Tennessee Smash Read online

  He sensed movements in the darkness—stealthy, purposeful—and knew that the hit teams were already moving into position against Delta Importers.

  He tossed them a mental God keep and wondered how much longer he had to wait around. The deal with Brognola was that Bolan would be clear and running free before the fireworks started. If he could not control a situation—fully, his own way—then he preferred to be apart from it. Once the firing started, there would be reactions from far and wide—police reactions, specifically. That feeling of discomfort began edging back into the Bolan gut. He put a mental mark on his chronometer, representing the outer moment for Mack Bolan on this turf. No sooner had he done that than the fireworks began: the chattering of automatic weapons away in the distance, sudden luminescence in the heavens as pyrotechnic flares lit the night, power-amplified voices wafting along in the night breezes.

  It was going down.

  And Bolan could see it all with his mental vision, but that was suddenly prepempted by a physical stimulation—a movement of the night, a mere shifting of shadows in the vicinity of the rendezvous point.

  Working that direction in a wary circle he found his “exotics” standing stiffly in the darkness outside the shack. There were two of them, a man and a woman—a little guy wearing the threads of a rhinestone cowboy and a curvaceous blonde in a leather miniskirt and cowboy boots.

  Even with the darkness and the weird costumes, Bolan recognized them instantly, from vibrations as much as anything else.

  The “high ups” were none other than ethnician Tommy Anders, hottest comic in the land, and the one and only Toby Ranger—God’s answer to the lonely heart in every man.

  Bolan stepped into the clear and quietly declared, “Roy and Dale, I presume. Where’s Trigger?”

  The blonde launched herself at him in instant response. He caught her on the fly and twirled her around in a warm embrace before setting her down. “Captain Courageous in the flesh,” she murmured, clinging to him. “My God, you’re beautiful.”

  He chuckled and lightly patted her highrise bottom as he replied, “Not as beautiful as I feel. What is this? Are you soggy people my VIPs?”

  Anders came forth with hand outstretched, grinning ear to ear. Bolan ignored the hand and pulled the little guy into an embrace, then stood there holding them both and beaming down at them.

  “I change my vote,” the girl said quietly. “Anything that beautiful is downright ugly. Good thing you’ve got goop on your face, Bolan. I don’t think I could stand you without it.”

  It was sort of weird, standing there embracing two of the most dear people in his life and grinning like an idiot, while the sounds of warfare swirled through the night.

  He asked, “Are you two a part of this?”

  “Listen to the guy,” Anders replied in mock sarcasm. “Us two is the reason for all this.”

  Toby jerked free of the embrace and said, “Don’t just stand here jawing! We’re sogging it, Bolan. Are you in?”

  He gave her a blank look. SOG—Sensitive Operations Group—was the designation for the elite team of federal undercover cops which also included old friends Carl Lyons and Smiley Dublin. Bolan had not crossed paths with the group since Hawaii—and all he’d known at that time about their future operations was that they were “drifting west”—presumably to the Orient.

  “Who’s getting sogged,” he asked soberly, “besides Clemenza?”

  “Music City,” Anders replied. “The land of good ol’ boys and not so good ol’ gals. The town of the living legends.”

  “He’s trying to say Nashville,” Toby put in drily. “Memphis is only the tip of the Tennessee iceberg. You kicked off the Tennessee strike, Captain Cuckoo. We thought maybe you’d like a place at the finish.”

  “Sorry,” Bolan said, frowning. “I have urgent business elsewhere.” That was not entirely true. He had just wrapped up the Arizona business when the urgent plea came in from Brognola. He’d deposited the Warwagon in a secure drop and flown directly to Memphis, arriving just hours earlier. But he had been looking toward Kansas City for some time and had planned a cruise, at least, through that area during his withdrawal from the Arizona campaign. Also—as much as he loved these people—joint operations were not really his style.

  “You’d better tell him,” Anders muttered to Toby Ranger.

  She did not respond.

  Bolan asked, “Tell him what?”

  “We’ve lost Carl and Smiley,” Anders said flatly.

  Toby flared, “We’re not sure about that!”

  “Where’d you lose them?” Bolan asked, the voice frosted with cold emotion.

  “Somewhere between Singapore and Nashville,” the comic replied dismally.

  “That doesn’t exactly narrow the field,” Bolan said.

  “Nuts! They’re somewhere in Nashville,” Toby growled. “They hit our contact floater the moment it arrived and—”

  “And that was a week ago,” Anders said, horning in. “Toby is as worried as I am. She’s just too damn proud to—”

  “It’s not pride!” she said angrily.

  Bolan very quietly inquired, “What does Brognola say?”

  “He called you, didn’t he, Captain Cool?”

  “He called me to Memphis. He said nothing about Carl and Smiley.”

  “That was her doing,” Anders reported.

  So okay, sure. Bolan understood that. It was getting to be a habit—after that first meeting in Vegas when they’d saved his butt—first in Detroit and then in Hawaii he’d returned the favor in spades.

  But Carl Lyons was another number entirely. He and Bolan went back beyond Vegas, to that terrible period in and around Los Angeles—during a time when Carl was an L.A. city cop and Mack Bolan was just an upstart soldier boy from ’Nam with a hard-on for the Mob.

  As for Smiley Dublin—ah, beauty—he could not bear to think of her as a living geek a la Georgette Chebleu, the first of the Ranger Girls to discover the terrifying realities of life on the edge of the knife.

  Hell, there was no decision to it.

  “Give me that Nashville floater,” Bolan said numbly. “I’ll hit it before dawn.”

  A tear slipped from Toby’s eye and she spun angrily away to hide it.

  The hottest comic in the land was not so loathe to display honest emotion. It came with the territory. Those who live largely also suffer largely. It was a highly emotional game. Tears of relief were streaming down his cheeks. He handed Bolan a card with writing on it and he said, “It’s such a helpless feeling, you know. They’ve been missing a week. I’ve been walking the damn walls.”

  Toby cried from the background, “Oh damnit, Bolan, he set up this entire Clemenza hit. He’s not so—!”

  “I know what Tommy is,” Bolan said coldly, cutting that off before it could be said. “He’s no clown,” she was telling him. Mack Bolan did not need to be told that.

  “See you in Legend City,” he said quietly, then very quickly got away from there.

  Numbers were falling everywhere.

  Police sirens were screaming through the night, converging on the riverfront. The entire area was becoming a hellground—especially for a man like Mack Bolan.

  At least, now, he knew why the gut had been clutching ever since his arrival in the area. And he knew, now, why he’d had the starkly spooky feeling down at river’s edge, just before the pushoff.

  The universe had been whispering to him.

  And, yeah, Mack Bolan would go to Nashville, depend on it. Even if he had to ride the hounds of hell all the way.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE RIDDEN

  Nashville is one of those small towns which virtually overnight became a major city—but never quite got into the spirit of the thing. In its heart, Nashville is still a small town though it numbers nearly half a million citizens within its borders—borders which expanded suddenly in the early sixties, at the stroke of a pen, to absorb all of surrounding Davidson County.

  To most people, Nas
hville means country music—and though that industry alone accounts for some 60 million dollars of the city’s annual economy, the music business is not the sum total of what Nashville is about. Nashville is at the heart of a major commercial, educational and cultural complex with more than fifty colleges, universities and vocational schools, some 500 manufacturers. Publishing, not “picking,” is the leading industry. It is a major banking and investment center and ranks only behind Hartford, Connecticut, as the city with the most major insurance company offices.

  The “Nashville Sound” has, of course, made the town second only to New York as a recording capital of the world—but culture lovers should also know that the city supports a symphony orchestra and a fine arts center. Although those latter hardly draw the crowds that flock to the $25,000,000 complex known as Opryland USA, they do serve notice that Nashville is a city of interesting contrasts with something for almost every taste.

  And Mack Bolan had to wonder about the interests it held for the mob. Jack Grimaldi, the Mafia flyboy and secret Bolan ally, had very little to offer in that regard—despite the fact that he had been flying Syndicate bigwigs and couriers into the area for months. He’d been briefing Bolan on the area since their departure from Memphis, and now he told him, “Look straight down. That’s Fort Nashborough, facing the river there. See it?”

  “I see it,” Bolan replied. “Any special significance?”

  “Only as a historical shrine,” Grimaldi said. “It’s the original site of Nashville. Built about 1790, I believe.”

  “That long ago, eh?” Bolan asked absently.

  “Yeah, just a few years after we became a nation. Andy Jackson got here before that. The guy was a horsetrader. Can you believe that? Who the hell did he trade with before the settlers came?”

  “That the same guy who became President?”

  “Right. His old home is still here. It’s a shrine, too. The Hermitage. Wonder why he called it that?”

  “Did he name it before or after he went to Washington?” Bolan inquired lightly.

  “Beats me,” the pilot said, grinning. “He was the first congressman from Tennessee you know.”

  No, Bolan did not know that.

  “First President from here, too. Tennessee has sent three of ’em. He was the first. Imagine. A horsetrader.”

  Bolan chuckled.

  Grimaldi said, “Did you know they were pro-Union, before the war actually started? Last state to secede, first to come back in.”

  Yes, Bolan knew all about that particular bit of history. “Ironic, isn’t it,” he said softly. “This state was one of the major battlegrounds of the war. Over seven hundred battles. Second only to Virginia in battles and skirmishes fought.”

  “That right?”

  “Yeah. General Hood met his great defeat right here at Nashville. That was one of the battles that broke the South’s back. It was the only full rout of a major rebel force. Hood lost six of his generals. He wept after the battle and resigned his commission a month later.”

  Grimaldi shot his passenger a quick look and commented, “You’re quite a war historian, aren’t you?”

  “War is a science,” Bolan replied quietly. “You study it if you mean to master it.”

  “Right, Master,” the pilot said. “Airport’s straight ahead. Do we go right in?”

  “Fly by once and tell me how it looks, Jack. You know—from a master pilot’s point of view. Let’s make sure it’s cool.”

  “Amen to that,” Grimaldi said, and dipped the nose into the final descent.

  At that very moment, a telephone rang in a swank townhouse not far from Nashville’s Music Row. The groggy man who snapped on the bedlamp and reached for the instrument was about thirty years old, handsome, and a bit out of sorts at the moment. “Who the hell?” he growled at the caller.

  The voice in the receiver was twangy, worried. “You sleeping alone, Ray?”

  “Who’s sleeping, damnit?”

  “It’s urgent—okay? I’m at a phone booth just down the street. You want to meet me or …?”

  The man swore softly as he turned blurry eyes toward the nude girl who lay asleep at his side. He sighed and said, “In the middle of the damn night? Can’t it wait?”

  “Maybe it can but it shouldn’t, hoss. It really shouldn’t.”

  The man sighed again and said with resignation, “Okay. Come on over. But keep it quiet. I got company.” He hung up, scratched his head vigorously with both hands, then turned off the lamp and softly left the room.

  He was drinking milk from a quart carton and nervously pacing the floor of the living room when his caller scratched at the front door.

  The man who entered was a bit younger and had the lean, hard look of a gunfighter straight from the Old West. His attire was subdued “country gentleman” with the trousers stuffed casually into western boots. “Who’re you sleeping with, hoss?” he asked in greeting.

  “None of your damn business,” said the host, but pleasantly. “What’s so urgent?”

  The visitor went to a chair and dropped into it with a heavy sigh. “It just came down the vine a few minutes ago. An army of federals swooped down on old Dandy tonight. They got ’im cold, buried in powder. About a ton of it, what I hear. Not even a kilo was saved. I thought you’d want to know, middle of the night or not. But it ain’t. It’s closer to five o’clock.”

  The other man was easing slowly onto the couch. He said, very softly, “Good God.”

  “Does that touch you, hoss?”

  “What d’you mean? No! Nobody can connect us!”

  “That ain’t what I meant. I meant does it touch you. Are you laughin’ or cryin’ on the inside?”

  “Bet your ass I’m not laughing,” said the other. “How ’bout you?”

  The cowboy laughed lightly and spread his hands. “You know me, hoss. Easy come, easy go. I was born with nothing but a six-string geetar in my hands. I guess I can go out the same way.”

  “This just plays hell with everything, you know.”

  “That’s what I said, hoss.”

  “A ten million dollar deal. And it won’t wait for other connections. I gotta have the stuff now.”

  “You ain’t gonna get it, you know.”

  “Well by God we’ll see!”

  “I’m tellin’ ya, you ain’t. Dandy was the man. He had it cornered, the whole market. When he fell, it all fell with ’im. It’d take another month even if Dandy hisself could start workin’ on it. And there’s only one Dandy Jack I know of, podner.”

  “Well goddamnit, there’s got to be …”

  The visitor got to his feet and said, “There ain’t. That’s what I come to tell ya. I don’t know how far your tail is out on this deal but … well, hoss, you got a lot of people standin’ and waitin’ for this deal. If you can’t deliver, then I hope you got a hole somewheres to run to. Know what I mean?”

  “Wait a minute, Jess.” That worried face was beginning to reflect a flickering hope. “Maybe we can still pull it out. Tell your sponsor I’ve got an ace in the hole. Tell him that.”

  “You better be damn sure before I tell him anything.”

  “I’m sure, yeah. Pretty sure. Tell him I’m pretty sure.”

  The lean man went out chuckling at some secret joke.

  The other paced the floor for several minutes then went to the bedroom and picked up the telephone.

  The face was screwed into lines of painful indecision as he began dialing—then he changed his mind and put the phone back down.

  The girl on the bed stirred and looked up at him. “Ooh hoo, it was great, baby,” she murmured sleepily.

  He gathered her clothing and dropped it in a pile beside the bed as he told her, “You’re a real ball, kid. Now beat it. Party’s over.”

  The girl picked up her clothing and staggered toward the bathroom without a word.

  One party was over, for sure.

  But another was just getting underway. Mack Bolan’s quiet Mafia wings were at that mo
ment lightly kissing the earth of Music City USA.

  CHAPTER 4

  SIZING IT

  Bolan carried a small bag into the locker room at the private air terminal and began the Nashville transformation while pilot Grimaldi took care of the formalities at the desk. He changed into faded Levi’s and Indian moccasins, nailhead shirt and denim jacket. He studied his hair for a moment, then went to work on a new look to fit the masquerade, combing it straight back from the forehead without a part, adding a streak of white through the middle, finally cementing it all in place with a heavy spray job. Purple-tinted oval glasses completed the transformation. A .38 snug Chief’s Special with a high-rider waistclip holster fit snugly beneath the jacket.

  He returned to the lobby and went to the telephone to leave a message on the SOG contact drop. “It’s La Mancha,” he told the recorder. “I’ll be at the Holiday Inn for breakfast at six.”

  Then he stood casually at the large front window and lit a cigarette. Grimaldi completed his transactions and walked right past him enroute to the locker room. He halted suddenly, several paces beyond, and turned back with a sheepish grin overriding a questioning gaze.

  Bolan chucklingly confirmed the identification and asked, “Are we set?”

  The pilot ambled back to the window and stood beside the big man to tell him, “Yeah. Helicopter is usually available on an hour’s notice but nothing’s guaranteed. So I took a twenty-four-hour lease.” He cracked his knuckles and gazed around the deserted flying service lobby. “How do you do it, guy? I saw you, but I didn’t see you. It’s downright spooky sometimes.”

  “Sleight of hand is all in the beholder, Jack,” Bolan replied lightly. “The eyes take the picture but it’s up to the mind to see what’s really there.”

  Grimaldi was shooting him furtive looks. He said, “If you say so, okay. Uh—the wheels are out back. I got you an Impala. Hope that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine, yeah.”

  The pilot handed over the keys and rental papers. “Where can I contact you?”

  Bolan said, “Check into the Ramada, downtown, and hang tight. I’ll be in touch.”