"I see he's really keeping his nose clean."
"You could say that. You going to sew that one up"
"Soon as I finish packing him. Jesus, this guy has enough dope in him to supply New York for a month."
Morgan finished writing and put the papers back in the drawer and locked it. Then he took off his coat and walked toward the locker. Bolan watched as his face grew nearer.
"That's not my concern, Mike, my boy," said Morgan, his voice suddenly very near, filling the locker. "Not my concern."
Bolan's adrenaline started its pounding effect.
The gun felt good in his hands. Morgan pulled open the locker door and then dropped his coat in horror. The big bastard stepped from the locker, unwrapping his big frame even as he pressed the Colt M16 into Morgan's genital area. Morgan stopped breathing. He stared up into a pair of crazy blue eyes.
Mike was stitching, unaware of Bolan's presence.
"You got a lot of balls, running an operation like this, Morgan," Mike said. He pulled a long stitch through the kid's corpse.
Bolan cut the air with the voice of the guillotine. "Not much longer he hasn't. Drop the knife and get against the wall."
Mike turned, still holding the thread. Seeing Bolan, he obeyed. Morgan was wide-eyed, sweating and trembling. He tried to edge his genitals away from the gun barrel, but Bolan kept it jammed tight.
"Who is Putnam?"
Neither spoke.
Bolan pulled the hammer back with a resounding click.
"Tell me who Putnam is."
Morgan's voice shook. "Putnam is a guy, just a guy who tells me what to do. I don't know who he is."
"You lie to me again and I fire this thing."
Morgan stole a glance at Mike, then looked back at the big bastard holding the gun. His lips trembled.
A knock on the door. Bolan told Morgan to answer.
"It's me, Jones," said a voice through the door. "You finished yet?" The door swung open. A guard walked in, rifle slung over his shoulder.
He saw Bolan and cocked it, bringing it up to fire.
"Don't!" yelled Morgan.
Bolan pushed Morgan away and swung the Colt up to the guard. Bolan waited for a split second to see if the guard would fire.
The guard brought the gun up until it pointed at Bolan's face.
Bolan blew away the guard's face.
Mike whimpered in fear. He shook.
Bolan kicked each man in the head, swiftly and surely. He pulled the keys from Morgan's pocket, as the man slumped and groaned. A whistle blew shrilly somewhere in the building.
Bolan tore open the drawer and stuffed the papers into his shirt. Blood from the guard's head flowed between his boots in a crimson rivulet. Then came the sound of rushing feet.
Bolan slid out the workroom door. Two guards rounded the corner, SMG's at the ready. They pulled up to fire. Bolan sent the first spinning back with a roaring blast from the Colt. The second gunner tore the wall open with slugs. Bolan closed his eyes against the spray of hot plaster and crouched, then fired at the muzzle-flash. The room fell silent.
Sirens screamed across the tarmac. A troop carrier pulled up, guards spilling from the back. Bolan sprang, making for the other door.
In the bright heat outside, Bolan put on his mirror sunglasses and holstered his gun. The truck was idling, its driver ready.
Bolan walked up and shrugged. "I can't find that asshole anywhere," he said.
The driver looked down at him. "What the hell is going on, anyway?"
"I don't know," Bolan said, opening the door of the truck and yanking the driver out. The driver sprawled on the tarmac as Bolan shifted into gear and roared off.
There was a soft crack of billiard balls. Carpet spread beneath his feet.
There were women here.
Colonel Harlan Winters, known as "Howlin' Harlan" in the officer corps, looked up from his whiskey at the officers' club and nearly choked.
"Bolan," he managed to get out, "how the hell did you get in here?" Winters looked furtively around the room.
Bolan turned his back to the rest of the room and stood at ease beside Winters. From inside his shirt he withdrew a sheaf of papers. He lay them on the polished wood of the bar in front of Winters.
"You shouldn't have risked coming here."
"I'm safer here," replied Bolan.
"Jesus Christ," muttered Winters as he scanned the papers. "You were the one who blew open this heroin thing?"
"They accused me of killing Jim Naiman in order to shut me up," Bolan said.
Winters read on compulsively. Bolan stole a glance behind at the officers' club. They might have been in Nevada someplace, from the looks of it carpeting, lamps, pool table. In the next room a movie was showing.
Sentimental music sounded through the wall. Bolan listened to the dialogue. A woman was trying to dissuade her soldier from going to war.
Bolan ordered a drink. Who was the actor?
Henry Fonda? No, Ronald Reagan.
The voices were distorted as they came through the wall.
"You're a special man, Bill. You have courage. More than I do, I guess. Please stay."
"I'm not so special. I just fight for what I believe. As long as there's a bully to fight, I'll be there..." The music swelled; they were probably kissing on an airstrip or a ship.
Winters whistled and looked up. Bolan caught the faint breath of whiskey.
"This is a dirty business, isn't it?"
"As dirty as it gets."
"Look, my advice is don't get too hot about it. I've been hearing rumors about the CIA transporting raw heroin for the Laotians in return for raids on VC camps inside the Laotian border. Maybe we need that."
"We don't need what we're getting now. The VC in the Mekong get anything they want weapons, supplies, anything. The so-called intelligence we've been going on is useless. Our boys are getting slaughtered. Buddy knew it on that mission."
Winters took a thoughtful sip of his drink.
"You're right about the intelligence. I could do better with a Ouija board. But we can't let the VC keep Laos as their supply depot. Anyway, it's too late now. The whole thing is under official investigation."
"Who's doing the investigating?"
"The CIA. Top level, here in Saigon. Putnam himself is heading the investigation."
"Putnam?"
"What's the matter?" Winters had seen Bolan's face freeze.
Bolan felt a sense of desolation sweep through him, of justice torn and shredded, scattered to the winds.
"Putnam is the one running the operation." Winters threw up his arms. "Listen, Colonel," Bolan said urgently. "You have to stash those papers away until I find a way to get around Putnam. I'm dropping out of sight. I'm going back to the Mekong."
Winters leaned forward and looked piercingly at Bolan. "Don't go back to the Mekong now, Mack. Anywhere but there. We're getting casualties way beyond anyone's predictions. It's a mess, a bloodbath."
Through the wall came heroic music. Must be near the end of the movie, Bolan thought.
Winters continued uneasily. "You've been too much at the front line, Mack. You're starting to get that look in your eye."
"You know how it is as well as I do," said Bolan. "There is no front line. The front line is everywhere."
Winters stopped Bolan before he walked through the door. "Mack, be careful you don't go over the edge. Nam does that to people."
Bolan knew now, standing in that officers' bar, just how Buddy felt when he was shaving his head. "I'm already over the edge," he said.
Mosquito netting hung diaphanous in the moonlight. Bolan felt the fatigue working on his mind as he stood over the bed. He must be careful now. For a moment Buddy appeared in hallucination, squatting on the floor with his knife at Bolan's feet.
Bolan pulled back the netting. Vu Quoc Thanh lay sleeping. The moon mumped him with a corpselike pallor.
Bolan sat on the edge of the bed. Thanh shot upright, feeling for his gun.