Don Pendleton: Hostile Odds

“It’s a good bet, Mack.”

“Nice work,” Bolan replied. “And you’re right, it’s definitely interesting.”

“Mind if I ask a question?”

“Shoot,” Bolan said.

“Do you really think there’s a connection between Gowan’s activities and this latest incident? I mean, we don’t have any proof the ELF is actually behind this attack on the Oregon Air National Guard.”

“I’m not sure yet how it would benefit Gowan to fund the ELF, particularly when a lot of his work would seem at cross-purposes. But I know Gowan’s dug in deep in Timber Vale, and as that happens to be right near Klamath Falls and it’s a large source of revenue for the entire area, I have to think it’s worth checking out.”

“Fair enough,” Johnny replied. “I trust your instincts.”

“Let’s just hope I’m right,” the Executioner said. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Live large, bro.”

FBI Special Agent Jefferson Kellogg mentally rehearsed his announcement for a sixth time as he negotiated the winding drive that led to Mickey Gowan’s estate. Kellogg had warned Billy Moran to keep a low profile, and as usual the cocky Irish bastard hadn’t listened to him. Now he was dead, and Kellogg had the terrible task of breaking the news personally to Gowan.

Kellogg had no doubts about who was probably behind the hit: Matt Cooper. That guy had a habit of turning up where he was least welcome, and his nosiness didn’t set well with Kellogg. He had it under control, and he didn’t need some outsider meddling in his affairs. The fact Kellogg refused to admit he didn’t really have any control over the situation had nothing to do with it.

Kellogg parked his car, exited and tossed the keys to Gowan’s wheelman, who doubled as valet when he wasn’t chauffeuring the old man around.

“Take care of her, will you, Sid?”

The young man, who was barely twenty if he was a day, almost didn’t catch the keys but he managed to one-hand them at the last moment. Kellogg pretended not to see the dirty look Sid Harper fired his way, and a smile played across his lips as he sauntered up the flagstone steps and stabbed the doorbell. A melodious chime echoed from somewhere within and the door opened a moment later to reveal one of Gowan’s house soldiers. The guy looked unfamiliar to Kellogg.

“Yeah?” he rumbled.

Kellogg stepped inside and looked the man square in the eyes. “I don’t recognize you. New here?”

“Started last week,” he said. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’ll take care of this, Charlie Boy,” a gravelly voice interjected.

Both men turned to see Gowan’s personal assistant, Struthers Sullivan, dance down the wide steps at the other end of the reception foyer. “Sully” bore the full Hiberno-English accent and touted himself a pureblood Irishman because he hailed from Dublin, a fact that had elevated him to his current status in the Gowan crime Family. Mickey Gowan had always tried to remain purist when it came to those in his immediate company. He had no problem hiring a Scot or other loose kinsmen, even Irish-Americans, for the “scut” work, but he made damned sure his closest advisers were as close to Irish as Irish could be.

“Well, Sully!” Kellogg said as Charlie Boy closed the heavy front door and then disappeared. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you here. I thought Mr. Gowan sent you on a long trip.”

“He did,” Sully said with a good-natured wink. “Job turned out easier than I expected so I got back early.”

Kellogg nodded, well aware of Sully’s specialty. When Gowan needed a problem taken care of permanently, he sent Struthers Sullivan. Kellogg always liked Sully, even admired him on some levels, although he didn’t trust him at all. Then again, he didn’t trust any of them—he knew what they did for a living. He’d spent his entire career putting away men like Sully until he discovered exactly how much money he could make playing for the other team. When he agreed to come over and work for Gowan, he insisted on only two things: he’d answer only to the old man, and any remuneration had to be unmarked and untraceable cash. For a guy like Mickey Gowan, neither request seemed out of line. And fifteen hundred a week to get a federal cop at Kellogg’s level in his pocket was chump change.

“Where’s the old man?” Kellogg asked.

“Upstairs with the missus,” Sully replied.

Kellogg knew what that meant. Mickey Gowan actually had three or four in his little harem, all of whom lived in different states and traveled regularly. The one here was actually his legal wife and the others simply mistresses. As Gowan had once told Kellogg, “Running an enterprise like mine leaves a guy with needs no one woman could possibly satisfy.”

“Well, I don’t want to crash his party,” Kellogg said in an all-business tone, “but I got to talk to him right away, Sully. It’s important.”

Sully jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Come on, I’ll take you up. They ain’t doing nothing special.”

Kellogg followed Sully to the second floor, which was as spacious and fancifully decorated as the first, and found Mickey Gowan in the entertainment room, where Gowan spent most of his time with friends and associates. The space took up the entire east wing of Gowan’s mansion, and sported the most impressive display of electronics money could buy. A custom-built HDTV with its seventy-two-inch screen and sixteen-channel surround-sound theater system took up nearly one wall. Theater-style seating branched off the central viewing area. Just beyond the seats the low-rise steps spread onto a wall-to-wall raised floor with a full wet bar and a burnished oval table that could easily seat twenty people. Massive mahogany pillars carved with intricate designs sprung up throughout the room. Contrasting honey-oak shelves ran along the exterior walls and supported wood carvings and hand-beaten metal pieces. The term rustic came to Kellogg’s mind the first time he saw this room.

A fire crackled in a free-standing brick fireplace in the middle of the room, although it had to be at least sixty degrees outside with plenty of humidity. The rumor mill had it that Gowan suffered from some malady that caused him to be cold most of the time, so the guy always kept his place like an oven. Kellogg usually needed a shower after staying in the house any length of time, although he hadn’t attributed it to the psychological component of washing away the filth that surrounded him.

Music played quietly over the hardwired entertainment system. It sounded to Kellogg like something from the River Dance, but he ignored the Gaelic-style tune. He’d heard enough of that shit to last him a lifetime. Gowan was hunched over a pool table, his bushy white eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His wife, Glenda, sat on a padded leather barstool while she nursed a sweating beer. Although nearly fifty, Gowan’s wife had the figure of a twenty-year-old, and Kellogg had to force himself to avert his eyes from the shapely legs in fishnet stockings that dangled seductively from the denim miniskirt.

Kellogg started forward and opened his mouth, but Sully put a finger to his lips and blocked the approach with a hand against Kellogg’s chest. Kellogg stopped in his tracks and bit his tongue. He folded his arms and waited at a respectful distance until Gowan took his shot. He missed banking the green No. 6 into a corner pocket by a long shot. Gowan cursed as he straightened and only then did he recognize the two arrivals.

Mickey Gowan looked at them a moment before his scowl transformed into a smile as false as that of a crooked televangelist. Kellogg didn’t trust Gowan any more than he trusted Sully, and he genuinely liked Sully. Part of it had to do with the fact Gowan treated him more like a hired hand than a partner—not that Kellogg had any high ideals about their relationship. And at least Gowan had been true to his word, which was fine as long as the old man kept the money coming.