Hostile Odds. Don Pendleton

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      THE LUMINOUS HANDS of Mack Bolan’s watch read 0130 as he passed the city-limits sign for Timber Vale.

      The road dipped down from the north side of the Siskiyou Pass, and a few winding turns brought Bolan to a level approach into Timber Vale. Traffic lights lazily winked red as Bolan slowed enough to take a look around him. He went about three blocks before the glow of a light shimmered through one of the storefront windows. Bolan pulled to the curb and watched for a moment. Three vehicles were parked directly in front of the building, which sported a decorative awning. Bolan eased his rental closer and saw Lamplighter Diner hand scrawled in paint on the glass.

      It would be as good a place as any to start.

      Bolan left his car and walked up the sidewalk. He checked the vehicles as he passed, verified no occupants and then pushed through the door. A bell tinkled over the squeak of door hinges as Bolan entered. Every eye in the place looked in his direction.

      Bolan took an inventory. A middle-aged waitress with ash-blond hair and sun freckles greeted him with half a smile. Two burly men wearing baseball caps, one with a racing logo and the other advertising a well-known trucking firm, looked up from their beers and plates of half-eaten food. A man Bolan marked in his late sixties peered with little interest from around the edge of his newspaper. He wore a flannel coat—a bit crazy considering the heat even that time of the morning—and sported a white Fu Manchu mustache.

      “Morning,” Bolan greeted them.

      The old man went back to his paper, and the two men went back to their food after nodding in his direction. The waitress kept her attention on Bolan with an expression of half wariness, half interest. He walked to the other end of the counter before taking a seat in the booth where he could watch both the large window and the entrance while he kept his back to a solid wall.

      “What can I get you?” the waitress asked.

      Bolan thought hard a moment about just ordering coffee, but then realized he hadn’t eaten since lunch. “Got a menu?”

      “Only thing Earl cooks this time of night is the special or fried chicken.” She smiled and winked. “We always got fried chicken, you know.”

      “Any good?” Bolan asked.

      She looked almost miffed. “Everything Earl makes is good.”

      “Then in that case…”

      Bolan didn’t have to finish his sentence. The waitress delivered another half smile, shouted an order to Earl in back and then poured Bolan some coffee unbidden. When she saw the Executioner’s questioning gaze, she said sheepishly, “You looked like you could use some joe. Don’t worry, it’s good, too.”

      She returned the pot, cleared a few dishes and then said to him, “You new here or just passing through?”

      Bolan shrugged. “Depends.”

      “On what?”

      “If I can find some work.”

      “What do you do?”

      “Little bit of everything, I guess,” Bolan said. He didn’t want to seem too obvious. He could already tell he’d garnered some attention from the two men who, having finished their meals, seemed to hang on every word of his conversation with the waitress. If he came straight out with something directly in their line of business, he might raise suspicions.

      “I build houses, mostly,” he continued. “Do some electrical or plumbing work here and there.”

      “Ah,” she said. “There’s always work to be had for a man who’s good with his hands.”

      While the comment didn’t seem offhanded, Bolan could tell the waitress was making a show of flirting with him, particularly in front of the other pair. His eyes snapped quickly to her hand, he saw neither a wedding band nor the remnant of where she’d worn one, so either she was divorced, unmarried or nontraditional. She hadn’t made the remark to spark the two men into any type of action; they didn’t seem to care one way or another. In fact, it seemed that they had taken more than a passing interest in Bolan. Had he been followed? Were Gowan’s men on to him? If so, how had they managed to predict where he’d land?

      It seemed too coincidental, but these guys were definitely more than they appeared.

      “Do much working with wood?” the man in the trucker cap asked suddenly.

      “Like I said, just building houses,” Bolan said.

      “Never worked in a lumber mill?”

      Bolan shook his head. “No, but I’m always willing to learn. Does it pay well?”

      “It’s honest work,” said the man’s partner.

      The first man withdrew a small card from his pocket and handed it to the waitress to pass to Bolan. “Tell you what, you show up at that address tomorrow morning and ask to talk to the lumber foreman. Louise here can give you directions. Give the foreman that card and tell him I sent you.”

      “And you are?”

      The man got up to leave with his partner and walked over to Bolan. He extended his hand. “Buck…Buck Nordstrom.”

      Bolan held up the card with a nod. “Thanks.”

      “No problem,” he said. “Grip like that and a guy your size…you’ll do a good job, I’m sure.”

      With that, the two men walked out. It seemed almost too easy to the Executioner, but he decided to play it out and see how things went. Since logging and milling were the major industries in Timber Vale and he knew from casual talks at Tulelake that Mickey Gowan had his hands into everything in the town, all the odds were in his favor. He’d have to play it carefully; there was still a chance, however remote, he was about to walk into a trap.

      But for now, the Executioner had his in.

      3

      With the waitress’s help, Mack Bolan managed to find a place to stay for СКАЧАТЬ