Kitabı oku: «Hostile Odds», sayfa 3

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 into a side counter and brought a full plastic tray of silverware onto his head.

The remaining assailant went for cover, and Bolan saw the glint of light on metal in his hand. Bolan rushed forward and pulled the waitress out of the way just in time to prevent her from being struck by any of the five wild shots the gunman sent in her direction. He shoved her not too gently through the swing doors as he leveled the Beretta 93-R in the enemy’s direction and snapped off a pair of shots to keep the guy’s head down.

Bolan followed after the waitress and gestured toward the door as she recovered from his rough shove. “Head out the back.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Later. Now go,” he ordered.

She started to put her hands on her hips and stand there defiantly, but Bolan didn’t give her the chance to argue. He grabbed her arm and assisted her to the back, pushing her through the door with his bodyweight as he kept facing forward in anticipation the gunman would follow. The guy did just as Bolan predicted and burst through the swing doors. He leveled his Beretta and squeezed the trigger even as the gunman snapped off a shot of his own. The 9 mm round punched through the thug’s chest in a bloody spray, and the impact knocked him through the door. The shot he triggered went high above Bolan’s head and lodged in the wood frame of the doorway.

The Executioner emerged into the narrow alleyway in time to see a black SUV round a corner and roar toward them.

4

“Move!”

Bolan shoved the waitress away from the charging SUV and followed on her heels. They ran like hell and rounded the corner of the building in time to avoid being run down. Bolan heard the tires grind to a stop on the broken asphalt and crushed gravel of the alleyway, followed by the reports of automatic-weapons fire.

Louise emitted a sudden cry and stumbled, but Bolan caught her before she fell and helped her along the sidewalk. They reached the cover of the building front and then raced across the street. Bolan released her arm when he sensed she regained her balance. He took the lead and commanded her to follow him to his car.

As they climbed into the rental simultaneously and closed the doors, Bolan quipped, “Friends of yours?”

“I thought about asking you the same question,” she shot back.

Bolan bit off a reply as he peeled out to a side street, leaving hot rubber on the pavement. The SUV rolled up on their tail in no time flat. Bolan’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then he glanced at the waitress. He didn’t fail to notice the very nice pair of legs that emerged from the skirt of her uniform. Not the legs of a middle-aged woman. From that distance he could also see there weren’t the usual facial wrinkles, which left him to deduce she wasn’t in her forties as he’d originally guessed.

“That’s a good makeup job,” he said. “Your FBI contacts have real talent.”

“You know who I am?” she asked, although she expressed only mild surprise.

Bolan nodded. “I recognized you from the field office in Siskiyou County.”

“I recognized you, too,” she said. “That’s why I’d hoped you poke around for a few days, get bored and leave.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Bolan replied. “Think you can handle the wheel?”

The back windows shattered under the impact of fresh autofire before she could answer. Glass shards rained onto the pair, but fortunately didn’t injure either of them. When Bolan did a closer inspection of his occupant, however, he noticed her bleeding from her right arm. She’d probably been grazed back at the restaurant when they were fleeing on foot.

“I can do better than that,” she said. “Give me your gun.”

“What?”

“Your pistol.”

Bolan shook his head curtly. “No dice.”

“Listen, mister, I’m grateful for all your help, but this is FBI business.”

“It’s my business,” Bolan said but on afterthought he decided to hand over his Beretta. “Okay, I’ll drive, you shoot.”

“Such a gentleman,” she teased.

She twisted until her knees were in the seat and faced rearward. Bolan could see her level the pistol, expertly using a modified Weaver’s grip, her forearms braced on the top edge of the seat to the right of the headrest. A moment later, she squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession. She followed that with a second volley.

Bolan watched in his rearview mirror as the SUV swerved to avoid the shots. The first volley left sparks on the grille but didn’t appear to have any effect. The latter triburst spiderwebbed the windshield, effectively blocking the driver’s field of vision, and Bolan noticed the passenger’s side spattered with red. Obviously one of the woman’s shots had scored. The Executioner decided to take advantage of the driver’s obscured sight. He rolled down the passenger’s side window and grabbed hold of his new ally as he slammed on the brakes and steered into the deserted oncoming lane.

The SUV shot past them.

Bolan snatched the pistol from the woman as he accelerated and ordered her to take cover. He came parallel with the SUV and thumbed the selector to 3-round bursts before squeezing the trigger. The slide ratcheted obediently—extracted one casing after another—as the warrior put three 9 mm Parabellum rounds in the driver. The SUV swerved off the road, jumped the curb and collided with a massive pine tree. Bolan didn’t even slow down when the engine ignited. They were more than two blocks away when they heard the rumble of an explosion.

“Damn!” the waitress said. “Pretty nice work, mister!”

“Not bad yourself,” Bolan replied. “Now, let’s find some place to talk.”

THE PLACE ENDED UP being a forest preserve about sixteen miles outside Timber Vale. Bolan didn’t mind the drive. It gave both of them time to decompress while affording him the advantage to watch for tails. Once convinced no one followed, he turned onto a road indicated by his companion, stopped in a shaded area near a small lake and killed the engine.

“You want to explain what happened back there?” Bolan asked.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Not much for small talk, are you?”

“Not when someone’s trying to kill me.”

“You’re of no interest to them,” she said. “Besides, you don’t have anything to worry about. I’ll protect you.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So what do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with your real name, because I’m pretty sure it isn’t Louise.”

She extended a hand and replied, “Special Agent Sandra Newbury, FBI. I’m here on temporary assignment.”

“And your handler,” Bolan interjected. “I bet his name’s Kellogg.”

“How’d you know?”

“Same reason I knew you worked for the FBI,” Bolan said. “I recognized you when I was there.”

She laughed—a nice laugh. “Guess I’m getting sloppy.”

“Guess so. What’s Kellogg have you doing up here?”

“It’s a long story.”

Bolan frowned. “I have time.”

Newbury blew out a breath through pursed lips, then laid her head against the headrest and stared at the lake. “I was assigned here by Washington. I’m what they call a flip. I travel a lot, take undercover cases and then once the job’s done I move on. I specialize in fitting into particular areas or groups, but I’m never in for any long-term gigs. You probably hear or even know of the ones who go under for months and months, many times even years, and then after that they do regular fieldwork.”

Bolan nodded. He’d known many in the law-enforcement community who did such work—even a few he counted as friends.

“Anyway, I was assigned to get inside the Timber Vale community,” Newbury continued. “It’s gone a lot longer than maybe it should have. We’ve long suspected corruption by organized-crime elements up in this neck of the woods, and what I’ve seen in recent weeks makes me think more and more we’re right.”

“You’re talking about Mickey Gowan and clan.”

“Right again! Sounds like you know your way around here. You work for Washington also?”

Bolan shook his head. “No, but we’ll get into that later. Right now, I need to know everything you can tell me about Gowan’s operations up here.”

“Afraid I can’t tell you much,” Newbury replied with a shrug. “Especially since I don’t even know who you work for or your clearance level.”

“Much higher than yours. I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me on that and everything else I tell you. I don’t have any credentials with me to prove what I’m saying, not that I feel I have to.”

“Then what makes you think I should cooperate with you?”

“Mainly because I saved your tail back there,” Bolan countered. “That should be enough proof I’m on your side.”

Newbury’s resolve seemed to melt some, as did her defensive expression. “I suppose I do owe you one on that count. How about at least a name?”

“I gave it to you last night. Cooper.”

Newbury nodded. “Cooper it is, although I’m betting it’s a cover. Anyway, it was just luck of the draw you came along when you did. Thanks.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it. I’d planned to follow up on a lead I got with you, once I realized who you were and where I’d seen you before.”

“A lead on what?”

“About a week ago, a pair of F-15s was shot down at Kingsley Airfield.”

Newbury nodded and said evenly, “I heard about that. My brother happens to be a pilot for the Texas Air National Guard. I’m a little more sensitive when I hear about those kinds of things. It reminds me just how short life is.”

“It can be,” Bolan replied.

“But I thought that was ruled an accident,” she said.

“That’s what they’re telling the press. In reality, we think the Earth Liberation Front might have been responsible.”

“Doesn’t sound like their MO. And besides, what does any of this have to do with Mickey Gowan and my case?” she asked.

“I’m coming to that. My intelligence on Gowan shows he’s funneling monies through the local businesses all along this region for the ELF. Giving them a place to store their cash, launder funds, the works. Neither the Justice Department nor the IRS would look hard at a community of this size, particularly if the growth rate wasn’t significant. Timber Vale’s the perfect place for Gowan’s operations.”

“Okay, but for what purpose? If Gowan allows the businesses around here to get hurt, that’s only going to look bad on him.”

“Not if he’s using those business to pipeline cash but making the individual business owners sign receivership,” Bolan said. “Think about it. He fronts the ELF’s money to the business owners. He can show those as legitimate business transactions to the ELF, make them think he’s doing it to protect their funds. Then somebody defaults and he lets it get back to the ELF the receivers have stolen the money. The ELF then takes it out on the individuals and Gowan gets away squeaky clean with the embezzled funds.”

“And after it’s over, he then comes in and restores the thing at a quarter of the cost,” Newbury concluded. “Nobody’s the wiser!”

“Right.”

Newbury looked at Bolan with utter surprise. “It’s ingenious if true.”

“That’s a big if right now,” Bolan admitted. “What I need is some corroborating evidence. And I need you to help me get it.”

“How?”

“Keep doing what you’ve been doing,” he said.

“That’ll be tougher now that Gowan’s people are onto me,” Newbury replied.

“Those weren’t Gowan’s people,” Bolan replied. “They were too well-trained and -equipped. Gowan’s men are thugs and hoods, nothing more. Those guys weren’t maybe the brightest of the bunch, but they were definitely experts in their field.”

“But why would the ELF come after me?”

Bolan had to admit he didn’t have an answer to that question. He didn’t have any proof the men who attacked Newbury weren’t from Gowan, but his instinct told him otherwise and Bolan always listened to it. No, those men were after more than the rent money.

“What kind of questions did they ask?”

“They wanted to know where Earl was, who owned the place…stuff like that.”

“Mickey Gowan doesn’t own that restaurant?”

She shook her head. “Too small. I actually got hired there by Earl about two months back. Earl did all the resupply, ordered things whenever I asked him, signed all the checks. I just assumed Earl owned the place, so I figured it was a good place to keep my cover while I poked into other business ventures.”

“I know Gowan owns the mill,” Bolan said.

Newbury nodded. “As well as the mercantile, bank and just about everything else in Timber Vale. He doesn’t do much with the small businesses, but he’s got his teeth into all the major capital ventures.”

“Good,” the Executioner said with a nod. “I’ll need a list of those as soon as you can get them to me.”

Newbury batted her eyelashes and said, “Still not going to tell me who you work for?”

Bolan shook his head. “No, and I’d appreciate if you don’t ask me anymore.”

“Fine,” she said. She folded her arms and said, “So what now?”

“You have someplace safe you can go?”

She nodded. “I can wait at a friend’s house until Kellogg gets up here.”

“Not good,” Bolan said. “I don’t trust Kellogg, and I think it’s better if you don’t contact him.”

“He’s my handler,” Newbury protested. “I have to call him.”

“I don’t trust Kellogg,” he repeated.

Newbury sighed. “You think he’s in bed with Gowan.”

“Yeah. You?”

Something in Newbury’s eyes betrayed she had similar feelings. Bolan had wondered why the inaction on Kellogg’s part.

“I don’t have a shred of proof but…well, I’ve suspected for some time. It’s hard not to get a pretty clear picture of what’s going on in smaller communities like Siskiyou County or up here in Timber Vale. Kellogg knows a lot of people, and he seems to have trouble keeping a low profile.”

“Likes to be in the limelight,” Bolan cut in.

“Exactly. And when you mention you don’t trust him, then that just seems to confirm my own suspicions and tells me I’m not crazy.”

“So for now I’d say keep quiet and don’t rattle too many cages,” Bolan said as he started the car.

“We’re leaving?”

“I’ll drop you off at my motel, and then I’ve got a few more things to take care of before I start work tomorrow morning at the mill.”

Newbury scratched at her head and finally yanked off her wig in unceremonious fashion. Bolan could see the cause of her discomfort. She’d used an assortment of rubber bands and metal clips to wind her dark hair against her head. She began to pull them loose one by one as Bolan pulled onto the road.

“So you convinced MacDermott to give you a job.”

“You know him, eh?”

She nodded. “He comes into the diner all the time.”

“You trust him?”

“Hell no!” Newbury popped a stick of gum in her mouth before adding, “Mac’s a braggart and a loudmouth. He’s also known for tipping them back a little too often.” She made a drinking gesture.

“That should prove helpful,” Bolan said. “Heavy drinking’s a weakness. Maybe I can use it to get under his skin.”

“Just be careful you don’t get too deep,” she said.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Maybe…but keep your eyes open anyway. The MacDermott fan club has quite a membership.”

“Is he on Gowan’s payroll?”

“Better believe it.” Newbury completed the task of removing the hair restraints. She tossed her head back and forth and lowered the window, and her long, thick strands of red-brown hair blew easily under the high-speed breezes.

Bolan thought he smelled something like apples or strawberries, but the scent quickly faded. “What’s his angle?”

“Mac’s a piece of work. I know he resents working under Mickey Gowan. He’s been heard mouthing off about that more than once. I know he went toe-to-toe with one of Gowan’s right-hand men a few months back, a guy by the name of Billy Moran.”

“Yeah, Moran’s no longer with us.”

Newbury looked at Bolan in shock. From her expression she knew good and well what Bolan meant by the comment. He looked for something more there, but he didn’t get anything. He still had no real reason to trust Newbury, but for now he only needed her for information.

“Like I said,” Newbury said more quietly, “Mac hits the sauce pretty often and pretty hard. And he likes his women, too. Considers himself somewhat of a ladies’ man. He’s even hit on me a few times at the restaurant. Usually it’s after the bars close and he’s been out most of the night. I always just tell him I have a boyfriend and that seems to satisfy him.”

“Well, if you need somebody to actually stand in for the part, give me a call.”

Newbury burst into laughter. “You know, that’s about the most gentlemanly offer I’ve had in quite a while. Say, you mind if I ask you something?”

Bolan shook his head.

“This other business you have to do. What exactly is it?”

Bolan considered the question a moment and then shrugged. “When I went to the mill for my little job interview this morning, some of MacDermott’s guys searched my vehicle. I expected they would, so I didn’t leave anything incriminating inside of it. Still, that tells me they’re up to something. I need to find out what it is, make sure if I get chummy with this MacDermott I’m not going to get blindsided.”

“Okay, sure, but what exactly are you going to do?” Newbury pressed.

“Simple. I’m going to do exactly what they’re hoping I’ll do,” Bolan said.

“Which is?”

“Pick a fight.”

5

Jeff Kellogg never believed in putting his eggs all in one basket, which included the basket of the Gowan Family. Kellogg knew his only chance of emerging unscathed should Gowan get caught with his hands in the till would be to provide as much critical information to Gowan’s enemies as possible. Of course, information didn’t come cheap, and Kellogg took a distinct pleasure in double-dipping. Kellogg’s benefactor was a man who, according to his FBI profile, headed up the local chapter of the Earth Liberation Front.

Many who knew him described Percy Jeter as an outgoing and personable man—not a surprise considering he operated as head of the Western States Campgrounds for Challenged Youth. Jeter’s work with the WSCCY afforded him complete autonomy and discretion; after all, he had a lot of old money and influence backing him, not to mention assistance from the federal and state governments. That kind of wealth and power practically immunized him from prosecution, and most people didn’t give a tinker’s damn about his political affiliations.

The very thought of it sickened Kellogg, but the profit motive allowed him to find a way to see beyond the pettiness of it all.

Kellogg had specifically requested they meet in a popular park just outside Tulelake. He knew about Jeter’s secret location in the mountainous terrain surrounding Siskiyou Pass, but he didn’t like to meet there. Kellogg preferred neutral territory, and since Jeter liked his privacy and obviously didn’t trust Kellogg, he usually sent some lackey. This time though, Jeter had come himself.

The two men sat across from each other at a picnic table. The result of years of cushy living off tax-free donations lent Percy Jeter a groomed, distinguished appearance. Legally, Jeter received very little in the way of income, but he lived like a king. Nobody looked too hard, though, as he provided a number of services through the WSCCY, a not-for-profit cash cow. Salt-and-pepper hair and beard complemented the tanned skin and clear blue eyes that jutted from under pronounced orbits.

“To what do I owe the pleasure this time?” Jeter asked in a deep voice.

“We got to talk about what happened last week,” Kellogg said. He looked around. Nobody seemed to pay attention to them. Families played together, parents pushing kids on swings or feeding ducks or just enjoying a picnic, and joggers and cyclists took advantage of the nice day as they traveled along the gravel paths that skirted the park.

Jeter shrugged. “What’s to talk about?”

“How about what went down at Kingsley Airfield?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kellogg waved the flat of his palm as he countered, “Don’t be coy, Percy. You know damned well what I’m talking about. Why the fuck are you shooting down American fighter jets? That’s not your style.”

Jeter leaned forward in a menacing fashion. “That’s exactly my style. You promised to rein in Mickey Gowan, and nothing. You promised to protect our assets, and nothing. You promised we wouldn’t have to worry about outside interference while we build up our cash reserves, and nothing. We’ve paid you a lot of money, Kellogg, and you haven’t done a single goddamned thing.”

“I’ve done a lot.”

“Bullshit. You’ve collected from us and from Gowan, and I haven’t seen you do one thing to earn your keep so far. Well, the free ride’s over and it’s out of my hands. The Committee decided.”

There he went with his mysterious talk of the Committee. Allegedly, the Committee acted as the unofficial head of the Earth Liberation Front. It was chaired by some lackey who oversaw a handful of lackeys, one of them being Jeter, and who allegedly administered the entire western region from Washington to California and extending as far east as the Continental Divide.

“You can stop paying me if you want, but I can just about guarantee that I’m the least of your worries right now.”

Jeter didn’t look convinced. “Yeah, right.”

“Blow it off, then. But just remember that Gowan’s going to continue robbing you blind, and the small amount you’re paying me is a pittance compared to the millions of dollars you’re going to lose if you continue to trust him.”

“Maybe we just plan to rub him out of the picture entirely,” Jeter said.

Kellogg let out a snort. “Sure…whatever you say. The FBI’s been after him for years and they still haven’t come up with squat.”

“We’re not the FBI.”

“No, you’re not. And I think that’s the first thing we’ve agreed on since we formed this little partnership. Listen, it’s none of my business how you screw this up for you and your precious Committee, but I’m sure as a hell not going to let you screw it up for me.”

Jeter sighed. “You still haven’t told me why you called this meeting.”

“I came to tell you about the return on your investment,” Kellogg said. “All that money you think you wasted on me is about to pay off.”

“And how’s that?”

Kellogg couldn’t resist the urge to grin in triumph. “Gowan’s got trouble brewing in his own backyard and he doesn’t even know it. There’s a town not too far from Kingsley, Timber Vale. You know it?”

“Of course I know it. We’ve funneled a good amount of our funds through Gowan’s businesses there. So tell me what I don’t know.”

“That town basically lives and dies by the mill. If that thing were to close down, Gowan would lose his ass because it ties into every other business he’s got his claws into.”

Jeter made a show of yawning.

“I know you know all that,” Kellogg continued. “But what you don’t know is that Gowan’s foreman up there, a guy named MacDermott, he’s basically acting as the union head. And he’s got a real hard-on for the likes of Mickey Gowan.”

“They don’t like each other,” Jeter said, cocking his head slightly.

“It’s worse than that. MacDermott hates Gowan’s guts and there’s talk of a coup.”

“When?”

“Soon,” Kellogg replied. “In fact, sooner than you might want to believe. Within the week is what I’d assume. Now, when MacDermott makes his move it’s going to get bloody. And if MacDermott manages to take over, that’s going to free Gowan’s hold on things and then you can just move right in and get all the money back you lost.”

“What about this MacDermott?”

Kellogg shrugged. “What about him? The guy’s a dumb-ass, for one. Two, I can guarantee he doesn’t know the first thing about how Gowan’s been soaking you guys. So what you take he isn’t going to miss. But you’ve got just one hitch.”

“Uh-oh, here it comes. I should have seen this coming.”

“There’s a guy who’s been poking his nose all around here, name of Cooper. I don’t know what official sanctions he’s got or if he even has government ties. Might be a freelancer. But he’s all over Gowan right now, and he seems to have a line on quite a number of the juicier details on Gowan’s business. Worse, I think he might be responsible for taking out Gowan’s main guy, Billy Moran.”

“I heard about Moran,” Jeter admitted. “We chalked it up to simple infighting.”

“Shows what the hell you know,” Kellogg countered. “And demonstrates just once more why you pay me—to make sure you get the right intel.”

Jeter splayed his hands. “Okay, so maybe you know a couple things we don’t. So what? I still don’t see what the hell any of this has to do with the fact that Mickey Gowan and crew are now into us for about six million.”

“It has everything to do with it. If Cooper manages to put this thing down before you can get control of it yourself, you’ll never see that six million again. I don’t know what Cooper’s aim is but I’m sure of one thing. He isn’t doing this for money.”

“Shouldn’t be difficult to take out one guy,” Jeter said.

Kellogg nodded. “Agreed. Bear in mind he’s already putting down roots in Timber Vale.”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t outstay his welcome.”

BY 1600, THINGS at Backcut were getting into full swing.

It almost seemed cliché to Bolan they would have a place like this for the lumber workers after their shift. Most of the occupants Bolan recalled seeing on his minitour through the mill early that morning. Backcut had a full-service bar and eatery complete with a jukebox system for happy hour and live entertainment starting nightly at 8:00 p.m. The place had become party central for most of Timber Vale’s residents, and Bolan figured the best place to stir up the natives would be where the natives spent most of their leisure time. They would be especially susceptible here with food, liquor and music to chase away the cares of the day.

Using his best working-man saunter, Bolan made his way to the long bar of polished, knotty wood. He ordered a beer in a longneck bottle and then found a place at the bar a few seats from none other than Fagan MacDermott. It hadn’t been terribly difficult to pick him out of a crowd—that boisterous brogue accent getting louder with the obvious liquor in him—and the collection of mill bosses cloistered around him. What a pack of hyenas, this crew.

Bolan sat and watched the tirades, the joking and punching of arms and slapping of backs until he could hardly stand to watch anymore. He wanted to approach MacDermott at the man’s most disadvantaged, and watching him drink at that pace Bolan knew it wouldn’t take long. It didn’t. After another hour, Bolan barely finished with his beer, a couple of men headed toward the bathrooms, which left a comfortable two still hanging on MacDermott’s every word.

Bolan downed the last of his beer but brought the bottle along as he slid from the bar stool and walked to where the trio perched. One of the men stood leaning against the bar, MacDermott and the remaining tough occupied barstools.

Bolan tossed a casual salute. “Hey, boys.”

MacDermott turned in surprise and his expression froze a moment, perplexed, then he broke into one of those toothy grins. Bolan quickly assessed the threesome. MacDermott had obviously consumed quite a bit of whatever he’d been drinking from a frosted mug. The man standing seemed pretty straight, but the one seated next to MacDermott—one of the two who’d escorted him through the mill that morning—swayed a bit on the barstool and blinked at Bolan with bloodshot eyes.

“Well!” MacDermott exclaimed. “Cooper, me boy! Buy a drink?”

“No, thanks.” Bolan gestured with his bottle. “I’m good.”

MacDermott looked at his two counterparts and then all three men burst into laughter.

Bolan rendered a sheepish smile although privately he knew what engendered such an outburst. MacDermott hadn’t been asking if he could buy Bolan a drink, but rather insinuated Bolan should be the one to buy…for all of them, most likely. But the Executioner knew if he wanted to get inside the circle he had to play dumb. He’d pushed a bit hard earlier in the day asking about Mickey Gowan; now was the time to act a bit more nonchalant. At least until the timing worked and he could really speak his mind.