Pendleton, Don - Executioner 018 - Texas Storm. Page 3

  "Maybe she knows nothing. I mean nothing." "I'm betting she does," Bolan said.

  "You may be betting your life."

  "So what's new?"

  Grimaldi laughed sourly. He squinted at the instrument panel and announced, "Big Spring coming up. You'd better get ready."

  The next few minutes were silent ones. Bolan was stowing weapons and pulling street clothes on over the skin suit.

  The girl moaned once and said something in gibberish.

  Grimaldi was studying the terrain below, looking for visual orientation toward their destination, a small private airfield just north of Big Spring.

  A military jet passed to starboard and waggled it’s wings at them. Grimaldi waggled back and told his passenger, "Okay. Military control zone just ahead, starting around. Make it three minutes to touchdown." "Make it four minutes and fly by once, Jack,"

  Bolan said quietly. "I want a look, at five hundred feet."

  Grimaldi grinned, his good humour returning in a rush. What the hell, this was Mack Bolan sitting here. This guy didn't bet anything He invested, very carefully.

  The fiery glow of the Texas sun was making its debut on the terrestrial horizon, unmindful of the storm clouds gathering across that landscape. Tally ho, hell yes. A hunted landscape.

  A scrub-out at Klingman's Wells?

  The tough little Italian who'd been everywhere mid seen it all shivered and set his mental perspectives in order.

  Somebody should ask the survivors back there about that so-called scrub-out. Grimaldi smiled into the sun and said, "Looks like nice day, Sarge."

  "Every day is," Bolan replied.

  Yeah. Grimaldi understood that, too. For a guy who lived from one heartbeat to the next, every day just had to be something special. Today is the rest of your life, eh? Okay. So okay.

  "I'll be in Dallas," he told the large-lifer beside him; then he began the descent for the 500-foot recon into that next heartbeat.

  3: COUNTER MOVE

  Joseph Quaso had been Chief Enforcer of the Texas Territory for only about six months, but already he had built quite a reputation for himself in the organization. He was young, tough, energetic, and—most importantly—he knew how to use his head.

  Quaso was a new-breed Mafioso, one of the young swinging Turks who were fast moving into positions of importance in most of the old Mafia families. His ties were with the Detroit coalition, and they were blood ties. He was kid-brother to Anthony Quaso, an "administrator" under Crazy Sal Vincenti, who was one of the lesser lights in the Detroit ruling council. The Texas job was a Commissione appointment. Texas was regarded as an "open territory"—which simply meant that all of the families had the right to stake claims there. The Detroit council had strongly sponsored their fair-haired up-and-comer for the appointment and the other bosses of the national commission had accepted him without reservation.

  And it was a big job. In every practical respect, young Joseph Quaso ( age twenty-eight) was the, boss of Texas. He was "man on the scene" for La Commissione. As such, it was his primary responsibility to orchestrate the Texas interests of the various

  families—to do so in a fair and impartial manner-to keep the peace and promote harmony between competitive interests—and to protect the overall combination from unfavourable outside influences.

  It was a Gestapo job.

  And "Jaunty Joe" Quaso loved every nuance of it.

  He commanded a standing army which had recently swelled to an estimated force of more than one hundred guns; he had unlimited financial resources for his "national security budget"; and—best of all—he had the undivided respect and support of the old men throughout the country.

  This Texas phenomenon ruled his empire from an $1,100 per month penthouse in a Dallas suburb, a sprawling eight-room palace. Special feature of the sumptuous apartment was the monstrous bedroom of the master suite. It boasted a revolving playboy bed with built-in bar and quadraphonic sound system, television, and a special toy consisting of a closed-circuit TV camera and monitor with videotaping capabilities. Also available, at the flick of a switch on the master control panel, was a cartridge-style movie projector with an infinite variety of porno films—many of them "produced" by Quaso himself during an earlier period of "self-discovery."

  The Boss Enforcer was, by tradition, forbidden to operate business sidelines of his own which might represent a conflict of interest. This did not, however, prevent Jaunty Joe from establishing a "Super-chick Corps" to service the Dallas-Fort Worth area of big spenders. In the official book, "Super-chick" was a “grease operation"—that is, for the entertainment of important officials in local governments and key industries— a bribery device. It was common knowledge, though, that the Super-chicks were also providing a handsome sideline income for the Gestapo chief of Texas. The national bosses were aware of this, and it is a testament to Quaso's popularity within the national council that none felt moved to slap the youngster down for the impropriety.

  Besides, the Super-chicks had been a brilliant addition to the clout operations in the new territory. Money was, of course, king when it came to winning official friends and influencing important people. But not every man could be reached with money alone. Few, however, could resist the added allure of a full-boobed and high-assed Texas beauty, available upon request for a couple of spins upon the revolving bed.

  And then, even if the pigeon didn't feel particularly grateful for the experience, there was always the very interesting cartridge film which inevitably recorded the event and which never failed to bring around the ungrateful ones.

  Quaso himself was not exactly immune to the charms of the Super-chicks. It is said that one or two, sometimes three or four, were usually "in residence" at the Quaso pad. On a revolving basis, of course. Jaunty Joe could not stomach the same woman two nights in a row. There were times, it is also said, when nothing less than several at once could sufficiently "relax" the libidinous young Turk from Detroit and ensure him a decent night's sleep.

  It was the added misfortune of Jim "The Animal" Tolucci that his early morning call from Klingman's Wells came on the heels of a fitful and misspent night in that Dallas penthouse.

  Another of the problems lay in Tolucci's own agitated state of mind.

  "What the hell are you telling me, Woofer?" Quaso said irritably into the telephone.

  He glanced at the clock in the control panel and groaned, then kicked the tousled bedcovers away and swung his feet to the floor. "Say that again, and calm down while you do it. I can't hear a damn thing through all that growling. Do you know what time it is?"

  "Yessir, I know what time it is," the Woofer barked back. "Calm down hell, sir. All hell has broke down here. Listen, I'm lucky I'm alive. That guy romped in here and—"

  "Wait, hold it. Start again. What guy?"

  "I told you, that Bolan bastard! He was here. He blew up the goddam hangar and shot the shit out of everything! I'm lucky I'm alive!"

  "I guess you are," Quaso said tensely. He took time to light a cigarette, then interrupted another unintelligible rush of barks and growls to say, "Okay, shut up and listen to me. Cool it, now. I can't understand a thing you're saying. Is the guy dead or alive?"

  "What? What guy?"

  "Bolan, you dummy! What the hell—didn't you say—?"

  "Yessir. It was him, all right. A dozen people saw him. I saw 'im myself, it was him.

  He come in here just about—"

  "Wait, damn it, Woofer, shut up!" Quaso was beginning to understand the message now, but he really did not wish to. "Are you saying the guy hit you and got away? Out there in the middle of fucking nowhere? He got away?"

  "Yessir. He flew, see. The bastard flew in and flew out. He flew. I didn't see the damn—"

  "Woofer, shut up! Now shut up! Start all over again!"

  “. . . that Three-Ten out of Detroit, we think And he took the broad."

  "You squawking greaseball, shut up! I can't understand a—what? He took what?"

  "Yessir, h
e took the broad. I guess. We searched everywhere. We can't find—"

  "Woofer, he snatched the Klingman chick?"

  "Yessir, that's all we can figure. But listen! We need to get after that plane. It was that Cessna out of—"

  "Woofer goddamn it shut up and just answer me when I tell you to. Now listen to me. You keep this quiet. Not a word, not a goddamned word, you hear me? You tell nobody. I'm sending you some reinforcements and I—"

  "Christ, sir, we don't need 'em now. We need to—" "I said shut up! I'm taking it over.

  You just sit tight, I'm sending a crew over." Quaso banged the receiver into its cradle then punched the call button for his house man and leapt to his feet. He was halfway to the bathroom when the bodyguard appeared in the other doorway.

  "Yeah, boss?" the tag man reported, his eyes averted from the display of bossly nudity.

  "Get a hold of that guy in Austin," Quaso commanded. "Tell him to hold the phone, I'll be right there. Try the home number first, he's probably still in bed—oh, and also that guy on the airport commission. And get a hold of Larry Awful. Tell him it's an alert, full scale, state-wide. I want all his guns on the line. And call the Klingman drop. Tell them no privileges, especially no phone calls and no visitors until they hear from me again. Then roust the Super-chicks and run them out of here. Oh, and you better get a

  hold of our man at city hall. Tell him I want him here in thirty minutes, no fail.

  Then— no, never mind, I'll do the rest."

  The houseman nodded his understanding of the instructions and went to the telephone.

  Quaso continued on to the bathroom. He stared darkly at his bladder-relieving waterfall and said, softly, to himself, "Okay, okay."

  The honeymoon in Texas was over.

  It was time to start earning his keep.

  And, sure, it was going to be a pleasure. Better, even, than Super-chicks.

  4: ONE MORE TIME

  Paul Hensley had just completed an unusually early morning round of his patients at Community Memorial Hospital. He signed out at the doctors' desk, picked up his medical bag, and went out through the emergency entrance to the parking lot.

  He squinted briefly into the rising sun, thought briefly of the elderly lady in the cardiac ward who would probably die without seeing another sunrise, then sighed and went on toward his car.

  There were times when Hensley very decidedly disliked being a doctor. He had lost two patients during the night—and he was about to lose a third. All those grieved relatives—standing grimly by throughout the death-watch—looking at him every time he entered the room with that look, that why-the-hell-can't-you-do-something look.

  Anyone with a God complex should take up doctoring.

  It was one of the first things a physician must learn. He was not God.

  Splint, patch, bandage, cut, sew, swab—look, grunt uh-uhm, prescribe—and after that, what?

  After that you stood helplessly by and watched them die, if die they must.

  Yes, there were times when Doctor Paul would rather be a plumber.

  He had one hand on the door of the car and was fishing for keys with the other hand when a tall young man appeared- from nowhere and lightly touched his shoulder.

  Later, Hensley would remember the neat, tailored look of the sky-blue suit, the casual grace with which the man moved, the quiet force of his speech. At the moment, the doctor was simply in a lost-patient funk and in no frame of mind to consciously note such things. Also he was a bit irritated over the fact that the man was wearing smoked glasses, an obvious affectation at this time of day.

  "Are you a doctor?" the tall one asked him.

  Hensley's eyes flicked to the medical bag which he had deposited on the roof of the car. For one bitterly silly moment he wanted to reply that no, he was not a doctor, he, was a medical bag's caddy. But he turned full around and stared at his own reflection in the smoked lens and told the sunglass kid, "Yes. Do you need attention?"

  "I don't," the man replied. "But a friend does. In a vehicle over here. Will you come with me?"

  The irritation became greater. Come wave a wand over someone's head, eh? Pull something from the medical bag of tricks and perform a Godly chore? "That's the emergency entrance right behind you," he said aloud. "Take your friend in there.

  They'll take care of him."

  The man removed the sunglasses. Hensley was startled by the force of those eyes as the man asked him, "Does this face mean anything to you, Doctor?"

  Should it? Vaguely, something there which . . . in the newspapers?—a magazine cover, maybe? Hensley shook his head. "The emergency—"

  "My name is Bolan. Does that mean anything?"

  "You should take your friend—did you say Bolan?" Of course, of course. Suddenly nervous and flustered, now, the doctor reached for a cigarette, then hastily changed his mind and let the hand fall to his side in clear view.

  "I guess it does," the tall one said. He replaced the sunglasses and handed another pair to Hensley. These had lenses of opaque black, curved in at the temples to completely shut out all light. "Put the glasses on, Doctor. Simple security. I won't put a gun to your head. But my friend does need a medic. Will you come with me?"

  Without a word, Hensley donned the opaque lenses and held out an arm. The man took it and led him away.

  The doctor for some reason or other counted the paces. There were twenty-three. There was no conversation during the march. Except for the pressure of the hand on his arm, there was nothing even to mark the presence of the other man—no sound of footsteps other than his own, no rustling, no breathing, nothing.

  Then came the metallic sound of a door being opened. His guide instructed him to "step high, and watch the overhead."

  And then Mack Bolan—the most hotly sought man in the country—removed the glasses from the doctor's eyes and handed him the medical bag.

  They were inside a small van-type truck. The light in the van section was bad, but not so bad that Hensley could not see the blanket-draped figure on a fold-down bunk. It was a young woman with long blonde hair She was unconscious. Above her, secured to the wall with metal clips, was a fantastic arsenal of weapons—all arranged in neat and handy rows. Something that looked suspiciously like the business end of a bazooka protruded from beneath the bunk on which the woman lay. All along the opposite wall were a miscellany of war munitions. Ammunition boxes and other stuff was neatly stacked on the floor, leaving very little standing room.

  Hensley opened his bag and crouched beside the bunk. "There's not enough light in here," he complained.

  Bolan flicked on a battery-operated lantern. "Best I can offer," he said. "I've seen battlefield surgeons take a man apart and reassemble him in worse light than this."

  "Yes," Hensley murmured. "So have I." He opened the blanket and took the girl's pulse, then he peeled back an eyelid and tested for pupillary reflex.

  "She's mildly comatose," the doctor reported, flicking a glance at his interested host.

  "How mildly?"

  "She should be hospitalized."

  "What would you do for her in there?"

  "Observation, medication. The usual things." Uhhuh, and wait for God to make the disposition. Bolan was giving him that cold stare. He added, "We'd have to make tests. Then the treatment would depend upon what the tests revealed."

  "Which battlefield do you remember, Doctor? Vietnam?"

  "No. Korea. I was a corpsman, Fleet Marine Force. Decided there was something better than dragging a stretcher across war-torn lands. Tried medical school, GI Bill. So here I am, having discovered that it's all war-torn land. What brings you to our state, Mr. Bolan?"

  "Maybe she did," the tall man replied, that penetrating gaze shifting to the girl. "Your cure could be her killing, Doctor—if it means you have to hospitalize her. I just pulled this girl out of some kind of hell. The people I took her from won't be taking kindly to that. They'll be trying to get her back. So we need a battlefield decision here."

  "J
ust how good a friend is she?" the doctor wondered aloud.

  "We've never met," the big guy replied. "I found her in this condition. But I'm not leaving her this way."

  "I'm going to light a cigarette," the doctor announced quietly.

  "Go ahead."

  "I was just wondering if it was safe. I mean, on top of all this gunpowder."

  "It's safe," the cold one assured him.

  Hensley lit the cigarette, glanced at the surgeon general's warning on the pack, and muttered, "Every.. one dies of something." Then he told Bolan, "I don't know what you're doing in Texas, mister, but I can tell you that you're better off somewhere else—anywhere else. The FBI and the local police have papered this whole area with artists' sketches of your face—and it's a pretty good likeness. They even sent one to my office—and I'm sure I saw one down at the admissions desk of this hospital."