The Fiery Cross Read online

  On a personal level, he had murdered only the once, but it had been exhilarating, an experience beyond compare. The tension mounting as he waited for a visit from authorities; the sweet relief — almost orgasmic — that he felt on realizing that his plan was foolproof, that he would not be identified. From time to time he dusted off the memories, examined them with loving care. A cherished moment in his life... and one he would gladly duplicate, provided any decent opportunity.

  He thought of Freeman, and the man's remark about his backers having much to learn about America. A mere coincidence? What else? Freeman was a clever man, within his limitations, but it was preposterous to think he could have pierced the veil that Andrews had constructed over thirty years and more. Preposterous, and yet...

  It would be desirable to eliminate the risk before it went too far. If there was any chance at all of ultimate exposure, he might be required to use his own initiative, eliminate the threat through drastic action. It was acceptable for an American financial wizard to be tried on charges of supporting racist lunatics — the KGB would love it, benefiting greatly from the propaganda that a trial would generate — but it was something else entirely for a Russian sleeper to be dragged before the bar. Exposure of his mission in America would be disaster, pure and simple. It would set the cause back years, perhaps decades. And it would all be his fault in the end.

  At the moment he needed Freeman, but in time the mercenary would exhaust his usefulness. Expendable already, he would soon become a detriment to Andrews and the master plan. At that point, it would be the pleasure of Mikhail Andreivich to play another game of hide-and-seek with the authorities, observe them as they launched an investigation of another timely "accident." Too long since he had felt the heady rush of danger and excitement. Much too long.

  He hoped that Freeman would be swift about his business, putting everything in readiness. The mercenary was a perfect object for the game that Andrews had in mind, and he was looking forward to it now. Entertaining, yes. It could be all of that and more.

  The banker's smile was hungry, scarcely human. He felt tremendous.

  After all these years, the sleeper was awake.

  10

  Perched above the game trail on a stout oak limb, Mack Bolan waited for his prey. His face and hands were daubed with camouflage cosmetics, and his tiger-stripe fatigues merged perfectly with the surrounding foliage. In his hand, the heavy pistol pointed earthward, covering the trail. He had been waiting for almost fifteen minutes, but his targets were approaching now. Two of them, judging by the sounds.

  It was his first day on the job as drill instructor for the troopers of the Vanguard and the Klan. The night before, with some help from Mason Ritter, he had acquired a tiny apartment in Parrish, settling his few belongings in and making the place secure before he went to sleep. At dawn he had rendezvoused with Ritter for the short drive west of town to Camp Nordland, a compound including barracks, towers and a dining hall, constructed in the middle of the woods on land belonging to the Vanguard. According to the wizard, seven hundred acres were available to "patriots" for training and maneuvers. It would be "Bowers's" job to prepare the latest class for combat and to refine the drill in order to accommodate larger, more frequent groups.

  Twelve men had fallen out on Bolan's order, garbed in camouflage or olive drab, three of them sporting stringy hair below their collars, six in need of shaves. Their weapons were a motley assortment, including several shotguns, AR-15s, Ruger Mini-14s, a Kalashnikov reworked for semiauto fire to make it legal in the States. Most of them also carried handguns, and they seemed partial to huge "survival knives," more noted for their weight than for their practicality.

  Bolan stood before them, withering the would-be soldiers with his stare.

  "How many of you men believe you're fit to call yourselves soldiers? Right now, let's see your hands!"

  A dozen hands went up, a few more hesitantly than the rest. One of the rumpled soldiers snickered to himself, amused by something that was not apparent to the others present.

  "Fine. I like to see a group of men with confidence." He moved along the ragtag column, studying each face in turn. "Let's make a deal here, shall we? Let's forget about the training for today and play a little game of hide-and-seek. I'm it. Whoever tags me graduates today. If I tag anyone, that person gets a decent haircut, shaves his scraggly face and comes back here tomorrow morning looking like a soldier, ready to begin from scratch. Who wants to play?"

  Again the dozen hands went up, a few more hesitating this time at the prospect of some work involved.

  When all the hands were raised, Bolan said, "You'll need to check your weapons. That includes the pistols. Keep the knives, if they make you feel better." Stooping, he opened a footlocker, revealing the air guns and extra loads of paint pellets within. "We'll be using these today. A hit between the hairline and the knees is fatal. Dead men show up in the morning clean and early to begin their training. Any questions?"

  "Can we hunt in teams?"

  "Hunt any way you like. It won't make any difference."

  The mock commandos muttered over that among themselves, and Bolan let them gripe a while before demanding their attention once again. He used the time to choose an air gun, loading up and filling the pockets of his camouflage fatigues with extra tubes of paint balls.

  "Pick your weapons," Bolan ordered. "Then you shag ass back inside the dining hall and give me ten. I'll start off heading north. From that point on, it's up to you "

  Despite the Klansman's question about hunting in teams, most of the troopers had preferred to run singly, pursuing their quarry with all the panache of a bull in a china shop. Bolan had taken the first as he thrashed in a clump of wild roses, ensnared by the long, wicked thorns. Number one had attempted to fire, but the thorns had snagged his sleeve and prevented the weapon from locking on target. He took the paint square in his chest, a bright splash of crimson denoting a heart shot.

  "Goddamn it!"

  "You're dead. Back to camp."

  "Jesus Christ!"

  Bolan left him to pull himself free and moved on. Number two had been tapping a kidney as Bolan approached from his blind side, contentedly hosing the flora and using his free hand to wave off the flies. Bolan wasted no time with the pisser; a shot to the back of the head brought him leaping around in surprise, urine sprinkling his shoes.

  "That ain't fair!"

  "Zip it up. Back to camp."

  Now he waited for two who had chosen to hunt as a team. Teamwork was wise, if you did it correctly, but these two were buddies enjoying a game, communicating in raspy stage whispering, imitating Rambo as they blundered from one tree to another, telegraphing every move with excess noise.

  "I'm telling you, he won't be on the trail."

  "Shut up! He could be anywhere."

  "My ass."

  "No, thanks, I've got a girlfriend."

  "Shithead."

  Helpless laughter from the Klan comedian as he came out into the open. Close behind him, his disgruntled partner dragged his feet and held his air gun carelessly, its muzzle pointed toward the earth. Bolan let them close the gap, moving with less caution now, speaking in normal tones as they bantered back and forth. Their jokes revolved around the antics of priests and rabbis, who were constantly begging for donations, getting laid or both. The pair was no more than thirty feet away from Bolan's perch.

  "And so the mother superior says. Two dollars, Father, the same as in town!'"

  The taller Klansman stood with head thrown back in laughter, loving it, his oval lips a perfect bull's-eye. Bolan saw no reason to resist. He sighted quickly, squeezed the air gun's trigger and watched his target stagger, spitting crimson paint and sputtering surprise.

  The joker watched his sidekick for a heartbeat, trying to decide if he was sick or merely clowning, but he never had the chance to work it out. A second paint ball burst against his cheek, bright rivulets describing abstract patterns in his scraggly beard and across the blouse o
f his fatigues.

  "A lousy, frigging ambush!"

  Bolan dropped, catlike, to stand before them. "What were you expecting, soldier? Hearts and flowers?"

  "You could give a man a chance!"

  "You had one, and you blew it. Back to camp."

  He watched them disappear around the bend, then struck off through the trees, avoiding vines and creepers that reached out to snare him, bring him down. It was a challenge, moving silently through so much tangled undergrowth, but Bolan managed. Years of field experience had taught him every trick imaginable, and he used them now to good effect. The hunters, meanwhile, seemed to thrash about with greater noise than ever, setting birds and animals to flight before them, keeping Bolan constantly apprised of their locations.

  And the Executioner began to take them. One by one.

  He crossed the trail of number five a short ten minutes after "killing" three and four. The guy was blundering along without a backward glance, cutting a swath through the ferns and saplings, using his air gun like a blunt machete to beat down the brush. Bolan fell in behind him, taking advantage of the incompetent tracker's noise, closing rapidly to point-blank range. Up close, he could hear the Klansman talking to himself, bemoaning his discomfort.

  "Fucking trees. Can't see a goddamn thing."

  "You're history."

  The soft voice brought his target spinning around, and Bolan shot him in the chin, the red paint dribbling down his neck and shirt as if he had been interrupted in the middle of eating a cherry pie. The Klansman stared at Bolan, dumbstruck.

  "Back to camp."

  Number six was thirsty, had already drained his canteen. Bolan found him kneeling beside a forest stream, glancing nervously around as he refilled the water bottle, his air gun resting on a bed of leaves beside him. He bent to wash his sweaty face, presenting Bolan with a target he could not resist. The pellet stung the barracks trooper's buttocks, and he reached around reluctantly to test the damage, fingers bright and sticky as they came away from the seat of his pants.

  "A hole in one. Head back to camp."

  Number seven took a page from Bolan's book and found himself a high-side vantage point. Unfortunately, scuff marks on the tree trunk from his boots betrayed him, and his skill at camouflage left much to be desired. In spite of tiger-stripe fatigues, he stood out from the foliage rather than becoming part of it, and while he might have foxed his comrades in the hunt, the Executioner was not deceived.

  It was a tricky shot for all of that. The gunner had a clear view of his chosen game trail either way, and blind-side access gave him perfect cover from the tree's trunk. Bolan finally had to backtrack fifty yards and cross the trail beyond his target's line of sight, returning on the far side, keeping to the trees, until he stood directly opposite his mark.

  No problem then. Thirty feet away, the target perched above the deer track like a giant Cheshire cat, all smiles and smug self-satisfaction. Bolan wiped the smile off with a pellet to the forehead, bright paint mingling with the camouflage disguise.

  "You're finished. Hang it up."

  "Hey, damn it, where'd you come from?"

  "From your nightmares. Back to camp."

  Number eight was stalking number nine when Bolan overtook him, and the warrior left him to it, watching from a cautious distance as the Klansman flanked his comrade, unaware of what he was about to do. Anxiety or zeal betrayed the tracker at the final instant and he let loose a rebel yell, alerting his intended prey. The amateur commandos opened fire together, peppering each other with a spray of paint at point-blank range.

  "Great work," the Executioner announced, emerging from the forest shadows. "You'll make it easy on the enemy."

  "Goddamn you, Vern, you horse's ass!"

  "Don't try'n blame this mess on me, you stupid bastard!"

  "Why don't you kiss my ass?"

  "Why don't you both go back to camp?"

  The last three almost took Bolan, working in conjunction, and the soldier later blamed himself for growing overconfident, complacent, as he stalked the stragglers. Using one as bait, the other two had staked their partner out like big-game hunters with a tethered goat. It nearly worked — but not as they had planned.

  Approaching in silence from the south, Bolan saw the decoy first and froze. He scanned the undergrowth, the overhanging trees, and found the nearest gunner, offering a mute congratulation to the stalkers for originality. He meant to take the sniper first, deflating ego with surprise. In doing so, he overlooked the second gunner waiting in the shrubbery a dozen yards away.

  The sniper he had spotted was a portly mechanic in his mid-twenties who carried the smell of the lube rack with him everywhere he went. His face was grimed and dark without the use of camouflage cosmetics, his oily hair concealed beneath a rumpled bush hat. Bolan was surprised to find him in a tree at all, decided there had to be muscle somewhere underneath the flab.

  The sniper's chosen limb was large, but he was still precariously balanced, stretched out lengthwise for maximum support. A simple nudge would do the job, Bolan thought, but he could not climb the tree and take his quarry by surprise. A shot would have to do instead.

  He held the air gun in a classic dueling stance and sighted down the barrel at a point behind the gunner's ear. It was an easy pop, and he would follow through by dropping forty-five degrees to pin the Judas goat before he could react.

  He fired and saw the pellet find its mark, a ruby blossom opening its petals on the Klansman's neck. Unhurt but startled, Bolan's target lost his purchase on the limb, made one attempt to catch himself before he fell, all arms and legs and bleating cries, immediately silenced by his jarring impact with the ground.

  The gunner's cry of warning was enough to spook his partner, and the human bait was on the move as Bolan dropped his aim to bring the second Klansman under fire. He was already squeezing off, afraid he had been too slow, when he was startled by a sudden crashing in the undergrowth no more than twenty feet away.

  Another hostile, closing fast and firing as he ran. A pellet grazed the tree trunk next to Bolan's shoulder, spattered harmlessly on bark and leaves. The soldier pivoted and hit a combat crouch, his air gun tracking, seeking a substantial target. Bolan knew that he had blown it, thrown the game away. It would take a miracle to save him now.

  A miracle, or simple clumsiness by his opponent.

  The grinning Klansman snapped a second shot at Bolan, missing him by inches, charging headlong through the trees. He didn't see the hidden root that snared him, pitched him headlong to the ground, his air gun jarred from startled fingers. Cursing, he dragged himself forward on knees and elbows, stretching to retrieve the weapon in the fraction of a second left to him. Bolan seized the moment, planting one between his eyes.

  The Klansman groaned in disgust and slammed his fist into the drift of leaves, rewarded by a painful thunk as knuckles met another hidden root at high velocity.

  "Goddamn it!"

  Bolan was already searching for the decoy when the last man showed himself, his weapon braced in both hands, sighting for the kill. He fired as Bolan hit a flying shoulder roll, wasting his pellet on a bank of ferns.

  The Executioner came up firing. Once. Twice. Three times, all in rapid-fire. His pellets etched a bloody pattern on the gunner's chest and left him staring mournfully at camouflage fatigues turned crimson in the mottled light of early afternoon.

  "All done. Let's take it back to camp."

  It was a different group of men that stood before him in the shadow of the mess hall, daubed with paint and wearing faces molded out of anger and humiliation. Staring at them, Bolan wondered which of them — if any — had been present at the death of Theo Brown. Which of them held the answers to a dozen different crimes of violence that had terrorized the county during recent months?

  "How many of you think you qualify as fighting men?" he asked again. This time no hands were raised. "All right. Before you hit the showers, carry this thought with you: in a real-life combat situation, e
ach and every one of you would now be dead! Not wounded, not arrested or indicted. Dead. You're no damn good to anyone as corpses. Do you read me?"

  "Yeah, all right."

  "We get the message."

  "Do you? Well, I hope so. I've been asked to let you have the benefit of my experience and training, in an effort to prepare you for survival in a real-life, down-and-dirty combat situation. Someone told me you were soldiers, but you'll have to prove it after what I've seen today."

  He let them simmer in their anger for a moment as he moved along the line, examining their sweaty, paint-streaked faces. So what if they hated him. In the last analysis, it would not matter either way.

  "Tomorrow, when you fall in here at eight o'clock, I want you clean and shaved, with military haircuts. Bring whatever weapons you have for openers; we'll fit you out with decent hardware as the opportunities arrive. Above all else, I want you here prepared to work your butts off. Anyone allergic to hard labor might as well stay home. Fall out!"

  He turned to find Lynn Halsey watching from the shaded doorway of the dining hall, and caught her as she tried to hide a smile.

  "You're pretty tough," she said.

  "Sometimes."

  "It's all that time in uniform, I guess."

  "I guess. What brings you to the woods?"

  "My uncle. Actually, he's not here, but I came out to pick up some things for him."

  "Reverend Halsey goes to camp?"

  "He doesn't train with them, but they have meetings here sometimes, and he officiates. As chaplain."

  "Ah."

  "What's your job here?"

  "You saw it. I'm the new DI."

  "DI?"

  "The drill instructor. Ritter thinks his troopers need a little spit and polish."