Читать книгу Stand Down - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

Damn, that horizon just keeps moving away, no matter how fast I drive toward it, Mack Bolan thought as he stared out at the endless prairie surrounding him on all sides. The gently rolling grassland was split only by the concrete ribbon of Interstate 70, stretching into infinity both in front of him to the east and behind him to the west. Occasionally the stark landscape would be broken up by a truck stop or restaurant near an exit, but for the most part there was nothing but Bolan, his car and the plains.

He smiled grimly as he considered the apt metaphor of the horizon, always retreating, endlessly out of reach. A lesser man would consider his personal crusade against the enemies of freedom in much the same way—always struggling to reach an ever-elusive goal. Bolan took a more pragmatic view of his ultimate objective. As he’d once said, “Every terrorist I kill, every madman I eliminate, every criminal I put in the ground, that’s one less psychotic thug in the world menacing innocent people. If the job takes the rest of my life, then that’s what it will take.”

His commitment to his crusade against the enemies of freedom and liberty notwithstanding, after his last mission on the West Coast, Bolan, aka the Executioner, decided to take a few days of downtime and drive back to his base of operations, Stony Man Farm in Virginia. Although he was aware of several hot spots that could use his special kind of attention, he also knew constant combat took its toll on any warrior. The trip east had seemed to be a perfect solution at first. He’d planned to relax by driving the entire way, but after a half day of the endless Midwest grasslands, he was beginning to regret his decision. That was the problem with the prairie—absolutely nothing happened or changed out here. Maybe he’d drop the car off in Kansas City or Chicago and hop an airplane.

At least his rental car was comfortable. The slate-gray Cadillac SRX crossover rode across the asphalt as if he were driving a cloud. Bolan was half worried he might fall asleep if something didn’t change soon.

Then something did happen—the low gas light turned on with a polite chime, almost as if the car were too polite to draw his attention to its condition. Bolan eyed the dashboard, then hit the GPS for the next gas station, locating one just a few miles away. Pulling in a few minutes later, he glanced around the barren refueling station, which had one other car in the parking lot. He filled the tank, and saw the sign as he was walking to the cinder-block building to pay.

Visit Quincyville

The Best Little Town in the Midwest!

Unlike most of the road signs out here, the red, white and blue board was as fresh and new as if it had been put up yesterday. Bolan stared at it for a moment, then headed inside.

Even though it was early spring, the air-conditioning was on full blast inside the store. Bolan paid his bill in cash, then nodded at the sign, still visible through the window. “Where’s Quincyville?”

The clerk, a clean-cut teenager, pointed east along the high way. “Just head down another mile, take exit 27, turn left and go about five miles up.”

“A little slice of Midwest America, huh?”

The kid frowned. “If you say so. They wouldn’t even be there if it wasn’t for that bug pharmaceutical company on the outskirts. Saved the whole place from dryin’ up and blowin’ away.”

“Is that so? Any place good to eat there?”

“Rollins’s Restaurant on Main Street has the best chicken-fried steak in the county. Hobo stew’s good, too.”

Bolan considered it, his stomach chiming in to add its emptiness to the internal discussion. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome, and have a good day.”

Bolan nodded as he headed out into the warm afternoon. Getting back in his car, he got on the highway and followed the kid’s directions. Less than ten minutes later, he saw a picture-perfect small town on the horizon. As he approached, Bolan noticed a cluster of several large, white buildings on his right. The complex was at the end of a double lane paved road with a manned guard shack at the end. The perimeter around the buildings was ringed with an eight-foot cyclone fence topped with double rows of razor wire. Between the road and the fence was a sign that read Cristobal Pharmaceutical Company.

Bolan’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight. Typically, U.S. drug companies outsourced their labs overseas, not the other way around. Still, if they were making it work…

Cresting a hill, he saw a lone mansion in the distance on his left, with two police cars out front and yellow crime scene tape around the house. Bolan slowed the Cadillac and casually studied the scene as he passed, then shook his head as he headed into town. Seemed nowhere was picture-perfect anymore.

Passing a Walmart with a packed parking lot, he drove up Main Street, which was neat and clean in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Pickups and midsize sedans filled the parking spaces, along with a scattering of luxury cars here and there. People were out and about, but they were few and far between, all intent on their business. Bolan passed the usual buildings—drug store, local grocery store, freestanding department store, more gas stations, various fast-food restaurants.

He found the Rollins place at the north end of town, an unassuming clapboard building that looked like it had been built in the 1950s. The parking lot was also filled, which Bolan took as a good sign. He found a spot on the end, almost in the weeds, and got out, glancing at the back seat to make sure his black duffel bag hadn’t shifted during the trip. Satisfied that it was secure, he locked up the Caddy and headed toward the front doors.

The interior might have come right out of the 1950s as well. Near the door, the cash register sat at one end of the long Formica counter, with a row of stools, each covered with a patron. Booths with red vinyl seats ran along the wall nearest the parking lot, ending in a large corner booth filled with a boisterous group of teenagers laughing and talking to and over one another. The booths continued along the back wall, and in the middle of it all was a row of tables, also filled to capacity. Unlike many of the retro places that only appeared authentic, this restaurant was the real deal. The chrome edging the counter and booths looked well-used, but also well cared for, and the linoleum on the floor was faded and scuffed with the passage of thousands of shoes and boots.

Bolan entered into a bustle of activity: waitresses carrying trays piled-high with food, diners entering and leaving, and above all, that welcome smell of delicious, home-cooked food. The soldier caught the traditional aromas of cooking oil, bread and spices, but also sniffed what smelled like burning mesquite wood, which made his mouth water. He dutifully took his place at the end of the line and waited his turn.

The conversation level in the place was muted, and Bolan noticed that many men and women kept their heads down, and at least once he thought he saw a woman come out of the washroom with red, mascara-streaked eyes. Although there seemed to be a lot of regulars, with headgear on the men split evenly between Stetsons and gimme caps, there were also plenty of people who had just come to eat, and the stools turned over quickly. Bolan was able to take a seat after just a few minutes.

“Coffee?”

“That’d be fine.” Bolan scanned the menu, which had a decided Tex-Mex flair that caught him by surprise. Although the carne asada tacos looked good, he decided to stick with the kid’s recommendation. “Chicken-fried steak, please.”

“Gravy on your potatoes, too?” the middle-aged waitress asked.

Bolan glanced down at his taut midsection and decided to double-down on his arteries. “Sure.”

“Green beans, salad, or a cup of soup?”

“Beans will be fine.”

“That’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Bolan sipped his coffee, served in a thick-walled ceramic mug he hadn’t seen in years, and found it very good. For a few seconds, he relaxed in the anonymity of the moment—just another casual traveler grabbing lunch on his way to wherever. His reality couldn’t have been more different.

He was giving the rotating dessert carousel a twice over, debating whether to have the cherry pie or the apple tart afterward, when the low conversations throughout the restaurant suddenly died. Bolan looked over to see what was causing the disturbance and saw a group of four well-dressed Hispanics, accompanied by a lone Anglo girl, cut to the front of the line and saunter into the restaurant. They were dressed in formfitting jeans, hand-tooled, silver-edged cowboy boots, and soft, shapeless, button-down designer shirts, with expensive sunglasses covering their eyes or perched on their heads. Their short black hair shone in the overhead lights. The eyes of the locals either followed the group or looked away. No one made a move to stop them.

Not even glancing at the line of waiting customers, the group headed toward the large corner booth, where the kids there scrambled to get out of the way. Their leader stood in front of the booth, staring over his glasses at the dirty dishes left in the group’s wake. Dead silence filled the restaurant, punctuated by the sizzle of grease on the grill and the tap-tap-tap of the young man’s foot on the floor.

The busboy scurried out and cleared the table, but apparently not fast enough. Although Bolan couldn’t see exactly what happened, he saw the boy carrying the plastic container of dishes stagger and go down with a crash of breaking dishes. His gaze darkened.

The group sat down, and conversation began around them again, even quieter now. Bolan looked up to catch his waitress staring daggers at the corner booth. “Who’re they?”

She glanced at him and blushed. “Don’t mind me. The one struttin’ around like he owns the place is Everado De Cavallos.” She drew the name out in a derisive drawl. “The other ones are his flunkies, a cousin and other friends from south of the border. He’s the son of one of the big shots at Cristobal, so he thinks this town owes him whatever he wants. Plus he never leaves a damn tip either.”

“Hmm.” Bolan sipped his coffee again, then turned his head just enough to watch the group out of the corner of his eye. They were huddled together, awaiting their drinks, apparently, which were just arriving. The waitress set the glasses down and turned to go, but not before one of the boys on the end smacked her behind. A man with iron-gray hair in a bristle cut who was watching started to rise from his chair, but was restrained by his lunch companion, a woman with curly red hair, who shook her head. Still glowering at the group, the man sat down again, staring hard at the young men, who just as studiously ignored him.

That’s two, Bolan thought, easing back on his stool as he kept an eye on the table.

“He does that again, he’ll have me to deal with, Cristobal or no Cristobal,” the waitress, whose name tag read Elaine, grumbled.

“Those boys might learn their lesson sooner than you think,” Bolan said. The comment earned an odd look from the counter waitress before the cook called, “Order up!”

His blue-plate special arrived, and Bolan dug in, finding it as good as promised. As he ate, he kept an eye on the corner booth, waiting for them to act up again. But when it happened, it came from within the group itself.

“Goddamn it, Everado, I said knock it the hell off!” The shout was punctuated by the crack of a hand on skin. The next thing Bolan knew, the blonde girl burst from the booth and stalked off. The boys stayed behind for a few seconds, then their leader stood up and walked out, followed by the rest of the group, all of whom were still sniggering. Halfway through, he turned and glared at them, and the laughter died in their throats. They walked out to a gleaming midnight blue Mercedes-Benz convertible, where the girl was waiting with her arms crossed.

Bolan forked up another bite of his steak and turned to see the conversation get heated, with the girl and the guy both starting to gesticulate. She seemed unaware of the potential danger she was in, with the other boys starting to crowd around the couple.

That’s three, Bolan thought, tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and heading for the door. Once outside, he didn’t even have to look over to see which way the argument was heading.

“—damn it, Everado, you don’t paw me in public like I’m some piece of meat. I’m not one of those Mexican whores you can just fuck and forget!”

“Chica, just get in the car and we’ll go somewhere quiet and talk about this,” the young man said. He sounded reasonable, but his voice was pitched low.

“Fuck you, just take me home!”

Bolan shook his head. This girl really didn’t realize the fire she was playing with. He’d heard that kind of tone in a man’s voice more times than he cared to count. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, violence was sure to follow.

Sure enough, the young man’s hand came up, the girl’s expression turning from anger to incredulousness to fear in a second. Bolan gave it a one-count, then said, “Hey.” He’d pitched his voice at the exact same timbre, just loud enough to carry to the youth’s ears, but not to attract any attention outside the six of them.

Everado’s hand froze, and he whirled, as did his friends, everyone staring at the interloper.

“Where I come from, any man who’s worth a damn doesn’t hit women. It’s not very—” Bolan paused, as if searching for the right word “—macho.”

The leader looked at Bolan as if the older man had just walked up and slapped him. Everado took a step forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. “Is that right?” His cohorts fell in behind him as their leader approached the Executioner.

Bolan nodded curtly.

“You aren’t from around here, are you, amigo?” The young man stopped a few feet away from Bolan, his posse fanning out around them.

Bolan stood casually and confidently, hands at his sides, his eyes on the leader. He knew the others wouldn’t make a move unless Everado did first. They all thought they had the advantage with their numbers. It would take less time to show than tell them just how wrong they were.

Bolan shook his head slowly.

“Did you have a good meal in there?”

“I did, before it got interrupted,” Bolan stated.

“Hey, no one asked you to stick your nose in, asshole!” This came from the girl, who was slouched against the convertible, apparently annoyed at not being the center of attention anymore.

Bolan and Everado ignored her. The young man took out a thick roll of bills and peeled off a fifty, tucking it into the soldier’s shirt pocket. “Here’s a little advice. Walk back inside, finish your lunch, order two more, I don’t care. Then come back out, get into your car and keep on driving. That way nothing bad will happen to you.”

Bolan had to work hard at suppressing his smile. Normally he’d give anyone who got in his face a bit of credit, but this kid was already in way over his head; he just didn’t know it yet. “That wouldn’t be a threat, now, would it?”

The young man smiled broadly and shook his head. “Not at all, man! But the prairie out here—so desolate. Travelers who are unprepared can lose their bearings pretty quickly.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Bolan looked beyond him to the girl. “She isn’t going with you, by the way.”

The young man had started to turn back to his car when Bolan spoke. He froze again. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. She isn’t going anywhere with you.”

Everado turned back. “And I suppose you think she’s going somewhere with you.”

“Nope. She’s staying right out here, in public, until one of her parents comes and gets her. I’ll be nearby, just to make sure nothing bad happens.”

This time the young Mexican got right up into Bolan’s face, so close he could smell the well-dressed punk’s cologne—a pungent, sharp fragrance. “You got a hell of a lot of nerve to come into our town and start givin’ orders. Do you have any idea who I am?”

Bolan didn’t back down an inch. “I sure do.”

His confident answer caught the youth by surprise, and Bolan kept going. “You’re a kid from south of the border who got lucky. Your grandparents scratched out a living in Mexico, so your parents wised up and joined Cristobal for a way out. You’ve never known a hard day in your life. You’ve never worked twelve, fourteen, sixteen hour days, only to eat, sleep and get up to do the same thing again, six days a week. You grew up with a spoon—not a silver one, just a regular one—in your mouth, so you’ve never had to do anything hard in your life, ever. You’ve assumed a status that you’ve done nothing to earn, and wear it like you have the right. But anyone who looks at you for more than two seconds sees straight through that. They can see right to your soul, see the aimless, ambitionless kid driving a fancy car and wearing designer clothes, and walking around like he knows what’s going on. What those people really see is a boy who has absolutely no idea of who he is, where he came from, or what he’s doing with his life.”

Bolan leaned in close to the youth’s ear, speaking so only he could hear his next words. “And deep down, I think you also know that—and it scares the hell out of you.”

Much like his girlfriend’s face a few minutes ago, Everado’s expression changed from surprise to incredulousness to anger at hearing Bolan’s assessment. “Fuckin’ asshole!” He reached for Bolan’s shirt, while the other young men crowded around them, hands reaching out to snare the interloper, as well. Bolan was a moment away from breaking fingers and moving on from there when the whoop of an approaching police siren made everyone’s heads turn.