Don Pendleton - Hostile Odds

“Jefferson, good to see you,” Gowan said. He stepped forward and extended a hand.

Kellogg took it with reticence; the old man had a slimy shake. “Sure. You too, Mickey.” He hated it when Gowan called him Jefferson. Christ, even his mother hadn’t called him that, and she’d named him.

“You want a drink?”

“No, thanks,” he said. “Mickey, I have some bad news. I think maybe you’re going to want to sit down for it.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ old man, see? I think I can take whatever you have to tell me, so out with ’er.”

“Okay,” Kellogg said, surprised at his enjoyment when he blurted, “Billy Moran’s dead.”

The room was so silent Kellogg wondered for a moment whether Gowan had heard him. Something fell in the old man’s countenance. The light went out of his azure-colored eyes, and his face went nearly the same shade of white as the shock of unkempt hair matted across his head.

“Stop the lights!” Sully cut in. “You didn’t tell me that was the news, ya yonker. Sorry, boss.”

After the old man’s lip quivered for a time, he finally said through gritted teeth, “Who? Who did this, Jefferson?”

“I don’t know yet. But I got my suspicions.”

“Who?”

“Like I said, Mickey, I don’t know—”

“I don’t give a shite! I wanna know who yer suspect!”

Kellogg felt his face flush as he replied, “Cooper…a guy named Matt Cooper.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. But I think he might work for the U.S. government.”

“FBI? One of your guys?”

Kellogg shook his head. “Shit no, Mickey. If it were that simple, I’d already know about him right now. No, he doesn’t come up in anything I run his name through.”

“Well, what the hell does that mean?” Sully demanded.

“I’m not sure.” Kellogg shrugged and continued, “He could be a special operative of some kind, although black ops are technically illegal in the U.S. unless it has to do with terrorism.”

Kellogg couldn’t swear to it, but he thought he noticed a silent exchange between Sully and Gowan. Gowan was basically a glorified labor bully, with his fingers mostly into the most basic of the vices: illegal gambling, numbers and cons. He was also involved in prostitution and drugs, but Kellogg had learned to overlook that minor indiscretion. Recently, however, Gowan had got himself caught up in dealings with the Earth Liberation Front, and that little fact had started to make Kellogg nervous. Gowan wasn’t aware that Kellogg already knew about his relationship with the ELF. For the sake of plausible deniability and to protect his own interests, Kellogg decided to act as if he didn’t.

“If this guy’s onto us at all, boss, we need to get rid of him,” Sully declared.

Gowan nodded. “Ya, and it don’t mean shite to me if we can prove the bastard busted a cap on Billy or not.”

“That’s where I might be able to help,” Kellogg said.

“What do you mean?” Gowan asked.

“If he is operating illegally, then that would be enough for me to open an official investigation inside the Bureau. At best, he could be a freelancer, in which case he’s still operating illegally. And if he isn’t sanctioned and he did kill Moran then that’s homicide. We might be able to bring him in on that alone if I can get enough evidence.”

“Who’s looking into it right now?” Sully asked.

Kellogg shrugged. “Well, since it happened in Siskiyou County and Tulelake has no real police force to speak of, it will probably fall to the sheriff’s office and possibly the state if the locals call for help.”

“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?”