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“Naw,” Gowan said. “We’re already going to have enough cops crawling around here, and I don’t need that. Everybody knows Billy Moran was in my employ, and that’s going to bring some serious heat on my head.”
“Why didn’t you know about this guy before?” Sully asked.
“I did,” Kellogg admitted with a shrug. “But what the hell do you want me to do? I can’t just go rousting someone because he’s walking down the sidewalk.”
“That’s what you get paid for, Kellogg, to keep this kind of shit out of Mickey’s hair.”
“Never mind that!” Gowan’s face got red. “I want this matter cleared up, and I want it done in the next twenty-four. Sully, you’re in charge. Kellogg, you follow Sully’s instructions and do whatever you can to make sure this Cooper’s no longer breathing by Monday, sunrise. You think you can handle that?”
“Yes, Mickey.”
“All right, now both of you take a walk. I got some grieving to do.” A droplet of a tear had now formed at the corner of Gowan’s eye, but neither man dared comment on that. “And Sully, I want you to see to all Billy’s arrangements. We’ll make sure his old lady gets taken care of.”
“Yes, Mickey.”
“And his kids,” Gowan added. “You got that? We got to make sure we take care of Billy’s kids.”
“It’ll get done, boss.”
“And you’ll arrange it…personally?”
“Yes, Mickey.”
“All right.”
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 the night. The shabby motel on the edge of town would make a remote and unobtrusive base of operations, but he politely declined Louise’s offer to join him. Once settled, Bolan stripped, showered and then crawled between the sheets for a few hours of sleep. The rest did him well, and he was up and moving by dawn.
Bolan dressed in his best working-man duds, a pair of jeans and plaid flannel work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and then drove to the address on the card. He didn’t know what to expect or even whom to ask for, but that didn’t seem to matter; the three large men who met Bolan at the gate had apparently been told to expect him. One man offered to park his car. Bolan agreed without reservation, since he’d elected to pack the Beretta 93-R in a modified shoulder holster that rode high under his left armpit, its bulk concealed by the loose flannel shirt jacket, and nothing remained in the vehicle that would betray his identity. He’d even left some fast-food bags and a few empty beer cans under the seat just to reinforce the cover.
The remaining pair escorted Bolan to a security guard for sign-in and then handed him a hardhat and hearing protection. He declined the muffs with a shake of his head, but one of the men insisted it was policy. Bolan shrugged and donned the equipment. They continued through the mill, and the Executioner used the opportunity to study his surroundings. The earmuffs did a lot to decrease the piercing buzz and whine of saws cutting through massive logs. A few separate areas were crowded with workers running band saws, jigs and even a couple of lathes.
At the other end of the mill, the men escorted Bolan up a flight of metal steps to a second-story landing. They followed a catwalk that eventually terminated at a massive office with a large glass overlooking the mill floor below. An old-fashioned potbelly coal stove stood in one corner. The men showed Bolan to a seat where they indicated he could take off the safety equipment and then made their exit through a side door.
Bolan sat in one of the three chairs positioned beneath the glass window. A young woman with blond hair and blue eyes sat at a computer terminal. He detected a faint clacking sound as the secretary’s fingers almost danced over the keyboard. Other than a single furtive glance and a smile she completely ignored him. Bolan considered speaking to her, but the sound of a door opening distracted him. He looked up to see a large man step out. He had red hair, large lips, square jaw and a broad face. He stood at least six-foot-six with meaty forearms and broad shoulders, and he moved powerfully.
His face broke into a grin and he extended a hand as Bolan stood. “How ya be, laddie? Come on in.”
Bolan stepped through the doorway into an expansive office that he could only have described as a first-rate pigsty. Books and papers were strewed across a massive desk and equally large tabletop such that no part of their surfaces went untouched. The garbage can overflowed, and the room reeked of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke. Bolan took a seat as the man wedged himself into a chair about two sizes too small between his desktop and credenza.
“The name’s Fagan MacDermott,” he began. The Irish accent when he pronounced his name left no doubts in Bolan’s mind whom MacDermott worked for. “I understand you’re new in town. Maybe lookin’ for work?”
Bolan showed him a wan smile. “Word travels fast.”
MacDermott shrugged in way of explanation and said, “No more than usual for a small town like this one.”
“I noticed you got quite a crew out there. Everybody work for the mill?”
“Hell, pal, the mill’s what keeps this town running!” MacDermott burst into laughter.
Bolan considered him uncharacteristically cheerful, but he decided not to push. Not yet. “I’m Matt Cooper. I’ve been on the road quite a bit, doing some odd jobs here and there.”
“On the run from the law?”
“No,” Bolan said.
MacDermott fished a cigarette from the pack on his desk, lit it, then sat back in his chair and studied Bolan through a cloud of smoke.
The Executioner remained impassive. He got the impression that if he’d said he was on the run, it probably wouldn’t make any difference but he decided not to make it up as he went along. He wasn’t working this one for Stony Man and thus he didn’t have time to put a real cover in place. If MacDermott decided to look into his criminal history, he figured it was better not to state he had one and then have to explain later why “Matt Cooper” not only had no record, but also had no fingerprints on file.
“It don’t make no difference if you got something to hide,” MacDermott said. “Best to be honest with me, Coop.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Bolan said with a sigh. “And I’m not running from the law. Just looking for maybe a place to settle down. Sleeping and eating out of my car gets a bit old after a while.”
MacDermott studied Bolan a moment longer, and then leaned forward and tapped his smoke into a beanbag ashtray. “Yeah, I’m sure it does. Okay, so you’re not on the lam and you ain’t done nothing to be guilty for, and that’s good enough for me. You see, I trust my people and expect loyalty in return. Who sent you?”
“A guy named Buck Nordstrom.”
MacDermott took another long drag and then stubbed out his smoke in the overflowing ashtray. “Yeah, Nordstrom’s a pretty good guy for a Swede. Not much for inside milling, but he’s a hell of a powder monkey.”
Bolan recognized the term for an explosives man. “Done a bit of that myself in times past.”
“Oh, yeah? When’s that?”
“Military.”
MacDermott nodded, but it didn’t seem to impress him one way or another. “Well, afraid I got no use for another explosives guy. How you think you could handle a position as a chaser?”
“Sorry, not up on these logging terms yet.”
“You’d work on the yarding line…that’s basically where they bring the logs into the mill here. You’d be responsible for disconnecting the chokers and seeing the logs get onto the right conveyers. It’s a tough job, but it’s what I got and you look big enough to handle it.”
“I’ll give it a shot.”
“Fine, pal, that’ll be just fine.” He lit another cigarette before adding, “How you want to be paid?”
“I prefer cash,” Bolan said.
That brought a smile to MacDermott’s face. “You know what? I do, too! You’re hired.”
Bolan stood with him. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” MacDermott said. “You’ll find I’m firm but fair. You’ll hear a lot of those in the yard call me Mad Mac. I know about it, and it don’t mean nothing, just a bit o’ harmless fun on their parts. But they don’t do it to my face. You show me respect—I’ll show you respect. You see?”
Bolan nodded.
MacDermott came around the desk and crossed in front of Bolan to open his office door. “Now, you give your details to Sally out there, and she’ll make sure you get on the payroll.”
“Okay, but how much?”
“You want to know the pay. Don’t worry about that, you’ll be well-compensated…more, much more than I think you’ll be expecting. Just go out and talk to Sally there and she’ll take care of you. Okay?”
Bolan decided to play a card and see where it led him. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. MacDermott?”
“Ya can call me Fagan 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.”
