Don Pendleton - Dual Action

James was right. It had to be Ohio.

Dammit!

“Never mind,” his mirror image said. As always, the reflected face could read his thoughts, almost before they formed inside his head. “We’ll make it right.”

“We have to,” Walgren echoed.

“And we will.”

“Identify the enemy.”

“Identify and locate.”

“Locate and destroy.”

“In Yahweh’s name.”

“Amen!”

Bolan drove through the night and predawn hours to reach his next target in Russellville, Missouri, a few miles southwest of Jefferson City. It was the last target Bolan could reach that day, without a plane ride, and he hoped to make it count.

The man he wanted, Vernon Upshaw, was a former high school English social studies teacher, driven from his job when he began insinuating Nazi propaganda into daily lesson plans. Around the time he told a class of freshmen that the Holocaust was a colossal hoax created in the postwar years by Communists and the “Jews Media,” the school board cut him loose and his appeals had been rejected by the courts. Since then, Upshaw had turned his questionable talents to production of theAryan Resistance Movement’s monthly newsletter and sundry other publications, printed in the basement of a house that he’d inherited from relatives.

Bolan had the address, and dawn seemed like a good time for a pop quiz with the former teacher. If he passed, and didn’t raise a fuss, maybe Upshaw would live to foul another day.

Maybe.

The house was small, situated in a neighborhood that had outlived its glory days. The people Bolan saw leaving for early shifts at work were mostly Hispanic or black, a circumstance that had to have rankled Upshaw. He was caught in the classic bigot’s dilemma: live with nonwhite neighbors, or risk selling his Aryan homestead to more of the same. It was the kind of problem that would keep a Nazi up at night.

Bolan was ready with a wake-up call.

He parked in front, walked up and rang the bell. He sensed neighbors were watching as he waited on the tiny porch. There was no answer from within, leaving Bolan to choose a point of entry in broad daylight, under scrutiny.

With nothing much to lose, he tried the front door’s knob and felt it turn. A chilly sense of déjà vu washed over Bolan as he slid a hand inside his windbreaker, gripping the pistol in its armpit rig, and brainstormed on the call.

He couldn’t go all SWAT-team on the threshold, with the local busybodies studying his every move. Likewise, if Bolan left the stoop and went around back, suspicious neighbors might alert police. He couldn’t count on them dismissing it as “white man’s business,” where their homes and families were concerned. Potential crimes in progress were a danger to the neighborhood at large, and Bolan thought someone was sure to phone it in.

Which left a classic bluff.

Watchers could see him, but they probably couldn’t hear him, unless they were shadowing the house with advanced electronic surveillance equipment. It was also unlikely that they could see past him and into Upshaw’s living room if he opened the door. For all they knew, their racist neighbor could be welcoming an early-morning visitor.

Of course, the bluff would put Bolan’s life at risk. He couldn’t draw his weapon or take any other normal duck-and-cover steps to guard himself against an ambush or a booby trap. He’d had to mime a conversation, step inside as if by Upshaw’s invitation and proceed to search the place after he’d closed the door.

And if Upshaw was waiting for him, with a weapon pointed at the door, Bolan would know it in the split-second before he died.

He gave the door a shove, quickly withdrew his hand and raised it in a gesture of greeting. No muzzle-flash erupted from the inner darkness, and he heard no clamoring alarms, but that still didn’t mean the house was empty, much less safe.

Bolan went through the motions, mouthing silent words although he wasn’t sure that any watchers had a clear view of his lips. He nodded once, then shrugged, nodded again, and stepped across the threshold into Upshaw’s murky living room. He used a heel to shut the door behind him, cutting off the light.

The drapes were drawn, which would shut out the neighbors, but also left him in a twilight world of hulking shadows. Bolan found a wall switch, flicked it, and a pair of tall, cheap-looking lamps provided ample light to see that no one else was in the room. He drew the pistol, took a chance and called out Upshaw’s name. His voice fell flat and dead within the musty silence of the house.

Nobody home? Nobody answering, for sure.

He made a rapid tour of the kitchen, bathroom, two small bedrooms and the basement. There was no one to be found, and while Upshaw’s abode was tidier than that of Neville Hoskins, it revealed signs of a swift and unexpected exit. Coffee had been brewing when the tenant left, but it had long gone cold. Dust patterns on a bedroom dresser told him that a six-by-ten-inch box was missing, likely Upshaw’s nest egg or a jewelry box. The only evidence of weapons was a small oil stain on one of Upshaw’s pillows.

As for any superguns, no dice.

In the basement propaganda mill, Bolan sifted through stacks of newsletters and pamphlets with a common theme: Jews were the spawn of Satan, blamed for ninety-odd percent of all recorded wars and natural disasters from Old Testament times to the present. Upshaw strung events together, from famines to assassinations to volcanic eruptions, in a panorama of conspiracy that would’ve been hilarious—if some sick minds didn’t regard it as the gospel truth.

One pamphlet, undated but bundled and ready for shipping, was headlined: THE DAY IS AT HAND!!! Below a crude sketch of muscular, bare-chested Aryans pummeling hawk-nosed Hassidim, Bolan read:

Warriors! The great day we have long awaited is upon us! We shall soon close ranks with allies to reclaim the Holy Land for Yahweh and destroy the usurpers of pseudo-Israel! With a mighty bolt from Heaven we shall slay them in the thousands and ten thousands, until none stand in our way! Be ready for the call to battle when it comes! Watch for the signs of Armageddon as the day draws near! The blazing lance of Faith leads us to victory! A world of racial purity at last! If you have not already pledged yourself to aid the cause, now is the time! History waits for no man! VICTORY OR DEATH!

An Arkansas post office box was listed at the bottom of the proclamation, just in case readers were inspired to send donations for the cause. Bolan shook his head. It was the standard piece of Nazi nonsense, melodrama to the max, but parts of it caught his eye. Specifically, he focused on the mention of a mighty bolt from Heaven and a blazing lance.

Those might be flights of fancy—Upshaw’s takeoff on the legend that the Third Reich’s leaders had possessed a magic spear of destiny that dated from the Crucifixion—or, they might refer to something else.

A supergun, for instance, out of Baghdad via Ciudad Juarez?

Bolan pocketed the flier, left the house and jogged back to his car. Five minutes later, he was on the open highway, eastbound toward St. Louis.

Bolan had no means of tracing Vernon Upshaw at the moment, but he wasn’t giving up. Someone inside the ARM had answers, and they couldn’t all have disappeared.

He hoped not, anyway.

For if they had, there could be hell to pay.

BROGNOLA TOOK THE CALL at home, as he was brewing coffee for his first cup of the day. He picked up automatically, not waiting for the answering machine to screen the call, and recognized the caller’s voice at once.

“It’s me,” Bolan said. “Sorry, but it couldn’t wait for office hours.”

“No sweat. What’s up?”