"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.

 

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