The Trial Read online

  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

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  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.