The Fiery Cross Read online

  Where were they now? If he recalled correctly, Lynn had mentioned dinner, but if she had named the restaurant, it hadn't registered. Halsey cursed himself for being such an absentminded idiot. The one time that he should have listened, his brain had been in neutral, idling over other bits of trivia.

  A restaurant. He thought of scanning the yellow pages, finally gave up the idea as hopeless. Enough time had passed for them to finish dining, anyway, and then what good would it do if he managed to recall the name? Where would they go when they were done? Somewhere, perhaps, where they could be alone?

  He did not wish to think of Lynn and Bowers doing any more than dining, sharing conversation, driving home. He realized that Lynn was an adult, suspected — logically — that she was not a virgin, and he knew he could not protect her from the world at large. But he had always thought he could protect her from the Klan.

  There was a bottle of Kentucky bourbon in the kitchen, tucked away behind the china he had not used since Emily passed away nearly seven years ago. The bottle had been opened twice: the afternoon of Emmy's funeral, and the night he got the news about his brother's death. The liquor was a salve for private tragedy, and in his heart, Jacob Halsey believed that God would understand.

  He might not understand the thoughts that Halsey nursed as he began to drink, however. Dark thoughts, streaked with bloody crimson, painful to examine. Thoughts of self-destruction and perdition, images of hellfire everlasting.

  Images of what he might be forced to do if Lynn was harmed. By Bowers, by Mason Ritter or by any other man alive.

  She was his only living relation, and God help any man who tried to take that vestige of his flesh and blood away. In thirty-seven years, since he had been drafted into combat in Korea, Jacob Halsey had not raised his hand in anger to another human being. Lately, though, since his involvement with the Knights, he had been feeling urges that he thought, upon reflection, were decidedly unchristian.

  It would help to pray, but first he had to have another drink. And after that, another. While he waited for the liquor to take hold, he thought of Lynn, and what would happen if she did not make it home. After a while, he knew that it was time to find his gun.

  * * *

  "I heard about what happened."

  "It was hard to miss, I guess."

  She had been jockeying around the subject all through dinner, carefully avoiding any reference to the Klan or last night's violence, the coincidence of his abraded palms. At last, when the dessert plates had been cleared away and the coffee poured, she could contain herself no more.

  "You've hurt yourself."

  He glanced at hands scraped raw and smiled. "You ought to see the other guy."

  "I'll bet. You know..."

  "I'm sorry I had to break our date last night," he interrupted her. "As things turned out, I should have kept it, after all."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I seem to be."

  "I'm serious."

  The waiter had begun to hover near their table, and Mike stopped her with a frown. "We'd better let this wait until we get outside."

  He settled the bill and walked her to his car, slid in behind the wheel. She took a chance and asked, "Where to?"

  "I thought your uncle was expecting you at home."

  "Oh, I imagine he's asleep by now."

  "You know, Lynn..."

  "Was it terrible?"

  "How's that?"

  "You know exactly what I mean."

  He shrugged. "I've been through worse."

  "Why do you do it?"

  Bowers put the car in motion, driving aimlessly. "Sometimes I ask myself that question."

  "And?"

  "And what?"

  "What do you tell yourself?"

  "I can't decide." They drove for several blocks in silence. Bowers frowning to himself and struggling with some internal problem. Finally he asked her, "Lynn, how do you really feel about the Klan?"

  "Is this a test?"

  "A simple question."

  "In the early days.. .after my parents... I was hurt enough and mad enough to think the anger and the hate made sense. At least the Vanguard and the Klan were doing something, even if some of it was against the law. But now it all seems such a waste. So many lives... and all for what? Has anything been gained?"

  "And yet you stay."

  "I told you, I can't leave my uncle. He'll agree with me someday, and in the meantime I just try and keep him out of trouble."

  Bowers spent a moment pondering her words, then cleared his throat. "I'm not a Kiansman," he informed her. Simple. Just like that.

  She was confused. "I thought you took the oath."

  "I did. But it was part of what you'd call my cover."

  "Cover? You mean like a spy or something?"

  "Something."

  It was happening too fast. She knew what he was saying, but her mind could not absorb the import of his words. "Who are you?"

  "Let's just say I have connections with the government."

  "The FBI?"

  He shook his head. "I'm more the unofficial type. A sort of troubleshooter."

  "So you are a spy."

  "I guess."

  "What are you doing here?" She had to ask the question, but she was no longer certain that she wanted to hear the answer.

  "I was sent to penetrate the Klan or Vanguard — both, if possible — and bring them down."

  "Arrest them?"

  "Some of them may be arrested, I suppose."

  "My uncle?" Sudden terror, clutching at her heart.

  "Right now he's clean, as far as I can see. I'm hoping that he'll stay that way."

  And then, beneath the fear, a stab of pain. "I understand. And seeing me was all part of your job?"

  He pulled in to the curb, along a darkened street, and parked. "It may have started out that way," he told her frankly, "but it isn't that way now. I don't expect you to believe me, but..."

  "I do," she said impulsively. "Don't ask me why."

  He smiled. "You know, Mason Ritter might be interested in what I've told you."

  "He can go to hell. I hate the way he's used my uncle, kissing up to him and playing holy, laughing at him when his back is turned. He makes a mockery of everything my uncle stands for, everything that he believes."

  "I think you ought to talk the reverend into taking a vacation."

  "How?"

  "That's up to you. If necessary, you could try the truth."

  Lynn shook her head. "I don't know how he might react. I hate to say it, but he might tell Ritter."

  "That won't be a problem in a day or so. I just don't want you standing in the fallout when it all comes down."

  She felt the blush begin to tinge her cheeks. She tried to make light of it, stretching for the simulated accent of a Southern belle. "Why, sir, I didn't know you cared."

  "Well, now you know."

  She leaned into the kiss, lips brushing his at first, responding swiftly as the passion flared between them. Sliding both arms up around his neck, she gave herself to the sensation as his gentle hands began their exploration of her body. Moments later, when she broke the kiss, Lynn realized that she was trembling.

  "Where to?" she asked again.

  "I really think I ought to take you home."

  "And wake my uncle?" She contrived to sound appalled by the idea. "I think we ought to let him rest, don't you? Let's go to your place."

  16

  "I'm tired of waiting for this bastard."

  "Take it easy." Tom Neece flicked his Bic and used the light to check his watch. "It's only been an hour."

  "Only," Andy Carlyle echoed. "Asshole should be dead by now."

  "We'll get him."

  "Yeah, unless the others bag him first."

  "And if they do, so what? Dead's dead."

  "I want him, damn it! I was friends with Jackson and McCullough, just in case it slipped your mind."

  Neece turned upon his fellow Knight with sudden venom. "You were frie
nds! So how do you think I feel, Andy? Anybody here need a refresher on how tight I was with Bobby?"

  Silence from the others, and Neece turned to scan the drab apartment complex once again. It did no good to think of Bobby Shelton cooling in a drawer downtown, his trim, athletic form disfigured by bullet wounds and ragged autopsy scars. Far better to remember all the good times — boozing, whoring, kicking ass and keeping niggers in their place — that they had shared. Fond memories that could never be erased, no matter what became of Bobby's earthly shell.

  The two of them had gone through school together, finally dropped out together, joined the service as a team. Against all odds, they had secured duty postings that allowed them to commute and keep in touch on furlough, raising hell just like in the old days, looking forward to their discharge and the time when they could start to put their newfound skills to work.

  It had been Bobby's bright idea to join the Knights, and Tom had gone along, as always, never once suspecting that the midnight fun and games would lead to final separation. It was enough to make a grown man weep, but Tom Neece had not cried since he was nine years old and some damned fool had run down his dog in the middle of the road. You learned to live with pain as you got older, but it never went away.

  To pass the time, he checked the stubby shotgun he carried, making sure he had a live one in the chamber, fiddling with the safety like a nervous little boy. He caught the wheelman looking at him from the corner of his eye and knocked it off, embarrassed. Damn it, where the hell was Bowers, anyway?

  Behind him, Carlyle was grumbling again. "We're stuck here, sitting on our thumbs, while that son of a bitch is out there getting laid. I get a chance, I mean to geld his ass before I blow his head off."

  "Maybe next time," Neece responded. "If he comes our way, there won't be time for any entertainment on the side."

  "Plain killing's too good for the son of a bitch."

  "It'll just have to do."

  "Fuckin' white nigger sold out the Knights, Tom. He shit on his oath."

  "We've got orders. We'll carry them out, and that's all."

  A sedan was approaching, and they ducked as it braked for the entrance to the parking lot of the apartment complex. Neece confirmed the make and license number, counted two heads in the car.

  "Must not have got enough. He brought her home to finish up."

  "Come on, let's take the bastard!"

  "No."

  "I don't believe I heard that, Tommy."

  "Let them get inside and settle in. He won't be looking for us while he's playing hide-the-tubesteak. We can pop them both in bed and get it over with."

  "I'd like to pop her ass in bed, all right. You sure we can't take prisoners?"

  "Forget it. It's a simple in-and-out."

  "That's what I had in mind."

  "Just keep it zipped. You get your head shot off in there, it better be the one that's sitting on your shoulders."

  "How much longer do we have to wait?"

  "I'll let you know. They won't be finished for a while."

  "I guess that's what they call co-ee-tus interruptus, huh?"

  "I'll interruptus his co-ee-tus."

  "Fuckn' right."

  "I'm going to give that nigger-loving bitch a 12-gauge hysterectomy."

  "I've got the gun she needs right here."

  "Looks like a derringer to me."

  "Your ass."

  "I always figured you'd be swishy in a pinch."

  "Pinch this."

  Neece left the others to their banter, recognizing false bravado, knowing that his gunners had to psych themselves up for the kill. They all knew Bowers's reputation as a Green Beret and a killer; each of them was anxious for a chance to bring him down, but none would relish being first to cross his threshold.

  Never mind. Neece planned to claim that honor for himself. It was the very least he could do for Bobby, and he planned to do a whole lot more before the night was out.

  * * *

  "I don't have anything to drink except some beer."

  "No, thanks. I don't need anything."

  Lynn stepped into his arms, her body molding tightly to his own, and Bolan felt himself responding automatically. She moved against him and he savored the sensation, opening his lips to greet her tongue. His hands slid down to cup her buttocks, pulling her insistently against his loins.

  They broke for air, and Bolan felt her heartbeat, strong and swift. He said, "The first time I saw you, I was sure you'd be spoken for."

  "By who?"

  He shrugged, rewarded by the pressure of her breasts against his chest. "Oh, someone at the office, I suppose."

  "Mason Ritter? Honestly, he's old enough to be my father." Lynn appeared to be amused by the suggestion.

  "Freeman, then."

  "I don't see all that much of him. Besides, from what I hear, he's more a man's man, if you catch my drift."

  A faint alarm bell sounded in the back of Bolan's mind, alerting him to something he should recognize, but Lynn was offering a sweet distraction now, and he surrendered to the moment.

  "Listen, Mike, I didn't come up here to talk about the Knights or Jerry Freeman."

  Jerry?

  "No," he said. "Me, neither." When they kissed this time, it lit a fire inside that only friction of the flesh could quench. He lifted Lynn, hands cupped beneath her gently curving buttocks, and she locked her legs around his waist, skirt bunched around her hips. Deliciously encumbered, Bolan made his way into the bedroom, scarcely conscious of her weight, consumed by urgent need.

  Reluctantly they separated long enough to shed their clothing, hungrily devouring each other with their eyes as skin was hastily exposed. The merging of their bodies moments later was electrifying, and they fell together on the bed, all straining flesh, searching lips and hands. The moment was too powerful to be sustained, and Bolan felt his climax building, closing in with the momentum of a runaway express train. Lynn was there to meet him at the crucial instant, arching her supple spine to form a living bridge beneath him, trembling on the brink of her explosion. When they collapsed together, endless seconds later, she began to giggle helplessly like a delighted child.

  "You must be ticklish," Bolan teased her.

  "No, believe me. I've just never felt... anything like that... before."

  "We aim to please."

  "You do a damn fine job of it, I'll give you that." The bright smile faltered as her stroking fingers traced a scar. "What's this?"

  "Old business"

  "From the war?"

  "One of them."

  "Oh... and here." She bent to kiss the faded, dime-size remnant of a bullet wound. "What's this?"

  I've had some problems with my interpersonal relationships," he said.

  "I can't see why." She found an ancient track along his inner thigh, one fingertip pursuing it in the direction of his groin. "This must have hurt."

  "It's feeling better all the time."

  "I don't see any damage here, but it can't hurt to check." Her magic fingers went to work, reviving him. "You seem to be in working order."

  "Sometimes I surprise myself."

  "I love surprises."

  "Be my guest."

  He lay beneath her this time, and the view from his perspective was hypnotic.

  "Oooh. Don't move.

  "I wouldn't dream of it."

  Lynn found her rhythm, taking time to get it right, her pace accelerating as she gave herself to the sensation. Bolan held himself in check as long as possible, then rose to meet her on a downthrust.

  "Mmm. You weren't supposed to move."

  "I lied."

  "I'm glad."

  They worked together, each with greater tolerance this time, less urgency to reach the culmination of the act. They had all night, and Bolan saw no need to rush.

  * * *

  "Okay, that's long enough."

  "'Bout time."

  "Stay here," Neece told the man behind the wheel, "and keep the engine running. On the
way out, we won't have a lot of time to spare."

  "I've got it covered."

  Carlyle and the others were halfway across the street when Neece caught up with them. "Hold on a second," he demanded, reasserting his command. "This isn't any harassed smash-and-grab. You run this like a Chinese fire drill and the chances are he'll hand your head back to you on a plate."

  "I ain't afraid of any damned Green Beret."

  "Afraid and careful are two different things," he snapped. "You'd best remember that. The man who screws this up will think the beltline is a Sunday stroll around the park."

  They hesitated at his reference to the Klan's communal flogging punishment, reserved for members violating klavern rules and regulations. None of them had ever run the beltline, but they had participated in the chastening of others and had witnessed the results. No one had ever died from the experience, although a few would bear the scars until their dying day. The damage to a Klansman's ego was sufficient in itself to make most think a second time before they trampled on the rules.

  "I'll go in first," he said when he was certain that he had their full attention.

  "Tom..."

  "You heard me, Andy. I'm in charge, and it'll be my ass if anything goes wrong. You're second if you want, but keep your finger off that trigger till you have a decent target — and I don't mean me!"

  "No sweat. I hit just what I aim at."

  "Right. We don't want any fancy shit, remember? In and out. Pop Bowers and the girl, and let it go at that."

  "Suppose we wake the neighbors?"

  "That's what these are for." So saying, Neece removed a lightweight ski mask from his pocket, tugging it over his head. The others followed suit, and he was startled by their resemblance to clowns, with brightly colored rings around their noses, eyes and mouths.

  "I would've rather worn my robe and hood," Carlyle complained.

  "Why not just leave a business card with your address? You got an urge to make new friends among the FBI?"