Don Pendleton - Tennessee Smash

Book 32 in the Executioner series, 1978

The big man in black stood in silent contemplation of the muted sounds of the city by night and the sluggish rhythms of Ol’ Man River-the mighty Mississippi -as it flowed behind him with its ghostly murmurings from eternity.

Eternal, yeah… that was the word. A flowing stream was like the life of a moving man-eternal, yet ever changing, the waters flowing from some unseen beginning and hurrying toward an unimaginable infinity-nothing ever fixed, nothing ever certain-yet eternal… eternal.

Banks and beds do not a river make; Bolan knew that. Nor did waters. H20-big deal-molecules in great numbers, clinging to one another through chemical bonds while slowly drifting from nowhere to nowhere.

Like a man's life, yeah.

So where did either get such grand ideas about eternity? What is a river if it isn't banks and beds, hydrogen and oxygen mixed together and flowing from nowhere to nowhere? What is a man if not blood and bones, electricity and tissue mixed together and growing from nothing to nothing?

The question was purely academic. Bolan already had his answer. Both a man and a river are events in space and time. Infinite events, overflowing space and confounding time… thus, sure, eternal.

Ol' Man Eternal River… murmurs from outside space and beyond time.

Bolan shivered and shook himself to break the mood. It was no time to be thinking beyond eternity. There was work to be done, events to be set into motion.

It was time to put the spur to a certain aspect of the flow of life within this historic old city. Bolan knew how to do that.

He angled icy eyes for a quick and final glimpse of the stony ramparts marking Confederate Park while tossing a mental salute toward that symbol of human heroism and sacrifice. Then he spun about on softshod feet and became a living part of the eternal night.

Yes, proud Memphis -"Place of Good Abode" -Mack Bolan knew how and where to put the spurs.

He was rigged for soft penetration-clad in black skintights, lightly armed with the silent Beretta as head weapon, a Crossman air pistol, stiletto and garrotes-hands and face blackened for maximum invisibility.

The target was a nondescript warehouse, undistinguished from the many others in this active river port, squatting gloomily in the deep darkness of the witching hour. A feeble luminescence glowed dimly from dirtied windows at the upper level; a naked yellow bulb outside the office door provided a small area of minimal relief from the inky night. To all outward appearances, Delta Importers was slumbering like most others in the Port of Memphis.

Mack Bolan knew better.

He moved in on the target as a soundless extension of the night, combat senses flaring through the atmospheres of that enemy turf in an effort to encompass all that might be lying there in wait. The lone security guard was an easy take. Bolan found him in his rounds, at the back corner of the building. He kissed him quietly with a silent dart from the Pellgun and left him there in tranquil sleep.

So far, so good-but the man in black grimaced as he consulted the wrist chronometer. It was to be a tight mission, with everything riding on the proper fall of the numbers.

Out over the river a nightbird called softly and dipped in flight to follow the track of an unwary prey. Eastward, the hushed sprawl of the city sent neon advertisements to form a faint aura overhead; but here all was blackness.

Bolan knelt motionless at the wall of the building, eyes intent upon the wrist-watching the numbers fall. He was not at all comfortable with this mission-not sure, even, in its very concept. But… it was committed, now. He sent a quick flick of the eyes northward as though they would perhaps reveal what the ears had not-wondering, as he did so, if he were the biggest fool alive.

No, he was not at all comfortable.

And perhaps he would not be the biggest fool alive for very long. But the moment had arrived and he was stuck with it. It was not a time for doubts. So he brushed the doubts aside and pushed off to follow his numbers to their uncertain conclusion.

The roof was a cinch. He gained it with a bound, a swing, and a soft wriggle-then went on without pause to the skylight, which mission briefing had assured him would be another cinch. It was not. The wooden framing was rotted and swollen, threatening to dissolve in him hands at first touch. He went to work at the heavy glass with his stiletto, easing it out inch by breathless inch, until there was sufficient purchase with the bare hands to lift it clear.

Hell yawned up at him from that black hole.

According to the blueprints, it would be a twelve-foot drop to the floor of a storage loft,--empty, supposedly. That would have been a cinch, also, if he could have lowered himself by hand to drop free the remainder of the relatively short distance. The rotten wood foreclosed that idea.

So this was where it really got ticklish.

He opted to risk the penlight for a quick flash into those depths. The loft was empty, right-but it looked more like fifteen feet than twelve, and there was no way to determine the strength of that dusty flooring.

The decision came with typical swiftness.

Bolan dropped to a crouch and pushed off with one hand, knees almost touching the chest as he dropped through the opening in the roof and entered free fall. Fifteen feet, yeah. The touchdown came with a bit more impact and noise than he was willing to settle for, even using knees and ankles to maximum cushioning effect. The old flooring swayed and groaned under the sudden weight-but it held-and Bolan whispered a thanks to kindly providence as he upholstered the Beretta and moved softly to the door.

He held there, frozen, ears straining for sign of reaction from below. Frozen moments, held together by the beating of his heart and the certain knowledge that all heartd stop beating sooner or later, for one reason or another, despite all efforts to the contrary.

He was inside a Mob powder factory.

If the intel was accurate, a full crew of chemists were at that moment busily refining and packaging a large shipment of raw heroin from Central America-under the watchful eyes of at least a dozen heavy torpedoes under one Dandy Jack Clemenza, reputed new heroin king of the Western Hemisphere.

The shipment which had arrived that very day was said to have a value of 22 million dollars after Clemenza's chemists finished stepping on it-and the streets were said to be hungry for the stuff.

So, sure, it was a big day in Memphis. And Bolan had no illusions whatever concerning the "security" for the affair, despite the easy look outside. According to the Intel, each of Dandy Jack's hardmen would be toting automatic weapons and the boss himself would be right there until the last bag was sealed and the reshipment completed.

So much for all that. Apparently none had heard Bolan's heavy entrance. He easily defeated the locking mechanism of the flimsy door and moved quietly onto the open loft. Below and directly across from his position was the area of major activity, the proceedings taking place in semidarkness and stealthy' silence. Several long tables supported a surprisingly professional-looking array of laboratory equipment,-Bunsen’s, beakers, the whole bit. Ten white-coated men wearing filter masks manned the "laboratory" while in the background of the darkness faceless stoics hovered in business suits and casually dangling sub-machine guns.