Hostile Odds. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ in charge there?”

      “A guy by the name of Colonel Harlan Winnetka.”

      The name didn’t ring any bells, but Bolan filed it away. “What else you have?”

      “Well, like I said, the official reports aren’t in but we think the jets were shot down, possibly by the Earth Liberation Front.”

      The FBI had first classified the ELF a domestic terrorist organization in 2001. Membership in the ELF had sprung from the Earth First movement that originated in Brighton, England. Catching the ELF’s highest ranking members had proved more than difficult for the FBI and other agencies. Its rolls were highly secretive, its meetings held in diverse places and infrequently, and it almost never claimed action for acts that were clearly driven by concerns with ecology and ecosystems.

      “That’s interesting but I don’t see how it ties to what I’m looking at,” Bolan replied.

      “I would have agreed until I started digging deeper into the ELF’s history,” Johnny said. “For a lot of years their activities declined in the Northwestern states, particularly in Washington, Montana, Oregon and Utah. They sort of went silent in that area along with two other major domestic terrorist groups.”

      “Who?”

      “You might not believe it when I tell you.”

      The Executioner chuckled. “Try me.”

      “The Aryan Brotherhood and the Militia for Liberation from Government.”

      Bolan took note as he passed the sign welcoming him to Oregon, and then said, “Probably both of which shared membership.”

      “Right,” Johnny said. “And that means they also would have shared financing.”

      “Sure. It’s no secret these types of groups dip into joint coffers. Pooling their fiscal resources makes them stronger.”

      “Yes, but it’s interesting that only ELF-related activities are on the rise there again,” Johnny said. “Not those two groups or any others, for that matter.”

      “Which means they’re now getting their money from someone else,” Bolan concluded.

      “It’s a good bet, Mack.”

      “Nice work,” Bolan replied. “And you’re right, it’s definitely interesting.”

      “Mind if I ask a question?”

      “Shoot,” Bolan said.

      “Do you really think there’s a connection between Gowan’s activities and this latest incident? I mean, we don’t have any proof the ELF is actually behind this attack on the Oregon Air National Guard.”

      “I’m not sure yet how it would benefit Gowan to fund the ELF, particularly when a lot of his work would seem at cross-purposes. But I know Gowan’s dug in deep in Timber Vale, and as that happens to be right near Klamath Falls and it’s a large source of revenue for the entire area, I have to think it’s worth checking out.”

      “Fair enough,” Johnny replied. “I trust your instincts.”

      “Let’s just hope I’m right,” the Executioner said. “I’ll be in touch.”

      “Live large, bro.”

      2

      FBI Special Agent Jefferson Kellogg mentally rehearsed his announcement for a sixth time as he negotiated the winding drive that led to Mickey Gowan’s estate. Kellogg had warned Billy Moran to keep a low profile, and as usual the cocky Irish bastard hadn’t listened to him. Now he was dead, and Kellogg had the terrible task of breaking the news personally to Gowan.

      Kellogg had no doubts about who was probably behind the hit: Matt Cooper. That guy had a habit of turning up where he was least welcome, and his nosiness didn’t set well with Kellogg. He had it under control, and he didn’t need some outsider meddling in his affairs. The fact Kellogg refused to admit he didn’t really have any control over the situation had nothing to do with it.

      Kellogg parked his car, exited and tossed the keys to Gowan’s wheelman, who doubled as valet when he wasn’t chauffeuring the old man around.

      “Take care of her, will you, Sid?”

      The young man, who was barely twenty if he was a day, almost didn’t catch the keys but he managed to one-hand them at the last moment. Kellogg pretended not to see the dirty look Sid Harper fired his way, and a smile played across his lips as he sauntered up the flagstone steps and stabbed the doorbell. A melodious chime echoed from somewhere within and the door opened a moment later to reveal one of Gowan’s house soldiers. The guy looked unfamiliar to Kellogg.

      “Yeah?” he rumbled.

      Kellogg stepped inside and looked the man square in the eyes. “I don’t recognize you. New here?”

      “Started last week,” he said. “Who the fuck are you?”

      “I’ll take care of this, Charlie Boy,” a gravelly voice interjected.

      Both men turned to see Gowan’s personal assistant, Struthers Sullivan, dance down the wide steps at the other end of the reception foyer. “Sully” bore the full Hiberno-English accent and touted himself a pureblood Irishman because he hailed from Dublin, a fact that had elevated him to his current status in the Gowan crime Family. Mickey Gowan had always tried to remain purist when it came to those in his immediate company. He had no problem hiring a Scot or other loose kinsmen, even Irish-Americans, for the “scut” work, but he made damned sure his closest advisers were as close to Irish as Irish could be.

      “Well, Sully!” Kellogg said as Charlie Boy closed the heavy front door and then disappeared. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you here. I thought Mr. Gowan sent you on a long trip.”

      “He did,” Sully said with a good-natured wink. “Job turned out easier than I expected so I got back early.”

      Kellogg nodded, well aware of Sully’s specialty. When Gowan needed a problem taken care of permanently, he sent Struthers Sullivan. Kellogg always liked Sully, even admired him on some levels, although he didn’t trust him at all. Then again, he didn’t trust any of them—he knew what they did for a living. He’d spent his entire career putting away men like Sully until he discovered exactly how much money he could make playing for the other team. When he agreed to come over and work for Gowan, he insisted on only two things: he’d answer only to the old man, and any remuneration had to be unmarked and untraceable cash. For a guy like Mickey Gowan, neither request seemed out of line. And fifteen hundred a week to get a federal cop at Kellogg’s level in his pocket was chump change.

      “Where’s the old man?” Kellogg asked.

      “Upstairs with the missus,” Sully replied.

      Kellogg knew what that meant. Mickey Gowan actually had three or four in his little harem, all of whom lived in different states and traveled regularly. The one here was actually his legal wife and the others simply mistresses. As Gowan had once told Kellogg, “Running an enterprise like mine leaves a guy with needs no one woman could possibly satisfy.”

      “Well, СКАЧАТЬ