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  That’s two, Bolan thought, easing back on his stool as he kept an eye on the table.

  “He does that again, he’ll have me to deal with, Cristobal or no Cristobal,” the waitress, whose name tag read Elaine, grumbled.

  “Those boys might learn their lesson sooner than you think,” Bolan said. The comment earned an odd look from the counter waitress before the cook called, “Order up!”

  His blue-plate special arrived, and Bolan dug in, finding it as good as promised. As he ate, he kept an eye on the corner booth, waiting for them to act up again. But when it happened, it came from within the group itself.

  “Goddamn it, Everado, I said knock it the hell off!” The shout was punctuated by the crack of a hand on skin. The next thing Bolan knew, the blonde girl burst from the booth and stalked off. The boys stayed behind for a few seconds, then their leader stood up and walked out, followed by the rest of the group, all of whom were still sniggering. Halfway through, he turned and glared at them, and the laughter died in their throats. They walked out to a gleaming midnight blue Mercedes-Benz convertible, where the girl was waiting with her arms crossed.

  Bolan forked up another bite of his steak and turned to see the conversation get heated, with the girl and the guy both starting to gesticulate. She seemed unaware of the potential danger she was in, with the other boys starting to crowd around the couple.

  That’s three, Bolan thought, tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and heading for the door. Once outside, he didn’t even have to look over to see which way the argument was heading.

  “—damn it, Everado, you don’t paw me in public like I’m some piece of meat. I’m not one of those Mexican whores you can just fuck and forget!”

  “Chica, just get in the car and we’ll go somewhere quiet and talk about this,” the young man said. He sounded reasonable, but his voice was pitched low.

  “Fuck you, just take me home!”

  Bolan shook his head. This girl really didn’t realize the fire she was playing with. He’d heard that kind of tone in a man’s voice more times than he cared to count. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, violence was sure to follow.

  Sure enough, the young man’s hand came up, the girl’s expression turning from anger to incredulousness to fear in a second. Bolan gave it a one-count, then said, “Hey.” He’d pitched his voice at the exact same timbre, just loud enough to carry to the youth’s ears, but not to attract any attention outside the six of them.

  Everado’s hand froze, and he whirled, as did his friends, everyone staring at the interloper.

  “Where I come from, any man who’s worth a damn doesn’t hit women. It’s not very—” Bolan paused, as if searching for the right word “—macho.”

  The leader looked at Bolan as if the older man had just walked up and slapped him. Everado took a step forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. “Is that right?” His cohorts fell in behind him as their leader approached the Executioner.

  Bolan nodded curtly.

  “You aren’t from around here, are you, amigo?” The young man stopped a few feet away from Bolan, his posse fanning out around them.

  Bolan stood casually and confidently, hands at his sides, his eyes on the leader. He knew the others wouldn’t make a move unless Everado did first. They all thought they had the advantage with their numbers. It would take less time to show than tell them just how wrong they were.

  Bolan shook his head slowly.

  “Did you have a good meal in there?”

  “I did, before it got interrupted,” Bolan stated.

  “Hey, no one asked you to stick your nose in, asshole!” This came from the girl, who was slouched against the convertible, apparently annoyed at not being the center of attention anymore.

  Bolan and Everado ignored her. The young man took out a thick roll of bills and peeled off a fifty, tucking it into the soldier’s shirt pocket. “Here’s a little advice. Walk back inside, finish your lunch, order two more, I don’t care. Then come back out, get into your car and keep on driving. That way nothing bad will happen to you.”

  Bolan had to work hard at suppressing his smile. Normally he’d give anyone who got in his face a bit of credit, but this kid was already in way over his head; he just didn’t know it yet. “That wouldn’t be a threat, now, would it?”

  The young man smiled broadly and shook his head. “Not at all, man! But the prairie out here—so desolate. Travelers who are unprepared can lose their bearings pretty quickly.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Bolan looked beyond him to the girl. “She isn’t going with you, by the way.”

  The young man had started to turn back to his car when Bolan spoke. He froze again. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. She isn’t going anywhere with you.”

  Everado turned back. “And I suppose you think she’s going somewhere with you.”

  “Nope. She’s staying right out here, in public, until one of her parents comes and gets her. I’ll be nearby, just to make sure nothing bad happens.”

  This time the young Mexican got right up into Bolan’s face, so close he could smell the well-dressed punk’s cologne—a pungent, sharp fragrance. “You got a hell of a lot of nerve to come into our town and start givin’ orders. Do you have any idea who I am?”

  Bolan didn’t back down an inch. “I sure do.”

  His confident answer caught the youth by surprise, and Bolan kept going. “You’re a kid from south of the border who got lucky. Your grandparents scratched out a living in Mexico, so your parents wised up and joined Cristobal for a way out. You’ve never known a hard day in your life. You’ve never worked twelve, fourteen, sixteen hour days, only to eat, sleep and get up to do the same thing again, six days a week. You grew up with a spoon—not a silver one, just a regular one—in your mouth, so you’ve never had to do anything hard in your life, ever. You’ve assumed a status that you’ve done nothing to earn, and wear it like you have the right. But anyone who looks at you for more than two seconds sees straight through that. They can see right to your soul, see the aimless, ambitionless kid driving a fancy car and wearing designer clothes, and walking around like he knows what’s going on. What those people really see is a boy who has absolutely no idea of who he is, where he came from, or what he’s doing with his life.”

  Bolan leaned in close to the youth’s ear, speaking so only he could hear his next words. “And deep down, I think you also know that—and it scares the hell out of you.”

  Much like his girlfriend’s face a few minutes ago, Everado’s expression changed from surprise to incredulousness to anger at hearing Bolan’s assessment. “Fuckin’ asshole!” He reached for Bolan’s shirt, while the other young men crowded around them, hands reaching out to snare the interloper, as well. Bolan was a moment away from breaking fingers and moving on from there when the whoop of an approaching police siren made everyone’s heads turn.

  2

  As soon as the rest of the young men heard the siren, they pulled away from Bolan, leaving him none the worse for wear. He noticed Everado’s expression turn dark at seeing the car, and the young man muttered a curse under his breath.

  The approaching sheriff’s cruiser came to a stop in the parking lot, and a Hispanic deputy got out of the car. Bolan eyed the newcomer warily. Even with his mirrored aviator shades on, he resembled the youth close enough to be a relation, which meant the situation could turn bad really fast. The man slung a nightstick into the holder at his side, then took his flat-brimmed hat from the seat beside him and put it on before walking over.

  He nodded at Bolan. “Sir.” Then he turned his attention to Everado and the rest of his boys, all of whom were looking anywhere but at the two men. “Everado, what’s going on here?”

  The young man stared at Bolan for a moment, then looked away to spit on the ground. “Nothing—sir.”

  “Got an anonymous tip of a fight going down in the parking lot at Rollins’s place. Now you boys wouldn’t know anything about that,
would you?”

  The group all muttered negative replies.

  The deputy turned to Bolan. “Sir, was there any sort of altercation here that you’d like to report?”

  Everado spoke up then, “But, Rojas—”

  The deputy turned his mirrored sunglasses on the young man, causing his words to die in his throat. He turned back to Bolan. “Sir, you are?”

  “Matt Cooper.”

  The deputy didn’t write it down, but Bolan was more than willing to bet he’d made a note of it. “Again, did anything go on here that you would care to report?”

  “No, thanks. I just thought I saw a misunderstanding, and had come out to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

  “That what happened, Everado?”

  The young man had turned from hard case to indignant to sullen in the span of a minute. He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “All right, then. Glad to know you boys aren’t causing trouble.” The deputy leaned over to spot the girl against the convertible. “Connie? I’m sure school isn’t over till the end of the month.”

  The girl rolled her eyes and stared off into the distance.

  The deputy’s voice turned steel-hard. “Come over here, girl.”

  She stared at him, then slowly walked over. Everado’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but the deputy turned his gaze back on the young man, and he shut it with a snap.

  Connie stood in front of him. “What?”

  The man nodded toward his cruiser. “Get in. I’ll take you back to school.”

  Like her boyfriend, Connie was about to try to argue, but the lithe deputy’s stance made it clear he wouldn’t be having any of it. “Goddamn it,” she muttered as she stamped around the cruiser to the passenger side and got in, slamming the door closed.

  The deputy turned to the group of young men. “And I better not get any more reports with any of your names in them, else I’m coming after all of you, you hear? Now you all get gone.”

  Casting resentful looks back at Bolan, who had just stood and watched the whole affair, the youths got into the Mercedes-Benz. Everado started the car and backed out, then drove sedately off.

  Deputy Quintanar—Bolan caught his name tag as he turned—watched until the youths were out of sight, then turned back to Bolan. “On behalf of the rest of the folks here in Quincyville, I’d like to apologize for what happened. They’re what passes for the resident hell-raisers around here, and have to be reined in now and again.”

  Bolan nodded. “Boys will be boys, and all that.”

  Quintanar cocked his head. “No, not quite. I imagine his father will be talking with him about this very soon. You know how small towns are—nothing’s ever really private.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Hope you enjoy the rest of your time here.” The deputy turned to go back to his car.

  “Oh, Deputy…” Bolan waited until the man had turned half around before continuing. “It’s probably none of my business, but I noticed the large house on the hill with the police tape around it. I’m kind of an amateur crime buff. Can you tell me what happened over there?”

  Deputy Quintanar stared at him for a few seconds before walking back over. “I hope you won’t misunderstand my response, Mr. Cooper, but you’re right—it is none of your business. However, if you must know, one of our most prominent citizens and his wife were shot and killed last night. We’re going to find whoever did it, don’t you worry. Now, why don’t you go back inside and enjoy the rest of your meal?”

  “Suppose I’ll do just that. Thanks.” Bolan walked back to the diner door and turned to watch the cruiser pull away. Walking back inside, he was surprised to be greeted by a smattering of applause, started by Elaine behind the counter, then spreading throughout the place. Bolan noticed several men who didn’t join in the accolade, either glaring at him or averting their gaze altogether. He understood how they felt—although he wasn’t sure whether they were jealous of it or embarrassed that they hadn’t stepped up—but he wasn’t thrilled with the reception, either. Waving a hand halfheartedly at everyone, he went to his stool and waved Elaine over. “Thought I might finish my lunch.”

  “Damn straight you will—on the house. Luke, another blue-plate special!” A few minutes later a heaping plate filled with enough food to choke a grizzly bear appeared in front of him. Bolan eyed the platter, then looked up at Elaine, who stared at him expectantly. “Dig in, honey.”

  “I’ll try.” Bolan did just that. The stares and whispers didn’t take the edge off his appetite, and he made a good dent in the double portion of everything before calling it a day. Slipping the fifty out of his pocket, he tucked it under the plate, but before he could remove his hand, the waitress cleared her throat.

  “I said your meal was on the house.”

  Bolan flashed her an easy smile. “And I thank you, it was delicious. This tip is from Everado and his boys. Make sure the busboy and their waitress get their share, will you?”

  Elaine’s mouth dropped at the denomination before she swept it into her pocket. “I most certainly will. You stop by here any time.”

  “I will, thanks.” Bolan walked out into the afternoon sun and looked down the street, half expecting to see the punks in their convertible lying in wait for him as he left the parking lot. He looked around at all of the clean, neat buildings and people going about their business. Everything seemed normal.

  Maybe that was it—everything seemed almost too nor mal.

  Bolan checked his watch. If he was going to hit Chicago today, he should have already been on the road. Still…

  He got into his rental vehicle and pulled out his smart-phone, running a quick internet search to find the information he was looking for. Starting the Caddy, he drove to the main intersection of town, then turned right and drove another half mile before pulling into the parking lot of the Quincyville Gazette.

  Getting out, he walked past a vending machine with the latest issue in it—the cover story was about the latest round of crop subsidies being voted on in the state legislature. Stepping through the front door of the A-frame building, Bolan walked up to a long counter with a plump, young, bottle-blonde woman behind it. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I was wondering if you had your back issues on computer file or microfilm?”

  “The library would be more likely to help you with those kinds of records. May I ask what you’re looking for?”

  “Sure, my name’s Matt Cooper, I’m a freelance stringer for the Capitol Journal. I’d heard there was a double homicide here in town recently, and decided to come out and see if I could get the story.”

  While he talked, the receptionist’s face went from curiosity to confusion to concern. “Would you wait here for a moment? I’m going to get someone to help you.”

  “All right.” Bolan cooled his heels in the reception area for less than a minute. The receptionist hustled back out with an attractive brunette woman in her mid-to late-thirties.

  “This is the gentleman I told you about.”

  The older woman held out her hand. “Casey Hinder, editor-in-chief.”

  Bolan introduced himself again using the Cooper alias. “Perhaps there’s somewhere we can talk more privately?”

  “Absolutely, why don’t you come back into my office?” She led him behind the counter, past a cluster of fabric-walled cubicles, some empty, others occupied by employees. At the back of the large room was a row of offices. Casey ushered Bolan into the corner one, which was slightly larger than the others.

  “Have a seat.” Bolan did so while Casey closed the door and crossed around the back of the desk, sitting in an old wooden-backed chair. “Okay, buddy, who the hell are you really?”

  Bolan frowned. “I told you, I’m—”

  She held up her hands. “Save it, there’s no way you’re a stringer for the Topeka CJ. Mainly because this ‘story’ hasn’t even gone out over the wire, so there’s no way you’re from that paper, as they don’t even know about i
t yet. Then I get a call about a dark-haired man resembling your general description who goes toe-to-toe with Everado De Cavallos this afternoon and walks away in one piece.”

  Bolan smiled. “Deputy Quintanar had something to do with that.”

  The journalist shook her head. “Whatever. Look, my source—who knows what they’re talking about—says it looked like you were about to mop the floor with them. I may be the editor-in-chief, but I had my share of bylines before I reached this desk, and it doesn’t take much to figure this one out.”

  “I don’t think your source saw the same conversation I had with Everado.” Bolan leaned back in his chair. “All right, I’ll level with you. I’m a freelance journalist on my way back from a convention in Las Vegas. I stopped in for lunch at the diner, heard about the double homicide and thought I might be able to get a story out of it.”

  Casey’s slim eyebrow rose. “A freelance journalist?”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Driving a brand-new Cadillac?”

  “Rental. You wouldn’t believe how many frequent flyer points I’ve racked up on my credit cards.”

  “Pardon my bluntness, but you look way too fit to be a stringer.”

  Bolan smiled again. “Thanks for noticing—I try to keep fit.”

  His implication hit the editor after a moment, and she colored slightly. “Hmph.” She studied him for a long minute. Bolan returned her frank, green-eyed gaze with his own pair of vibrant blues, not saying a word. “You got some kind of press pass, online clippings, website, anything?”