls and women seemed to get around McLary County. At the same time she had fought against the obvious obstacles that had sought to keep her "in her place," while male contemporaries were encouraged to reach out, excel, achieve.

She had done all that on her own. Amy Stone was justly proud of what she had achieved and prouder still that she had done it by herself in open competition with a group of individuals whose skills and whose ambitions had been equal — nearly equal — to her own.

She was a self-made woman, but she was a woman first of all. And while the lady prosecutor put no stock in old wives' tales of "feminine intuition," she trusted her instincts implicitly. The self-same instincts that were telling her there was something rotten in the Bolan case.

But where to start?

The answer was self-evident. She would begin where she belonged — in court. Her faith in the judicial system, tempered as it was with healthy realism, led her to believe that justice would prevail. If her suspicions were correct, if there was something wrong with the "conclusive" evidence, it was the job of Bolan's counsel to reveal discrepancies, to pry open the loopholes and admit the cleansing light of day.

And if the evidence was proven right...then Amy Stone had done her job. It was the best she could do for Bolan, for the system, for herself.

And it was time to start.

21

For more than twenty years Gene Ferris had presided as McLary County's coroner. The post was an elective one, but he had faced no competition in the past three county-wide elections. So familiar was his weathered face, his rangy form and his measured way of speaking at an inquest, that the "Gene" had been dispensed with, possibly forgotten, by the vast majority of voters in McLary. He was just Doc Ferris now, and that was fine with all concerned.

Doc Ferris was no stranger to the courtroom. He had testified at homicides, suicides and accidental deaths of all description in his time, delivering the grim details in terms that even farmers from the outlands visiting McLary for the afternoon could understand. In over twenty years he hadn't been surprised by a defense attorney's questioning or caught in a mistake of judgment even once. It was a record that the doctor viewed with pardonable pride.

He always wore the same gray suit to court, or so it seemed, reserving blue and brown for days around the office, black for church. Four suits should be enough for any man, and Ferris took great pains to demonstrate that he could live within his county salary. His car was ten years old, his home nearly paid for on a second mortgage, and the last time around he had declined a cost-of-living raise, complaining to the local press about misuse of county funds. It was a stance that kept him on the smiling side of county voters and assured another uncontested run next fall.

This afternoon Doc Ferris took the witness stand as if it was his home away from home, considering the long-familiar oath and thinking on it for a lengthy moment prior to answering, "I do." He took his seat, craned forward toward the microphone and waited for the prosecution to begin.

"Dr. Ferris, did you have cause, on or about the fifth day of this month, to examine the remains of one Alma Jennings?"

The doctor gave a solemn nod to emphasize the answer. "Yes, I did."

"Could you describe your findings for the court?"

"Of course. The cause of death was severance of the larynx, jugular, and the carotid artery by an incision moving left to right. In short, the throat was cut from ear to ear."

A little murmur in the courtroom died before Judge Price, could lift his gavel, and the coroner was satisfied. He had their full attention now; he could continue with the recitation of atrocity.

"The victim — er, Miz Jennings — had been dead for several hours by the time I took delivery of remains. I'd be inclined to place the time of death between two and three o'clock that morning."

"Was the wound immediately fatal?"

"In my experience, death would have been immediate, that's right."

"And were there any other injuries?"

"The body had sustained a number of postmortem lacerations... that is, stab wounds and cuts inflicted after death. An initial examination revealed slashes on both breasts, about the abdomen, the pubis — er, that is, the genitalia — and running down the thighs."

This time there was a louder crowd reaction with some groaning, and the judge had time enough to bang his gavel once before it died away. Doc Ferris cleared his throat and waited for the audience to give him their attention again.

"My autopsy revealed penetrating stab wounds to the chest and abdomen, inflicting damage on various internal organs. The pericardium was torn, the left lung was punctured, there were lacerations to the stomach, liver, spleen, intestines."

Amy Stone was looking grim and slightly pale as the coroner casually delivered his description of the damage. Doc Ferris watched her carefully across the tops of his spectacles, taking her measure as she approached the witness stand.

"Anything else, Doctor?"

"Indeed there was, Miz Stone." He paused again for maximum effect. "Upon examining the pelvic cavity, I found extensive damage to the vaginal canal and uterus, inflicted by a rigid, sharp-edged object. Probably a hunting knife or bayonet, in my opinion, with a blade not less than seven inches long."

The murmuring went on for all of thirty seconds this time, and the gavel sounded half a dozen times before the noise died down. Doc Ferris risked a narrow smile, his eyes intent on Amy Stone, anticipating what would have to follow next.

"Did you find any evidence of rape?"

The doctor frowned. "You realize, Miz Stone, that rape is relative... that is, a legal term." He saw the color rising in her cheeks and was satisfied. "I did examine the remains for any evidence of sexual activity, including acid phosphate tests on swabs retrieved from the vagina, sphincter, mouth and nasal cavities. All tests were negative for sperm."

"In short."

The lady prosecutor's tone was terse, almost impatient, and inspired the coroner to take his time.

"In short, I found no evidence of sexual activity during the past twenty-four hours."

"Thank you, Doctor."

She was turning toward the prosecution table, a gesture of dismissal, but Doc Ferris couldn't let it go.

"You realize, of course, that laceration of the pubis indicates a psycho-sexual motive in and of itself. Despite the missing evidence of rape, or penile penetration, we are dealing with a sexual crime."

"Thank you, Doctor,"

"The evidence is clear that..."

"Thank you, Doctor"

Ferris was still chewing empty air, dumbfounded by the woman's arrogance as she turned her back on him completely and faced the defense attorney.

"Your witness."

Fleming rose to stand beside his client, then circled toward the witness stand and treated Ferris to his most disarming smile.

"I wonder. Doctor, if you might enlighten us concerning your credentials?"

Ferris looked confused at first and then dumbfounded. "Sir?"

"Your medical credentials, Doctor."

"Why..."

"You are a surgeon, are you not?"

"Most definitely, sir."

The doctor's tone was stiff with indignation now, and that was fine. With any luck at all, the anger would prevent him from anticipating Fleming's moves.

"You are an expert in forensic medicine?"

A narrow smile appeared. "I like to think so. After twenty years..."

"Would you describe your education in psychiatry?"

Off balance, Ferris hesitated, his lips working silently for a moment before he recovered. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I asked if you would give the court a brief description of your background and your training as a clinical psychiatrist."

The smile was back and almost cunning now. The coroner was ready to embarrass Fleming, and he seemed delighted at the prospect.

"You're mistaken, sir," the witness drawled with feigned good humor. "I am not a practicing psychiatrist."

"I see. But, certainly, you have some psychiatric background? Training?"

Ferris shook his head, still smiling. "I am not a psychiatric specialist," he said again.

"Psychology, perhaps? Some training — any training — which equips you for the diagnosis of a mental illness?"

"No."

The smile was fading, caution edging in, but Ferris still retained his poise.

"No psychiatric training whatsoever?"

"None."

Dan Fleming dropped his smile. "And yet you have seen fit to offer psychiatric diagnosis in this court."

The coroner was craning forward, glaring hard at Fleming through his horn-rimmed spectacles.

"I speak in my capacity as coroner, and nothing else."

Dan Fleming circled past his client, scooping up a yellow legal pad along the way.

"If I may quote your prior testimony: 'You realize, of course, that laceration of the pubis indicates a psycho-sexual motive in and of itself. Despite the missing evidence of rape, of penile penetration, we are dealing with a sexual crime.' Was that your testimony?"

Ferris glowered at him from the witness stand. "It was."

"A psychiatric diagnosis, if I'm not mistaken, Doctor?"

"Well..."

Dan Fleming changed his tack abruptly, taking full advantage of his momentary lead. "Have you examined any other evidence besides the body of the victim, Alma Jennings?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Would you elaborate?"

"I had occasion to examine certain bloodstained bedding — pillowcases, sheets and blankets — taken from the murder scene. The victim's clothing was recovered as were other bloodstains from the carpet, walls, the ceiling."

"Ceiling?"

"Yes, sir." Ferris saw a chance to score and bored in eagerly. "A number of the wounds were violent, hacking wounds. When arteries are severed violently..."

"Is massive bleeding common after death?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"After death," the counselor repeated. "Is it normal for postmortem wounds to bleed extensively?"

"Not normally."

"Explosive bleeding from an artery is caused by beating of the heart. Would you agree?"

"Most certainly."

"And after death the heart has ceased to beat?"

"In my experience it doesn't keep on beating after death. That's right."

There was a sprinkling of laughter through the audience as Ferris scored again.

"Your testimony indicates that all of Alma Jennings's wounds except the severed throat were suffered after death. Is that correct?"

The doctor's eyes were narrowing again, the glint of easy humor winking out. "It is."

"I see. Then tell me, Doctor, if you will, how violent, hacking wounds inflicted after death could possibly produce explosive arterial bleeding?"

Ferris was silent for a long moment as he glared at Fleming. When he spoke, his voice was inaudible for the first time.

"I beg your pardon, Doctor?"

"I said it would be virtually impossible."

"Ah, yes. And did you come to a conclusion on the nature of the bloodstains found on the bedding, walls and ceiling?"

"It was human blood," Ferris answered, cautious now. "Type O. It matched the victim's blood type."

"Was it hers?"

"I said..."

"You said it matched her type," Dan Fleming finished for him. "Was it microscopically identical?"

"I didn't check beyond the type."

"There are precision tests available. Is that correct?"

"There are."

"Examination of electrolytes, and so on?"

"Yes."

"But you did not see fit to undertake such tests?"

Doc Ferris scowled at Fleming from the witness stand. "I saw no need. It stood to reason..."

"Thank you, Dr. Ferris. No more questions."

Fleming turned away, returning to his seat, while Amy Stone went through the motions with her redirect, attempting to negate the points that Fleming had probably scored. It didn't take her long, and Ferris saved a sullen sidelong glance for Fleming as he left the stand, retreating toward the row of seats reserved for witnesses. His step had lost the customary bounce, his shoulders seemed to slump, and he kept his burning eyes away from Bolan as he passed.

Up front the bailiff stood before an empty witness dock and gruffly hailed the next in line.

"Clem Schofield, take the stand."

"Please state your full name and address."

The owner of the Blue Oasis grimaced.

"Clement Ezra Schofield." Snickers in the back, goddamn it anyhow. "I own and operate the Blue Oasis, Route 16, McLary, Texas."

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in the matter pending before this court, so help you God?"

"I do."

"Be seated."

Schofield settled back into the wooden chair, then remembered briefly that he ought to keep his posture straight. To hell with it. He might as well be comfortable.

Amy Stone was moving toward him, looking over papers in her hand, and Schofield had a chance to ogle her before she raised her eyes to meet his own. Some kind of woman there, and single, too. He wondered what she looked like underneath the suit she wore, if there was something dark and lacy close against her ivory skin.

Goddamn it, he had missed the question!

"Say again?"

More snickers from the rear, and that old nigger, Price, was reaching for his gavel when they had died away. Clem made a mental note to kick some ass if Herbie Jeffers and the rest of them continued treating him with disrespect that way.

"I asked you if you rented out a room — specifically room six — to the defendant on Sunday afternoon last?"

"I did."

"And did he pay you for a single night?"

"He paid me for a week, an' said he might not have ta stay that long."

"Did you have cause to call the sheriff for assistance on the morning of Tuesday last?"

"Las' Tuesday? Yessum, matter o' fact, I did."

"You were on duty at the Blue Oasis, were you not?"

"Tha's right. I work there, an' I live there, too."

"I see. What was the nature of your problem on that day?"

"My problem?"

"Why did you call the police?"

Clem brightened. "I called 'em up so they could come an' haul him off."

"By 'him,' you mean to indicate..."

"Tha's him, right there."

He jabbed an index finger toward Mack Bolan, wishing instantly that he had taken time to clean his nails. Too late.

"And why, exactly, did you want the officers to 'haul him off?"

"Well, they was makin' ail that noise, ya know? It sounded like some kinda orgy goin' on."

He grinned at Amy Stone, but she ignored him. Snooty bitch.

"Did you hear shouting?"

"Yessum."

"Screams?"

"I did."

"The sounds of furniture or other objects being knocked around?"

"You hit it on the head."

He started to relax. This gig was easier than he had dared to hope.

"And when you called the deputies, did they respond at once?"

Clem glanced at Musgrove, sitting right up front, his Stetson on his knees, and then he let his eyes slide right on by.

"Pd say they made good time."

"We're almost finished, Mr. Schofield. One more thing. When they had taken Mr. Bolan into custody, did you have any occasion to enter his room?"

"Sure did. I own an' operate the place, jus' like I said. I hadda see what kinda mess he lef things in."

"And what, precisely, did you find?"

"A fu..., I mean, it looked jus' like a slaughterhouse or somethin' in that room. All kinda blood and ever'thin' soaked through the sheets, the rug, all splattered on the walls. I didn't get no real close look, o' course, acuz the deputies were sealin' off the place... but you could say I seen enough. Tha's right."

"I see." She smiled at Clem, but it was as phony as the day was long. "No further questions."

Schofield made as if to rise, but the judge leaned down and told him to keep his seat, saying there was still the cross-examination to go. Clem settled back, uneasy as Dan Fleming took the floor, his early confidence beginning to evaporate. This guy had made Doc Ferris look like something from the old folks' home as far as Clem could tell... but he was ready for the smart ass. Let Fleming do his worst. Clem knew his lines as well as any actor on the stage.

"I'd like to double-check a point or two," the lawyer said.

"Go on ahead."

When Fleming smiled, it wasn't like the lady prosecutor's smile at all. The snooty bitch had been pretending that she liked him, working for polite and coming up with civil, but the second lawyer's smile was something else. For just an instant Clem imagined that Dan Fleming planned to eat him up alive.

"You've testified to hearing noises from the room my client occupied."

"Tha's right. Exactly right."

"If I remember, you described the noise as sounding like an orgy."

Schofield grinned and shot another glance at Amy Stone. She was ignoring him, her eyes on Fleming now.

"Tha's what I said, tha's what I meant."

"An orgy meaning what, to you, precisely?"

Schofield couldn't quite believe his ears. "Hell, man... you know."

"I'm interested to hear what you know, Mr. Schofield."

Tricky bastard.

"Well... an orgy is a lotta people doin' things, ya know? Like sexy things."

"I see. So you heard sexy sounds?"

"Well... no, I wouldn't say..."

"We've heard the doctor testify that he could find no evidence of intercourse, no evidence of any sexual activity. And yet you still describe the sounds you heard as *like an orgy.'"

"Look, what I was tryin' to say..."

"Is it your habit to alert police whenever two adults have sex in your motel?"

"Say what?"

But Amy Stone was on her feet now, color flaring in her cheeks.

"Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative. Irrelevant."

"Sustained."

Dan Fleming grinned at Schofield, and the hungry look was back.

"I wonder if you might be able to describe the sounds you heard more clearly."

The witness was confused and growing angry. "Like I said before."

"You heard some shouting?"

"Right."

"Some screaming?"

"Yeah, tha's right."

"Some furniture was being thrown around?"

"It sounded like."

"This shouting, screaming, all the rest of it — did anyone appear to be afraid, in danger at the time?"

"Sure did."

"And that's what made you telephone the police?"

"You got it."

"Was the voice a woman's, or a man's?"

Be careful now. Don't let the bastard trip you up.

"A man was doin' all the yellin', first of all, an' then I heard a woman screamin' later on."

"And you live behind your office. Is that right?"

"Tha's right."

Now what the hell?

"How far away is that from the defendant's room?"

"Five rooms away. He had room six, down at the other end. Tha's one, two, three, four, five between us. Get it?"

"Yes, I get it." Fleming hesitated, eyeing Schofield like a chef might eye a roast. "Did you hear the doctor's testimony earlier this afternoon?"

"I sat right over there."

"You are aware that he described the victim's throat wound as immediately fatal? And he testified that all her other wounds had been inflicted after death?"

"So what?"

"So, Mr. Schofield, maybe you can tell the court how Alma Jennings screamed so loudly you could hear her — what, five rooms away? How could she do that, Mr. Schofield, when her throat was cut from ear to ear? How could she do that when she died immediately?"

Clem Schofield felt like he was drowning. "Mebbee it was... mebbee it was him I heard. Tha's it. It musta been."

"You testified the screams were in a woman's voice."

"I musta got it wrong."

"I see. Is this the first time that you've called the sheriffs office to report disturbances around the Blue Oasis?"

Shifty bastard, changing subjects on him, trying to confuse him like a dirty, no-account — "Naw. I've hadda call 'em up before."

"What kind of troubles have you had?"

"You know, the usual. A fight, some drunks... like that."

"The kind of troubles where you hear some shouting, or some screaming from the rooms?"

"I guess."

"And when the deputies responded were there ten or twenty of them on the scene?"

"Hell, no. It don't take ten or twenty cops to stop no fight."

"How many then?"

"No more'n two, exceptin' for one time I had a buncha kids an' they was fightin' in the parkin' lot."

"But normally no more than two responded to your calls?"

"Tha's right."

"And when you called about the sounds you heard last Tuesday morning, from room six, how many deputies came out?"

Clem knew that he was trapped, and there was nowhere left to go but straight ahead.

"I didn't count'em."

"Let us have an estimate, if you can manage that."

"I'd say a dozen, maybe fifteen men."

"And they were armed?"

"O' course. What good's an unarmed deputy?"

"I mean, they carried weapons other than their usual side arms and batons?"

"I saw some rifles, an' some shotguns," Schofield grudgingly admitted.

"Ah. And in your past experience have deputies responded with that kind of armament to your complaints of noise? Of fights at the hotel?"

"I guess they ain't."

"What made the difference this time, do you think?"

"You'd have to ask them deputies."

"Oh, I intend to, Mr. Schofield. Yes, indeed. And no more questions, thank you."

Clem was shaking, and he tried to hide it, tucking both his hands inside his pockets, feeling like a fool up there in front of everybody on the witness stand. He was relieved when Amy Stone decided to forgo her redirect. The grim expression on her face, on Musgrove's as he passed, informed Clem Schofield clearly that he hadn't saved the day.

If anything, he might have lost it for them.

And suddenly the time seemed right for a vacation from McLary County. Somewhere nice and green and far away would be just right. If he could make it back to the motel and scoop up his paltry savings, if he could get his ancient Dodge across the county line without red lights appearing in the rear-view mirror.

If he couldn't... well, that would be all she wrote.

But Schofield had to try.

The atmosphere was getting thick around McLary and decidedly unhealthy. And it was time to travel.

For his health.

As if his life depended on it.

22

Hank Musgrove was uncomfortable in the witness stand. The trial had not gone well so far, in his opinion, with that asshole Fleming making sport of Clem and old Doc Ferris the way he had.

The Blue Oasis manager was stupid, granted, and they could have picked a better witness out of almost any bar around McLary County — but the coroner was something else again. A lawyer who could make Doc Ferris stutter like a schoolboy would have some other slick surprises up his sleeve. And it was Musgrove's turn to face the music now.

A handful of the other deputies had testified before him, staying only briefly on the stand, corroborating Schofield's shaky evidence as best they could. They didn't know a thing, of course, beyond the fact that they were ordered out, responding to a call about some trouble at the Blue Oasis. Nothing much to that, beyond the fact that Musgrove, with seniority, had been in charge.

Which put him on the spot. Beyond the fact of Schofield's call, recorded — falsely, if it mattered — in the Tuesday morning log, it would be his responsibility to put the picture in perspective for the court.

He would have felt a damn sight better if someone other than the nigger, Price, had been presiding over Bolan's trial. Hank Musgrove had no love for blacks, and least of all the uppity minority who tried to rise above their station, eking out a niche in what had always been a white man's world.

In Musgrove's view they had no place in law enforcement, government — and least of all, presiding over courts where life and liberty were constantly at stake. The vast majority of criminals were black or Hispanic, dammit, and a black man on the bench could only be expected to commiserate, to make excuses with his ghetto brethren.

It would have made no difference to Hank Musgrove, had he taken time to learn, that Price had been accused by radicals and militants on more than one occasion of imposing stiffer sentences on blacks than whites. You could look at Price, observe the man's complexion, and predict where he would stand on any given issue.

Those people stuck together after all.

And word could travel, no matter how much Ethan Peck assured him that the trouble down in Houston had been buried and forgotten. Bad news traveled far and fast, and while he couldn't sweat that Price had any information on his past, there was something in the jurist's eyes whenever Musgrove came before the court.

Like now.

It didn't take a genius to know that Price was sitting up there on the bench and judging him, a honky redneck cop who'd rather bust a nigger's skull than read his rights and hold his hand. No matter that the judge's supposition would have been exactly right. The bastard simply wasn't s'posed to know.

"I do."

The bailiff took his Bible and retreated to the sidelines, leaving Hank alone at center stage. He felt exposed without his pistol belt and the other hardware that he carried as a mark of his authority. He might as well have been a goddamned crossing guard, for pity's sake.

To steel his nerves, he kept his eye on Amy Stone. It wasn't hard — she was a looker, right enough — but that was just another sign of how the country had declined. The day a woman prosecutor stood before a nigger judge to state the people's case, Hank Musgrove figured it was time to fold and find another game.

Except there wasn't any other game in town.

He had to play the cards exactly as they lay, without a chance to draw or to improve his hand. And wasn't that a bitch.

"Your fellow officers have testified that it was you who organized the action at the Blue Oasis, Tuesday last."

"That is correct."

It was the deputy's belief that strict formality in court impressed a judge, and Jesus knew that Hank could use an edge this time around.

"You took the Schofield call yourself?"

"Yes, ma'am, I did."

How else could he explain the false notation in the log when any fool with one good eye could recognize his penmanship? So far, so good.

"And what, precisely, did he say?"

He risked a smile and hoped it made him look relaxed. "I couldn't recollect the words exac'ly, ma'am."

"The general content then."

"Well, Mr. Schofield said he had a problem at the Blue Oasis. Said it sounded like there might be someone gettin' killed in number six."

"He used those words?"

"The best that I can recollect, he did. Yes, ma'am."

"And you anticipated trouble, Deputy?"

"I look for trouble anytime I hear that someone's bein' killed."

There was a little snicker from the back, and Musgrove let himself relax a bit. This might not be so bad at that.

"How many deputies did you select?"

"Considering the nature of the call, I picked out fourteen men, to let me cover every angle of the scene."

"And with yourself that made fifteen?"

"That is correct."

"You issued weapons to these officers?"

"No, ma'am. They took along whatever type equipment might be in their cars, is all."

"Including shotguns?"

"Yes."

"And rifles?"

"Some of those as well. Yes, ma'am."

"And do you normally respond to a disturbance call with so much hardware? "

Musgrove tried another smile and thought he pulled it off with rare aplomb. "No, ma'am, but then again your average disturbance at the Blue Oasis don't include a murder goin' on."

"Of course. I understand. Would you explain what happened when you reached the scene?"

"Yes, ma'am. I stationed deputies aroun' in back in case our suspect tried to rabbit out that way, an' then I led the main force in to make the collar down in number six."

"Did you identify yourselves as officers before you entered?"

Musgrove frowned. What kind of chickenshit was that?

"No, ma'am. I kicked in the door an' found the suspect with a murdered woman in his bed."

"Was it unusual for you to kick in the door without a warning to the occupants?"

"No, ma'am, not in a case like this. An', anyhow, we had permission from the owner, Mr. Schofield there."

"I see. And did you take the suspect, Mr. Bolan, into custody?"

"I did. We drove him straight on back to jail, an' I detailed some deputies to search the scene."

"Aside from the remains of Alma Jennings, did the search recover any other incriminating evidence?"

"Yes, ma'am. We found a stash of automatic weapons and explosives in his rental car outside, an' he was carryin' illegal automatic weapons on his person at the time of the arrest."

She turned away to face the bench, providing Musgrove with a momentary respite.

"At this time, Your Honor, we would like to introduce the confiscated weapons into evidence as People's Exhibits A through H."

Price cleared his throat on high. "If there is no objection..."

Fleming glanced up briefly. "None, Your Honor."

"Very well."

A bailiff crossed in front of Musgrove, wheeling a cartload of weapons in front of him, evidentiary tags already bound in place. The lawman recognized each piece: the black Beretta 93-R with its silencer; the big, silver .44 AutoMag hand cannon; a slim stiletto and garrotes; an M-16 assault rifle and an Uzi submachine gun — both unloaded now, for safety's sake — together with a stack of magazines for each; a shoe box filled to overflowing with grenades; and the ugly blocks of C-4 plastic, wrapped in oilcloth and bound with twine.

The goddamned guy was serious. You had to give him that.

"Are these the weapons that were confiscated from defendant Bolan at the Blue Oasis?"

"Yes, indeed."

"No further questions at this time."

He had survived round one, but Musgrove hadn't been expecting any trouble from the state. It would be Fleming, sure, who tried to shoot his story down.

The counselor approached him warily, as if he thought that Hank might bite. That was encouraging. The lawman liked to think he frightened everybody he met.

"How long have you been with McLary County?" Fleming asked.

"It's goin' on four years."

"You hold a rank of sergeant at the present time?"

"That is correct." A piece of cake.

"And have you any other law-enforcement background, Deputy?"

The cake turned into gall and stuck in Musgrove's throat. "I beg your pardon?"

"Did you work for any other law-enforcement agency before you joined the county force?"

"Objection. That's irrelevant."

Hank Musgrove could have kissed the lady prosecutor, even if she was a libber-type who didn't know her place.

"Sustained."

And he was not about to kiss that nigger on the bench, but with a little bit of luck...

Dan Fleming tried again.

"Were you employed in Houston, with the metropolitan police, before you joined the local force?"

"Objection, Your Honor. Still irrelevant."

"Sustained."

Musgrove had begun to sweat despite the air-conditioning that kept the temperature down to seventy inside the court. Dan Fleming knew, goddammit! What else could it be?

"Were you in fact dismissed, in Houston, for irregularities and violations of department policy?"

"Objection!"

Amy Stone was bristling, but there was something else behind her flashing eyes...

"Sustained. Let's move along."

Dan Fleming nodded and glanced down at the sheaf of yellow legal pages in his hand. "I ask you if you recognize the name Martinez, Deputy?"

He glanced at Amy Stone, almost in desperation, but she didn't — couldn't — know what must be coming next.

"I'd say a lotta people got that name."

The counselor smiled, and he was not at all intimidated now.

"I'd say you're right. Specifically, I am referring to one Julio Martinez."

"Julio Martinez?" It came out as Jew-lio and raised another snicker in the rear. "It doesn't ring a bell."

Not much except for all the clamoring alarms inside his head that brought a sheen of sweat to Musgrove's face. Where had the bastard gotten this?

"Would it refresh your memory if I informed you that you once arrested Julio Martinez while you were in service with the Houston metropolitan police?"

The assistant D.A. had it now.

"Your Honor..."

"And that you were subsequently charged with beating Julio Martinez while the man was handcuffed in your custody?"

"...I must object..."

"That you were charged, in a department reprimand, with planting drugs on Julio Martinez to defeat a lawsuit for brutality?"

"...as previously stated..."

"Is your memory refreshed?"

"Sustained!" Judge Price leaned out across the bench and glowered down at Fleming. "Counselor, before you try the patience of the court and find yourself confronting charges of contempt, it might be wise to find another line of questioning. Right now."

The lawyer's face radiated injured innocence with just a dash of triumph behind the eyes.

"I earnestly apologize, Your Honor. And I have no further questions at this time."

As Musgrove stepped down from the stand, he wished the floor would open up and swallow him, allow him some relief from all the pairs of staring eyes.

But he recovered quickly on the short walk back to where the witnesses were seated just behind the rail. His mind was racing on beyond the courtroom, searching for an answer to the riddle that had risen out of nowhere like a phantom to imperil everything that he had worked for in the past four years.

There was a leak in Houston, in McLary, somewhere. Ethan Peck had promised him that all of it was dead and buried, swept away beneath some bureaucratic rug, and Musgrove had been so eager to believe. Except that Peck was obviously, hideously wrong. And if the rancher had been wrong about this much, what other portions of his empire, his elaborate plans, were dangling by a thread? How much did Fleming really know?

Goddamn it, Peck had promised! He had pledged that Musgrove was secure, would be secure, so long as he obeyed and kept his end of their agreement. Now the goddamned Bolan trial had blown up in his face, and Jesus only knew what kind of flak he'd have to take once word got back to Sheriff Kendricks.

He could lose his job.

If Kendricks chose to push it, dig for information that would make him out a liar on his application forms, he stood a chance of doing time. And all because of Fleming. Because of Bolan.

And because of Ethan Peck.

The lawman felt an urge to bolt, but there was nothing to be gained by calling more attention to himself. He might be able to survive the storm, to pass it off as just another lawyer's courtroom lies, providing that the evidence in Houston had been taken care of properly.

At least that jig, Price, had come down on a lawman's side for once. It didn't figure when he could have seized the opportunity to crucify a badge, but Musgrove wasn't up to looking any gift horse in the mouth.

Sustained objections meant that Fleming's charges wouldn't be reflected in the transcripts. Musgrove knew that much. No evidence of any crime was introduced against him, and it wasn't Musgrove standing trial. Hell, no. Things might still work out. He would just have to play it cool... and have some earnest words with Ethan Peck as soon as court adjourned.

Together they would have to double-check the Houston end and make certain that his tracks were covered permanently. That accomplished, Musgrove thought he might be able to relax.

But not while his stomach was on fire and churning, feeding on itself. He would be lucky if he didn't have an instant ulcer after this, goddammit.

It was Fleming's fault, when everything was stripped away. The counselor had set a trap for Musgrove and had risked contempt citations just to see him squirm. And for Bolan's sake, for cryin' out loud. To help a man with countless murder charges lodged against him, if you had a mind to figure that.

And Musgrove knew that he would find a way, somehow, to pay the lawyer back. It might require some time, to let things cool... but he would find a way. A month, a year from now, when Fleming least expected it, there just might come a knock some night. An unexpected visitor. And the lawyer would have a chance to learn about the goddamned Jew-lio Martinez, right up close and personal. You bet your ass. There were some other tricks, which Fleming might enjoy, that Hank had learned since Houston.

Musgrove smiled, already feeling better at the prospect of revenge.

But first he had to guard his flanks, touch base with Ethan Peck before the day got any older.

Survival was the first priority.

The sport would have to wait.

For now.

23

"State your full name and address, for the record."

"Mack Samuel Bolan. No address."

He took the oath and settled back to scan the courtroom from his seat at center stage. A different kind of hush had fallen on the crowd, expectant, tense. From journalists and bailiffs to the gallery of visitors, all eyes were on the Executioner.

He had survived another uneventful night in jail, another march to court along deserted corridors, surrounded by a flying squad of deputies. Judge Price had banged his gavel for adjournment following the Musgrove testimony the day before, and the delay had given Bolan time to think. About his life, his past, the doubtful prospects of a future.

And about his duty.

The Executioner would testify because he had to, not because he thought that it would help, by any means. The case was closed before it had opened, but Bolan owed it to his struggle, to the allies who had shared his burdens, who had been cut down in his cause along the way.

He owed it to himself, damn right.

Dan Fleming cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the apocalyptic stillness. Bolan swiveled slightly in his chair to face the counselor across an empty no-man's-land of yellowing linoleum.

"What brings you to McLary County, Mr. Bolan?"

"Drugs."

A rippling murmur in the audience was suppressed at once.

"Narcotics?"

"Yes."

"I wonder if you might elaborate?"

The lady prosecutor rose to interrupt. "Objection, Your Honor. There is nothing in the evidence to indicate a drug connection in this case."

"Your Honor, if it please the court..." But Fleming never had a chance to get it out. Judge Price was staring hard at Bolan, frowning behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

"I am inclined to find some relevance in any testimony bearing on the defendant's state of mind and motivation. Overruled."

"We thank the court." And Fleming turned to face Bolan once again. "Shall I repeat the question?"

"No, that won't be necessary." Bolan took a breath and held it briefly as he scanned the gallery, his eyes returning to the lawyer's face. "I had received a confidential tip that drugs — cocaine and heroin — were being smuggled through McLary County, out of Mexico, and routed north. I came to check it out."

Dan Fleming raised an eyebrow. "Ah. Are you employed in some capacity by a law-enforcement agency?"

It required a gavel to suppress the laughter this time, and the Executioner allowed himself a smile.

"I wouldn't say that, no."

"What was your interest then?"

"I came to close the pipeline down."

"When you say 'close the pipeline down'..."

"I planned to execute the men in charge, as many of their paid employees as I could, destroy the latest shipment prior to distribution on the street."

The silence was almost palpable inside the courtroom now.

"And when you mention execution in this context, you refer to..."

"Killing."

"Murder?"

"If you like."

There was a muffled gasp from somewhere in the gallery, then silence settled like a shroud.

"Have you engaged in such activities before?"

"Yes, sir."

"On more than one occasion?"

"Several times."

At the rear of the gallery a rugged-looking cowboy type got to his feet, brandishing a fist.

"Give 'em hell!" he shouted, ripping out a rebel yell before the bailiffs seized and dragged him whooping from the court.

Judge Price sat rigid in his high-backed chair and glowered at the gallery.

"If there are any further outbursts of that nature," he declared, "I may be forced to clear the courtroom. Mr. Fleming, please proceed."

"You were, in fact, a fugitive from justice at the time of your arrest. Is that correct?"

"It is."

"With warrants out for you in several states?"

"That's right."

"And foreign countries?"

"Yes."

They had agreed — with trepidation on the counselor's panto meet the facts head-on and co-opt the prosecution's case before the assistant D.A. had a chance to dig it up on cross-examination. Bolan recognized the risk, the sheer audacity involved, but there was simply no other way to go.

Fleming paused for a moment, shuffling through his notes, although he knew exactly what was coming next. He had to let the rest of it sink in before he moved along.

"Before the time of your arrest, had you committed any violent acts within the jurisdiction of McLary County?"

"No."

"Were you successful in discovering a distribution point for drugs?"

"No, sir."

"You hadn't found the pipeline, then, before you were arrested?"

"No."

"You had not executed anyone that day?"

"No, sir."

"The day before?"

"No, sir."

"The week before?"

"No one in Texas, no."

"All right." There was another pause as Fleming made a show of glancing through his notes. "Were you acquainted with the victim in this case, one Alma Jennings?"

"Very briefly... a few minutes," the soldier answered.

"Would you explain this... meeting to the court?"

"I stopped at a roadside diner for a coffee. She approached and propositioned me."

"What do you mean, precisely, by 'propositioned'?"

"I realized she was in the life... a hooker. I declined her offer, and she moved on."

"And that was all?"

"Yes."

"You didn't take her with you to the Blue Oasis Monday night or Tuesday morning?"

"No."

The lawyer's voice was gaining in intensity and rising in volume now. "You did not cut her throat and mutilate her body?"

"No."

"Can you explain the presence of her mutilated body in your room? Your bed?"

"lean."

The silence sat between them for a seemingly eternal instant, then was finally interrupted by the lawyer's ringing voice.

"You can?"

"I think so, yes."

"Then, by all means, enlighten us!"

The soldier took his time and scanned the anxious faces, moving over Hal's, eyes locking with his brother's briefly, who was seated in the room reserved for newsmen... and he settled, finally, on Susan Landry's face.

"The body was deliberately planted in my room," he told the silent audience, "to frame me for a crime that I did not commit."

"To frame you?" Fleming feigned confusion. "But you've just confessed to homicides across the country. Why should it be necessary to create a fabricated case?"

"I don't believe the men responsible expected me to be identified in time."

"In time for what?"

"In time to save my life."

"And so, the purpose of a frame would be.?.."

"To place me in a cell where I could be assassinated prior to trial."

"Can you substantiate this claim with any sort of solid evidence?"

"I was assaulted in my jail cell Tuesday night."

"In jail?"

"Thai's right."

"In the McLary County jail?"

"Yes, sir."

"And your assailant..."

"Has not been identified."

"Is he in custody today?"

"His body is. I killed him."

As a single entity the gallery expelled its pent-up breath.

"In self-defense?"

"That's right."

"But you did not kill Alma Jennings at the Blue Oasis?"

"No."

"And have you ever killed a woman, Mr. Bolan?"

"I have," he said. "But not... like that."

Fleetingly, the soldier thought of Martha Canada, in Acapulco, so long ago, and of the others. Sweet Georgette Chebleu. Tormented Ella Hagen. And his eyes locked one more time with Susan Landry's on the far side of the room.

* * *

Susan Landry had worked on the story for more than a month, investigating underworld connections with the Cleveland establishment, and with a certain federal justice in particular.

It was a headline grabber, or would be, if she could secure enough corroborating evidence. With documents in hand, her editor would have no choice but to accept the story; he would have to take it all the way.

Her cover at the country club was inspired — or so she thought. It gave her access to the paperwork that she would need to document her story. The nationals would want a piece of everything she had, if only she could sew it up.

But she had known there was an element of risk involved.

A kinky federal judge would not be fool enough to leave his flank exposed without employing some security. But if she played it cool, the story and the future were within her grasp.

Except that it blew up in her face, and when the two gorillas surprised her at the country club the lady newshawk knew she had no future left.

Until Mack Bolan found her.

The man in black rescued Susan Landry from a not-so-accidental death by drowning at the Cleveland country club, and he sent the two gorillas on ahead of her, to look for absolution or reprisal on another plane. She didn't recognize him, but she could not forget his eyes, the caring in them as her own regained their focus and a measure of her consciousness returned.

"You're looking better," he said. And smiled.

They survived the Cleveland wars, albeit in their separate ways, but she learned a thing or two about the facts of jungle life along the way. The Executioner bagged one close to home — her own maternal grandfather — but in the end she forgave him, recognized the grim necessity for the presence of someone like Bolan. Her column on the unlamented death of one who used to bounce her on his knee flirted with a Pulitzer and came in second best, but she was moving onward, upward. She was on her way.

And there was a sort of sadness in the certainty that she would never see the man in black again.

But she was wrong.

There was Washington, Al Miller, mortal danger and another Pulitzer contender in the works. How many lifetimes later? Susan Landry didn't know, did not particularly care. Mack Bolan was there a second time when she needed him. And once again they survived... but at a cost.

Then he became John Phoenix, reborn to serve the government in ways that she could never fully hope to understand. There were rumors of a pardon, a secret strike force aimed at terrorism with Bolan in the vanguard.

But the fire passed her by again in Washington. The man risked his life, everything, to whisk her out of danger when he should have been attending to his own campaign. She knew the battle was costly for him, knew — or thought she knew — that it somehow changed his life, destroyed his tenuous liaison with the government.

And now he was still alive, still fighting on against the odds. Still carrying the fire against his enemies wherever they were found until those enemies had contrived to run him down and pen him in a cage, a sacrificial goat awaiting the selection of an altar, of a time.

The man had saved her life — not once, but twice — and there was nothing she could do to help him now but tell his story to the world, devoid of frills and fanciful mythology. She owed him truth, at least, and he would get it from her. The world would hear it from her, and the world — a part of it, at any rate — would come to recognize its debt.

The gentle side of humankind was heavily in debt to Bolan, certainly. However much they might abhor his methods, the meek survived today because of Bolan and a slim elite of others in his mold. A warrior class who saw their duty, shouldered it unfailingly and went the distance on behalf of other humans they would never know by name.

Mack Bolan knew them in his heart. He had been dying for them, mortgaging his future for them, since his teens. The soldier's war was everlasting, to the death... but he would not go into that inevitable death unrecognized.

The world would realize its debt and pay him homage, if they paid him nothing else, even if Susan Landry had to hawk the papers door-to-door, or had to reach through John Q. Public's television screen and seize him by the throat.

The world would know.

And it would weep.

* * *

"To summarize," Dan Fleming said, "you did not contribute to Alma Jennings's death in any way?"

"Aside from giving someone else a bright idea, that is correct."

"You have no knowledge of her killer's true identity?"

"By name? No, sir."

"In general then?"

"The Mafia."

"And you are innocent of this, the homicide of which you stand accused?"

"I am."

"No further questions at this time."

Dan Fleming closed his notebook with a flourish, turned away and stalked back to his seat. Across the room Amy Stone got to her feet and circled in the direction of the witness stand. Her usual aggressive manner seemed subdued, as if from caution or uncertainty.

The soldier settled back and waited for the second round. The prosecution would be pulling out all stops, unlimbering their big guns for one last push. If he could hold them, if he could create a doubt within the judge's mind, he still might have the specter of a chance.

If not...

Mack Bolan knew the odds and put them out of his mind. The odds had never stayed his hand before, and now, when there were no loose aces left to play, he would not let them still his voice.

The Executioner was ready, sure.

As ready as a man could ever be to gamble life itself.

He knew the game, from long experience, but he was in the finals now.

And either way, no matter how it all fell out, he would be staying in until the final gun.

The Executioner was playing for his life.

And there was everything to lose.

24

"You have admitted several homicides today."

The soldier faced her squarely. "That's correct."

And Amy Stone could not have hoped for a better opening. By raising Bolan's past in his direct examination, Fleming had provided her with access to that past. Procedural restrictions would have barred her cross-examination from exploring any crimes beyond the case at hand.

Under other circumstances, Amy might have kissed Dan Fleming. As it was she offered him her silent thanks and forged ahead.

"How many murders have you been indicted for?"

"I couldn't say."

"A ballpark figure? You can round it off, if it will make things easier."

"I don't keep score."

"I see. Perhaps I can refresh your memory." She riffled through the papers in her hand. "According to the latest bulletin from Washington, you are suspected or have been indicted in more than two thousand homicides."

"Okay."

"Okay? According to this same report, there are outstanding warrants on your head from twenty-five states and at least a dozen foreign countries."

"Well, as I said..."

"You don't keep score," she finished for him, struggling to veil the anger that she felt inside.

"That's right."

"We're fortunate that someone does."

"My past activities have no direct connection with the case at hand."

"I see." She hesitated for effect. "The first two thousand murders aren't related to the last one. Is that it? They were a different kind of game?"

"A different kind of war," he solemnly corrected her.

"You see yourself as fighting in a war?"

His smile was grim, and yet surprisingly devoid of bitterness. "The war was going on before I stumbled into it. I got there late."

"But you've been catching up," she said sarcastically. "What first made you decide to join the action?"

"My family... died."

In spite of all the lime she had spent examining Bolan's record over several days, the candor of his brief response surprised her.

"Oh? Could you explain that to the court?"

"It has no bearing on this case."

"I disagree. Their deaths persuaded you to fight a one-man war across these United States, and on to foreign soil. Those deaths preceded some two thousand others, Mr. Bolan... and you stand in court today because of one such homicide."

"I stand in court today because I've been set up," he told her evenly.

Her anger flared. "If you are trying to insinuate..."

"Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative."

"Sustained."

She hesitated briefly, tried another tack. "You feel that you are being... framed. Is that correct?"

"It is."

"And yet we have no evidence of any frame-up, any grand conspiracy to bring you in on charges for a crime that you did not commit."

"That simply means it worked," Bolan said.

"Forgive me if I say you're sounding just the least bit paranoid."

Dan Fleming bounced erect.

"Your Honor..."

"I withdraw the statement and apologize." She cast a glance in the direction of her notes. "Do you imagine everyone is out to get you, Mr. Bolan?"

And before she heard the rippling laughter, Amy knew how goddamned foolish that had sounded. Hunted by the Mafia, the FBI and CIA, police from half the fifty states — who wouldn't feel the world was closing in?

The soldier smiled good-naturedly. "I have those days," he told her, and the laughter rose again, dispersed at last by Price's falling gavel.

"And you admit to killing women in the past?"

Did she imagine that the soldier stiffened in his straight-backed chair? Was there a hint of anguish hidden behind those ice-blue eyes?

"On three occasions, yes."

"Could you describe..."

And the defense was yammering behind her now. "Your Honor, this is totally irrelevant."

She spun to face her adversary. "This was introduced in the direct examination, if it pleases the court. I am within my rights to follow up."

"Objection overruled."

Dan Fleming collapsed into his seat, a storm cloud darkening his face.

The lady prosecutor faced her witness once again. "Could you describe the situation where you felt a woman's death was... justified and necessary?"

Bolan watched her closely for a long and silent moment, deep eyes staring into hers and searching out her soul. The lady prosecutor almost cringed, but finally forced herself to meet that gaze with a grim determination of her own.

"The first was self-defense," he said at last. "The other two were mercy-kills."

"Let's take them one by one." She faced him squarely from perhaps ten feet away. "The first time it was self-defense?"

"That's right."

"The record shows you were a member of the U.S. Army Special Forces, Mr. Bolan. Were you trained in different means of self-defense?"

"I was."

"And are there no ways in which a man of six feet, two hundred pounds, can adequately fend a woman off without inflicting lethal damage?"

"When the woman has a pistol pointed at your face, it doesn't matter what you weigh."

She took no pains to hide the skepticism in her voice this time. "This was an armed assault?"

"It was."

"Perhaps the lady was objecting to your own intrusion in her home? The brandishing of weapons in her living room?"

"She was objecting to the interruption of a sweetheart deal that would have given her a lock on half the heroin in the United States. You've come a long way, baby."

"So, we have narcotics once again."

"You have narcotics still. I haven't noticed any shortage on the streets."

"In spite of all your efforts? Sad." She let him feel the barb for just a moment, then returned to the attack. "Perhaps you could explain the nature of a 'mercy-kill.'"

"It's self-explanatory," Bolan told her.

"Not to me," she parried. "And I'm sure the court could use an explanation for a term that seems to violate the very principles of law."

"Which law?" His voice was almost scornful now. "What principles?"

"The constitutional protections that apply to every man — and woman — in the land."

"I wish they did."

She turned to Price. "Your Honor..."

"Have you ever seen a turkey, Madam Prosecutor?"

For a moment Amy Stone could not believe that she had understood his words correctly. He was babbling, no doubt preparing an insanity defense in front of witnesses.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, I'm not referring to your supermarket Butterball," he told her bitterly.

"I don't..."

"You haven't lived until you've seen a turkey in the flesh," he told her, his words fading almost to a whisper. "And you haven't died."

The lady prosecutor couldn't seem to find her voice. She had a grisly premonition, a flash, of what the soldier had in mind... but there was nothing she could do to stop him now that she had opened Pandora's box.

"The turkey doctors do their work with loving care," he told the court, and every soul was hanging on his voice, the newsmen watching him intently, pens and pencils gripped, white-knuckled, in their hands. "They've had a lot of practice through the years on renegades, informants, undercover officers."

"Now, Mr. Bolan..."

But she couldn't stem the tide. She was no longer in control.

"I wonder if you've ever seen a human being stripped of flesh?" he asked her, knowing that she couldn't have. "I wonder if you've ever seen a man or woman stripped of sanity until their mind can't even quite articulate a scream? You ought to try it, Counselor."

She turned, almost in desperation, toward the bench. "Your Honor..."

"Ella Hagen," Bolan said, so softly that she almost missed the name. "Georgette Chebleu. Evita Aguilar. I finished them, but they were dead in every way that matters by the time I found them."

"Mr. Bolan, this is not a forum for debating euthanasia." Silently, she cursed the tremor in her voice, the queasy feeling in her stomach. He was working on her mind, and Amy had to break the hold, regain the upper hand. "We were discussing Alma Jennings."

"Were we?"

"How long did you serve in Vietnam?"

"A tour and a half."

"Which is?"

"About three years."

"I see. And we've established you were with the Special Forces, also called the Green Berets?"

"That's right."

"Did you participate in combat?"

"Almost constantly."

"In raids behind the lines?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Search and destroy?"

"Occasionally."

"And was there contact with civilians on these missions?"

"Yes."

"With women and children?"

"Yes."

"Did you observe civilian executions by Americans or South Vietnamese?"

"On rare occasions, yes."

"Did you participate?"

There was a flash of anger, deep behind the soldier's eyes, and Amy flinched involuntarily.

"I've never harmed a noncombatant in my life."

But there was something else behind the rugged features now, a kind of sadness, rising from his soul like ground fog off the fields before a Texas sunrise. There was pain inside this man, but Amy Stone could not afford the time to search it out.

"It must be difficult to live with so much death, so much destruction. I'm amazed you can distinguish friends from enemies."

Friends, the soldier thought, as his eyes focused on Hal Brognola's face behind her in the gallery.

* * *

Before he got to know the Executioner as something other than a bogeyman, it had been difficult for Hal Brognola. It had been Leo Turrin, and a "turkey" by the name of Margarita, who had provided that momentous insight on the eve of Bolan's grim Miami massacre.

The girl was dead when Hal and Leo reached the scene, her body wedged into a fetal curl behind the driver's seat of an abandoned Cadillac. The Caddy's occupants had taken to their heels, as if the fiery wind of death was breathing down their necks.

Because, in fact, it was.

Brognola was never able to forget his glimpse of Bolan battling in frenzy mode. The guy was like some demoniac machine, pursuing the gorillas who had made a "turkey" out of little Margarita, treating each in turn to a horrendous, screaming taste of hell on earth. His wrath was lethal, inescapable, apocalyptic. And when he was finished with the turkey-makers he stood beside the Cadillac for one last moment, unashamed of moisture brimming in his eyes.

Brognola was moved — irrationally, considering the gulf between them — to shake the soldier's hand and offer him official sanction, a "portfolio" to carry out his war with something like a federal hunting license. Bolan declined — on that occasion anyway — and they went their separate ways.

But it was never the same again.

The ugly clash in Vegas some weeks later was an aberration, Hal believed, and he was willing to accept the blame for it himself. No matter how you shook it out, the goddamned guy saved Brognola's life that night, even though Hal was doing everything within his power to bag the soldier's head... and it was really only a flesh wound after all.

The rest, as they were wont to say, was history.

Damn right.

Except that most of the historic actions taken by Mack Bolan — or John Phoenix — would be deemed unsuitable for history texts and media reports. The man had been allowed to die, had been reborn in secret...and had died again with April Rose.

But he could tell his friends and enemies apart, bet on it.

The warrior's enemies — two thousand plus — were fertilizing battlegrounds around the country and around the world. Their numbers were replenished daily from the sewers of the underworld, but they would not be missed.

As for his friends, he failed them only on the rare occasion... and had never failed a single one from lack of superhuman effort, superhuman risk. Unbidden, Hal began to rattle off the roll call of the missing in his mind.

Doc Brantzen, who had provided Bolan with his "battle mask" by means of plastic surgery so long ago. He was the first horrendous "turkey" on Bolan's soul.

The little Cuban freedom fighter, Margarita... and her sister, young Evangelina, fallen in another phase of the continuing Miami wars.

There had been Evie Clifford, butchered by a mafioso hit team in New York, before the Executioner had arrived and sent them on to their reward of cleansing fire.

Brognola thought of peaceful Bruno Tassily, Georgette Chebleu and Ella Hagen, the members of his Death Squad in Balboa, and Evita Aguilar. There had been others, sure... and Bolan carried all these friendly ghosts with him along the hellfire miles.

The soldier had no trouble telling friends from enemies, hell, no.

It was society that had the problem, in Brognola's view.

It was the system that refused to recognize the single most effective ally it was ever likely to secure.

Society, the system, had conspired to label Bolan as a renegade, an outlaw. Men of common sense and decency had let themselves be duped for so long they could no longer see the forest for the frigging trees, and they were joining hands today with savages to bring a hero down.

Brognola felt disgust for a society that turned its heroes into whipping boys and drove them out beyond the fringes of the law, while politicians partied with the very animals who preyed on the system from within.

It was a goddamned shame, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Except, perhaps, stand ready to assist in Bolan's last extremity. To lend a helping hand, or simply turn the other way and close his eyes when it began to come apart.

He owed the soldier something, and he would find a way to pay that debt, even if it had to be paid in blood.

The soldier had already given everything he had.

It was somebody else's turn.

* * *

"And you contend that you did not participate in Alma Jennings's murder?"

"I've already answered that."

The lady prosecutor eyed him coolly. "So you have. And I assume from what you've said that you did not abduct her either?"

"That's correct."

"And what about the weapons, Mr. Bolan? The explosives?"

"Those are mine."

"I see. And you intended them for use within McLary County?"

"Jurisdictions haven't got a lot to do with justice," he replied.

"And neither does assassination, sir! This country has dispensed with vigilante justice, just in case you haven't heard."

Dan Fleming was about to rise, but Bolan waved him down.

"I've heard a lot of things," he told the assistant D.A. "All about the deals that put a rapist on the street before his victim leaves intensive care. The bargains that release a pusher or a murderer to kill again. I've heard a lot about the rights of savages, but not enough about the rights of victims."

Someone in the gallery was starting to applaud but glaring bailiffs nipped it in the bud.

"I don't intend to argue the legality of murder with you, Mr. Bolan. Even you must recognize the need for law and order in a civilized society."

The warrior smiled.

"I'm looking forward to it, Counselor. Unfortunately, what you've got right now is something close to anarchy, and it's impossible to civilize a jungle while the savages are still in charge."

"You see yourself as something of a civilizing agent then?"

"More like an antibody weeding out the germs."

"Except those germs are human beings, are they not?"

"I'd say that all depends on your definition."

"So, you act as something of a self-appointed judge and jury for the germs, the savages?"

Mack Bolan shook his head.

"They judge themselves by every action, every crime against humanity. I'm not their judge. I am their judgment. I'm their executioner."

"You handle words almost as well as weapons, Mr. Bolan, but you miss the point. This is a civilized society, with laws to govern every man's behavior."

"Fine. So let's enforce the laws as written and invoke their penalties against the violators. If you start today, you should be finished with your present caseload in a hundred years or so."

"You have a better system?"

Bolan nodded gravely. "In selected cases, yes."

"Elimination?"

"Surgical removal of malignancies."

"How glib. But why not call it by its rightful name? You're advocating murder, sir."

"I'm advocating self-defense," he said. "Survival of the fittest."

"Social Darwinism?"

"Social sanity. The predators have had their way for too long. No civilized society can last indefinitely under siege."

"And the alternative?"

"Turn on your television, Counselor. Pick up a paper or a magazine. You may not have to look beyond the local news."

"You have a sense of mission then?"

"A sense of duty. Counselor. I'm no evangelist."

"A duty to eliminate the savages? The predators? The pushers and the murderers?"

She watched him closely, but the soldier made no effort to respond. She played her ace.

"The prostitutes?"

She was expecting a reaction from the witness, even an explosion as she pierced his mask of sanity, but she was not expecting laughter. Bolan shook his head, amused that she would try to trip him up so obviously, smiling at her with an understanding that was tinged with something else.

A sadness.

"No sale. You're talking victims now, and they have problems of their own."

"So, you're selective in your killing then?"

"I try to be."

"And Alma Jennings wasn't one of Bolan's chosen few?"

"She wasn't even close."

There was a sour taste in Amy's mouth, as if she might have bitten into something rotten, and she knew that it was time to end the game.

"No further questions at this time," she told the court.

Dan Fleming was already circling the table, moving in on redirect, but Amy Stone was only listening with half her mind. She should have been elated at the way in which her questioning had opened Bolan's mind, his twisted sense of justice to the court. And yet...

Why was she sympathizing with the man, for heaven's sake?

Why was she seeking ways to mitigate what he had done, the slaughter he had moments earlier confessed?

How could she question all the evidence compiled against him here, the crystal clarity of guilt as charged?

Goddamn it, how?

Too easily, it seemed.

His testimony had been startling, inflammatory, but his words had carried the essential ring of truth. There had been something in his manner, in his voice, that had begun to work on her emotions from the moment he had taken the stand.

But if the man was innocent...

She closed her mind to the alternatives, the implications. She could not afford to travel any farther on the road of sterile speculation. Danger lay that way, and loss of faith in everything she had been educated to revere.

But she was starting to believe him.

And it was still her job to see him locked away.

A throbbing headache settled in behind her eyes, and Amy Stone endeavored to ignore it, concentrating on the testimony under way. She had a job to do, a case to win, and that was all that mattered now.

The soldier had his duty, as he saw it, and the lady prosecutor had her own. She was as dedicated in her own way as the witness on the stand, and she could not turn back until her job was done.

She pushed the soldier's evident sincerity away and concentrated on the task of sending him to prison for the rest of what would almost surely be a brief and violent life.

25

"To reiterate your testimony, Mr. Bolan, you were not involved in Alma Jennings's death?"

"No, sir"

"In any way?"

"That's right."

The Executioner was tired of playing Twenty Questions, but he knew that Fleming had a job to do, and he admired the counselor's tenacity. It was a wasted effort — Fleming had to know that much by now — but he refused to let it go. He was a fighter, and Mack Bolan felt a surge of warm affection for the guy who didn't seem to know that he was beaten by the odds before he got to court.

The prosecution had some telling points against him now, but it had been a gamble going in. By introducing other jurisdictions, other crimes, they had permitted Amy Stone to range at will across the record, granting her a sort of legalistic free-fire zone. Dan Fleming had opposed the move, but Bolan was implacable. If nothing else, he meant to find a forum in the courtroom, let himself be heard.

"You still believe the victim was deliberately planted in your room to frame you on a murder charge?"

"I do."

"And thereby make you something of a sitting target in the county jail?"

"Yes, sir."

"The weapons confiscated from your room, your rental car..."

"Were mine," the soldier finished for him, reaffirming what would have been pointless to deny.

"But none of them were used to murder Alma Jennings, were they?"

"No."

"And as for any other charges, rising out of other jurisdictions, other incidents... they are completely unrelated to the matter now before this court?"

"They are."

"And when you chose this course of action..."

Bolan interrupted him. "I didn't choose this war," he said. "The war chose me."

Dan Fleming eyed him for a silent heartbeat, then finally nodded, deciding to go along with his client's instinct.

"Please elaborate."

The warrior hesitated briefly, and he scanned the gallery before he spoke.

"In Nam you came to realize the enemy was everywhere," he said. "The black pajamas, coolie hats... they didn't mean a thing. You couldn't tell the predators and prey apart by anything they wore, or anything they told you to your face. In a guerrilla war you recognize the opposition when they try to kill you, man or woman, night or day."

He paused, aware of eyes trying to penetrate his heart and mind to find the soul within. No matter. Every man or woman in the court would find precisely what he or she was looking for, and none of them would be precisely right... or wrong.

The soldier forged ahead, unmindful of the prying eyes.

"When I was briefed about my family, I realized the war was not confined to Vietnam. We had our own domestic breed of cannibals, and they were no damned different than the Vietcong. They prey upon their own, contaminate the lives of everyone they touch, and they can never get enough."

Dan Fleming frowned over the question he could not avoid.

"You sought revenge for what had happened to your family?"

"At first," the Executioner conceded. "But it didn't take me long to realize that I was flying blind. The injury to me was just an echo of the crimes against a thousand other families in any given year, and you can take that back a century or more in the United States alone. How many million victims in that time? How many more tomorrow?'*

Fleming shook his head, appearing honestly bewildered now.

"You had to realize that victory would be... impossible?"

The soldier smiled.

"Sometimes it's victory enough to stand and fight, to draw the line. It's stylish now to shrug and walk away from trouble, not to get involved. The cannibals encourage that. It gives them easy pickings. But the truth is, any man can make a difference, any woman with the guts to make a stand. Collect a few of them together, and you've damn near got the game sewed up."

"Except that you have been compelled to fight primarily alone against what must be seen as overwhelming odds."

Bolan shook his head. "Correction, Counselor. I haven't been compelled to fight at all. The war was waiting for me when I got back home from Nam. I fight because I can. Because the only clear alternative is unacceptable."

"That being?"

"Unconditional surrender to the savages."

"You've led a lonely life."

"It has its compensations."

Yeah. Like Val Querente, Toby Ranger, other brief and shining beacons on the shadow trail of Death. Like April Rose, damn right.

And like the young-old man who watched him from the gallery of journalists.

Like brother Johnny.

* * *

In his mind Johnny Bolan could recall a world of antiseptic white, where nurses whispered through the corridor on orthopedic treads, their voices faint and faraway. He could remember floor-to-ceiling curtains drawn around his bed, the rubber tubing with its needle planted in his arm.

And he could vividly remember pain.

The sedatives could only handle part of it, the physical extension of his anguish. They did nothing to erase the grief, the agonizing memories that haunted every waking moment and pursued him down the endless tunnel of his dreams.

His father's face, distorted through the haze of shock, still bellowing in anger from beyond the grave.

His mother, sobbing bitterly, until her sobs became one rising, swiftly strangled scream.

His sister, face uplifted to receive the bullet, almost smiling through her tears.

The young man expected — prayed — to die in the initial hours, drifting in and out of his delirium, the gunshot echoes ringing in his ears. If he could join them on the other side, his pain might finally recede. He might be whole again.

But he was doomed to live, and when his older brother came to visit in the semiprivate room provided by his father's union benefits, the haze dissipated, giving way to grim reality. That same reality was written on his brother's face. What did his brother see, what did he now suspect, to etch those lines around his mouth and eyes?

"What happened, Johnny?"

Simple, to the point. The way his brother Mack had always been.

Aware that officers considered it a "routine" murder-suicide, the young man took no steps to disabuse them. But he owed his brother more than that. He owed his brother truth, and he delivered it upon demand.

He could recall the cheap motel — so reminiscent of the Blue Oasis — with a crystal clarity transcending time. He would have recognized the laughing, red-faced customer in any crowd, the greasy hair and braying voice emblazoned on his youthful memory like acid etchings on a plate of steel. There were fantasies across the years of tracking down that face, of smashing it beyond repair... but time and circumstance always intervened.

And Johnny Bolan told his brother everything. The cheap motel, the laughing customer, and Cindy's stunned expression when he had barged in to find her nude and sobbing on the narrow, rumpled bed. He had bullied and coaxed the story out of her, then later had wished that something — anything — had stopped him short of bursting through that door. But it had been his fate to hear and understand.

And he spelled it out for Mack in halting phrases, speaking through his tears, avoiding contact with his brother's eyes. He told about the cheap motel, the laughing customer... and sister Cindy's brave attempt to save her dad by selling her body, her soul.

And there had been no respite from that day on.

Until this afternoon.

The young man had heard his brother speak of "turkeys," and he felt his stomach twisting at the thought of Sandy Darlow, of her one eye pleading with him, searching for the sweet release of death. The courtroom seemed to spin for just an instant, but he gripped the arms of his chair and clenched his teeth against the howling darkness.

No.

There was no respite, even now.

Whatever happened in the court, whatever verdict issued from the judge's chambers, it would bring no end to Bolan's war. And if his brother was incarcerated, executed, it would still be the Bolan war.

His brother's debt would be passed on, and with it the sense of duty, grim and inescapable, which set their feet along the path of everlasting war. While life remained, so long as there were savages at large, the struggle would continue.

The young man owed it to his older brother, to his parents, to the sister who had sacrificed her youth, her self-esteem, to look for answers on her own.

Whichever way it went this afternoon, he would be carrying the fire — and proudly — until they cut him down.

It was his destiny.

It was the only thing he had to call his own.

And it was all that he would ever need.

* * *

"Did you say compensations?"

"Yes."

"I wonder if you might explain?"

The soldier took his time. "It's difficult to itemize for a civilian, but the combat veterans and law-enforcement officers may understand. A feeling, mostly... when you know you've done the best you can to put a savage down and keep him there, when someone with their soul in hock to cannibals can catch a glimpse of daylight for a change."

"You draw some satisfaction from the acts of violence then?"

Dan Fleming looked concerned, as if he feared he had lost control, the testimony slipping through his fingers.

Bolan shook his head.

"The killing doesn't do it," he responded. "It's the end result."

"Ends justify the means?"

"You've got it backward, Counselor. Your methods sanctify the ends."

The lawyer looked confused.

"It isn't difficult to call for peace," Bolan continued. "You can achieve it overnight, providing that you're willing to surrender everything — your principles, your liberty, your life. I guarantee that any cannibal can be appeased, if you agree to meet his price without complaint."

The room was deathly silent, just as it had been when his counsel had first risen for redirect. Bolan had the floor, and Fleming gave him room to run.

"Remember Tehran. Remember Munich — either time — and realize that savages do not know how to deal with compromise. They understand triumph or defeat, but there is nothing in between. Hold out a hand in friendship, and they'll take your arm, your shoulder, everything."

Dan Fleming found his voice. "You advocate a right to kill?"

"I recognize a positive responsibility to kill in the prevention of atrocities. Humanity demands a violent intervention when there are no visible alternatives."

"But in today's society..."

"The system works on petty crimes — or most of them at any rate. It breaks down in your higher income brackets, though... your men behind the scenes, who pull the strings and reap the umpteen-figure profits. Mafiosi, major pimps, the big-league dealers, corporate cannibals. They know the loopholes going in, and if they can't escape conviction, you can bet your life that most of them escape hard time. Assuming that they draw a year or two in some suburban country club, they name a second-in-command, or run their operations from their dormitories.' It's an old, familiar story, Counselor."

"But the alternative..."

"Is a selective removal of the savages before they have a chance to eat their fill. A healthy body can't survive with tumors clotting every vital organ. And a civilized society cannot exist with savages in charge."

Dan Fleming frowned. "I think I speak for many of us here in saying that your answer to the problem is... well, rather frightening."

The soldier nodded, understanding.

"It's a scary world," he said. "But hiding from the predators and wishing them away won't make it any better. You don't invite a mad dog in to dinner, and you can't coexist with cannibals ... unless you want to wind up in the pot."

"If you could do it all again..."

Dan Fleming never got it out.

"No changes," Bolan told him curtly, shutting out familiar faces and the remembrance of ancient screams. "I wouldn't change a goddamned thing."

"No further questions at this time."

The gavel sounded in his ear, and it was done.

Almost.

26

Judge Price hung up the phone and rocked back in his swivel chair. He was troubled by the evidence against Mack Bolan, as impressive as it seemed, and by the man's dismissal of that evidence as part-and-parcel of a frame. It was unthinkable, of course, that anyone in the McLary County sheriff's office would deliberately frame a suspect on a murder charge, with all that it implied, but then again...

Price had listened closely while Dan Fleming had picked at Musgrove on the stand. The judge had been forced to interrupt the questioning, to reprimand the young defense attorney — and he should have put the questions and Musgrove's halting answers out of mind. How many times had Price instructed jurors to ignore a piece of evidence, a snatch of testimony or a leading question? Too many.

But you never really disregarded anything.

And something in the lawman's eyes, after Fleming had raised the Houston issue, had implanted nagging seeds of doubt in Price's mind.

And he had placed a call to Houston, to a colleague in the system there.

Now it was the answer that was preying on his mind.

Hank Musgrove had, indeed, once served with Houston's finest, working for the most part in the barrio. A year in uniform. Hank Musgrove had volunteered to work the burglary division — sometimes called the Shotgun Squad because its members, armed with riot guns, preferred to lie in wait for suspects, shooting first and asking questions later. In six months with the squad, Musgrove had used his shotgun seven times and had sent five suspects to the mortuary. There had been two more killings while Musgrove was assigned to traffic duty, and his uniformed superiors had been undismayed to hear that Mexican-Americans preferred to reach for nonexistent weapons in the face of an impending traffic fine.

It had been Julio Martinez, though, who had finally brought the curtain down. The youth had never seen Hank Musgrove, had never heard his name, before the summer afternoon when he was stopped for speeding, with a girlfriend in the car, just five short blocks from home. According to an affidavit — signed left-handed, while his right was in a cast — the officer had been abusive from the start, insulting Julio and making lewd suggestions to the girl. There was a smell of liquor on his breath, a too-familiar angry scowl upon his face, and Julio had been inclined to take the ticket.

Until Hank Musgrove had touched the girl.

It could have been a pass or a deliberate affront to Julio's machismo; Price could not be certain.

But it had worked.

When Julio Martinez had pushed his hand away, the officer had exploded, whipping out his nightstick and raining blows upon the "suspect's" head and shoulders. After Julio was handcuffed in the back of Musgrove's cruiser, he had allegedly suffered further injuries, including lacerations to the face and loss of several teeth. Upon arrival at the station, he was searched a second time for weapons... and a quantity of marijuana was recovered from the pocket of his jeans.

It was the marijuana, finally — and Musgrove's failure to discover it when he had searched Martinez at the scene of the arrest — that had led to nagging doubts and open questions of a frame.

The case had never come to trial. As Price's contact understood it, charges had been dropped when Julio Martinez had grudgingly abandoned an impressive civil suit against the city. There were rumors of a settlement beneath the table, and from all reports Martinez had immediately moved away to parts unknown. Hank Musgrove had ridden a desk for several weeks until he had tired of waiting for a reassignment to the streets and had finally resigned. From all appearances the Houston brass was glad to see him go.

And then he had surfaced in McLary County, as if the rural district didn't have enough of its own problems.

His record had been sanitized in transit, various complaints evaporating from the slender file. To Price — who realized that governments misplace their information frequently but rarely lose it altogether — Musgrove's retroactive sainthood had smacked of something sinister.

The bastard was a redneck and a racist who enjoyed intimidating people with his badge. His killings "in the line of duty" had been dubious, at best, and he had been pressured out of uniform in Houston when he had tried to frame a youth as cover for his own misdeeds. He was a rotten apple, any way you kept the score... but how did that affect the Bolan case?

Had Musgrove taken part in some outlandish plot to frame the century's most-wanted fugitive? If so, it meant that Musgrove — or some puppeteer behind the scenes — had known of Bolan's presence in McLary County, had known that he could be arrested at the Blue Oasis that Tuesday morning, if the deputies were swift and sure enough about their job. And knowing that, would Musgrove bother forging any evidence when he could be an instant hero just by pulling off the raid?

It didn't work for Price, unless...

What was it that Bolan had said? Price riffled through the pages of the transcript and finally found what he was looking for.

A: I don't believe the men responsible expected me to be identified in time.

Q: In time for what?

A: In time to save my life.

Q: And so, the purpose of a frame would be...

A: To place me in a cell where I would be assassinated prior to trial.

Goddamn it!

Shuffling through the other papers on his desk, Price found a copy of the sheriff's booking sheet, together with the final draft of an arrest report. His eyes were riveted by what had been inserted in the blank marked Name.

Mike Blanski.

Jesus Jumping Christ, they hadn't known.

And if Hank Musgrove hadn't known the suspect's true identity, why had he raised an army for his drive out to the Blue Oasis?

Fleming had been harping on it yesterday, and Price had cut him off, complying with the laws of evidence and testimony. Now, alone in chambers, he could not escape the nagging doubts himself.

The sheriff's office — most of it, at any rate — had been ignorant of Bolan's presence in McLary County till their suspect had dropped the bombshell on his own from jail. And yet, when Musgrove had rolled on a routine disturbance call that Tuesday morning, he had gone accompanied by what amounted to a full-scale riot squad.

It didn't play.

But what of Alma Jennings? She was dead — not merely slain, but mutilated — and if Bolan had been framed, then who was guilty of that butchery? Was Musgrove capable of such a crime, or was there someone else behind the scenes?

Price knew, instinctively, that Musgrove had not engineered the Bolan capture on his own. He could provoke a confrontation in the street, devise a clumsy frame that blew up in his face on close examination, but he lacked the brains, the ingenuity to play in Bolan's league.

It would have taken money, information, an extensive reach to track the fugitive and place him in McLary County on a given day. If he was lured there deliberately, that only served as further evidence of savvy minds at work behind the scenes.

And that left Musgrove in the role of errand boy, a pawn who might be deemed expendable if it began to fall apart. There might be something there to keep in mind, providing Price could find himself a handle on the case.

He was compelled to base his verdict on the evidence, of course, and there was evidence enough to go around — the murdered victim, found in Bolan's rented room, her life's blood soaking through his sheets and bedding, decorating walls and ceiling, saturating carpets on the floor. The man had carried knives — the killing kind — but they were clean, according to the lab reports. If he had butchered Alma Jennings, he had done it with a different weapon, which was not recovered at the scene.

But if the woman had been murdered somewhere else, by someone else, the problem of the missing weapon disappeared. The butcher would have taken it along, secure in the belief that Bolan would be dead before the evidence could face a test in court.

As for the automatic weapons, the explosives and the rest of it, Mack Bolan had admitted ownership while on the witness stand. Possession of illegal weapons was a felony, of course... but if they lost the murder and abduction charges, it would be a first offense in Texas, carrying an average sentence of a year or two.

Except that Bolan didn't have a year or two. In prison he would not survive a week outside of solitary, Price was certain. A prison term for Bolan would be tantamount to death... and if he wasn't guilty of the Jennings homicide, could Price impose a sentence that would snatch away his life?

There would be countless other jurisdictions waiting for a crack at Bolan down the road. Their warrants and detainers filled a giant carton at the sheriff's office now, and they would need a moving van for all the paperwork before the extradition process was completed. Either way it went, the man was bound to stay in jail — and while he stayed in jail, he was as good as dead.

Assuming, then, that the verdict held no relevance for Bolan, it still had deep significance for Price. The judge had a duty to perform, and he could not forsake that duty, anymore than he could cast away his hard-won self-respect or cease to breathe. He owed an honest verdict to the man on trial and to the people of McLary County.

He owed it to himself.

Convinced that he had made the right decision, he retrieved his robe from where it hung behind the door and slipped it on.

Another quarter hour and he would have the Bolan case behind him, finally. But something nagged at Price. Something that informed him he would never put the case behind him. Never in his life.

He shrugged the feeling off and killed the lights. Closing the door behind him firmly, he shut out his doubts as he returned to court.

* * *

"Goddammit, Musgrove, I don't know where Fleming got the information, and I honestly don't give a shit."

The rancher leaned in closer to his uninvited guest and smiled as Musgrove flinched away from any closer contact.

"Mebbe I should get out for a while," the lawman groused.

"Get out, my ass! You musta lost your fuckin' mind. You realize I'm drownin' here? An' let me tell you somethin', boy, if I go down..."

"Awright, I know," the man in khaki interrupted him, his voice a grudging whine. "What should I do?"

Peck made a sour face. "You shoulda stayed exac'ly where you were," he growled. "But since you're here already you can fill me in."

Hank Musgrove made a show of studying his fingernails. "It's like I tole ya, Mr. Peck, that mouthpiece set me up like it was me on trial, insteada Bolan. Christ, he knew about that spic Martinez, Houston — ever'thin'. You tole me that was dead an' buried, Mr. Peck."

"Don't start on that again, goddammit!"

"Well..."

"I'll put you down a well, you start that shit again!"

Musgrove glowered at him for a moment, angry color rising in his cheeks, but he was not about to challenge Peck. Not here. Not now. It would have been a suicidal gesture, and the deputy was interested in saving what was left of his disordered life, not throwing it away.

"What happened next?" Peck asked.

"Judge Sambo threw the questions out. He says it's all irreverent, or some such thang."

Peck shook his head. "You ass."

"Well, what the hell did I do now?"

"If it was all thrown out, you haven't got a goddamned thing to sweat about."

"I figured that, at first. But what if Kendricks gets it in his head to run a check outta Houston? An' suppose he comes across those files you said were gone for good?"

"You startin' in on that again?"

"I gotta take precautions."

"We can worry over Kendricks later, dammit. Bolan is the problem now."

"He's in the bag."

"You think so, huh?"

"Hell, yes. Judge Sambo sat right there an' listened to him runnin' down how many guys he's wasted, how he'd do it all again if he could get the chance. His ass is in a sling."

"Let's just suppose you're wrong."

"Say what?"

"Let's us pretend he gets hisself acquitted here. What then?"

Hank Musgrove shrugged. "I guess I'd reckon I've seen ever'thin'."

"I guess you won't be seein' anything, not ever, if this blows up in our faces."

"Jesus, Ethan..."

"You about to tell our friends in Dallas that we couldn't pull it off? You gonna wish 'em better luck the next time 'round?"

"I hadn't thought about it," Musgrove grudgingly admitted.

"Well, jus' think about it now."

"I'd rather not."

"I guess tha's just about the smartest thing you've said all day."

"What are ya gonna do?"

"I'm gonna do jus' what I always do," the rancher said expansively. "I'm gonna save your bacon for ya."

And his own damn bacon in the process. No need to mention that.

"It shouldn't be no problem," Musgrove said, already working on his fingernails again. "They'll transfer Bolan up to Huntsville once he's been convicted. Guy like that'll be a sittin' duck up there."

"This guy ain't goin' to Huntsville," Peck replied. "He's never gonna get that far."

"They gonna take him on the road?"

The rancher snorted. "They ain't gonna take him anywhere. We're gonna take this boy, an' he ain't goin' on the goddamn road."

"What're you gettin' at?"

"I'm sendin' in a coupla my boys this afternoon to watch the trial. See to it that they get inside all right."

"Now, jus' hold on..."

"Hold on to what? You tellin' me you can't pull off a simple job like that? Are you in charge of the security down there, or what?"

"Well, yeah..."

"Then lissen when I tell you somethin', dammit. I'm not askin' you to let 'em in. I'm tellin' you."

"It won't be easy," Musgrove whined.

"If it was easy, I'd be forced to cut your pay. Now wouldn't I? You haven't given me my money's worth, the way it is. An' if you can't quit jerkin' off a while, I'll have ta find myself another boy."

The lawman stiffened and dropped his beefy hands into his lap. "You won't be needin' anybody else," he said.

"Awright, then. When my people get there, give 'em seats where they can have a view of ever'thin', you unnerstan'?"

The man in khaki nodded sullenly.

"I want you ready to support 'em, Hank, in case they have some kinda problem there."

"But Kendricks..."

Ethan raised his head to stem the flow of words.

"You're thinkin', Hank, an' we both know that doesn't get you anywhere." He liked to watch the color rising in his flunky's cheeks. "Bo Kendricks isn't gonna be a problem anymore, providin' that you do your job."

The implications finally registered, and Hank was torn between a worried frown and something like a clownish grin.

"How are you gonna work it, Ethan?"

Peck decided not to reprimand him on the first-name liberty. There would be time enough for reasserting discipline when all their present troubles had been cleared away.

"Never mind. Jus' get those boys inside the courtroom, like I tole ya, an' be ready if they need a helpin' hand." A sudden mental image made him smile. "An', Hank, make sure you park yourself well clear, you unnerstan'? I wouldn't want you standin' in between my boys an' Bolan when the shit comes down."

In fact, Peck thought, he wouldn't mind at all if Musgrove took a portion of the cross fire himself. Dead men had the definite advantage of their inability to contradict the evidence.

After all, it was ironic. The redneck tub of lard had helped to frame Mack Bolan on a murder charge, and now, in death, he would himself be framed as Bolan's killer. It was clean and classic, something that the Dallas crowd could readily appreciate.

But he would have to put the wheels in motion soon before the Dallas delegation surfaced to assume control. If his torpedoes weren't in place before the visitors arrived, there would be hell to pay. With guns on station, though, the new arrivals would be forced to let him go ahead, then marvel at the wonders that he had performed.

And, dammit, it was not too late to save the play. If Musgrove pulled his weight, if nothing else went wrong...

And if it did go sour... well, there was still Plan B. It paid to think ahead, and Ethan Peck was more than ready to collect his dividends.

27

A nagging premonition of disaster haunted Johnny Bolan as he settled in beside a high-ranking representative from Time. He tried to tell himself that it was paranoia, but it wouldn't wash. He told himself that Mack would be secure, protected in captivity... and still he could not make himself believe the lie.

Whichever way it went there would be nothing in his brother's future but a string of holding cells. And any one of them could be his execution chamber, as the Mob was granted time to plot its strategy, prepare logistics, choose an angle of attack.

But there was something more to Johnny's haunted feeling, something else. He sensed that there was danger inside the court itself, that Mack might not be safe until the verdict was announced.

An hour had elapsed since word had come down that court was reconvening and that the judge had come to a decision in the Bolan case. Delays had been inevitable with deputies and bailiffs patting down the newsmen, former witnesses, the diehard hangers-on. No more than half the gallery was filled so far, and they were lined up in the corridor, three deep, all hoping for a ringside seat.

The young man didn't waste his time with speculation on the outcome of the trial. For Mack it would be death no matter what the final ruling, if he had to spend another moment in jail.

And he was looking at a lifetime in the slammer. Assuming that he was impossibly acquitted, cleared of every charge in every city, state and country where indictments had been handed down, his prospects for eventual release were nil. It would be years before the countless trials and hearings could be scheduled into overcrowded dockets, and as far as making bail...

He had to smile despite the grim surroundings. Bailing out the Executioner, with some two thousand murder charges waiting in the wings, would be impossible of course. It would be easier to win a blanket presidential pardon for the Manson family, and wasn't that a crock?

The man had sacrificed himself, his future, in a hopeless war to hold the line against the savages, and he was a pariah now.

Johnny had been supervising the security precautions from the corner of his eye, and something struck him now as out of place. Scanning, he focused on a slender man with sandy hair and drooping Fu Manchu mustache, his eyes invisible behind a pair of aviator shades. His nylon jacket seemed to be a size too large, and...

Johnny stiffened. It had to be in excess of 110 degrees outside, and even inside the courtroom the air-conditioning was marginal at best- A sheen of perspiration glistened on the thin man's brow, and yet he made no move to take the jacket off. Did Johnny imagine a bulge beneath the jacket?

Another man, incongruous in suit and tie, was waiting to be frisked as Johnny turned to face the double doors. Before the bailiffs could begin to pat him down, another deputy — he looked familiar; from the Blue Oasis? — waved them off and pointed out an empty seat in front, behind the prosecution table.

They're going for it here. Johnny felt the short hairs rising stiffly on his neck, the gooseflesh prickling along his arms despite the muggy heat.

Tight security had stopped him from deciding to conceal a firearm on his person, but the younger Bolan was not totally unarmed. For all the good it did, his second ballpoint pen was actually a lethal Guardfather, loaded with a four-inch, needle-pointed spike of stainless steel, designed for hand-to-hand encounters on the street. The buckle of his belt concealed a three-inch dirk, available for instant use in an emergency... and, once again, it wasn't worth a damn against two men with guns.

Unless he had a chance to close in before they opened fire.

With two armed men there would be no way in hell for him to reach them both. The suit-and-tie was close, two rows away, his profile turned toward Johnny as he studied angles, calculated the trajectories, but Nylon Jacket was clearly out of reach. It would require a miracle to take them both...

And it would not be two, he saw now, but four. The bailiffs had been interrupted as they started patting down a pair of carbon-copy types wearing leisure suits that handily hid the hardware beneath. It seemed impossible that no one noticed or shouted an alarm. And Johnny knew that it was dirty, that the local lawmen were bought and paid for. But the vultures had smelled blood, and nothing would distract them as they waited for the main course.

The leisure suits found seats together, down in center field, so that Nylon Jacket and the suit-and-tie held positions on the new arrivals' flanks. The gunners were arranged to pour converging fire across the waist-high railing, sweeping the defense, the prosecution, bench and bailiffs if it came to that.

With the authorities involved — or some of them, at any rate — his options were severely limited. He could report what he had seen — what he suspected — but the deputies would probably eject him from the courtroom, or detain him as a mental case until the fireworks started. The only viable alternative would be to watch and wait, to time his move precisely and to execute it ruthlessly before the hitters had a chance to strike. It might be tantamount to suicide, but he could not sit by and watch his brother slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb.

He realized that both of them could die today, but they would not go quietly.

And if the young man had his way, they would not go alone.

* * *

Mack Bolan felt a kind of humming tension in the courtroom as he entered, manacled and shackled, flanked by scowling deputies. Dan Fleming was already waiting for him, rising now and pulling out his client's chair.

"Any word?"

The lawyer shook his head. "None. I think we've got a chance, but... hell, who knows?"

"Don't sweat it," Bolan told him.

"What? Don't sweat it?" Fleming's eyes were snapping now. "Goddammit, man, you're being framed!"

"I am?"

The counselor shook his head, allowing himself a thin, ironic smile.

"Okay, I know. I didn't buy it all myself at first. But I can smell it now, and Musgrove's in it right up to his beady eyes."

"I hope the judge has got your sense of smell."

"It doesn't matter. Listen, if he goes against us, we'll appeal. I'll call the governor. We'll fight it all the way to Washington."

"No sale."

Dan Fleming looked confused. "What are you saying?"

"What I've always said," the Executioner replied. "It ends right here."

"Well, dammit..."

His response was interrupted by the bailiff, calling on the court to rise. Bolan stood beside his counsel, watching Justice Price as he ascended to the bench. The case was called, the gavel sounded and they sat back down.

"Will the defendant and his counsel rise?"

They rose again to face the bench, and Bolan felt a sudden tightness in his chest. Prepared for sudden death in battle since he had reached a man's estate, he was about to face a different sort of judgment now. Above him. Price cleared his throat and began to speak.

* * *

Hank Musgrove felt the perspiration soaking through his khaki shirt and raised his Stetson far enough to mop his forehead with a sleeve. Goddamn, he wished that someone would do something about the air-conditioning. A man could die of heatstroke, standing there and waiting for the shit to hit the fan.

There would be plenty to go around, he knew that much, and he had taken Ethan's sage advice, selecting a position in the rear beside the exit where he would be sheltered from the worst of it. His job would be to back up the shooters if there was any trouble, cover their retreat, and he could do just fine from where he was.

It was a frigging piece of cake. Like hell.

Goddammit, Musgrove knew he should have cut and run when Fleming had finished with him yesterday. But like an idiot he had lingered and talked to Ethan Peck instead. The rancher might have tracked him down, if he had run, but there would still have been a chance to break away. He could have been in Mexico right now, relaxing on a beach somewhere, instead of sweating through his khakis in a stuffy courtroom, waiting for a shitstorm that might blow his ass away.

He saw Bo Kendricks lingering beside the empty jury box, arms folded on his chest, watching no one in particular. He wondered if the sheriff would detect the shooters. They were conspicuous enough, Hank thought... or was it only his intense anxiety that made them look that way.

If Kendricks tried to interfere, they were supposed to smoke him. They had the numbers, the equipment — but they might not have the time. If they missed and Kendricks lived beyond this evening, lived to launch a full investigation of the massacre about to unfold...

Hank Musgrove didn't like to think about alternatives. He had decided he would wait around just long enough to see that Kendricks took his medicine.

If something stopped the hitters from delivering on Ethan's promise, Hank would make the tag himself and fabricate an explanation later. Perhaps he could escape detection, or dismiss it as an accident, with Kendricks sucking up a stray, a victim of the chaos that surrounded Bolan's death. Or better yet, he might "discover" that the frame-up was the sheriff's baby after all.

When Kendricks had seen his shooters muff the game, he had tried to save it, and Musgrove had been forced to do his duty under law. It was unfortunate that Kendricks had suffered fatal wounds, that he could not be questioned, brought to trial — but in the general confusion... well, thank God there was an honest cop like Musgrove left to save the day.

He glanced at Kendricks one more time and unobtrusively released the strap that held his side arm in its holster. He would need the edge, and soon. No point in taking any chances with the trivia, when everything he had or ever hoped to be was riding on the line.

* * *

The young man with the press badge dangling from his pocket held a ballpoint poised, pretending he was taking notes. In fact, he had been staring at his brother, shifting subtle glances at the four torpedoes, since the man in manacles had appeared.

Johnny's heart was in his throat, and he needed conscious effort just to breathe. He rose upon command, watched Justice Price ascend the bench and sat again as ordered when the judge was in his place. His brother and the lawyer, Fleming, rose in answer to a summons from the bench.

There was a hint of movement in the corner of his eye, and Johnny shifted, cursing underneath his breath. Three rows away, he saw that the suit-and-tie had changed position, craning sideways in his seat with one hand thrust beneath his jacket now, maneuvering the hardware hidden there. Across the room, as if on cue, the first arrival had his nylon jacket open, freeing up the weapon slung beneath his arm. Between the flankers, carbon-copy leisure suits were leaning forward, their jackets open now, their hands invisible inside.

And it was time to move.

He flicked a glance to either side and was satisfied that he could make his play before the bailiffs had a chance to intervene effectively.

Johnny moved, jostling hard against the man from Time. The younger Bolan cleared the railing, the ballpoint pen clutched tightly in his fist. Before his feet touched down, a startled gasp began to ripple through the court, but he was sprinting toward his human target, right arm cocked, the slender stainless-steel needle snapping into place.

Behind him someone shouted a warning, ordered him to halt, and there were boot heels drumming on linoleum, a ragged counterpoint to Johnny's pounding heart. Ahead, the suit-and-tie was rising to his feet, unmindful of the chaos breaking at his back. The hitter swung his jacket open, raised the stubby Ingram SMG into target acquisition and braced to absorb the kick.

As Johnny brought his stinger down, he put his weight behind the movement, pent-up breath exploding from between clenched teeth. The needle punched through fabric, penetrated flesh and wrenched a shriek from the torpedo's lips. The impact drove him to his knees, and both hands reached back, clutching at the source of sudden agony. Those hands were empty now, and Johnny heard the Ingram clatter on linoleum between the hitter's knees.

He ripped the stinger free, ignoring blood that geysered from the puncture wound, and swung it backhand at his target's profile, skewering one cheek below a bulging eye. The hitter toppled sideways, clutching at his face, and Johnny let him go, intent upon recovering the little stutter gun before it was too late.

His other targets were aware of him by now, recoiling from the madman who had dropped their comrade, who had commandeered his weapon. Close at hand a woman screamed, and Johnny shut his mind against the noise, against the flash peripherals of men in motion scattering along the aisles.

He squeezed the Ingram's trigger, held the weapon steady as it tried to climb and watched the closest of the leisure suits perform a jerky dance of death. His polyester rippled with the impact of a dozen rounds, rich blood spurting out to dapple the pastels. His useless weapon clattered to the floor, and Johnny let him follow it, already sweeping on.

A heartbeat image of his brother diving for the floor, encumbered by his chains but dragging his attorney with him. And then the younger Bolan focused on Nylon Jacket, found him circling in a crouch, holding down the trigger of an Uzi. He riddled chairs and table, angling for a shot at the defendant, closing fast.

Johnny had the Ingram locked on Nylon Jacket's chest, and he was squeezing off until something hit him like a freight train, staggering him and bearing him down. A khaki arm was wrapped around his face, extinguishing the light and cutting off his wind, while other hands reached out to claw the Ingram from his fist.

Over the thunder pounding in his ears, he heard another automatic weapon join the chorus, with revolvers barking an accompaniment on either side. Disgusted with his failure, knowing he would be too late to save his brother now, the younger Bolan settled down to fighting for his life.

28

Mack Bolan hugged the floor as parabellum rounds devoured the table overhead and jagged splinters stung his cheek. Dan Fleming, lying rigid at his side, was clutching at a bloody shoulder and cursing underneath his breath.

The Executioner had seen it all peripherally, a grim, kaleidoscopic swirl of violence as the judge was preparing to read his verdict. From the corner of his eye, he had observed his brother's vaulting exit from the press box, had seen the hitter rise between them just a heartbeat later and had watched him driven to the floor as Johnny had ridden him down. There had been other guns by then, behind him, on his flank, and there was only time to dive for cover, dragging counsel with him as the first incoming rounds made fleshy contact.

It had taken perhaps five seconds, but the action wasn't over yet. He recognized the sounds of three distinctive automatic weapons, and sporadic pistol fire was crackling around the courtroom now as deputies attempted to select a target in the chaos.

Bolan knew he had to move, or die where he was. The parabellum rounds were whittling away his cover, and in another moment his enemy would have the range. If he and Fleming held their ground...

A pair of boots and khaki ankles pounded into view, approaching from the left and tracking straight across the target zone. Above the soldier, out of sight, a Magnum handgun roared, and was immediately answered by a lethal parabellum round. The bailiff stumbled through an awkward pirouette, rebounding off Bolan's splintered table and sprawling inches from the warrior's face. His Colt revolver clattered on the shell-strewn linoleum and came to rest within arm's reach.

Bolan scooped the weapon up and rolled clear, away from Fleming, thumbing back the hammer as he made it to his knees.

The nearest hitter was a human scarecrow dressed in Calvin Kleins, a nylon jacket flapping like a cloak around him as he ran. The Uzi cradled at his waist was spitting out abbreviated bursts, and most of them were going high as he began to lose his nerve.

The sight of Bolan crouching almost in the open brought him back around. The Uzi cut a blazing arc, performing chainsaw surgery on furniture and a portion of the railing, and a woman toppled screaming on Bolan's flank.

But the soldier had his target now. He sighted down the vented barrel, squeezing off a killer double punch that lifted Nylon Jacket off his feet and slammed him back against the wall. He hung there, pinned, for just a moment, then began his final slide to nowhere, leaving crimson traces of himself behind.

Bolan glanced around for Johnny, found him struggling beneath a burly bailiff, and was distracted instantly by furtive movement on his flank. A second hitter, dressed in an outrageous pastel leisure suit, was angling for a shot when bailiffs popped a pair of warning shots on either side of him, diverting his attention from the main event.

The gunner spun to face the enemy, his KG-9 unloading on the uniforms in automatic mode. The nearest bailiff sat down hard, with scarlet rosebuds blossoming across his chest. His partner bolted, snapping off one parting shot that scored the ceiling. He broke for the exit as the shooter tracked him down the aisle.

They fired in unison, the soldier and the leisure suit. His Magnum round impacted on the hitter's skull behind one ear and punched a fist-sized wound as it erupted through his face. The guy was dead before he knew it, but his dying reflex held the little automatic's trigger down. His last burst took the sprinting bailiff, together with a farmer clad in overalls, and ended with the muzzle of his weapon climbing skyward, shattering a ceiling fixture overhead.

There should be more, the soldier knew that much instinctively. No hit team ever rushed a crowded courtroom without some backup waiting in the wings, a set of wheels to carry them away. There would be others in the corridor outside, along the street, selecting vantage points in case their operation went to hell inside.

* * *

The bailiff's stranglehold was cutting off his wind, and Johnny knew that there were only moments left before he slipped into unconsciousness. He had already lost the Ingram, but that was secondary to the problem of the strong arms wrapped around his face and throat.

He drove an elbow backward, searching for the solar plexus, and collided with a bony hip instead. The bailiff's answer was a slashing knee against the coccyx, followed by another to the kidneys, wrenching loose a startled cry that was immediately muffled by the arm across his face.

The bailiff increased his pressure, desperate to subdue his captive while the firefight raged around them, stray rounds sizzling overhead. Another woman screamed, a strangled sound of pain as much as fear, and stumbling bodies slammed against the benches ranged on either side of Johnny and his adversary.

There was only one thing left to do. If he could simulate unconsciousness, persuade the bailiff to drop his guard... Johnny made his move, relaxing in his assailant's deadly embrace.

One hand was clamped around the buckle of his belt, twisting to release the three-inch dagger hidden there. He palmed it, the tongue of razor steel protruding from between his fingers beneath him as he slumped against the bailiffs restraining arms.

Another heartbeat, two, and Johnny felt the grip around his throat relax. He fought the urge to suck a giant breath, content to shudder and omit a little gasp as he was lowered to the floor. His captor shifted cautiously, released him, fumbling with his handcuffs as he risked a fleeting glance around the courtroom slaughterhouse. He gripped a flaccid wrist, secured it, brought the handcuffs down...

And Johnny Bolan erupted from the floor in a convulsive twist that rocked the bailiff backward on his haunches. Johnny could have killed him, could have opened up his throat, but he shared his brother's view about the men in uniform and only sought an exit from their confrontation now.

The looping roundhouse blow impacted on a khaki thigh, the stubby dagger ripping into fabric and muscle, missing bone and major arteries. The bailiff howled and clutched his wounded leg, bright crimson spurting through his fingers as Johnny ripped the dagger free.

The bailiff was reaching for his Smith & Wesson, blood-slick fingers fumbling with the holster strap. Instinctively, the younger Bolan clipped him with a solid left and eased him down to the linoleum. He relieved him of the handgun, then searched for the Ingram as he thrust the Smith & Wesson through his belt.

He spotted the little stutter gun and picked it up, rising to confront the hitters now, already tracking the second leisure suit when something happened and the gunner's head exploded like a dropped melon. A rapid backward scan revealed his brother, crouching behind the waist-high rail and searching for another target, finding none immediately clear. Mack dropped from sight, but Johnny had his fix and he was moving now, intent on making contact while he had the chance.

He saw a hulking man in uniform, his side arm drawn, and recognized the sheriff of McLary County from a fleeting glimpse the day before. Whatever he was doing, Sheriff Kendricks wasn't closing in on Mack. Instead, he seemed intent on bulling through the screaming, shouting crowd, proceeding in the direction of the exit.

Johnny left him to it, thankful for whatever brief diversion had provided him with breathing room. He scuttled forward, waddling in a crouch, the Ingram nosing out ahead of him and ready to confront whatever enemies might show themselves.

Suddenly the muzzle of an Uzi leveled at his face froze Johnny Bolan in his tracks. He almost squeezed the Ingram's trigger, caught himself in time and slowly let his pent-up breath escape.

"Hello, yourself;'

His brother forced a grin.

"You come here often?"

"Passing through." He grimaced at the sight of Mack in chains. "What say we take a little ride and get those off?"

"Sounds good. We might expect some company outside."

"I figured. I've got wheels across the street."

"The Alamo?"

He nodded silently.

"Well, that's appropriate. You ready?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

The brothers scrambled to their feet and took it out of there.

Together.

* * *

Bo Kendricks was glancing at his watch and waiting for the verdict when all hell broke loose in court. He saw a young man leaping out of the press box, and there were others rising now, with weapons coming out from underneath their coats.

Across the room he watched the young reporter battering a man in suit and tie. Except the jacket of the "victim's" suit was open now, and he had hauled a little submachine gun into view, and how the hell had he been able to sneak that into the courtroom, with security as tight as Kendricks's maiden aunt?

There was another gun, and then two more — a goddamned arsenal — and Kendricks was already clutching at his Smith & Wesson .44 when the impromptu firing squad cut loose. He swung the cannon up, prepared to fire, but then a beefy woman in a wide-brimmed hat sprang up in front of him. The sheriff held his fire and stepped forward to wrench her aside. He saw that everything had changed.

The young reporter had a weapon now, recovered from the gunner dressed in suit and tie, and he was blasting at the other members of the firing squad. He took one out and was angling for another when a bailiff hit him low and hard, the two of them rebounding from a hardwood bench before they hit the floor. The two surviving gunners had their weapons trained on Bolan's table, but the Executioner was under cover now, his lawyer with him.

A sudden panicked thought hit Kendricks like a fist above the heart, and he was pivoting to search for Price when he saw Hank Musgrove stalking down the center aisle with gun in hand. The deputy was pale as death, and his hands were trembling visibly. He held the Magnum in a double-handed grip to keep the muzzle steady while he took his aim.

Round one impacted on the table where Bolan should have been, and Kendricks realized that Musgrove wasn't aiming for the members of the firing squad. He was assisting them!

The bastard had been in it from the start.

Another deputy, with pistol drawn, erupted from behind the witness stand. He pegged a shot at one of the torpedoes, missed and was advancing on the double when Musgrove punched a Magnum crusher through his chest. A startled gunner finished it with automatic fire, but Kendricks knew the deputy was dead as hell before those parabellum rounds ripped into him.

His blood was on Hank Musgrove's hands.

The room became a crimson blur for Kendricks, an epitome of hell on earth.

He snapped a round at Musgrove, heedless of the bodies pushing past him and around him. Missed. But Musgrove saw the second coming, abject terror edging out the concentration on his pallid face. A wild return shot whistled over Kendricks's head, and then his former deputy was dodging toward the exit.

Bo Kendricks was aware of automatic weapons battering the air behind him, but he closed his mind to everything beyond the vision of his one-time deputy racing along the aisle with elbows pumping, side arm fanning at the air. An old man stepped in front of Musgrove, and before he had a chance to dodge aside, Hank shot him in the face at point-blank range.

"Fucking bastard."

Primed to kill, Kendricks squared his sights on Musgrove's Stetson, dropped them to a point between the meaty shoulder blades — and froze with finger to the trigger as a woman, babe in arms, rose up to block his field of fire.

With something like a primal fury boiling in his gut, Kendricks sprinted after Musgrove, scattering the faceless newsmen and civilians in his wake. Whatever had already happened in the courtroom, he meant to bring Hank Musgrove down.

The son of a bitch had disgraced his uniform, had turned upon civilians, had slain a fellow officer — and he was not about to waltz away scot-free. The bastard wasn't going anywhere, not if Kendricks had a thing to say about it.

The corridor was an extension of the chaos in the courtroom, men and women, children, bailiffs, lawyers and defendants scattering for cover as he burst through the double doors. Some thirty yards away, he spotted Musgrove making for the elevators, head down, running like a jogger on the verge of cardiac arrest, one arm outstretched to hit the button.

The sheriff tottered to a halt on high-heeled boots, his Smith & Wesson braced in both big hands, already squeezing off, and knowing as he fired that it was too damned early. Riding out the Magnum's recoil, Kendricks saw his round explode against the metal panel that housed the elevator button, spewing bright electric sparks and halting Musgrove in his tracks. He spun to face the sheriff, snapping up his pistol in a dueling stance, a fatal resignation written on his doughy face.

The woman came from nowhere, and in her desperate haste to quit that scene of chaos, she jostled into Musgrove. In an instant he seized her, his free hand circling her body beneath her arms.

She stood between them like a shield, and Kendricks eased off on the Smith & Wesson's trigger, waiting.

"I want outta here!" The tension had converted Musgrove to an alto, going on soprano. "Anybody tries to stop me, this's one dead bitch!"

"No good." The words were out before Bo Kendricks knew that he had spoken. "You're not going anywhere."

"Let's cut the bullshit, Bo. There's nothing you can do to stop me now."

"There might be," Kendricks told him softly, moving in another pace.

"Tha's far enough." Hank Musgrove gestured with his pistol for effect.

It was a crazy move, beyond audacious, and Kendricks knew that if he missed there would be hell to pay. In the remaining heartbeat before he fired, Bo Kendricks wiped his mind of politics, his job, the next election, concentrating on his duty to the badge. He tightened down and squeezed before Hank Musgrove had a chance to see it coming.

The impact of a bullet traveling at nearly 1,800 feet per second, carrying a weight of some 240 grains, is nothing short of catastrophic to the human frame. Deep shock is almost instantaneous as the expanding bullet pushes shards of bone and twists of mutilated flesh in front of it, destroying veins and arteries within the flicker of an eye.

Hank Musgrove never understood precisely what happened to him, but the end results were inescapable. Impacting on his shoulder joint, the Magnum round came close to ripping off his gun arm, spinning him around with such velocity that both his pistol and his human shield were lost before he toppled, sprawling in the corridor. An almost human whimper issued from his throat, but part of him refused to let it go, and he rose, struggling to his knees now, searching for his lost revolver with a dazed expression on his bloodless face.

Bo Kendricks let him find it and watched the broken figure wallow toward the weapon that could never help him now. He waited until Musgrove's fingers closed around the checkered grips, until he rocked back on his haunches, pivoting to raise the pistol, seeking a target through his daze.

Far enough.

The next round lifted Musgrove from his crouch and bounced him off the marble slab that framed the elevator doors. Stone dead before he hit, his body slithered sideways and became a limp, untidy bundle on the floor.

Bo Kendricks turned away, disgust and rage and all of it escaping with his pent-up breath. The nausea was coming, and he hoped that he could hold it off until he had a chance to face the carnage in the courtroom.

He was moving back in that direction when he froze, his Smith & Wesson dangling toward the floor. He had no more capacity to feel surprise, but only resignation to his fate.

Mack Bolan stood before him, still in chains, an Uzi submachine gun in his hands. Beside him, similarly armed, Bo Kendricks recognized the young man who had touched the violence off initially, the one he had mistaken for a journalist.

"Your play," the sheriff said, and Bolan heard the weight of ages in his voice.

"No play. I've never had a quarrel with you."

The lawman risked a glance across his shoulder, toward the leaking deputy's remains. "You didn't kill that Jennings woman, did you? Musgrove did it all."

"Not all. He was a tool."

"He set you up."

"He followed orders."

Sheriff Kendricks nodded. "Well, he won't be takin' any more."

The silence spun between them for a timeless moment, but was finally broken by the sound of running feet behind Bolan's back somewhere along the corridor.

"Get outta here, son," the sheriff said. "There's been enough."

Their eyes met, locked and moved on. Bolan nodded, nudged his brother and brushed past the sheriff as he doubled back along the corridor in the direction of the courtroom.

The Bolans shunned the elevators, opting for the stairs. The two men were delayed by Bolan's shackles, which would not permit a jogging pace. Downstairs, the courthouse lobby was a wasteland, various employees and civilians either gone to join the melee on the second floor, or off in search of shelter from the storm. They had the exit to themselves and passed in tandem through the swinging double doors.

"I'll get the wheels."

Without a backward glance, Johnny darted for the street in the direction of the aging Alamo Hotel directly opposite. When he was halfway there, a racing engine and the squeal of tortured rubber drew the Executioner's attention, gaining swiftly on his flank.

And there had been a backup waiting for him, sure.

The Cadillac was close, no more than half a block away and closing fast. The windows on the driver's side were down and bristling with hardware, scatterguns and carbines angling for target acquisitions, gunners making swift allowances for speed. Encumbered by his shackles, painfully aware that there was nowhere left to run, the soldier stood his ground.

At thirty yards, he held the Uzi's trigger down and swept the stubby muzzle in an arc from left to right, then back again. There was no time to aim, and Bolan tracked the progress of his automatic rounds by visual effect — the spiderwebbing on a previously unmarked windshield, gleaming punctures in the bodywork along both doors, a spray of stuffing as his bullets ripped upholstery inside.

The gunners were unloading even as they died, their stray round peppering the courthouse, shattering the glass doors at Bolan's back. The Caddy was dead even with him when it jumped the curb, running with two wheels in the gutter, mowing down a mailbox and impacting on the corner hydrant with destructive force. He hesitated for a moment, waiting for survivors to emerge beneath the foaming geyser's spray, but there was no one left to challenge Bolan anymore.

His brother swung the Jimmy four-wheel drive across two empty lanes and brought it to curbside, opening the passenger door.

"You set?"

"I'd say."

When he was settled in, the Uzi wedged between his knees, Johnny stood on the accelerator, unleashing all that power underneath the hood. In moments they had cleared the city limits, and the wasteland opened out before them.

"Name it."

Johnny's grin was warm, infectious, and the Executioner could not withhold his own.

But he could name it, sure.

"Let's take it home."

Epilogue

The bourbon wasn't helping anymore, and Ethan Peck pushed the bottle back, unmindful when it toppled from the table, burbling its contents into the expensive deep-pile carpeting. No matter. He had more important problems on his mind.

The early radio reports of what had taken place around the courthouse sickened him. The local yokels might not know a thing about professional delivery, but they were aces when it came to laying down bad news. Four of his people dead — Hank Musgrove made it five — along with sheriff's deputies, civilians.

Conspicuous among the living were Mack Bolan and the goddamned sheriff, Kendricks. Double trouble, sure, but of the two, it was the Executioner who worried Ethan most. The rancher would be gone before Bo Kendricks finished putting it all together, but the Bolan fumble would be something else again. The boys in Dallas would be looking to repay him for his failure.

He thought about the hit team dispatched from Dallas, knew that they could not be far away. Assuming that they heard the news flash on their radio and pulled over to a roadside phone, they should be close by now. They wouldn't bother driving by the courthouse; too much risk of being stopped. The team would have their orders. They would come directly to his door.

As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard heavy car doors slam out front. He counted three even as he moved toward the desk and began rummaging beneath some papers in an upper drawer. The rancher found what he was looking for, examined it and weighed it briefly in his hands.

The single-action Colt had cost a bundle when he had bought it years before, and it was damn near priceless now. Hand-tooled, with gold and silver inlays on the barrel, cylinder and frame, it glistened like a royal scepter when he raised it to the light. The five-inch barrel bore a simulated autograph from Big John Wayne along each side, the graven letters filled with eighteen-karat gold, and through the years that autograph had been a source of inspiration, strength, to Ethan Peck.

So what if there had been a hundred other guns just like it, each inscribed by some anonymous machine? It was the spirit of the Duke that made it special, his indomitable courage when the chips were down.

Like now.

He double-checked the weapon's load and sat down behind his desk, the Colt Peacemaker balanced on one thigh. No time to run until he finished with his business here... and Ethan was as ready to receive his guests as he would ever be.

He had released his houseman for the day, preferring solitude for what he had to do, and there was no one to respond when Ethan's uninvited visitors began to hammer on the door. He waited, listening, imagining that he heard the jimmy bar inserted, shattering the lock. He took a breath and held it, stilling the trembling in his hands with almost superhuman effort.

Shadows in the study doorway took human form.

"You had us worried, Ethan. For a second there we thought you weren't at home."

He didn't know the men, had never seen them in his life, but Ethan wasn't startled by the mock familiarity.

"I didn't hear you knock," he lied.

"You're slipping, Ethan."

There were two of them, which meant another somewhere in the house. Gorillas, both of them, with narrow eyes and barrel chests, their jackets hanging open, granting access to the holstered hardware underneath. They hadn't made a move so far, and if he played his cards right...

"Guess you heard about the mess in town?"

He nodded. "Better luck next time around."

The nearest of them shook his bullet head. "No next time, Ethan. That's the message."

"Oh?"

"You had your chance. You blew it, guy."

"I guess there's no way I could talk you out of this?"

"'Fraid not. We've got our orders on this thing, you know?"

"I understand."

He was amazed by the composure that he felt, the sudden and immediate release of tension from the moment his enemies had shown themselves. Confronted by the worst of it, he was released from the anticipation, from the fear.

And when he fired, the echo of the Colt's report was amplified beneath his desk. He felt the searing muzzle blast against his inner thigh, already kicking backward, rolling with the coasters on his high-backed chair, the six-gun rising, tracking into target acquisition.

Round one took the headman just below the breastbone, opening a blowhole in his paunch and killing him before he had a chance to reach the pistol slung beneath his arm. Gorilla number two was fading in the direction of the door, one hand inside his jacket, a confused expression on his face. He didn't seem to realize precisely what was happening, but his reaction to the gunshot was immediate, professional.

And it was almost good enough.

Almost.

The second .45 round drilled him through the upper chest, exploded through a shoulder blade and bounced him off the door frame, spewing crimson front and back. He staggered, then stumbled to one knee as he hauled out his holstered piece, incredibly defying shock and loss of blood, his teeth clenched against the pain.

Peck braced the Colt in both hands and fired again, unable to suppress a grimace as the shooter's jaw was sheared away. There was no time to wait for dying tremors to subside, and Ethan reached the door in three long strides, the six-gun cocked and ready to receive all comers.

Pounding footsteps in the corridor alerted him to number three, and when he cleared the study doorway he was crouching, turning in profile to the enemy. The shooter still had twenty yards to go, and the stunned expression on his face revealed an understanding that he'd never make it now.

Peck cut a bull's-eye at the range of twenty yards, his human target vaulting backward, boot heels drumming briefly on the hardwood floor until his shattered heart gave up the ghost. He waited another moment to be sure, then rose to stand above the dead.

Three up, three down, and wouldn't Dallas shit when news of this got home? They might think twice before they put the bloodhounds on his trail, and if they were intent upon revenge... well, he had rubbed their noses in it once, and he could do the same again, no matter where they tracked him down.

Peck tucked the six-gun in his belt, unmindful of the barrel's heat against his skin. The Duke would shake his hand if he could see what Peck had done, no doubt about it. Just like in the frigging movies.

He doubled back into the study and fetched the heavy satchel from underneath his desk. He had been packed to go before the Dallas team had arrived, and there was no point wasting any further time. The bag was stuffed with money, better than two hundred thou, and he could hit the bank accounts long-distance once he found a temporary roost. His clothes and all the rest of it could be replaced, so long as he had cash in hand, and Peck would do just fine.

Peck made a short hike down the corridor past the leaking carcass of gorilla number three. He cleared the hallway and was halfway to the ruined door before he sensed the enemy behind him, watching silently. Peck halted in his tracks and dropped the satchel, holding both hands out empty as he turned to face the cut-down scattergun. Out front, for just a heartbeat, he had seen the Caddy with its driver's door still open wide.

And he had counted only three.

"I've got almost a quarter-million dollars in that bag," he told the driver, knowing in his heart that it was hopeless. "Let me walk away, it's yours."

The driver shook his head. "No way."

"I'll double that if you let me have an hour."

"You'll double shit."

And he was right of course. The shooter could fulfill his contract, save his ass and keep the satchel for himself in any case. Peck had no aces left to play.

He felt the pistol's weight tugging at his belt, inviting him to try his hand. It would be suicidal, certainly. The scattergun was pointed at his chest, and he could never hope to beat the gunner's time. It was preposterous. Insane.

And it was still the only game in town.

He knew the Duke would try it in his place. The Duke would never have surrendered to some snot-nosed city boy, no matter if the snot-nose had a cannon leveled at his chest.

"You ever go to movies, boy?"

The snot-nose looked confused, but he was holding steady on the scattergun, his knuckle white with tension on the trigger. Counting down his life in microseconds now, the rancher knew precisely what he had to do.

And he was grinning when he made his move.

Table of Contents

Don Pendleton's Executioner The Trial

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Epilogue