The Fiery Cross Read online

  Annotation

  When a human rights activist is brutally murdered in America's Deep South, his father's suspicions fall on the Aryan Vanguard, a close-knit brotherhood dedicated to the legacy of Adolf Hitler.

  Desperate to bring justice to his son's killers, he enlists the help of his old friend Mack Bolan. But when Bolan infiltrates the organization as a gun for hire, he uncovers a darker menace beneath the seething anger of the white supremacists - an alliance between a Soviet "sleeper" and an enemy he'd thought long dead.

  * * *

  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

  Epilogue

  * * *

  Don Pendleton's Executioner

  Mack Bolan

  The Fiery Cross

  "He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it. He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it."

  Martin Luther King, Jr., 1958

  "I refuse to stand idle and thereby cooperate with evil. Let the savages take notice: one man, here and now, is fighting back."

  Mack Bolan

  "The men of the USS Stark stood guard in the night. They were great, and those that died embody the best of us. Yes, they were ordinary men who did extraordinary things. Yes, they were heroes."

  President Ronald Reagan,

  May 22, 1987

  Doran Bolduc

  Braddy Brown

  Jeffrey Calkins

  Mark Caouette

  John Coletta, Jr.

  Bryan Clinefelter

  Antonio Daniels

  Christopher DeAngelis

  James Dunlap

  Steven Erwin

  Jerry Farr

  Vernon Foster

  Dexter Grissette

  William Hansen

  Daniel Homicki

  Kenneth Januski, Jr.

  Steven Kendall

  Steven Kiser

  Ronnie Lockett

  Thomas MacMacMullen

  Charles Moller

  Jaffrey Phelps

  Randy Pierce

  James Plonsky

  Kelly Quick

  Earl Ryals

  Robert Shippee

  Jeffrey Curtis Sibley

  Lee Stephens

  James Stevens

  Martin Supple

  Gregory Lee Tweady

  Vincent Lenard Ulmer

  Joseph Watson

  Wayne Weaver

  Terance Weldon

  Lloyd Wilson

  Special thanks and acknowledgment lo Mike Newton tor his contribution to this work.

  Prologue

  The young man stumbled, lost his stride and nearly fell. A sapling saved him, kept him on his feet, although the rough bark flayed his palms. The pain was nothing. Less than nothing. He had suffered worse, and he was running for his life.

  Behind him, voices in the darkness. Cursing. Calling after him. Demanding that he stop and take his medicine. He could not hear the dogs yammering — not yet — but they were sometimes trained to hunt in silence, and they might be closing on him even now.

  He was winded, almost to the point of absolute exhaustion, but it would be suicide to stand and fight. Unarmed, he had no chance at all against the dogs, the men with guns, who were pursuing him. It was a miracle that he had managed to escape their clutches in the first place.

  They meant to kill him, that was obvious. If they had simply meant to beat him like the others, they could easily have done their business on the street without abducting him and driving miles into the countryside. This had been an obvious disposal run, but he was not prepared to make it easy for them. Not if he could break away.

  He knew their faces now, a scattering of names, and he would blow their stinking cover for them, given half a chance. Forget about indictments; they would alibi one another till the cows came home, and most of them had wives or lovers who would swear that they were watching television or humping when the shit went down. But there were other ways to turn the heat on, and he knew them all by heart.

  Some of his would-be murderers were righteous members of the church, and their fellow Christians might be forced to take a second glance at killers in the congregation. Others in the mob were businessmen; picket lines would generate enough adverse publicity to hurt them. His unsupported word might not be adequate to land the bastards in the prison cells where they belonged, but he could make them wish that they had picked another guest of honor for their little necktie party.

  First, of course, he had to save himself. Survival was the first priority. If he was taken by his enemies the story ended here, with no heat, no pressure, brought to bear against the men responsible. The young man did not fancy martyrdom. And so he ran.

  The trees and undergrowth were thicker now, with creepers that conspired to trip him, thorny limbs that snagged his flesh and clothing. Skull and ribs still throbbing from the beating he had absorbed, the runner scarcely noticed new lacerations on his face and arms. If anything, the pain was welcome. It would keep him angry. Keep him moving as his energy reserves ran out.

  He thought of Mona, knew she would have started making calls by now. The sheriff's office would be slow to respond, as always, but the others would be looking for him, scouring the town for starters, fanning out to launch a wider search when they came up empty. They would do their best, but they would be too late unless he kept on running, made the hunters work for everything they got.

  How long since they had taken him? An hour? Two? The drive had taken twenty minutes, minimum, his face jammed against the floorboards of a station wagon, heavy work boots pressing on his neck and spine. Though no woodsman, he possessed a decent homing instinct, but the darkness and exhaustion, coupled with the ringing in his ears from one too many backhand blows, combined to leave him feeling disoriented. There was every likelihood that he had been "escaping" in a circle, going nowhere, but he had to keep on moving, give it everything he had.

  Which, at the moment, wasn't much.

  His nose was definitely broken, and the pain in his side was probably a broken rib. At that, he had been fortunate. The bastards had been drinking when they'd picked him up, and alcohol had made them clumsy. Sober men with murder on their minds would probably have taken steps to cripple him, eliminate the possibility of an escape. Instead, his captors had been content with knocking him around in preparation for the main event, and they had given him his chance.

  The runner felt a surge of satisfaction now, remembering the satisfying impact of his fist after he had picked a target from the circle of attackers and launched himself without a second thought or any hint of warning. Whiskey and surprise had slowed the enemy's reaction. His man had gone down, and he had been away and running for the trees before the bastards had realized exactly what was happening. There had been a few wild shots, and then the leader had called them off and they had given chase on foot.

  He wished that he could hear the dogs. At least he would know if they were closing on him, narrowing his meager lead. With so much noise behind him, heavy bodies crashing through the brush, it would be easy for the hounds to take him by surprise. One of them would be strong enough to drop him in his present state; the pair of them might finish him before the gunmen had an opportunity to join the fun.

  He hesitated, found
a fallen limb and weighed it in his palm. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. If he could ambush one of his pursuers, take the bastard's gun...

  The thought of killing surfaced automatically, surprising him. He had been schooled to seek nonviolent answers in the face of sometimes violent opposition, but his life was on the line, and primal instincts swiftly overrode his training. There had been too many human sacrifices for the cause already. He was not prepared to make another. Not with Mona and the others waiting, searching for him, counting on him. The bastards who initiated violent confrontations had to learn that there were risks involved.

  The runner might have laughed aloud, except that he was out of breath. The notion of himself as hero and avenger, standing tall and fighting fire with fire, appeared preposterous within the context of his circumstances. He was injured, near collapse, and being hunted like an animal by men with dogs and guns. There were no heroes here.

  There might, however, be survivors.

  He had been running for a quarter of an hour, though it felt like days. He had to be making headway. Every moment gained was in his favor; every moment wasted by the hunters shaved the awesome odds against his own survival. Some of them were sober now, he heard it in their distant voices. Sober and afraid. Their "simple" operation had already taken much too long, and they were running out of time. Delays increased the possibility of hazardous exposure. If they did not overtake him soon, a few of them, at least, would start to think in terms of giving up and turning back.

  Already one or two might be considering a way to cut their losses, scrub the whole fiasco and pretend it had never happened. There was strength in numbers, and a single witness — let alone a radical with axes of his own to grind — was easily dismissed from serious consideration. No one would believe his story of abduction in the middle of the night by some outstanding local citizens. It would seem preposterous.

  Except that someone might be listening. If not the sheriff, then the press, the networks, possibly the FBI. Who could predict what an investigation might uncover? Each of the enemy had secrets to protect, a multitude of sins that had to be hidden from the light of day. To save themselves, one another, they would stick awhile, continue the pursuit until they ran him down or saw that it was absolutely hopeless. While they had a chance to salvage something, anything, they dared not let him go.

  The dog appeared from nowhere, crashing through the undergrowth immediately to the runner's left, a guided missile, lips drawn back from silent, flashing fangs. He raised an arm in time to save his jugular and felt long canines slicing through flesh and muscle, grating on the long bones, locking tight.

  He brought his cudgel down across the German shepherd's skull. Again. At the third blow, something gave. The dying animal released him with a final gnawing twist that brought the runner to his knees. He struck the twitching, prostrate body one more time and struggled to his feet.

  He heard the second shepherd coming through the trees and was ready when the hairy javelin erupted from its cover, hurtling toward his face. He swung the cudgel like Hank Aaron going for the record, and it shattered on the streamlined skull. The dog's momentum drove him backward, and they rolled together in the ferns, his fingers scrabbling for the throat and pinching off the windpipe. Weak resistance, stifled whimpers, and the hound at last lay still.

  It took his last remaining strength to get-back on his feet. Warm blood was flowing freely from his savaged forearm, but he scarcely felt it. He wondered fleetingly if this was what it felt like to die.

  "You're covered, nigger!"

  Turning slowly, almost apathetically, he watched his enemies approaching through the trees. He had no strength to run, nowhere to hide.

  "Black bastard killed my dogs!" a second gunman bellowed. "Jesus Christ!"

  "Don't matter. This is what we came for."

  "Let's do it."

  Stepping forward, first one member of the hunting party, then another and another readied rifles, shotguns, pistols, taking aim. Again, the young man wondered what it would feel like to die.

  And then he knew.

  1

  The sanctuary of Bethany AME Church was about three-quarters filled, and new mourners were arriving in droves. The majority were dressed for Sunday meeting, though it was in fact a Tuesday afternoon. Others, who could not afford suits, had come in work clothes, faded and worn but scrupulously clean. Their casual attire implied no disrespect to the deceased.

  From his position on the dais next to the Reverend Cletus Little, Wilson Brown sat motionless and watched the pews fill up with solemn faces. There were angry murmurings among the members of the crowd, a restiveness that threatened to explode if someone stuck a verbal match and lit the fuse. Other mourners, he knew, would be gathered outside on the steps and in the parking lot, unable to find seats inside. They would be content to stand and listen to the service on a pair of tinny speakers, under the watchful eyes of sheriff's deputies and state police.

  The AME in Bethany's name stood for African Methodist Episcopal, a throwback to the antebellum days when churches — like the nation — had been split on racial lines, divided on the monumental issues of slavery and secession. In the aftermath of Reconstruction, no one had ever gotten around to changing the name of the church, and in fact the congregation had been solely "African" for another century, until the second civil war had started making inroads into the bastions of Jim Crow.

  Today, all that had changed — a few of them familiar, Theo's friends and allies in the movement, others from the local media, with notebooks and tape recorders on their knees. In back, another line of stern Caucasian faces, uniformed officers of the state police standing shoulder to shoulder with two men in suits. The latter had the look of Washington about them, but they scarcely mattered. They were all too late to save his son.

  Scanning the crowd while he waited. Brown looked for the one face he wanted to see. He came up empty, told himself that he should not have been surprised. It was too public here, with the police and journalists on hand, the network television cameras parked outside. And it was early yet. There would be ample time for Wilson Brown to savor plans of revenge against the bastards who had killed his only child.

  He sensed a rising tension in the crowd and noted that the white mourners were attracting sullen and suspicious glares from the majority of blacks. For the most part it was an undeserving mistrust, symptomatic of the deep divisions that had brought Parrish and the rest of Chatham County to the brink of civil war. Those schisms in society had cost Theo his life. Others, too, had died, and Wilson Brown knew the worst was yet to come.

  The church was full, the double doors were closed and flanked by officers in uniform with pistols on their hips. Beside Brown, Reverend Little checked his watch and said, "I think we should begin." His surplice shimmered under the pulpit floodlights as he moved to stand before the microphone. Brown willed his eyes to remain on the minister, not stray to the closed casket, which stood at the foot of the altar on sawhorses draped in black. He could not maintain his poise if he allowed his heart and mind to linger there, inside the box. Not yet.

  It took a moment for the crowd to notice Reverend Little in the pulpit, but the murmuring subsided by degrees, replaced at last by ringing silence. Angry and expectant faces waited as the minister cleared his throat and straightened the foolscap pages on the lectern.

  "My duty is a sad one, as you know," he began. "I'm called upon to say a word in parting for a young man cut down in his prime. His name is known to all of you. He needs no introduction here."

  "Amen."

  A single baritone pronounced the word, and other voices picked it up until a chorus washed against the pulpit, ebbed and died away.

  "You all know Theo Brown, and I believe you all respected him. Your presence here today is testimony to your admiration of his work, his sacrifice. It would have pleased him, I think, to see this turnout. Not by any means because he sought your admiration or your praise. Our brother Theo was a self-effacing man
who put his ego and his own best interest second to the needs of others."

  'Tell it, brother."

  "Rather, I believe that Theo would have smiled upon this gathering, because it symbolizes unity, commitment to the cause for which he gave his life. By your attendance here, you send a message to the enemies of brotherhood and freedom."

  "Send it, Jesus."

  "You have put the enemies of brotherhood on notice here today that dreams cannot be slain with mortal man."

  "Praise God."

  "You have announced your own intention to pick up the fallen standard and to bear it proudly in the days and weeks to come. By turning out today, you have become a part of Theo's dream for Chatham County and for all mankind."

  "Yes, Jesus."

  Toward the rear, Brown saw the troopers shifting nervously and studying the crowd. They felt it begin to simmer. Several of the officers kept anxious fingers close to blackjacks and batons, as if afraid weapons would be needed at any moment.

  The minister was warming up, his enthusiasm easily communicated to the crowd. Reporters clustered on the sidelines felt it, scribbling furiously in their notebooks, twisting microcassette recorders toward the congregation for a sampling of the crowd's reaction to the eulogy.

  "You don't need me to tell you Theo was a good man, that he worked and finally gave his life for others out of a commitment to their need. You don't need me to freshen up your memories about the circumstances of his cruel, untimely death."

  "No, Lord."

  "It's not my job to name his killers, though I have a fair idea of who they are. I won't name names today. I can't inform you to a moral certainty of who precisely pulled the trigger. But I know and you know to a moral certainty the names of those who gave the orders, those who had it done on their behalf."

  "Yes, Lord, we know."

  "It's not my function to detect and prosecute a murderer, but there are those who have that grave responsibility. To them I offer this advice: proceed. Push on and do your duty, without fear or favor. See that justice finally is served in Chatham County."