“I kinda figured that, too, Miss Ida,” Burt said. “I sure did.”
“We wouldn’t want to see you among that crowd of feds, Burt.”
“Miss Ida, you ain’t
“Burt,” a man said, “you tell your commanding officer that the people in the towns around the mountains are law-abiding folks. We’re not vigilantes and no one has been hanged by mob law and no one is going to be. But anyone who tries to come in here and take our guns will be met with gunfire. You tell your commanding officer that, Burt, now, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You go on, now, Burt. And, Burt…”
The trooper looked at the man.
“…you’re welcome back here in Sevierville just anytime at all. If we have law problems with anyone, we’ll be callin’ for you to come in and handle it.”
“Yes, sir. I’d be right proud to do that for y’all. Just anytime at all. You call HQ—I’ll sure roll on it.”
“Bye, Burt.”
Trooper Burt put his patrol car in gear and rolled out of Sevierville. Smartly, as the British would say.
Sabra Olivier sat in her office and watched the six o’clock news; watched it with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The censored report was bland stuff, stories that would not have made it prior to Hartline’s… visit.
She shuddered at the memory—or memories, she corrected herself.
For Hartline had been back several times, to, as he put it, “Get him another taste of successful pussy.”
Sabra felt like throwing up on the floor.
She got up and paced the floor.
The news was so innocuous she changed channels; but that move produced nothing better. Hartline and his men had been to all network offices. She looked at the anchorwoman on ABC and wondered if Hartline had forced his way with her, too. Sabra concluded the mercenary probably had. But, she smiled cattily, with that one’s reputation, Hartline probably hadn’t had to do much forcing.
She sat down in her chair and propped both elbows on her desk, chin in her hands. How did we get to this point? she pondered. Good Lord, were we all so blind to the truth we failed to see Logan was just a front for Lowry?
I guess so, she sighed.
We were so busy protecting our own precious right to report the news—as we saw it, with our own little twists and subtle innuendoes—we failed to notice what was really happening around us; failed to pick up on the real mood of the people.
The majority, she admitted.
The taxpayers, she once more sighed.
“Guardians of freedom,” she muttered. “But whose freedom? Ours, or the people?”
She sat up straight in the chair as an idea came to her.
A dangerous idea, for sure, but one way—if she could pull it off—to nail Hartline’s cock to the wall. With him attached. Hanging about a foot from the floor.
She savored that mental sight for a few moments, then reached for the phone. She pulled her hand back. Surely Hartline would have it all bugged. Well, she’d just have to be sure of what she said.
“Get me Roanna,” she told her secretary.
She intercepted the reporter outside her office and took her by the arm, leading her to the restroom. As she had seen in countless movies and TV shows, Sabra turned on the water in the sink to cover any noise.
“You know all about Hartline,” she said. “I’ve never pulled any punches with any of you. But what do you
“I’d like to cut the bastard’s cock off and stuff it down his throat,” the reporter said without a second’s hesitation.
Sabra was mildly shocked. She had never heard Roanna be so crude. “He got to you?”
The brunette’s smile was grim. “Oh, yes—from behind. Said he didn’t like the stories I’d done on mercenaries; wanted to give me something I’d remember.” She grimaced. “I remember all right. I walked funny for three days.”
“How many other women?”
“Sabra, it’s not just the women; some of his men are twisted all out of shape. I don’t know what you’re planning, but be careful, you’re dealing with a maniac in Hartline. He’s a master at torture. He’s got most of the people in the networks frightened out of their wits, men and women. All of us wondering how it got this far out of hand so quickly.”
“I was wondering the same thing just a few minutes ago,” Sabra admitted. “Look, I’ve got to get someone in Ben Raines’s camp, and I’ve got you in mind. I think I can convince Hartline it’s for the best. You do a story on Raines, I’ll put together one on Hartline. I’ll make him look like the coming of Christ. We’ll do little three-minute segments each week, but they’ll be coded with messages for Raines.”
“Sabra…”
“No! It’s something I believe we’ve got to do. I’ll accept some responsibility for what’s happening—what has happened to this nation; it’s partly our fault. Hartline… visits me twice a week. Lately I’ve been accepting his visits as something I have no control over. He thinks I’m enjoying them. He’s an egomaniac; I can play on that. Really build him up. It’s amazing what a man will say when he’s in bed with a woman. We’ll work out some sort of code to let Raines know what is happening, or what is about to happen. Are you game?”
“You know what will happen to both of us if Hartline discovers what we’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“All right,” Roanna said. “Let’s do it.”
The lights of the small airstrip winked at the Kansas ag-pilot. Married less than a year, Jim Slater was anxious to get back to earth and to his wife. Suddenly, a Piper Club came up fast on his right, flying without lights, startling him. His ‘phones crackled a message that chilled him, turning his guts to ice.
“Watch yourself, Jim. FBI agents on the ground waiting for you. Someone spilled the beans about your running guns for the Rebels. They busted into your house and took Jeanne about noon. They raped her, man. She tried to run away and they shot her. She’s dead. I’m sorry, Jim.”
The Cub was gone into the night before Jim could acknowledge the message.
Jim circled the small strip before landing. When his wheels touched down, he quickly taxied to the far end of the strip, cut his engine, and jumped out, running into a hangar, slipping through the darkness. He ran to his locker and fumbled inside until he found the hidden panel. Far down the field he could see the bobbing lights of flashlights moving toward him, behind the lights, running figures in the still-warm night.
Cursing under his breath at his clumsiness, and angry because of his tears, Jim hurriedly pulled out a Browning Buck Gun and began shoving magnum loads into the 12 gauge. He slung an ammo belt around his waist and moved to the open window, staying low. Chambering one shell, he fed another into the magazine and waited. The agents stopped some twenty-five feet from the hangar and began talking. Jim listened to the conversations before taking any action. He wanted to be sure he was killing the right men.
“The son of a bitch is gone, I tell you. I watched him run over there, into that field.”
“Too bad about that wife of his.”
“Yeah, I could have stood some more of that pussy. Man, that was tight.”
Jim emptied the Buck Special into the dark shapes, watching one man’s head fly apart as the slugs ripped and tore their explosive path. He reloaded and emptied the Buck Gun once more into the still forms on the dewy grass.
At twenty-five feet, magnum-pushed slugs are brutal.
Moving to the bodies, sprawling grotesquely in sudden death, Jim picked through the gore and gathered all the weapons, ammo, IDs, and money. At the agents’ cars, he opened the trunks and found high-powered rifles, an M-16, and several riot guns. He took them all, stashing them in his personal plane. He heard footsteps behind him
