Prairie Fire Read online

  What he could not afford was careless overconfidence, the kind that killed his gunners in the transport vehicle two days ago.

  This time it would be a simple job, if everybody followed orders to the letter. Just like taking candy from a baby.

  Make that three babies, one of them armed — at least — with a double-barreled 12-gauge scattergun.

  That changed the odds a bit, of course, but five to one was more than good enough.

  The Cowboy settled down to wait for sunrise.

  8

  "More?"

  Bolan shook his head and pushed the empty plate away.

  "No, thanks. I'm fine."

  Seated opposite Bolan in an easy chair, the shotgun resting on his knees, Jason Chad wick pinned him with a probing stare.

  "I reckon all that hiding out works up an appetite. How long's it been since you ate?"

  "Two days, give or take."

  "Well, I expect you'll eat more regular in jail."

  "Dad, for heaven's sake!"

  The farmer looked at his daughter-in-law evenly, without expression.

  "No harm in telling things the way they are."

  And Toni was about to answer back when Bolan interrupted her.

  "I meant it when I told you that I wasn't running from the police."

  "I heard you, fella. But you will admit those bracelets are a mite suspicious."

  Toni chimed in suddenly, surprising both of them.

  "I don't think those handcuffs mean a thing."

  The farmer looked at her with new eyes, clearly startled.

  "Are you taking up for him?"

  The dark eyes flashed from Bolan to her father-in-law and back again. Uncertainty was written on her face.

  "It's not that. I just think we ought to let him tell his side, that's all."

  The farmer shrugged.

  "I'll be glad to listen, s'long as everybody understands the sheriff has first claim on him.''

  "We may not have the time to wait for reinforcements."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" asked Jason Chadwick, looking at Bolan.

  "Some people are after me, all right, but strictly unofficially. And they won't be taking any coffee breaks until they find me."

  "Some kind of gang, I'd guess, supposed to break you out."

  "Supposed to bury me. And anyone who's been in contact with me."

  The farmer remained silent for a moment, finally spoke.

  "It seems to me you'd want police protection. 'Less, of course, you're hiding something."

  "There's no way your sheriff can protect me now."

  "That so?" Jason made no effort to conceal his skepticism. "Those must be some rough old boys. You mixed up with the Mafia or something?"

  The Executioner suppressed a sudden urge to laugh out loud. He never once considered telling everything, or even the majority of what he knew. Much better if he kept it clean and simple, to preserve his shaky credibility, if nothing else.

  And he could hardly hope for Jason Chadwick and his family to accept the whole, unvarnished truth. The average mind, untrained and unattuned to dealing with the underworld of criminals and saboteurs, would find the facts bizarre, implausible. Bolan took the path of least resistance as he answered Jason's question.

  "Something like that, yes."

  The older man was watching him, and Bolan could almost hear the brain at work behind his captor's eyes.

  "I guess you'd better start at the beginning, boy."

  Bolan took a moment, putting all his thoughts in order, to make sure his story had the ring of truth before he started speaking.

  "I have information that could damage them, upset their plans. They can't afford to have me talking. I'm a risk, and so is anyone I've been in touch with. Anyone at all."

  He had not meant to glance at Toni then, or frighten her unnecessarily, but he could see the color draining from her cheeks. The younger woman seemed convinced of Bolan's story. She was terrified, and no mistake.

  "Is this where I'm supposed to get all green around the gills and let you walk right out the door?"

  "It wouldn't be a bad idea," he told the farmer earnestly.

  "Not bad for you, at any rate.''

  "The truth is, I was thinking of your women," Bolan said.

  "Uh-huh."

  Bolan glanced at Toni from the corner of his eye, and saw that something in her face had changed — the fear transformed into a kind of sympathy, perhaps — and he knew she was afraid for him, as well as for her family and herself. It was a victory of sorts, but Jason and his wife were clearly undecided, still suspicious of his story.

  And why not? He was asking them to take the word of some pathetic fugitive above their own best instincts. In their place, he, too, would be skeptical. And he could read the answer in his captor's face even before the farmer spoke aloud.

  "I'll have to let the sheriff sort this out." And to his wife, "Why don't you try the phone again."

  She left then, returning in less than a minute, shaking her head.

  "Nothing," she reported.

  "Damn! I've got a mind to take it out of next month's bill," the farmer groused.

  "I hope you're still around next month."

  The farmer's hand had come to rest on the shotgun's trigger guard.

  "We'll have no more of that. I won't be threatened in my own damn house.''

  "The threat's outside," Bolan said. "Or it will be soon."

  There was a moment's thoughtful silence, but Jason Chadwick's face remained passive.

  Nothing was to be gained from arguing, and Bolan let it go. He was already thinking past the moment, looking for an out that would involve a minimum of conflict with the Chadwicks. Given half a chance, he could disarm the farmer. He would fight back, and Bolan would be forced to kill or injure him before he left the farmhouse.

  At the moment, it was not a viable alternative.

  Later, perhaps — when the bloodhounds were closer — he might be forced to violence. But if there was any chance at all of slipping out without a fight...

  The Executioner was not afraid of any man, but early in his Asian war he had acquired a simple code. In a ruthless war without frontiers or boundaries, he clung steadfastly to his principles, which distinguished him from others of his kind.

  A soldier gave his word of honor sparingly — and having given it, defended it to the death. No matter if the word was given to a friend or enemy, Bolan stood by it but never hid behind it.

  Bolan would never take up arms against soldiers of the same side, even when a tainted individual betrayed his trust and dabbled in the slime of treason. Bolan left collection of their cosmic debts to other hands; his own had blood enough to bathe in.

  Bolan had become the Executioner in Vietnam, and simultaneously he earned the nickname of Sergeant Mercy: on one hand, a coldly efficient killing machine; on the other, a warm human being who would go the extra mile and risk his life, his mission, for the sake of wounded comrades or civilians.

  Only an extraordinary man could carry both names well, and Bolan pulled it off with style. He found no contradiction in his opposite roles of savior and destroyer. In Bolan's view, a warrior necessarily embodied facets of them both. He was employed to kill, but only so that others could survive. When savages encroached upon the gentle civilizers, then it was a soldier's lot to stand behind them and to stem the tide.

  It was a blood tide, and sometimes — too often — it swept away the soldier's sense of balance, dragging him under. Until he lost himself completely, reemerging in the perfect likeness of his savage foe. It took a special kind of fighting man to stand his ground, and although the Executioner was not unscathed, he had seen it through with heart and mind intact.

  So far.

  Sometimes it was too much for a single man to bear, damn right. But Executioner Mack Bolan did his part, secure in the knowledge that other hands and hearts shared his burden. He was separated from his former allies now, by geographic space and proclamation of
their mutual commander, but the warrior knew what they were going through from one day to the next.

  The man in black had been there, right, and after getting into it, he found there was no easy exit from the hellgrounds. Life and death were simple on the surface, but behind the bare mechanics, motivations ran together in kaleidoscopic chaos, unless you kept your full attention on the guideposts.

  Duty.

  Honor.

  Justice.

  Love.

  The love of life itself, as life was meant to be. Dynamic. Fruitful. Growing.

  There were times when love of life conferred on a man the right to kill. If a soldier turned away, allowed the savage foe to work his evil in the world, then that warrior was as guilty as the cannibals themselves. He was a traitor to the universe that gave him life.

  In the final analysis, the Executioner would have his scars to show, but he would never stand accused of treason.

  Movement close at hand distracted Bolan, roused him from his momentary reverie. The women were clearing off the dinner remnants, getting ready to retire. Jason Chadwick kept his seat across from Bolan, both hands resting on the scattergun. The gaze he turned on Bolan showed a mixture of emotions: curiosity, suspicion and the smallest trace of fear.

  And Bolan finally recognized the fear of injury to loved ones, felt the infant tremors that had just begun to undermine his captor's iron resolve.

  The farmer had been listening to him, after all. He was not buying all of it — perhaps not any of it yet — but he was thinking. For the moment, it was victory enough.

  So long as Bolan had the moment.

  Normal kitchen sounds were audible beyond the doorway, and again he felt the stark duality of his surroundings. He was an alien in this world, and his presence was changing those around him, gradually but forcibly inducting them into another world they did not understand. The women were engaged in their routine domestic business while a manacled guerrilla occupied their parlor and their father-husband kept him under guard.

  As Bolan's gaze took in the domestic scene around him, an unfamiliar feeling was conceived deep in his soul. He tried to tag the edges of this undefined signal, give the flag substance, but the wavering image fell in and out of focus, finally eluding him.

  The nameless embryonic sensation continued to gnaw at his gut, frustrating every futile attempt to pin it down. Then his migrating thoughts began to hold steady and he had it.

  Family.

  Damn right.

  Bolan realized it was the presence of the double-barreled 12-gauge in the farmer's hands that triggered the dormant alarm. Like a panning camera, Bolan's thoughts crossed the lifetime from Pittsfield to the present. And the yearning for his family threatened to consume him like fire.

  In Emma and Jason Chadwick, Bolan saw his dead parents. And Toni Chadwick reminded him of his sister, Cindy. But the picture was incomplete. An integral part of this homey pastiche lay missing.

  Johnny.

  Where was he now?

  He would no longer be in the custody of Val Querente, Bolan was certain. And if the true Bolan blood coursed through his brother's veins, then Johnny would more than likely be on his own by now.

  As Bolan's racing thoughts gained momentum, he knew that his decision to stay away from Johnny was sound. There could have been no other way. And through the years, even though Bolan ached to see his only living kin, no amount of loneliness could shake his resolve. The Executioner would never allow cannibal man to threaten the scion of the Bolan clan.

  It would have been easy to locate Johnny through Leo Turrin. But any attempt to effect a reunion would have endangered the boy's life.

  Boy? At that thought a smile cracked Bolan's trancelike mask. Johnny was a young man by now. What did he look like? Had his life run an easier course than The Executioner's? Bolan hoped so. Any other way would be too much to even contemplate.

  Bolan longed to tousle his younger brother's hair, toss a few in a game of touch football, reel in some rock bass from a clear mountain stream. And yes, catch up on the years that had separated them.

  Suddenly, Bolan made a decision. When this was all over, if he survived, he would look for Johnny.

  Bolan would find his blood.

  The Executioner was wrenched back to reality as his gaze fell on the twin snouts of the 12-gauge shotgun pointed at him.

  He recognized that Jason had it in him to become a killer, indeed, re-become; the man had paid his dues and done his duty in another war. Alone among the Chadwicks, he had caught a glimpse of Bolan's world, but that was long ago and far away.

  It would remain to see if he could find the fortitude for here and now.

  9

  While the Chadwick women finished their K.P. duty, Jason turned his full attention to the problem of securing his prisoner for the night. The Executioner saw consternation mingled with determination on his captor's face.

  "I mean to keep you company tonight, but still..."

  He hesitated briefly, seemed to hit upon a sudden inspiration.

  "Emma, will you step in here a minute?"

  Hesitant, still toweling soapy hands, his wife appeared in the open kitchen doorway. Jason turned to face her.

  "I need that chain we used to use on Buster. And the extra padlock, from my toolbox. The keys are with it."

  Emma Chadwick nodded without answering and turned away to fetch the items. Her eyes met Bolan's for only a heartbeat, but he had time to read a sampling of the mixed emotions there. Above all else, the fear was dominant.

  When it came down to fear, they had only scratched the surface. Except perhaps for Jason and his fading memories of hell in the Pacific, they knew nothing yet of mortal terror.

  Bolan hoped that none of them would ever have to learn what they were missing.

  Emma Chadwick returned, carrying a length of slender chain and a small padlock. She placed the items on the table.

  "I don't plan to fall asleep," he told the Executioner, "but accidents can happen. Wouldn't want to see our company run off without the chance to say goodbye."

  He passed the 12-gauge to his wife, and she took it with an obvious reluctance, holding the weapon away from her body. Jason picked up the lock and chain and crossed the parlor to stand in front of Bolan.

  "Get up a second, and I'll get you situated," Jason ordered.

  Bolan rose and watched the farmer as he dragged the sofa several feet along the wall. One end of it was now adjacent to a tall cast-iron radiator, and at once Bolan understood his captor's plan.

  "Sit down."

  The farmer waved him to a seat beside the standing heater. The man in black obeyed instructions, took his place without an argument.

  Swiftly, Jason Chadwick looped the slender chain through Bolan's handcuffs, passed one end of it through grillwork on the upright radiator, and secured the loose ends with his padlock. It would take some practice, but the Executioner had enough room to stretch out on the sofa.

  "I know this won't hold you if you've got a mind to leave," the farmer said, "but that old heater's pretty solid. It'll take some work to pull that grating loose, and there's no way to keep it quiet."

  And he was smiling as he took the shotgun back from his wife, settling into his easy chair again.

  "You get some rest now, fella. Reckon you'll be needing it come morning."

  Bolan was determined not to sleep. He would remain awake, alert to any sound inside or out, in case the hunters tried to storm the house during the night. Within the limits now imposed on him by circumstances, he had to be prepared for anything.

  His captor lasted barely ninety minutes, and by midnight Jason's muffled snoring filled the parlor. Bolan watched him sleeping fitfully, aware that he could never reach the shotgun without waking Jason.

  Bolan's tether was too short to let him cross the living room, although he found that he could stand and move about within a six-foot radius. But if the trackers found him now, while he was fettered like a watchdog on a leash, it would not
be enough.

  Another hour, and fatigue was challenging determination, bottomless exhaustion chipping at the soldier's iron resolve. His catnap in the loft had not refreshed him, and he felt the soft, seductive arms of sleep enfolding him against his will. He was nodding, drifting...

  It might have been a moment or an hour, when a small sound awakened Bolan. The years of training, living on the edge, had served him well, and he was scanning for the source of a potential threat before he was aware of having been asleep.

  The sound was close, muffled, like the surreptitious closing of a door, and he was conscious of another presence in the living room. A scent...

  Bolan made the recognition and relaxed at once. The presence was familiar, even welcome, and it held no menace for him.

  Toni Chadwick stepped into the feeble light from Jason's low-wattage reading lamp. Her hair was tousled from the pillow, and she wore a flannel nightgown underneath a belted robe. She glanced at Jason, dozing in his chair, and seemed to glide across the living room until she stood within arm's length of Bolan. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper.

  "Sorry if I woke you."

  "It's okay. I need to stay awake."

  The semidarkness could not hide her anxious look; the shadows on her face made Toni look more worried than before.

  "You really think we're in some kind of danger, don't you?"

  Bolan nodded.

  "Yes, I do. The worst kind."

  "If you're right... I mean... what happens next?"

  "That all depends on whether I get out of here before someone comes looking for me."

  "If they find you here..."

  She had no need to finish. Bolan understood the question.

  "They won't have a choice," he told her flatly, fighting down the urge to make it easier. "Every witness is a liability."

  "I see."

  And from the grim expression on her face, he knew she was beginning to. The lady had started to tremble, and she found a seat at one end of the sofa, leaving ample space between them. Bolan knew that it was not from any squeamishness, but rather from a sense of elementary caution. He was still a stranger here, presumably a hunted man, and while he felt the stirrings of an embryonic empathy between them, prudence kept her at a distance.