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  Bolan said, “No, they’re automatically dead. I’m going now. If you feel all this strongly about the injustice of my operation, then I’m sure you’ll want to get the warning out. Judgment has come to Texas. There is only one way the guilty can evade it. They have to get back into the system.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means total surrender. Full disclosure of all illegal acts, confession.”

  “Oh,” the newsman replied, startled by a new understanding. “There is an out, then. They can purge themselves.”

  “The outriders, yeah, the people who are riding along on the Mafia’s coattails. Like Whitson, Spellman, Kilcannon. They can rejoin the system and take their chances with legal justice. Or they can take their chances with me. Tonight.”

  Bolan hung up, returned to the hot wheels, and blended back into the night.

  While, in a downtown office building, an excited television news crew was gathering around a tape recorder for a replay of the hottest scoop of the year.

  Very soon, now, everybody would be running.

  15: FACE OF THE DEVIL

  There had been a storm of reaction to what the whole town was referring to as “the Mack Bolan newscast.” Several prominent citizens had requested police protection. A US district judge announced his resignation and retirement from the bench. Two members of the Texas legislature quickly followed suit and the governor’s office announced that an “in-depth investigation” of the executive branch was “underway.”

  Police agencies throughout the state girded for a night of fireworks and it was announced that a special federal task force of law enforcement officials had reached Texas soil.

  So, yes, the night was unwinding itself in Bolan’s wake as his movements sent shock waves from border to border. But the man himself was just getting started.

  He made one slow pass around the neighborhood, eyes and instincts alert to ominous signs, then powered into the parking lot beside the building in which Arthur Klingman kept town dwellings.

  He was debarking from the Porsche when a guy with New York written all over him stepped from the shadows of the building, flashed an open wallet, and announced, “Building security, sir. I’ll have to see your parking permit.”

  Bolan straightened up and gazed down at the guy. “So look,” he invited in a light drawl. “It’s on the windshield.”

  The mafioso bent over the low-profile vehicle and never straightened up again. Bolan’s knee moved into the small of his back as both arms snaked around the neck into the deadly “Vinh Ha torque.” The vertebrae were wrenched loose with a gentle sucking sound and the guy quietly ceased to live.

  Bolan helped the body to its natural level and nudged it on beneath the vehicle with his feet.

  Even if it had been bright daylight, a casual observer would have wondered what became of the second man—it had happened that quickly and that smoothly.

  Bolan went on without a pause, moving swiftly to the rear entrance and stepping into the small lobby there.

  He was challenged again immediately by a fat man who came scrambling off the stairway. Bolan sat him right back down with a football kick to the belly and followed through with a stiff-finger jab to the throat. The eyes rolled up and the lids dropped—for a while if not forever. The invader kept right on going, homing to his target and moving on tight numbers.

  He hit the fourth-floor landing and swept through into the hallway with the Beretta at attention. A guy lunged away from a door about halfway down, clawing for leather as he whirled into position. The Belle chugged once and the sentry whirled on toward eternity, completing the spin and sprawling face down across the entrance to the Klingman apartment.

  Bolan stepped over the body and kicked his way inside.

  Two hardmen who had been lounging at the television with beer and sandwiches were falling all over each other as they tried to go from full rest to full survival in a heartbeat. Neither made it. Nine millimeters of zinging death for each punched them back to total rest and deposited them in a twisted litter of spilt sandwiches and overturned beer.

  Bolan closed the door and advanced deeper into the apartment. He found Arthur Klingman in a back room, seated quietly at a small desk with a jug of tequila and a neat row of lemon slices.

  He was a handsome old man with thick white hair and ruddy face, clear eyes, and a chin that could have led a wagon train across hostile country.

  A tough old bird, yeah.

  He was dressed in starched khaki, the trouser legs stuffed into Western boots that had seen a lot of use. The hands on that desk had the hard, gnarled look that comes from a lifetime of honest toil.

  He stood up, slowly and carefully, alert eyes measuring the dimensions of this stranger behind the gun—big like Texas, tall and straight and ready for anything—and, yeah, Bolan thought, a living symbol of this fantastic state.

  “I guess we’ve come a gusher,” Klingman said, and the voice matched the rest of the man.

  Bolan tossed a marksman’s medal to the desk as he replied, “I guess we have, Klingman.”

  “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “I’m not here to pin that medal on you,” Bolan said.

  Surprise registered in those bright eyes, then curiosity. “Then what do you want?”

  “I want to keep a promise to a gutsy lady,” Bolan told the pioneer oilman. “I told her I’d do what I could to salvage her daddy.”

  Klingman’s eyes quivered. “You’ve talked to my girl?”

  “I have your girl. She’s safe and well.” Bolan flipped a matchbook to the desk and Klingman immediately snatched it up. “You’ll find her there. Room one fifteen. She’s waiting for you to come for her. Take some clothes, she doesn’t have any. Your buddies kept her drugged and naked, under lock and key.”

  The angry sweep of a forearm sent the tequila hurtling off the desk. “Sonsabitches!” Klingman exploded. Raging eyes found their level in the cool Bolan gaze, then dropped off. “Guess I’m the biggest one of all,” he added, the voice deflated.

  “That’s for you to sift out for yourself,” Bolan told him.

  “How much do you know?”

  “Most of it. Judith helped. I’m up on Flag Seven. The Texas Plan. And I’m going to bust it. With or without your help.”

  “You want my help?”

  Bolan gave the old man a curt nod. “Judith feels that you would welcome the option.”

  Klingman stepped away from the desk.

  Bolan put the Beretta away.

  The big oilman stood in the center of the room, swaying like a tall Texas pine in a stiff breeze, eyes raised to the ceiling.

  He grabbed the back of his neck in a big paw and said, “I started Flag Seven, you know.”

  Bolan said, “I know. Now’s your chance to bury it. It’s gotten away from you, Klingman. Face that.”

  “I’ve tried to,” the Texan replied, sighing. “Over and over I’ve tried to face it. But—damn it!—there has to be a way through!”

  “No way through,” Bolan assured him. “You bargained with the devil, Klingman. I can almost admire you for that. You placed it all on the line, and I can understand that kind of commitment. But there are no bargains from hell. And now you have to face that truth.”

  “I don’t have to face anything!” the oilman roared.

  “You have to face your daughter,” Bolan quietly reminded him. “Or you have to face me. That’s your option.”

  The Texan grinned, and Bolan saw in there the origins of Judith Klingman’s gutsy humor. “I’d rather face the devil than either of you,” the old man said. “I caught your television show. Very convincing. And the coyotes are howling all over Texas. Bolan, you can believe this or not. I have had no controlling hand in Flag Seven since the coyotes started prowling our flanks. You’re right. It got away from me. A bargain with the sonsabitchin’ devil—you’re right there, too. But it started as a pure idea—or almost, anyway.”

  Bolan glanced at his watch. “My time has run out
here,” he said. “We can talk while we travel. Let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “To face the devil, maybe.”

  Klingman said, “Just a minute.” He dragged a briefcase from a book shelf and told the Executioner, “This will save a lot of talk. And it’s the devil’s truth, every word of it. Maps, plans, timetables, the whole thing. Take it and git. I’ll just slow you down, and I can get Judith on my own.”

  “We leave together,” Bolan replied firmly. He took the pioneer Texan’s arm and steered him toward the door.

  “And we’ll probably end up in hell together,” Klingman muttered.

  Bolan already knew that.

  He’d faced the devil, himself, many times.

  But never over the body of a defeated old man. Understandable pressures had turned Arthur Klingman—and some of the men with him—onto this detour to damnation. At least they had been men enough to place their souls on the line for an honest commitment. So it had turned sour—from too much seasoning in the pot. More than a dash of greed, a sprinkling of lunacy, and finally the big Mafia ham-bone.

  Despite the claims of his detractors, Mack Bolan did not play God. He neither judged nor condemned men like Klingman. Each man, he knew, was his own judge and his own condemnation.

  And maybe Klingman was right. Maybe the two of them would walk the bitter shores of hell together.

  But not tonight, hopefully. He dropped the old man at a safe point and went on to gather the next numbers of the night.

  With the face of the devil hovering all over that land.

  16: THE KICKER

  Jack Grimaldi’s voice came across the line tense and nervous. “Man I’m glad you checked in. Something’s wrong out at that motel. The chick has either flown or can’t answer the phone. I’ve been ringing every five minutes since I got here.”

  Bolan’s response was slow in coming. “Well,” he replied presently, “she’s a free agent.”

  “Maybe she’s just afraid to answer the phone. I thought of that, too.”

  “No. I told her to expect a call. Damn. I just sent Arthur Klingman out there. Well … he’s a pretty capable old bird. I’ll let him worry it from there. The other numbers are falling. Get the chopper ready.”

  “She’s ready. When and where do you want her?”

  “Not sure yet. I’m just laying back now and reading the opposition. But I want to be ready to spring with them. Stick close to that phone.”

  “Will do. Uh, I have a piece of intelligence for you.”

  “I told you to stay low, Jack.”

  “I’m low. But, hell, can’t just sit here and crack my knuckles all night. I was calling around, trying to pick up something—maybe some whispers about the Klingman chick. Nothing there, not a peep in the hen house, but I got something else may interest you.”

  “Okay, unload it.”

  “Lileo has sent a hard force out to that joint we hit this morning, Klingman’s Wells. It seems that we missed something out there, something big. The story I get, there’s about a square mile of camouflage netting strung up just west of there—and some mighty interesting things are supposed to be beneath that netting.”

  “What sort of things?”

  . “Crazy things. If the intel is straight, it’s a staging area for a paramilitary force.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that,” Bolan said. Sure, a sprinkling of insanity.

  “And more than that. They’re stockpiling crude oil out there in concealed tanks. I hear they’ve also got a secret pipeline coming in from some refinery and they’re storing gasoline and jet aviation fuel. This guy tells me they’ve got row upon row of military armored cars under that netting. Also ammunition dumps and the whole military picture. No troops, though. They’ve got them dispersed and out of sight in the civil population. Now they’re wanting to disperse the staging depot, too. So Lileo and Quaso have rushed this hard force out there to protect the operation.”

  “Who’d you get this from, Jack?”

  “A guy close to the headshed, a crew boss with Quaso. Pushes Superchicks around Dallas and Fort Worth. You suspect it?”

  “I suspect everything,” Bolan replied tiredly.

  “Well—if it’s a plant then they’ve added a certain kicker. As the story goes, they’re blowing up Klingman’s Wells at dawn.”

  “For what reason?”

  “To cover what they’ve been doing with those wells, I guess. I hear there’s still enough crude down there to run the country’s vehicles for a year. But they say they’re going to blow them. Could they do that?”

  According to the intel from Klingman’s briefcase, they sure could. Bolan told his pilot, “Yeah, they could lift the whole lease clear off the face of Texas.”

  “Well, that’s the kicker.”

  “Some kicker,” Bolan commented unhappily.

  “Well, who gives a shit if they blow up a few wells, eh? You think they’re trying to draw you out there with a threat like that? Who gives a shit?”

  “There’s the problem, Jack. In a few months, I hear, the whole world will be giving one.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means we’re supposed to be moving steadily toward an energy crisis. Worldwide.”

  “Oh, that. Well, you know, you hear stories everywhere.”

  “Only this one is chillingly true, I’m afraid,” Bolan replied in a wearied voice. “It’s what this whole nutty Texas Plan is about.”

  “What is that Texas Plan?”

  “Another chilling story. A preview, maybe, of what’s going to be happening all over the world in a few more years. Territorial wars, Jack. No more fighting over political ideals, but fighting for survival in a world fast running out of natural resources.”

  “Hell you lost me somewhere between Texas and the world.”

  “I’ll fill you in later. But we have to go back to Klingman’s, Jack. So get that bird hot and ready.”

  “What the hell has this got to do with the mob?”

  “They’re the ants, Jack.”

  “The what?”

  “At every picnic there’s a swarm of ants. Right? And the biggest picnic in the country right now is Texas oil.”

  “Hey! I’m beginning to get the—”

  “Right, it’s a lot bigger than we thought. Stay ready, Jack. I’ll be calling.”

  Bolan hung up and returned to his vehicle, survival instincts as alert as ever but the intellectual side of his mind in the depths of thought.

  Sure. It could be the last picnic in Texas. And after that—where?

  Wherever oil was king, probably.

  And at the moment—or at a very early future moment, at least—whoever controlled the oil of the world would indeed control the whole world.

  Yes, it was a chilling thought.

  No wars had been seen that would match the desperate ferocity of affluent nations battling for their share of industrial survival.

  And, yes, Mack Bolan “gave a shit” about the fate of a few wells in Texas.

  He would, if necessary, give his final heartbeat. While he lived, the mob was not going to muscle into the big picnic in Texas.

  Grimaldi’s “intelligence” had a smell to it, sure. Inside information such as that does not simply drop from the skies, not unless somebody is pushing it with a purpose.

  Would those dum-dums actually blow up those wells? Even if Bolan did not accept the bait? Or even if he did?

  Bolan had to shake his head over that one. He did know that the capability was there—the intel from Klingman himself verified that much. The entire Klingman Petro lease was wired for destruction.

  Yeah. The Executioner would have to go check that out—bait for hell or not.

  First, though, he had a couple of dates to keep. One with a man from Washington.

  And another with a crafty dude from St. Looey.

  The Executioner had a “kicker” of his own in mind.

  17: A SEVENTH FLAG FOR TEXAS

  Bolan halted at the
main entrance to the Federal Building and flashed his lights.

  Harold Brognola moved casually to the sidewalk, opened the door, and slid in beside the most wanted man in America.

  “Some wheels,” was his greeting.

  The Porsche moved smoothly from the curb and into the stream of evening traffic. The Executioner told the chief of the federal get-Bolan task force, “Mob money bought it. Tell them.”

  Brognola grunted and lit a cigarette. He was a man of fortyish years, medium height and weight, with a deceptively amiable appearance. He might have been a shoe salesman, harriedly preparing for a Christmas shopping rush but grimly determined to maintain the holiday cheer. He was, in fact, a federal agent with a law degree and many years of frustration in his chosen field—racket-busting. During the early days of the Bolan wars, Brognola had managed to make personal contact with the most effective racket-buster of them all and had subsequently launched a quiet campaign to give Bolan hush-hush support by the federal government—but Bolan himself had declined the arrangement.

  The one-man army had once told Brognola: “The tracks I make with my own blood are my tracks alone and my responsibility alone. I don’t like the idea of dragging the whole country into hell with me.”

  It was this side of the Executioner that commanded such respect from this man who had dedicated his life to “justice under the law.” Even after Brognola had been officially accorded prime responsibility in the government’s campaign to apprehend Mack Bolan, that respect had remained intact and had in fact created a troubling conflict of interests.

  “The guy is no mad dog killer,” Brognola had once told his chief. “We can trust him to pick and choose the proper targets. He is the best weapon to come along in the battle against organized crime. The man deserves a portfolio.”

  But “the man” would not accept that portfolio. And the governmental pressures on Brognola had become intense.

  At one particularly low point in their relationship, in Vegas, Brognola had personally gone a’gunning for the Executioner, however regretfully. It had been a “mad dog hunt” at Vegas—both Brognola and Bolan had understood that clearly. Mack Bolan would not fire upon the law, Brognola knew that also. Only providence had averted a tragic ending to that Vegas encounter. Thereafter, Brognola had walked a delicate line between his sense of duty and his sense of respect and admiration for this committed hellfire guy.