The Trial, page 22
part #91 of The Executioner Series
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?
