Prairie Fire Read online

  "Don't rush it. Take your time and do it right."

  "Roger that."

  "And keep in touch."

  "Ten-four."

  He laid the radio aside, turned his full attention back to the checkerboard landscape flashing past his window. The sun was sliding toward the horizon, and the shadows in the fields were growing longer, capable of hiding many secrets.

  The Cowboy could feel it. They were getting closer. He could sense the runner somewhere nearby, and they would find him soon. It was inevitable. It was necessary.

  On his own another night would kill the target or permit him to escape and neither was acceptable. The Cowboy had to bring him in alive or dead, secure the only evidence his clients would accept as proof. It was all or nothing now, and he did not intend to take the place of one that got away.

  He settled back, attempting to relax and very nearly making it. The features of his narrow face had settled into something like a scowl. The hunt was coming to a close.

  And he could smell blood already.

  4

  "I need your word. No noise."

  Bolan sat astride the woman, shackled hands covering her mouth, his knees pinning arms against her sides. Big frightened eyes never left Bolan's face. The breath from her nostrils was hot and frantic on his hands. He could feel her trembling beneath him, heart hammering against her rib cage like a frightened bird's. And there was something in the combination of her closeness and vulnerability — a sort of healthy sensuality — that assaulted his senses, stirring him, even now.

  The warrior killed that train of thought, reminding himself that he was an intruder here. He brought the peril with him.

  She was nodding in agreement to his offer, in rapid jerky movements. Cautiously he raised the manacled hands, but kept them poised to stifle any sudden scream. Finally satisfied that fear and curiosity would keep her silent, Bolan moved away from her and let her rise.

  He was winded by their brief encounter, and that reminded him of his depleted strength. He sat down heavily, his back against a rough support beam, close enough that he could tackle her in case she tried to run.

  She sat up facing him and tried to catch her breath. There was color in her cheeks that could have been produced by fear, excitement or exertion. He noted that the panic was receding in her eyes.

  "You're a fugitive."

  Her eyes were on the bracelets, and it came out as a statement rather than a question.

  "I'm running," he agreed, "but not from the police."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  "Those are handcuffs."

  Bolan raised his hands and gave the manacles a shake.

  "Dime a dozen," he responded. "I'll be leaving just as soon as I can get them off."

  The eyes were thoughtful now but the fear was still behind them, lurking in the background. She studied his face, then her gaze slid lower, past the cuffs, to fasten on the rusty stain beneath his arm.

  "You're hurt."

  "I'll make it."

  But even as he said it he wondered if he would.

  The lady shifted restlessly, leaned closer to him with her elbows on her knees.

  "You say you're running, but who from, if not the police?"

  "Not important," Bolan answered. "You don't want to meet them." Hesitation for an instant, then he asked her, "Have you got a car?"

  "A pickup. It won't get you far."

  "I may not have that far to go."

  The noise alerted him. At first it was just a crack, and the soldier could not tell where it came from. Silently he cursed the carelessness that had permitted anyone to get so close and yet be undetected. If he had not been intent upon the woman...

  The sound repeated, this time from behind and to his left. And the warrior knew that he was trapped. Bolan realized the woman heard it, too, and she attempted to disguise the sudden rush of hope that appeared on her face. Too late she checked the darting movement of her eyes, the soft lips twisting into an expression that was neither frown nor smile. Relief? Bolan wondered.

  He knew that if he turned around he could observe the cavalry arriving, someone from the farmhouse coming to the lady's rescue.

  Or it might be someone else that neither one of them would recognize except as Death.

  In either case the Executioner could not afford to sit and wait. He might be slowing down in mind and body, but he was still a long way from surrender. As long as the man in black could think and move, there was no place for stoic acceptance of defeat.

  If his time was coming, then the Executioner would meet it standing up and fighting back.

  There were two exits from the loft, and Bolan knew that whoever was in the barn would approach from the ladder side. The other was an open loading bay, equipped with block and tackle, which afforded him a twelve-foot drop to hard-packed ground below. Either way could lead him into sudden death, so he chose the line of least resistance.

  His eyes locked with the woman's for an instant, and he was surprised at what he found there. Sadness, and a concern that overshadowed fear, almost transforming it into unexpected sympathy.

  He broke that burning contact, surging to his feet before the enemy could show himself. He broke for the hatch, the gleaming rectangle of daylight beckoning him, enticing him on.

  He covered the thirty-odd feet, calculating whether to try to seize the pulley rope with lifeless fingers or propel himself into a risky freefall, landing in the paratrooper's fetal curl. He had perhaps a heartbeat left to make the crucial choice.

  He was almost to his jumping-off point when the world exploded in his face. Confined within the loft, the shotgun blast was deafening. Before he could react to the report, a storm of pellets struck the wall and floor in front of him, chewing up the ancient lumber with their impact. Splinters stung his face and hands, drawing blood in places, and the sudden cloud of dust was stifling him.

  Bolan slid to a halt on the treacherous footing, lost his balance and went down on one knee. When he opened his eyes, he was looking back across the woman's shoulder toward the ladder and his new assailant.

  A determined-looking older man was visible from the armpits up, supported by his elbows on the dusty floorboards of the loft. He wore a denim shirt and coveralls. Steely eyes were fixed on Bolan from beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat.

  But it was the double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun that commanded Bolan's full attention now. Smoke was curling upward from the starboard tube, its silent mate regarding him like an emotionless, cyclopean eye. At this range, there would be no missing any man-sized target. Even if he spun away and tried to make a break for it.

  The farmer seemed to read his thoughts and recognized the momentary indecision. The man broke the ringing silence with a voice as rough and weathered as the face.

  "Try it if you like, boy," he said. "But make your peace before you make your move, because I'll definitely blow your ass away."

  * * *

  "Goddamn dust."

  "Be quiet, will ya?"

  "Look, I told you he was prob'ly shooting at a fox or something."

  "Goddammit, shut up!"

  Crouched between the rows of corn. Hunter Two experienced the same impatience that was troubling his lieutenant. It was ten minutes since they had heard the shotgun blast and still no one appeared outside the dilapidated barn. The gunner concentrated on observing every detail of the scene laid out before him.

  It probably was a fox, or maybe just a rat. These country hicks would blast away at anything that moved. But Hunter Two could not afford uncertainty. He had to check it out and satisfy himself.

  More important, he would have to satisfy the Cowboy.

  They had left the Caddy parked at the turnoff to a narrow unpaved access road. Afraid the rising dust would reveal their whereabouts, Hunter Two had posted two sentries with the car and led his second-in-command on foot for half a mile across the fields until they found the barn and farmhouse.

  They had seen a dozen houses like it in the past two days
, and all of them were starting to resemble one another — rusty screens across the windows; faded, peeling paint; shingles missing from the roofs.

  Hunter Two's lieutenant shifted restlessly. He was just about to speak, but changed his mind upon a warning glance from his boss. He settled back onto his haunches and slid a hand inside his jacket, drawing reassurance from the bolstered hardware.

  Someone was emerging from the barn and Hunter Two raised his compact binoculars, focusing across the fifty yards of intervening open ground.

  A woman in her thirties, wearing jeans and some kind of work shirt with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows, occupied his field of vision. Someone else was moving out behind her now, and Hunter Two felt the breath catch in his throat. He scanned the second figure up and down, his eyes devouring every detail from the boots and tattered, bloodied skinsuit to the handcuffs on swollen wrists. The profile, smudged with dirt and drying blood from several minor cuts, was resolute, impassive.

  The hunter had his prey.

  An easy shot at fifty yards with nothing in the way to spoil his aim. No sweat. Beside him, his lieutenant had the Browning Hi-Power automatic in his fist, the hammer back and ready.

  "Let's waste 'em."

  "Not yet, dammit."

  There was something out of place, a factor unaccounted for.

  The gun.

  Behind their mark, another man emerged from cover, bringing up the rear. He held a double-barreled shotgun at his waist, the twin muzzles leveled at the runner's spine. He was marching their fox toward the farmhouse like a prisoner of war. Whatever had gone down in there, the bumpkin was not taking any chances with his uninvited visitor. In front of them, the chickens scattered before the small procession.

  "Hell, man, let's hit 'em while we've got the chance."

  The hunter quickly ran down alternatives, then turned on his second-in-command.

  "Just shut up, and pass me the radio," he grated.

  There was anger and confusion in the eyes that met his own. For an instant, it seemed the gunner might attempt to challenge him, but then he broke the eye lock, muttering beneath his breath as he stowed the Browning, and handed over the walkie-talkie.

  "Calling Hunter One." He kept it to an urgent whisper. "Hunter One, come in."

  A brief delay, then: "I read you, Hunter Two. What is it?"

  "Pull the flankers in," he snapped. Now the mirthless grin was back in place. "We found him."

  5

  A woman was waiting for them on the porch, examining them each in turn with anxious eyes. Bolan sized her up at a glance: the faded gingham dress and spotty apron, graying hair cut short to frame a face devoid of makeup. She carried aromas of a country kitchen, and the ladle in her hand confirmed that they had interrupted her in preparation for the evening meal.

  She was studying the man in black — his bruised and battered face, the manacles, the bloodstains on his side. Bolan offered her a weary smile, and she returned it as a sort of twitching grimace. When she spoke at last, it was to Bolan's captor.

  "Jason? What is it?"

  "I caught this fella hiding in the barn. And none too soon for Toni's sake.''

  The younger woman blushed the sudden color flaming in her cheeks.

  "Nothing happened. Really."

  Both of them were looking at her closely, and she felt the scrutiny, her embarrassment growing by the moment.

  "Listen, both of you. I'm fine." She hesitated, some of the assurance fading from her voice. "He was asleep and I surprised him. I... fell down."

  An awkward silence settled in around them, stifling further conversation. The farmer and the older woman — husband and wife, Bolan guessed — were exchanging glances, each uncertain what should happen next. Thankful for the brief pause, for the chance to catch his breath and organize his thoughts, Bolan made no move to break the stalemate. He could use the time.

  Finally, after moments that had seemed to drag interminably, it was the farmer's wife who broke the silence.

  "Better come inside," she said to no one in particular.

  The younger woman, with a final glance at Bolan, followed the other's retreating figure through an open door. Bolan felt the shotgun muzzle prodding his spine and he fell in step behind them, his captor bringing up the rear. The soldier found himself inside a rustic kitchen, with the sink and sideboard on his left, a stove and old refrigerator to his right. The dining set — consisting of a squarish table and four straight-backed chairs — stood directly in his path. He noted that the table had been set for three, and something very like a stew was simmering on the stove. Through another open doorway Bolan glimpsed a portion of the family room.

  He was calculating angles, weighing probabilities. He mentally measured distance — to the nearest window, or the parlor door — and knew the odds were all against him. In his present shape he would not have a chance unless his guard was taken out of action. Still...

  He spied a rack of carving knives above the sideboard, polished blades reflecting artificial light with satin softness, and at once he dismissed the thought.

  The Executioner had come to hide, not kill. He sought a temporary haven, not a killground. If a hostile hand was raised against the farmer and his family, it would not be Mack Bolan's.

  The 12-gauge nudged him from behind.

  "Take a seat over there where I can keep an eye on you," the farmer ordered.

  Bolan chose the place without a plate or silverware and settled gratefully into the wooden chair. Exhaustion overtook him instantly; he felt the last reserve of strength evaporate, as if a giant magnet underneath his feet was dragging him down inexorably.

  The farmer took up station opposite, his back against the sideboard, with his shotgun leveled from the hip. His wife, as if uncertain what to do, had gone back to her cooking. From the parlor doorway he could feel the younger woman watching all of them, confused and frightened by the grim tableau.

  "You just stay put," the farmer cautioned, "while I get the sheriff over here. I reckon he'll be glad to see you."

  Bolan nodded.

  "That's the best idea you've had today," he said.

  The farmer hesitated, plainly startled by his captive's quick agreement to the thought of calling in the law. But he recovered swiftly and reached for the wall phone with his free hand. All the while his shotgun never wavered its bead on Bolan's chest.

  Perhaps the farmer could protect himself and his family from what was coming if he called the law. But Bolan knew the sheriff could not guarantee protection against the hunters who were stalking him. If anything, confinement in the local jail would only place his life in greater jeopardy by making him a helpless, stationary target. His pursuers would not hesitate to kill an officer or two — a dozen, if it came to that — in order to retrieve him.

  If it came to that.

  But he was looking for another option, clinging to the knowledge that while life and hope remained he had a chance. A slim one, granted, but a chance.

  To live.

  To break away.

  To fight again.

  Without official sanction now, he was a renegade, and there was no one he could call for help. Whatever was accomplished here, the Executioner would have to do on his own.

  If he got the opportunity, he would make a break during the transfer — before the local lawman had a chance to check for warrants.

  Any answer out of Washington would raise some eyebrows at the courthouse, right. And Bolan did not plan to be around for any of the awkward questions that were bound to follow.

  "Damn!"

  The farmer finished dialing for a second time and listened briefly, then returned the telephone receiver to its cradle with an angry flourish.

  At his side the younger woman asked, "What's the matter, dad?"

  He made a sour face.

  "Danged phone's gone dead," he answered.

  Bolan felt a sudden chill along his spine. It might have been a draft — or something else entirely, intangible but every b
it as real.

  "You have that trouble often?''

  Three suspicious pairs of eyes were focused on him now. The woman seemed more startled than afraid; the farmer glowered at him, raised the muzzle of his gun until it was in line with Bolan's chin.

  "It happens, time to time," he said. "What of it?"

  Right, the soldier asked himself, what of it?

  "Nothing." He shrugged.

  Rural telephones were famous for their shabby maintenance and lapses in performance. He was jumping to conclusions now, beginning to imagine enemies where none existed. Blind coincidence could not be overlooked, and yet...

  The Executioner had not survived this long by trusting to coincidence. A little paranoia could be healthy for a warrior in the field. It might be all that kept him breathing from one lethal moment to the next.

  The farmer's wife was having trouble concentrating on her stew.

  "It was working fine this morning," she announced.

  "Never mind, Emma."

  The farmer turned away from Bolan long enough to glance outside the kitchen window. It was growing dark, the afternoon declining swiftly into twilight. Clearly, what he saw did not improve his humor in the least. He faced Bolan with a frown that bordered on a scowl.

  'Td drive you into town myself..."

  "Jason, no!"

  "Except the pickup has a problem in the wiring. Blasted headlights don't work."

  "Dad..."

  "We'll have to keep on trying with the telephone," he told them all. "And if we can't get through tonight, I'll have to take you in tomorrow morning."

  Bolan felt the momentary tension slide away from him. There was something ominous about the prospect of a night ride with the farmer. In his mind he saw the darkened highway blockaded by the crew wagons, the wink of muzzle-flashes as the gunners found their range.

  It would be safer in the house — at least as long as he was not discovered there.

  And that brought the telephone to mind.

  As if attuned to Bolan's thoughts, the fanner said, "We'll try it every twenty minutes till we raise somebody, then..."