Hostile Odds. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ when we’re alone, pal.”

      “Okay. I’ve heard Mickey Gowan owns this mill. Is that true?”

      Something dulled in MacDermott’s green eyes, and his expression flattened. A wisp of smoke curled off the cigarette that dangled from his mouth and caught his eye, but his face barely twitched. He studied Bolan for a long time, and the Executioner wondered for a moment if he’d called MacDermott too soon. Then the mill foreman seemed to move past whatever had struck the nerve and clapped Bolan on the back.

      “Yeah, that’s right. Mr. Gowan owns this mill, but I’m the push. Ya take your orders from me, mind your p’s and q’s and you’ll be fine. We straight?”

      “Yes, sir,” Bolan said. “I just wondered, is all.”

      MacDermott nodded and then waved Bolan out the door.

      After he gave his cover credentials to the blond named Sally, Bolan’s escorts reappeared and took him out the same way they came in. They left the mill and stopped at the yarding line, where one of the pair gave him a brief rundown of what he’d be doing, introduced him to the only other chaser they had and then led him to his car. Bolan had no doubt they had thoroughly searched it in his absence, but he gave no hint he knew it.

      “Be here tomorrow at six o’clock sharp,” one of the men instructed.

      Bolan drove out of the mill and as soon as he topped the hill just beyond the front gate, the Executioner reached for the cell phone on his belt. He dialed Johnny, who answered immediately.

      “I’m in,” the Executioner said. He gave his brother the address.

      Bolan listened to the clack of a keyboard for a moment, then Johnny said, “Yeah, Mickey Gowan definitely owns that mill.”

      “Wouldn’t surprise me if he owned the whole town,” Bolan replied. “You find anything else connecting him to the ELF?”

      “He’s funneling money through every business in the region. And what he’s bringing in doesn’t come close to matching the revenues for his business holdings. Weird thing is, Gowan has a lot of business holdings but all of this just comes down to a paper trail. In other words, a lot of unknown money coming into these businesses but very little goes out.”

      “Sounds like money laundering.”

      Johnny grunted assent.

      Bolan continued, “What you’ve described to me sounds a lot like a reverse pyramid scheme.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Gowan’s got business everywhere, most likely paper companies. He gets the common folks to invest, whether it be real estate, small-business buy-ins, stocks…whatever. He promises the money will come back but it never does. In this case, the average citizen around here doesn’t have the kind of money we’re talking about.”

      “But an organization like the ELF would,” Johnny concluded.

      “Yeah. I think Gowan’s taking their cash and running out on them. The ELF thinks it has funds to draw from so they increase activities. Unfortunately, they’re not likely to see a dime of it back, since nobody can really tie the Gowan Family directly to the money, so the ELF takes it out on innocent citizens who signed actual receivership.”

      “Okay, but why shoot down military aircraft?”

      “Military bases mean jobs for the surrounding communities,” Bolan said. “Put those bases on alert or attack private corporations and you decrease revenues. Ultimately, it adds up to unnecessary bloodshed and a breakdown in economic surplus.”

      “That’s a hell of a way to stick it to the common man.”

      “It’s also disastrous to public safety.”

      “What’s your plan?”

      “It sounds like it’s time to shake things up. I think I know where to start. I’ll be in touch.”

      Bolan disconnected the call and drove into downtown Timber Vale. The streets were crowded with vehicles and an equal amount of foot traffic. He made a couple of passes before turning onto a side street and proceeding to an alleyway that ran along the back of a strip mall. He parked his rental in a discreet area and went EVA.

      Something nagged at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He ran through the events since his arrival. None of this added up. If Gowan had his fingers into all of the local businesses and was making cash hand-over-fist from them, it wouldn’t encourage the guy to turn on the ELF. Even ecoterrorists knew how it worked. Gowan stood to make a lot more money from the local business trades in this area than he did from the cash holdings of a few small-time domestic terrorist outfits. It only made sense the ELF would focus its efforts on the local businesses if it discovered it was losing money. No, there had to be more to it than that. This town bothered him, as well. Things were almost too perfect here; everybody was friendly, willing to lend a stranger a helping hand. Men like Bolan still believed in the general goodness and charity of humankind, but that didn’t mean he took everything at face value. Some things required a closer, deeper inspection—the Executioner just couldn’t be sure where to focus his efforts.

      And then it dawned on him: the waitress! She looked vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t figure why. Then he remembered he’d seen her before, earlier in the week at Tulelake at the FBI offices where Kellogg worked. She looked a lot older as a waitress, the heavier makeup and the world-weary expression, but he couldn’t forget the eyes. Bolan walked along the side of the building and crossed the street to the diner. A Closed sign hung on the door with a hand-scrawled note that read, “Sorry, Earl out sick.”

      Not likely. He’d seen Earl just a few hours before and the guy looked fine.

      Bolan cupped his hand to the door and peered inside; he saw a fleeting movement in back—something like two people struggling—and then descended from the narrow stoop and circled around back. He found a rear door marked for deliveries only and tried it. It opened without trouble. Bolan stuck his head into the semidark interior. He could hear angry voices inside, male voices, followed by a feminine yelp of pain.

      The Executioner kicked it into high gear, opening the door just enough to slip inside as he brought the Beretta into play. He left the door ajar enough to let the morning sunlight illuminate his way and moved through the storage room to a set of swing doors. He cracked one enough to see two men standing with their backs to him. They were holding the waitress in check, and Bolan arrived just in time to see a third man slap her across the face.

      Bolan shouldered through the swing doors and raised the Beretta. In a hard, cold voice he said, “Fun’s over, boys.”

      One of the pair holding the waitress turned and emitted a yelp of surprise. The other stupidly clawed for something in the front of his pants. Bolan didn’t bother to see what it was. He leveled the sound-suppressed pistol nearly point-blank at the man’s head and squeezed the trigger. The subsonic cartridge let out a report not much louder than a cough, and the thug’s head immediately disappeared in a crimson spray of bone and brain matter. A large chunk splattered the side of his cohort’s face.

      The second guy stumbled back and fumbled for his own weapon. The Executioner helped him along with a front kick that sent him reeling. The hood’s arms windmilled in an attempt to maintain his balance, but the momentum eventually got the better of him. He crashed СКАЧАТЬ